The Black Rose Chronicles
Page 107
Max shivered, but he didn’t think it was the cold November wind that was biting at him, even through his coat. “I know you loved her,” he said patiently, carefully. “We all did.”
“It’s what Sandy wants, you know,” she told him. “For us to be together. A family. She told me so.”
Max didn’t speak. He wouldn’t have known what to say. “In dreams,” Elaine explained, all the way inside the car now, at long last. Switching on the ignition. “Sandy comes to me in dreams. Talks to me. Tells me things.” Max still didn’t answer. He was a pragmatic man who did not believe the dead spoke to the living, waking or sleeping, but that night he’d learned, in an unforgettable way, that there were indeed other realms, other realities besides the one he knew.
“I’ll ask her to visit you. Sandy, I mean. Maybe that will convince you.” Having uttered those incredible words, Elaine closed the door, clicked the electric lock button, and backed out of Max’s driveway.
He was scared, and not just because of what had been revealed to him at Kristina’s house earlier that evening. Nor did he believe that his late wife would show up in his dreams, at Elaine’s behest or for any other reason. He knew because he’d tried often enough to summon Sandy, during the early, dark days, when the loneliness had been almost too much to bear. No, what worried Max was the state of his sister-in-law’s mind.
He stood in the driveway long after Elaine’s car had disappeared around the comer.
“Slow,” Dathan said critically, “but a little better than your last try.”
Kristina glared at him. She’d willed herself to China and back—the whole process couldn’t have taken more than a minute—but she felt as if she’d made the journey on foot. “I’m half mortal, you know,” she said.
“No excuse,” Dathan replied. They were standing in the center of her living room, where they had materialized moments before; Dathan first, of course, then a disgruntled and somewhat breathless Kristina. There was a subtle change in his expression as he studied her. “You know,” he said, “maybe I don’t need a vampire for a mate after all. You might do very well.”
Kristina felt herself flush with indignation and something not unlike revulsion, although the warlock was a beguiling creature if she’d ever seen one. “Forget it,” she said. “My family is weird enough without stirring you into the mix.” Dathan’s tender brown eyes flashed with annoyance, and he spread one long-fingered hand over his chest in a gesture of injured pride. “You lack grace,” he said. “Verbally, as well as in regard to your magic.”
Kristina was exhausted. She wanted to crawl into bed and lie there for a hundred years, like Sleeping Beauty. When she woke up, Max and his sweet, innocent children would have lived out their lives and gone on to some brighter, safer realm where she would no longer be a danger to them.
“I’m not going to apologize, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” she told Dathan.
“Don’t you see that it’s your very insistence on pretending to be mortal that has gotten you into this mess?” the warlock demanded. “And yet you persist. You’re in love with, of all things, a high school football coach. A jock, Kristina. That’s what humans call men like him, isn’t it? Jocks?”
She felt incredibly defensive. “There is nothing wrong with being athletic,” she said. “Besides, Max is smart. And sensitive.”
Dathan rolled his eyes. “You may already be beyond hope,” he said, folding his arms. He looked magnificent, standing there in the center of Kristina’s beautifully appointed living room, but she felt nothing except irritation.
“Maybe I am,” she said. It was only too true. If anything happened to Max and the girls because of their association with her, she would not be able to bear it. It was the one prospect with the impetus to drive Kristina to destroy herself.
“No,” Dathan insisted. “I won’t let it happen.”
She wondered if he’d been reading her mind, hoped not. There were a great many things she didn’t know about warlocks and their singular powers. Or those of vampires, for that matter. “Won’t let what happen?” she asked suspiciously. She kept some very private things in her mind and didn’t want Dathan or anyone else rifling through them.
“You’re not going to give up on your magic, Kristina,” Dathan decreed. He tilted his handsome head to one side, considering. His exquisite features were taut with concentration. “Come with me,” he went on after a long and, for Kristina, uncomfortable silence. “Be my bride. You will learn to love me in time, and forget your little mortal.”
Little was hardly the word Kristina would have used to describe Max; he was well over six feet tall and probably weighed better than two hundred pounds. And that didn’t take the size of his spirit into account; she had known from their first encounter that Max had the soul of a gentle warrior. Even if he’d been small physically, his character would have made him a giant.
“If I thought going with you would keep Max and his daughters safe, I would probably do it,” Kristina said. She hadn’t considered her words ahead of time; they simply came tumbling out of her mouth. Straight from her heart.
“But it’s too late now. The damage has been done.”
“Exactly whom do you fear so much?” Dathan asked. He was standing behind a Queen Anne chair now, his elegant hands grasping the back. “Surely it can’t be Valerian. He dotes on you.”
“It’s the Havermails,” Kristina said, and shuddered superstitiously, lest mentioning the little demons’ names might summon them from whatever hellish pursuit they’d chosen for the night. As soon as Dathan was gone, in fact, she would go to Max’s house and keep watch again.
“Avery? Roxanne?” Dathan raised one eyebrow, and his fine, angelic mouth twisted slightly in a delicate expression of contempt. “Those cowardly creatures? Neither of them would dare cross Valerian, let alone your mother.” Kristina shook her head. “Benecia and Canaan.”
“The devil’s children,” Dathan said. The contempt in his face changed to revulsion, and there was nothing delicate about it. “Surely they, too, would be afraid—” Kristina recalled the recklessness of Benecia’s taunts the night before when she’d found them in the room where she kept her childhood toys, her collection of dolls. “Something is different. I don’t know about Canaan, but Benecia is—well—it’s almost as if she wants to be destroyed.” Before Dathan could offer to oblige, Kristina held up one hand to stay his words. “Which isn’t to say she won’t fight to defend herself, Dathan. She is five hundred years old, remember, and her powers are beyond reckoning.”
“Maybe for you. Compared to me, she is but a babe.”
“But she is powerful.”
“She must sleep in the daytime, like most other vampires. Warlocks suffer no such disadvantage. I have only to find her lair and drive a stake through her heart to put an end to her.”
“Not good enough,” Kristina answered. “Canaan would avenge her, and even if you managed to destroy her as well, other vampires would seek retribution, if for no other reason than that a warlock had given them cause.”
“They would defy your mother’s command, that there must be peace between vampires and warlocks, lest Nemesis and his angels be sent to destroy us all?”
“Eternity is a long time,” Kristina answered. “I believe some vampires—perhaps many of them—are weary like Benecia. Maybe destruction, even damnation, would be a welcome release after century upon century of being just what they are. Humans pass through a variety of lives, you know, shedding each body like a skin when they are through with it. They go on, change, make progress. I’ve never spoken of it with my mother, Papa, or Valerian, but I suspect that sometimes a blood-drinker hates being trapped in one identity for all of time. Perhaps they’ve denied themselves the very thing they sought in the first place, in becoming vampires—life.”
“They live forever,” Dathan reminded her in a quiet voice.
“No,” Kristina replied. “They exist forever, or until they are destroyed. There is a big difference.�
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“I will concede that, if for no other cause than courtesy. What does it have to do with the hideous Benecia Havermail and her equally charming sister?”
“They have nothing to lose,” Kristina said. The realization weighed so heavily on her spirit that it threatened to crush her. “They may be desperate enough, lonely enough, bored enough, to risk hellfire on the chance that they could encounter oblivion instead. Valerian says the afterlife is what each one of us expects it to be, and he has reason to know.”
In a blink Dathan was standing before Kristina, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “Let me show you wonders beyond your greatest fantasies, Kristina.”
She smiled, though the last thing she felt was amusement. “Let you take me away from all this? No, Dathan. I don’t care for you and, anyway, as I told you before, it’s too late.”
“Then I shall find Benecia’s lair, and that of her sister, and before the first crow of the cock—”
“No,” Kristina said quickly. “You mustn’t interfere, Dathan. Not in that way. No conscious, reasoning creature kills with impunity.”
“More philosophy?”
“Call it a hunch,” Kristina replied. “Now, will you please leave? I need some time to myself.”
Dathan snapped his fingers; the cloak he’d worn earlier, when he arrived, appeared in his grasp. He donned it with the customary flourish, his soft eyes fiery as he regarded Kristina. “Don’t forget our bargain,” he warned. “I will train you in magic, and you will find me a suitable mate. In the meantime, I intend to woo you by any means I can devise.”
She suppressed an urge to slap her self-appointed mentor across the face. Kristina might have let her powers slip, but she was no fool. “That last part wasn’t in the deal,” she pointed out. “I don’t love you. I don’t want you. In fact, I wouldn’t have anything to do with you if I didn’t need your help. How’s that for philosophical?”
Dathan smiled, though both her words and her manner had been poisonous. One warlock’s venom was another’s ambrosia, she supposed.
“You have your mother’s magnificent spirit,” he said. “That only makes you more desirable, as far as I’m concerned.” He executed a suave little bow, more a motion of his head than his body. “Farewell, lovely Kristina. For now, at least.”
With that, he was gone, leaving no trace of smoke or sulphur in his wake.
Kristina hesitated only a few moments before willing herself to the Kilcarragh house. The children were sleeping soundly, but Max was in his living room, sitting in the dark, without even the television screen to provide light.
He sat in a recliner, a drink in one hand, looking rumpled but plainly not intoxicated. Kristina’s heart ached as she stood a few feet away, hopefully invisible, watching him. Little wonder that he was upset, she reflected. He’d just been introduced to a world where things that went bump in the night were real, not just imagined. He’d lost that precious mortal innocence because of her.
As if Max sensed her presence, he set the glass aside and peered into the gloom.
Kristina retreated a little way; he knew she had powers, but she didn’t want him to think she was going to pop in on him for no reason, like some supernatural stalker. Maybe he could see her; maybe what was developing between them made that possible.
“Kristina?”
She did the mental equivalent of biting her lip and said nothing.
“Damn,” Max muttered, rising from the chair with a sudden motion that almost startled Kristina right out of her spell and into full visibility. “You’re not that lucky, Kilcarragh.”
Had Kristina been solid, she knew tears would have filled her eyes.
He started toward the stairway, moving confidently in the familiar darkness.
Kristina waited until he was asleep before following him up the stairs and slipping into his room. She was tired from her session with Dathan, and her invisibility was shaky at best. At any moment, she might be seen, and explaining would be difficult.
She stood at the foot of Max’s bed for a long while, watching him sleep, searching her mind and heart for a way to keep him and his children safe. But no one was really beyond harm except the dead; Kristina knew that and so, surely, did Max.
Reluctantly Kristina finally turned away, forgetting her spell, opening the door, stepping into the hallway.
Bree was standing there, just outside the bathroom door, wide awake and staring in Kristina’s direction.
“You really can do magic,” the child said in a tone of awe rather than fear.
“Or you could be dreaming,” Kristina suggested, somewhat lamely, and in a very soft voice. She hadn’t planned on being caught, and now that she had been, she didn’t know what to say. It would be cruel and foolish to tell an innocent little girl that monsters, whether hiding in the closet or otherwise, were not necessarily imaginary. That sometimes children needed guarding.
“I’m not dreaming,” Bree said firmly. She took a few steps toward Kristina, dragging her blanket behind her, holding a worn teddy bear under one arm. “I can sort of see through you. Are you a ghost, like my mommy?”
“No,” Kristina answered. “I’m not a ghost, and neither is your mommy.”
“How do you know? About Mommy, I mean?” Kristina shrugged. She didn’t know how she knew that Sandy Kilcarragh had gone on to better things, but she was as sure of that as she was of anything else. “I guess by magic,” she said. “Now, don’t you think you’d better go back to bed?”
Bree wasn’t ready to cooperate, though she yawned broadly. “You’re getting pretty solid.” She reached out, touched Kristina’s hand to test the theory. “Yep. How come you’re here? Walking around in our house in the middle of the night?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” Kristina said. It was as close to the truth as she dared to venture, at the moment.
Bree pulled, so that Kristina bent down to her level. “I’m okay,” she confided in a stage whisper, “but Eliette is really sad. And Daddy needs somebody grown up to talk to and stuff like that.”
“I understand,” Kristina whispered. “Why is Eliette sad?”
“She thinks about Mommy a lot,” Bree explained. “It makes her lonesome.”
Kristina shared the sleeping Eliette’s sorrow, felt it keenly in that moment. Her own upbringing had been anything but normal, but Maeve had been a devoted mother, for all her temperament and dramatic flair. Kristina could barely imagine what it would have been like to grow up without her. “It’s good to remember people we love,” she said gently. “Even if it hurts sometimes.”
Bree frowned, her small, pixie-like face solemn. She clutched both blanket and bear just a little closer. “Is it bad that I can’t see Mommy’s face in my brain, even when I close my eyes?”
Kristina kissed the little girl’s cheek. “No, darling, it isn’t bad. And deep in your heart, you do remember. I promise.”
Bree smiled brilliantly. “I do?”
Kristina nodded, no longer trusting herself to speak. She watched in silence as the little girl toddled back into the room she shared with her sister, there to sleep and, Kristina hoped, to dream sweet dreams.
Not bothering to cloak herself in invisibility again, not even sure she could manage the spell if she tried, Kristina waited a while, then followed, sitting in the wooden rocking chair in the corner of the room, keeping her vigil and waiting.
The night passed without incident, and Kristina went home a few minutes before sunrise, marveling at the weariness she felt. Was she finally beginning to age, after all these years? It seemed too much to hope for.
Only after Kristina had filled the glass carafe with water and started the coffee machine in her kitchen did she turn and see the note resting prominently on the counter. It was written on expensive, handmade parchment, and the elegant, flowing letters could only have been shaped by one hand.
Her mother’s.
Come to London at once, Maeve had written. I must see you.
In the end, it didn’t matter why. Maeve had commanded her, as a daughter and as a subject, to make an appearance at “court.” There was never any question of disobeying.
Kristina showered, applied careful makeup, and put on a suit of dove-gray silk. Then, after taking a few minutes to psyche herself up for the task, she blinked herself to London and the lovely old house where so many secrets lived.
It was not yet sunset when Kristina arrived. Having materialized in the outer hallway—she was grateful it hadn’t been the coal bin, considering the strain she’d been under lately—she made her way to the library, which was situated at the back of the first floor. The room was spacious, overlooking the garden, and a polished suit of armor, empty as far as Kristina knew, guarded the double doors.
She stepped inside the vast chamber and went straight to her mother’s collection of volumes on the subjects of alchemy and general magic. The tomes were very old, some still in manuscript form and in danger of turning to dust at a touch, and the language was strange. Kristina was puzzling out a spell to forestall evil spirits when a voice startled her out of her contemplation.
“You are here,” Maeve remarked, sounding at once imperious and relieved. “I daresay I feared you would not obey.”
Kristina laid the book gently aside and smiled at her mother. Maeve was a splendid creature, with flowing dark hair, flawless ivory skin, and eyes of a singular indigo shade. She wore a gossamer white gown, as was typical of her, for she loved spectacle and glamour. Which was not to say that she didn’t have a somewhat raunchy side, uncontested queen of the vampires though she was.