The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Well, just make sure you keep the place locked up tight until he gets here,” the officer said. “Can’t be too careful, you know.”

  Kristina thought belatedly of the intruder who had broken into the store some months before. She’d turned him into a doorstop, handily enough, but she wondered now how trustworthy her magic had been, even then, and shuddered to think what might have happened if her skills had failed her. “That’s for sure,” she agreed as the policeman stepped away from the door. He waited, she noticed with appreciation, until all the locks were in place again.

  The brass monkey was still on his shelf in the back room, where Kristina had left him. Dredging up all the strength she could summon, she reinforced the original spell, and promptly sank to the floor in a faint.

  When Kristina opened her eyes, only moments later, she found herself at home, lying on her own bed. Dathan bent over her to lay a cool cloth on her forehead.

  “What’s the matter with me?” she asked in a small voice. She wanted Max, wanted to go to him, to make sure he and the girls were all right, but she couldn’t seem to move, except in slow motion.

  The warlock sat down beside the bed. He looked incongruous in the delicate, chintz-covered chair, given his size and his almost regal elegance. “It’s only a guess,” he said, “but I’d say that all these years of pretending have finally caught up with you. You’ve allowed your magic to be depleted and, thus, the very essence of your being.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  Dathan smiled. “Probably not. You come from sturdy—not to mention stubborn—stock.”

  Kristina wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, and the dilemma made her slightly testy. “What are you doing here?”

  “You’re welcome,” the warlock said pointedly.

  “Thank you.” Kristina gave the words a grudging note. “What happened?”

  “You swooned. I dropped by on a lark, and did the—er—gentlemanly thing. Lifted you into my arms, brought you here, all that.”

  Kristina closed her eyes for a moment, trying to absorb what was happening to her, to make some sense of it. Dathan’s theory, that she had expended vital powers in her efforts to live as a mortal, seemed the most likely. “I’m in big trouble,” she said.

  “That’s true,” Dathan agreed, but lightly.

  “My mother warned me not to trust you.”

  He smiled as beatifically as an angel. “Maeve is a suspicious vampire.”

  “She is also a smart vampire. I need a spell, Dathan. Something to keep the Havermails away from Max and the children, at least until I can get myself together. Will you help me?”

  “It is a good thing for you, my dear, that you are virtually irresistible.” The warlock sighed in a long-suffering fashion. “Yes, I’ll arrange to shield your precious mortals, for tonight at least, though I don’t think Benecia and Canaan will trouble them.”

  “I can’t take the chance.” But Kristina knew there would have been nothing she could do if Dathan had refused to help. She simply had no strength left.

  Max paced. He’d tried to call Kristina intermittently throughout the day. There was no answer at her shop or at her house.

  She was a businesswoman, an adult with a life of her own, and he had no claim on her, no right to obsess about where she was or what she was doing. Yet something in his gut, some instinct he had never felt before, was telling him there was trouble.

  He shoved a hand through his hair. It was late, and the girls were already in bed. He couldn’t leave them alone and, after the exchange with Elaine the night before, he wasn’t about to ask his sister-in-law to come over and babysit. The teenager he hired when Elaine wasn’t available was probably sound asleep, and if he called his mother or Gwen in the middle of the night, they would be frightened, not to mention angry.

  Max returned to the telephone on the desk in his study and punched the redial button; there was no need to go through the sequence of numbers that would make Kristina’s home phone ring, because he’d been calling there since six o’clock.

  This time she answered. Her voice sounded small, fragile.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Max.” He closed his eyes, feeling both relieved and foolish.

  “I guessed that,” she said. There was a smile in her softly spoken words.

  “By magic?”

  The smile came through again, though Max knew in his heart of hearts that all was not right with Kristina. He was scared.

  “No,” she answered. “I was just hoping.”

  He wanted to hold her, to draw her into his arms and shelter her against whatever threatened her. He had never; felt so protective before, even with Sandy—but then, he’d been naive in those golden days before his wife’s death. He hadn’t known how quickly and finally tragedy could strike. Hadn’t dreamed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just tired,” she said.

  Max’s gut clenched hard. He was tom between his children and the need to go to this woman who had finally caused him to put away Sandy’s wedding band, which he had worn on a chain around his neck ever since his wife’s death. He ached to see with his own eyes that she was safe and well.

  “Do you need anything?”

  He could almost see her shaking her head. He knew she was in bed, though he wasn’t sure how, and he felt guilty because the image stirred him in a profoundly sexual way. So much for the altruistic wish to embrace Kristina and lend his manly strength. Max wanted more—a whole lot more—and he wasn’t proud of the fact, given that she was so obviously vulnerable.

  “No,” Kristina replied. “I’m all right, Max, really. What about you? Are you okay? And the girls?”

  “Don’t worry about us,” Max said firmly. “We’re fine.”

  There was a short, pulsing silence, during which their hearts communicated.

  I need you, Max told Kristina.

  And I need you, was her reply.

  “Can I see you tomorrow?” Max finally asked aloud. He was leaning against the desk now, the receiver clutched in his hand, still wanting to go to her right then. Not in an hour, not the next day, after football practice.

  Now.

  “I’d like that,” she said. “I’ll be at home, taking it easy. I’ve been meaning to read through the rest of those letters anyway.”

  Just the prospect of seeing Kristina again made Max ridiculously happy, even though he still wished he could go to her immediately. “Couldn’t you just—well—blink yourself over here? You could stay in the spare room—”

  “Not tonight, Max,” she interrupted gently. “I need to sleep now.”

  A thick knot formed in his throat; he wanted to weep, could not imagine why. “Yeah, okay, me too,” he said. “Good night.”

  Another pause. “Good night, Max.” Kristina had not just spoken to him, she had caressed him. He replaced the receiver, crossed the room, and switched out the lights before heading toward the stairway.

  If he’d looked out a window, he might have seen the strange, cloaked sentries standing guard in the night, but Max was thinking only of Kristina that night.

  “Take this,” Dathan said, holding out a spoonful of something.

  Kristina, resting against her pillows and still fully dressed, eyed the offering suspiciously. “Like I told you, my mother warned me to be careful of warlocks and their tricks.”

  “Give me a little credit, will you?” Dathan demanded. “I didn’t bring you here and tuck you into bed just to destroy you. I could have done that at any time if that was what I wanted.”

  “What is this stuff?” The spoon was closer, Kristina saw that it contained a brownish fluid, some herbal concoction, judging by the noxious smell. One she had never come across before and hoped never to encounter again.

  “Call it witches’ brew if you must,” Dathan answered with a touch of impatience. “It will make you sleep, and thus restore some of your strength. Not a cure, but it’s a start”

  Kristina deliberated
a moment longer, then opened her mouth and took the medicine. It tasted bitter, but she swallowed it. “I’m not going to grow horns, am I?” she asked, falling back against her pillows once more.

  Dathan’s expression said he wasn’t about to dignify such a question with a reply.

  “You’d better not take advantage of me while I’m sleeping, either.”

  He bent close and smiled wickedly. “I hadn’t thought of that. What a delightful prospect—thank you for suggesting it, Kristina.”

  Already she was drifting, spinning, sinking. This, she thought, must be how it is for vampires when they he down in their lairs, far out of the sun’s reach.

  Kristina did not dream and awakened many hours later, in the same position in which she’d fallen asleep, in the same clothes. There was no sign of Dathan, but Max was standing at the foot of her bed, wearing jeans and a bright blue sweatshirt, his face beard-stubbled and his hair rumpled.

  “How long?” she asked. “Since we talked, I mean?”

  “About twenty-four hours,” Max replied.

  She sat up, yawning. The room was brilliant with sunlight. “You’re missing work.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “The girls—”

  “Forget about Bree and Eliette,” Max said gently. “They’re with my folks for the weekend. Kristina, what’s going on with you? What knocked you out like this?”

  She sighed. Dathan’s potion, whatever it was, had certainly done its work. She felt strong again, energetic, almost her old self. Almost.

  “Maybe it was the supernatural equivalent of the flu,” she said. “In any case, I feel fine now.”

  Max grinned. He looked tired, though, and she wondered how long he’d been watching over her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow your shower,” he said. “And a razor, if you have a spare. I forgot mine.”

  There was a certain intimacy in sharing space with Max, letting him use her shower, her things. She felt a sensual, stretching sensation deep inside, just looking at him. “Okay,” she said. “Help yourself to whatever you need.” Another silence ensued, rife with possible interpretations. Then Max turned and went into the bathroom, carrying a gym bag he’d apparently brought from home.

  Kristina heard the water go on, imagined Max stripping off his clothes, stepping naked and muscular under the spray. He was so blatantly, unapologetically male.

  She wondered what he would say, what he would think, if she joined him.

  In the end she didn’t quite have the courage. She took a peach silk robe from her closet and went down the hall to the guest bathroom, where she took a long, hot shower of her own. The flow of water did nothing to soothe the ache inside her, the one only Max Kilcarragh could reach and assuage.

  Kristina toweled her hair dry, ran a brush through it, and then dried her body. The silk robe clung a little as she stepped out into the hall.

  Max was there, clad in a pair of clean, worn jeans and nothing else. The encounter seemed accidental, but Kristina knew that it wasn’t, that they’d both wanted to be together. That had been in the cards from the first moment of history.

  Slowly, deliberately, Kristina untied the belt of her robe.

  72

  Max did not move from where he stood, just outside Kristina’s bedroom door, until she was near enough to touch, her robe untied, hanging loosely from her shoulders. He put his hands on either side of her face and, with a low sound, part growl and part groan, took her mouth with his.

  The kiss was passionate from the first; there was no hesitation this time, only a hunger that had been denied too long. Max entered her with his tongue, conquered her, his silent command presaging all that was to come.

  Kristina sagged against him, weakened by her own wanting, by a yearning she had never felt before. When at last he drew back and lifted her into his arms, there were tears of wonder in her eyes.

  He kissed her lids, her cheeks, and carried her over the threshold of her bedroom.

  “Are you sure you want this?” he asked, still holding her.

  Kristina was in a daze. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  Max set her on her feet, ever so gently, and smoothed the robe back off her shoulders, down over her arms. He tossed the garment aside and consumed her naked form with his eyes, arousing her to a fever pitch of desire just by admiring and cherishing her.

  “You are so unbelievably, impossibly beautiful,” he said.

  Kristina leaned forward, brushed his hairy chest with her lips, teasing hard brown nipples with the tip of her tongue. Her fingers strayed to the zipper of his jeans; he halted the motion with both hands, though he did not put her away from him.

  “There’s a problem,” he confessed. “I didn’t plan—”

  She smiled. Her magic might be rusty, but it was still magic. She held out one hand, in a rather cocky gesture, and a small packet appeared on her palm.

  Max chuckled, took the condom, and laid it on the nightstand, within easy reach of the bed. “Impressive,” he said.

  “Thanks.” Kristina slipped her arms around his neck and tilted her head back to look up into his eyes. She knew she was casting a spell, and that it had nothing to do with supernatural powers. In that moment, in that private place, she was not a freak, but a woman, pure and simple.

  He unfastened his own jeans and shed them, along with his underwear, and then simply held Kristina against him for a long, heated interval. Just that simple intimacy nurtured her on the deepest level of her being; she could have stood there, cradled in Max’s arms, for an indeterminate length of time. Even that small contact was better than anything she had ever felt with Michael.

  Finally, however. Max raised his hands to cup Kristina’s small, firm breasts. A searing shiver went through her at his touch, for the contact was at once possessive and inexpressibly tender. Hard-edged thumbs stroked her nipples, causing them to stiffen into little peaks.

  Kristina emitted a long sigh and closed her eyes. Max bent his head and kissed her again, teasing now, tasting and tempting.

  She was still standing, was amazed that her legs would support her. She moved her hands up and down the muscled length of Max’s back, in a slow yet conversely frantic motion. She had waited so long, suppressed the yearnings of her body so often, that patience was nearly beyond her.

  “Max…” she pleaded against his mouth.

  “Shhh,” he whispered, and continued to caress her, to adore her with his hands.

  Kristina made a soft, whimpering sound; it was all she could manage because he had stolen her breath, stilled her heartbeat, frozen her in one fiery moment of time.

  Max laid her down on the bed and stretched out beside her. She wanted him to take her, but he was conducting some primal ritual; she knew he would make her feel every nuance of their lovemaking, that her responses were, to him, a vital part of the encounter.

  He kissed her again and again, until she was drunk with the need to have him inside her, but it still wasn’t enough. While Kristina entangled desperate fingers in his hair, Max brushed her earlobes with his lips, nibbled at her neck, finally moved down over the quivering rise of her breasts.

  She gasped with pleasure and arched her back in an ancient, instinctive gesture of surrender as he took one nipple into his mouth and drew at it greedily.

  He went on suckling, meanwhile parting her legs with one hand. She ached to accommodate him; her hips rose and fell as he parted the moist curls at the junction of her thighs and teased her with a soft, plucking motion of his fingers.

  Kristina sobbed, with joy, with triumph, with frustration. Her body arched, again and again, seeking, reverberating like the strings of a fine instrument drawn tight.

  At last, Max relented. He reached for the condom on the bedside table while kissing Kristina’s belly. Once he was ready, he cupped both hands under her buttocks and raised her to receive him.

  His eyes searched hers one last time, and then he plunged into her, delving deep, as if to touch the very core of he
r.

  Kristina thrashed beneath him, in a physical plea for him to move faster, to thrust himself even further inside. She wanted all of him, not just his powerful body, but his mind, even his soul. She did not wish to own Max, it wasn’t that, but to be a part of him, to meld the very essence of her being with his.

  Max set an even pace, driving Kristina insane with long, slow, methodical strokes.

  Finally, as she flung herself up to meet yet another thrust, a cataclysmic orgasm exploded within her, thrusting her legs even wider apart, splintering the heavens, altering the path of uncounted planets orbiting innumerable stars. While Kristina flexed beneath Max, seized by spasm after spasm, he stiffened upon her, and cried out in hoarse ecstasy.

  Kristina lay still, stunned, spent, but Max got up and disappeared into the bathroom. He was back in a few moments, stretching out beside her again, gathering her close against him. She was trembling, even then, in the aftermath of satisfaction.

  Max kissed her temple. “What are we going to do now?” he asked.

  She snuggled even closer, loving the feel of him, the substance and power and the scent of him. “After that, anything else would be anticlimactic.”

  He groaned at the play on words, but there was a smile in the sound.

  Kristina laughed and buried her face in his neck.

  “What?” Max prompted.

  She lifted her head to look into his eyes. “You’re the first man I’ve slept with in a hundred years,” she said. “That’s got to be some kind of distinction.”

  Max rolled over so that she was pinned beneath him, his brown eyes bright with mischief and the beginnings of fresh desire. “Was I worth waiting for?”

  Kristina put her arms around his neck, kissed his chin and then his mouth. “Oh, yes, Mr. Kilcarragh.” She felt him growing hard against her thigh, while her own body prepared itself to receive him again.