The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  That night, however, he was deeply troubled.

  Maeve appeared, looking flushed from a recent feeding, just as the small clock on his desk was chiming half past two.

  Calder turned from his microscope to kiss her. As always, the old passion surged between them, undiminished by the passage of many, many years. Before the night was over, he knew, they would make love.

  “Any luck finding Dimity?”

  Maeve shook her head, her blue eyes probing deeply into his, exploring his heart. “What is it, Calder?” she pressed gently. “I know you’re upset—I can sense it.”

  He looked away for a moment. It was difficult, just knowing what he knew. Telling Maeve, and finally Kristina, would be much worse. “Sit down,” he said, indicating a nearby stool.

  Maeve obeyed, her gaze fixed on his face. “Tell me.”

  “It’s about Kristina,” he began, standing before his mate, resting his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve—well, I took a blood sample from her, because she said she hadn’t been feeling well. Maeve, she is undergoing some kind of genetic transformation.”

  “What does that mean?” Maeve demanded. She was rigid with anguish; like Calder, she cherished their child.

  He hesitated a moment, but there was no gentle way to say it. “Kristina is aging. Her blood cells are virtually indistinguishable from those of a mortal.”

  Tears glimmered along Maeve’s dark lashes. Her indigo eyes were wide with horrible understanding. “She’s dying?”

  Calder struggled against his own emotions. “Yes,” he said finally.

  During the night the snow melted away, and Sunday dawned gray and murky in Seattle. Barabbas lay curled at the foot of Kristina’s bed, apparently taking his guard-dog duties very seriously.

  “What do you eat, anyway?” she asked him. “Besides little girls making their way through the woods to Grandmother’s house, I mean.”

  Barabbas made a sorrowful sound.

  “You’re right,” Kristina admitted. “It wasn’t a very good joke. Come on—maybe there’s a steak in the freezer.”

  She put on a robe and slippers, because the house was especially cold, and led the way down the rear stairs into the kitchen. After thawing out a top sirloin for the wolf, Kristina poured herself a bowl of cereal and curled up on the family room couch to eat.

  She had just finished when Max pulled into the driveway in his Blazer.

  “I should have called first,” he said when Kristina opened the front door to him, “but I was afraid you would tell me to stay away.”

  She pulled him inside, closed the door, and then threw her arms around his neck. “Not a chance,” she replied.

  Barabbas stood in the doorway leading to the dining room, making a low growling sound.

  “Hush,” Kristina scolded. “It’s only Max.”

  Apparently satisfied, the wolf turned and padded away.

  “Did you sleep last night?” Max asked, holding Kristina in a loose but tantalizing embrace.

  “Did you?” Kristina countered, smiling a little.

  “You know damn well I didn’t,” he retorted somewhat grumpily. “All I could think about was that creep, the exdoorstop, out there somewhere, dreaming up ways to get to you.” He kissed her forehead. “Let’s get out of here for a while. Take a drive or something.”

  The idea sounded wonderful to Kristina, who was beginning to feel like a prisoner. “What about Barabbas?”

  “He can stay here,” Max answered, giving Kristina a little nudge toward the stairs. She needed to get dressed, of course, before they could go anywhere.

  At the base of the stairway she paused and looked back at Max with a mischievous smile. “I believe you’re jealous of him,” she teased.

  Max shoved a hand through his hair. “Maybe you’re right,” he answered in all seriousness. “After all, the wolf got to stay here and watch over you last night. I happen to regard that as my job, not his.”

  Kristina shook her head. “Males,” she muttered, and hurried up the stairs to get ready for the day.

  When she came back down half an hour later, clad in black corduroy jeans, a heavy gray sweater, and lightweight hiking boots, Max was sitting in the living room on a hassock. Barabbas faced him, seated on the hearth rug.

  They were staring at each other, man and beast, and Kristina wondered who would have looked away first if she hadn’t entered the room when she did.

  75

  Bree Kilcarragh took in her surroundings with wonder. Grandmother and Aunt Gweneth said the place was called a flea market, though she had yet to spot even one bug. All she could see was a lot of strange stuff, displayed on shaky tables and in booths.

  She tugged at Eliette’s hand, while Grandmother and Aunt Gweneth stopped to examine a pair of salt and pepper shakers made to look like little toilets. “Why would anybody want to buy a flea?” she asked in a loud whisper.

  Eliette rolled her eyes. She was older and wiser, and she never missed a chance to let Bree know it, either. “That just means there’s a lot of junk to buy,” she whispered back.

  Grandmother turned and smiled at them. It was warm in the large building, so Bree and Eliette didn’t have to wear their coats. “Getting tired?” she asked.

  Both girls shook their heads vigorously. Although they missed their daddy, they liked staying with their grandparents, and today was extra special because Aunt Gweneth was with them.

  “It’s almost Christmas,” Aunt Gweneth said. “I’ve got to find something really ugly for Max.”

  Allison Kilcarragh, also known as Grandmother, smiled. She was so pretty, Bree thought, with her nice clothes and shiny gray hair. “Good heavens, Gwen,” she replied, “it isn’t even Thanksgiving yet.”

  Gwen laughed. “I know it seems crazy to you, Mom, but Max and I get a big kick out of our little gift-giving tradition. I think he’d be disappointed if I didn’t give him something really awful.” She gasped suddenly and strode toward a long wooden table crowded with what looked to Bree like a lot of dirty, twisted metal. “I can’t believe it!” Gwen cried, homing in on the weirdest statue Bree had ever seen. “It’s an exact duplicate of the doorstop at Kristina’s.”

  Allison made a tsk-tsk sound and shook her head. “That is dreadful,” she said.

  Bree agreed, and wondered what Eliette thought.

  “It’s a valuable piece,” said the man behind the table. He had hair sprouting from his ears and his nose, and Bree instinctively took a step backward.

  “Strange,” Gwen murmured. “The thing feels warm to the touch.”

  Bree looked at the monkey and wished her aunt wouldn’t buy it. Gwen was already rummaging in her purse for her wallet, though.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “Fifty bucks, plus tax,” replied the hairy man. He was dirty, too, and smelled bad. He wasn’t like the other people who were selling things behind tables; they all looked pretty ordinary to Bree.

  “Thirty-five,” Gwen countered.

  “Oh, Gweneth,” Allison groaned.

  But the deal had been made. Aunt Gwen paid the man, and he put the monkey in an old Nordstrom bag and handed it over.

  Eliette and Bree looked at each other, imagining the doorstop under their tree on Christmas morning. Bree didn’t know why, exactly, but she was scared. She wanted her daddy. And she wanted to leave the ugly monkey right there at the flea market.

  Some days, though, you just can’t make a wish come true, even if you’ve been very, very good.

  “Don’t you tell your father about this,” Aunt Gweneth warned her nieces, her eyes dancing with happy mischief as she looked down at them. “I want it to be a surprise.”

  Bree had no doubt that it would be. This thing was even worse than the moose head—she just hoped she and Eliette wouldn’t have to play this stupid game when they grew up.

  It was dark when Kristina and Max returned from their ride—they’d gone exploring in the nearby Cascade Mountains, and had made reservations at a secluded lodg
e for the following weekend. At that high altitude, the snow was deep and white, perfect for shaping into powdery balls and flinging at each other. They’d built a snowman and eaten a hot meal in a roadside restaurant before making the inevitable descent back to the real world.

  After a stop at a neighborhood supermarket where Kristina bought a huge bag of dog food for Barabbas, Max drove her home. The wolf met them at the door, making that mournful sound in his throat, wanting to go out. Kristina didn’t try to stop him.

  Max carried the kibbles into the kitchen, then made the rounds of the house, in case of lurking bogeymen, as he had after the robbery. This time Kristina accompanied him.

  “I wish I could stay,” he said twenty minutes later, when Barabbas was back inside and munching down on the dog food. Max had built a cozy fire in the family room, and now he stood beside the kitchen door, holding Kristina’s chin in his hand.

  “Eliette and Bree are probably watching for you,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’ve missed them.”

  Kristina envied him for a moment, this man she so deeply—and so hopelessly—loved. What a glorious blessing it must be, to have children, eagerly awaiting your return, ready to fling themselves into your arms out of sheer joy. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

  “It was a wonderful day, Max. Thank you.”

  He touched the tip of her nose. “Keep next weekend open for me,” he said. “And if you need anything, if you’re scared, either call me or come straight to my place. No matter what time it is. Understood?”

  Kristina rested her head against his shoulder for a moment. The cloth was chilly and still smelled pleasantly of mountain air, fir trees, and snow. “Understood,” she said softly. But she had no intention of involving Max in her problems if she could avoid it. Only sheer selfishness had kept her from breaking off their relationship already.

  Soon she would have to do just that.

  Max kissed her again, this time with a thoroughness that left her swaying on her feet, said goodnight, and went out. A moment later she heard his voice from the other side of the door.

  “Turn the deadbolt and put the chain on, Kristina.” Dutifully Kristina complied, though she knew it was a case of whistling in the dark. With the possible exception of the brass monkey-man, all her enemies were impervious to locks.

  So were her friends and relatives, for when Kristina turned around, Maeve was standing a few feet behind her. The white wolf stood at her side, as though she were his mistress.

  Kristina was surprised to see her mother, given the Gideon-Dimity crisis. When her father stepped out of the shadows as well, her incredulity gave way to a stomach-fluttering fear. They had come to tell her something, and it wasn’t good news.

  “What?” she whispered.

  Calder took Kristina’s arm and guided her into the living room, where there was no fire burning. He seated her in a chair, while Maeve settled herself in its counterpart.

  Calder remained standing, too agitated to sit.

  “You have often told us that you wished to be human,” he said.

  Kristina’s heartbeat quickened. She sat up a little straighter in the chair and waited, still fearful, but beginning to hope. “Yes,” she answered in a shaken whisper.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Maeve was weeping, silently and with dignity, but weeping, just the same.

  “I have examined your blood sample over and over again,” Calder went on. “I have performed numerous tests, including a DNA analysis.” He paused, his dark gaze fixed upon his only surviving daughter, and Kristina remembered that he had lost a child years ago, a little girl born of his first wife. “You are aging, Kristina. For all practical intents and purposes, you are mortal.”

  At this Maeve covered her face with both hands and sobbed softly. She, too, had lost a loved one—her brother, Aidan, had forsaken the world of vampires to become a man again.

  Kristina felt several conflicting emotions—sorrow, joy, fear, exhilaration. To be mortal! “I will die someday,” she said.

  Calder stood beside Maeve’s chair, his hand resting on his mate’s trembling shoulder. “Yes,” he replied. His voice, though steady, was fractured as well.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know,” Calder answered, in his forthright way.

  “The process has begun—there’s no telling how long it will take.”

  Kristina was still for a while, absorbing that, considering the ramifications. Her mother’s sobs subsided as Maeve gathered her composure.

  “That’s why my magic has been so unreliable,” Kristina mused. It was something of a relief, knowing she had no reason to blame herself. She hadn’t neglected her natural gifts after all, but simply lost them.

  “You could, of course, be transformed into a vampire,” Calder said. “But both your mother and I know that would not be your wish.”

  “You’re right,” she answered distractedly. That life, with all its privileges and powers, was not for her.

  It was a strange feeling, knowing for certain that she would one day die. She would be subject to all sorts of human ailments—head colds, sore feet, weight gain. “Do you—do you think I can bear children?” She had never menstruated, but perhaps she would start. Perhaps she could be fertile after all.

  Maeve and Calder exchanged a tender look, and finally, tentatively, Maeve smiled. “If I did,” she reasoned, “I see no reason why you couldn’t.”

  Kristina had been in shock ever since the startling announcement had been made; now she realized what it meant to her parents, and she was filled with love and compassion for them.

  “I won’t separate myself from you, the way Uncle Aidan did, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said gently. “I love you too much.”

  Calder’s eyes glistened suspiciously. “We would have watched over you in any case,” he said. “Ours is a selfish grief, no lighter for the fact that we share it.”

  “Because I will die one day,” Kristina said. She rose from her chair to embrace her father, then her mother. “Be happy for me,” she pleaded softly, looking from one of her parents to the other. “This is what I want, what I’ve dreamed of as long as I can remember. I have no wish to live forever.”

  Maeve laid cool hands to either side of her daughter’s face. “There is much of Aidan in you,” she said. “You are wiser than I, and not so greedy.”

  “Do you fear death, Mother?” Kristina asked quietly. She had always wondered, but never quite dared to ask.

  The queen of vampires considered. “Yes,” she said. “I was raised, as a mortal, in an eighteenth-century convent, and the concept of eternal damnation is as real to me as the sky overhead and the earth below.”

  “And what about you, Papa?” Kristina inquired, turning to Calder.

  “I have seen hell,” he said. “It is called war, and it exists not in some subterranean realm, but right here on earth.”

  Kristina went back to her chair and fell into it. She wanted to weep, and at the same time to shout for joy. She might live another fifty years, or awaken with white hair and fragile bones one morning next week.

  “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

  Maeve stood beside her and laid a gentle hand to her hair. “Live,” she said. “Make the most of every moment.”

  “But I could die tomorrow!”

  “Just like any other mortal,” Calder put in quietly.

  At that, Maeve and Calder joined hands and, without another word, disappeared.

  Barabbas laid his large head in Kristina’s lap and whined sympathetically. She stroked him, staring into an uncertain future, wondering whether to celebrate her newly discovered status as a woman or to mourn. After an hour or so, still undecided, she went upstairs to get ready for bed.

  In the morning she awakened early, with cramps.

  At the age of one hundred and thirty, Kristina Holbrook was having her first period. She rolled over onto her side, drew up her knees, and groaned. She’d never expected it
to hurt.

  After a few minutes wholly dedicated to wretched suffering, she groped for the telephone and punched in Daisy’s home number. With any luck at all, her friend would still be there, and not out solving a case.

  “Hello,” chimed the voice Kristina most wanted to hear. “Help,” Kristina moaned. “I’m human.”

  “What?” Daisy sounded alarmed, and who could blame her. It had been a strange thing to say.

  “I’ll explain later,” Kristina managed to gasp. “I have the worst cramps—this has never happened to me before—”

  “I’ll be right over,” Daisy said. “Will the housekeeper from hell let me in?”

  “She’s off this week. Use the spare key,” Kristina murmured. “It’s under the ceramic frog by the back porch.”

  “Great security,” Daisy scoffed, but with gentleness. She obviously understood what Kristina was feeling and empathized. “Listen—just give me a few minutes to get Esteban settled with the new nanny, then I’ll make a quick stop at the drugstore and come right over.”

  Kristina choked back a whine. If this was what being mortal was all about, maybe it wasn’t so terrific and fulfilling after all. “Hurry,” she whispered.

  “Sometimes a warm bath helps,” Daisy offered, and then hung up.

  She arrived within half an hour, but to Kristina it felt more like all sixteen years of the FDR Administration, complete with retrospectives. She was still lying in a fetal position in the middle of the bed, clutching her abdomen and gritting her teeth.

  “This stuff usually works,” Daisy said, ripping the cellophane off a blue and white package. She had a brown paper bag with her, too, but she went into the bathroom, filled a glass with water, and returned. Two pills rested on her outstretched palm. “Swallow these and try to relax. Tension only makes it worse.”

  Kristina sat up, took the tablets, and swallowed them. “What’s going on here?” Daisy asked, settling into Kristina’s reading chair.

  She received a baleful look in reply before Kristina said, “Last night my parents broke some startling news to me. I’m completely mortal. And this morning, I woke up with the proof.”