The Black Rose Chronicles

by Linda Lael Miller

  I turned my head upon the pillows; I could not bear to look at him. And I was wiser now; I knew better than to let him see how I despised him. “I want Joseph,” I whispered.

  Michael brushed my hair back from my forehead. “He is gone,” he said. Such a tender motion from the very hand that had bruised me, and sent me reeling and tumbling down a long flight of stairs.

  I felt a terrible chill at the words—surely even Michael, with all his sins, would not destroy an innocent child! I was not to know Joseph’s fate for a long time, and when I did, it only made me hate Michael more.

  It was very late that same night, when my husband had ceased his feverish ministerings at last and left me in peace, and I was half insensible from the drugs the doctor had prescribed, that Valerian appeared at the foot of my bed.

  I thought at first that he was an illusion, or part of a dream, so long had it been since I had laid eyes upon this beloved creature who called himself my guardian vampire. He has always had an irreverent sense of humor, but then you knew that.

  What I remember most about that visit from Valerian was the sorrow I saw in his face and in his magnificent countenance. “Have you learned your lesson, sweet Kristina?” he asked.

  I moved to sit up, but I could not.

  I wanted to plead with him to find Joseph, to bring my baby back to me, but something stayed my tongue. “What lesson was that?” I asked, a bit testily, I fear, for he had tarried long in coming to me, and I had suffered so much in the interim.

  He feigned one of his melodramatic sighs. “Kristina,” he scolded in a quiet voice.

  “All right, yes—I chose the wrong man, for the wrong reasons.”

  “Anyone might have made that error. The worst part, my darling, is that you stayed with that monster. Why didn’t you simply leave him?”

  “I kept hoping he would change.”

  Valerian flexed his elegant white fingers. “Do you know what it is costing me, little one, not to rouse the wretch from his drunken stupor and kill him in a manner that would cause Genghis Khan himself to cringe?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can imagine.”

  “I have come to take you away.”

  I closed my eyes, but tears seeped through my lashes and sneaked down my cheeks. “I hurt so much,” I said with a nod.

  “I know,” Valerian said softly.

  “As much as I long to leave Michael, it is difficult for me to go without saying good-bye to Gilbert.”

  Valerian’s lips curved into the thinnest of smiles. “Don’t worry, beloved. One day you will undoubtedly see him again, under other circumstances.” He rounded the bed, bent over me, and touched my forehead, and instantly I was unconscious.

  When I woke, it was morning, and I was back in the house in London where I had been so happy as a child. My parents were asleep in their lair, and Valerian, of course, was in his, wherever it was, but I was surrounded by familiar servants, and they fussed and fetched and tried their utmost to bring me cheer.

  My heart was broken, however, and I could not be happy.

  That same afternoon there was a tremendous scuffle downstairs, and I was dreadfully afraid that Michael had come for me, perhaps bringing ruffians to assist him. Our servants were all elderly, and the vampires of the household could not help, being in their usual daylight trances, far below ground.

  I remember that I grasped the candlestick from the table alongside my bed and summoned up what I could of my neglected magic, prepared to defend myself as best I could. On pain of death I would not return to Cheltingham.

  There was more shouting, but then I heard my personal maid, Minerva, who had often attended me at Refuge, our country home near Cheltingham, speak in calming tones to the protesting mob.

  Moments later, she entered my room with a little bob and said, “It’s all right, miss. You may put aside the candlestick, for it’s Lord Gilbert who’s come to call, not his brother. Will you see him?”

  Before I could reply—my smile would have given away my feelings on the matter already—Gilbert filled the doorway, tall and handsome, his face contorted with a peculiar combination of rage and sympathy. Minerva perched upon one of the cushioned window seats overlooking the back garden; rules of propriety were observed in our household, by the servants if not the primary inhabitants, and I must not be left alone with a man who was not my husband.

  Gilbert was dressed for business—he had come to London to attend to matters related to assuming his late father’s title and the estates—but he was clearly a country gentleman in his tweeds and scuffed boots. His brown hair was rumpled where he had repeatedly thrust his fingers through it.

  “Oh, God, Kristina,” he murmured. “It’s true, then. He did injure you.”

  “I asked again about the baby,” I said. “About Joseph.”

  Gilbert drew a chair close to the bed and took my hand in his. Tears rose in my eyes and in his as well. “I have had the whole of England search for that child” he said raggedly. “You know that.”

  “He’s killed him. Michael has killed my baby.” Minerva, who had been stroking one of the house cats, a tabby called Trinket, and pretending not to listen, gasped at this.

  Gilbert and I were silent for a long time, then Gilbert spoke.

  “I cannot believe, even after all Michael has done, that he would stoop to murder. Especially a child.”

  “Then you are a fool,” I replied, unkind in my grief. Gilbert, as usual, was understanding. “You needn’t worry about Michael after this,” he said. “I’ll make a remittance man of him, provided I don’t succumb to the urge to do murder myself. In the meantime, Kristina, you must stop tormenting yourself over little Joseph.” He paused. “God in heaven, I curse myself every day for ever bringing the infant to you in the first place. I thought—”

  I squeezed his hand. “I know what you thought,” I said gently. “That you might give me joy.”

  He nodded, then bent and kissed my forehead. “I will deal with Michael,” he said. “And if there is a way to get the truth out of him regarding the babe, I will do it. In the meantime, you must rest and recover.”

  I knew, somehow, that I would not see Gilbert again.

  and clung to him for a long moment when he would have turned to leave the room.

  “Good-bye,” I whispered.

  He kissed my mouth that time. It was light, brief, but in no way brotherly. “Farewell, sweet Kristina,” he said. And then he strode out of the room without once looking back.

  Minerva, poor dear, was sniffling and dashing away tears with the hem of her apron when I glanced in her direction. “Such a dear man,” she said.

  “Yes,” I replied, staring at the empty chasm of the open doorway, through which Gilbert had just passed.

  “I can’t see the likes of him raising a hand to a woman,” Minerva observed in a righteous tone, rising from the window seat with the cat squirming in her arms.

  “No,” I agreed, but I feared Gilbert would do violence when he returned to Cheltingham, and I was right. Word came to London, several weeks later, by way of an intricate network of grooms and footmen and others who handled horses and carriages, that Gilbert had gone home to find Michael preparing to come to the city and fetch me.

  They had argued heatedly, as the story went, and Michael had taken up a fireplace poker, in a fit of temper, and swung it at Gilbert’s head. Gilbert had deflected the blow, fracturing a bone in his forearm in the process, but had managed, all the same, to administer a memorable thrashing. Our stable hands had it on good authority, and passed the word to the household servants, that Michael Bradford had been dumped, bruised, chastened, and humbled onto a ship bound for Australia. As long as he kept himself within those far shores, he would receive an adequate allowance. Should he return to England, for any reason, however, he would be utterly penniless.

  I received one letter after that, from Gilbert. He wrote that he was to be wed at last, to one Ethel Grovestead of Devonshire, and that there had still been no word o
f Joseph….

  Kristina laid the letter aside. Joseph.

  She seldom allowed herself to think of the little boy, but he was very much on her mind that evening. She had found him, some seven years after his disappearance, with Valerian’s reluctant assistance, working with a gang of pickpockets. Once a cherubic baby, the child was now feral and ratlike, hardly even human. Michael had put him into a foundling home after taking him away from Cheltingham in secret, a terrible, cold place where he’d been beaten and half starved. At five he’d fled the institution and taken up with a gang of cutthroats, orphans, and other lost boys like himself, and Kristina had realized at last, looking into his fevered and hateful eyes, that there was no saving him.

  Valerian had understood that all along, and perhaps Gilbert had, as well. They had been shielding her, the pair of them, and she did not appreciate their efforts.

  She’d given the boy, once called Joseph, all the money in her bag. He’d snatched the coins into his grubby hands, spat at her, and fled. After that, she’d done her best to provide for him, again with Valerian’s aid, but after only a few months the child had perished in an alleyway, a small bundle of dirty rags and brittle bones, racked with consumption.

  If Kristina had hated Michael before that, it was nothing compared to what she felt afterward. Life might have been so very different for Joseph, for all of them….

  She pulled her thoughts forcibly away from that dreadful time. She had dwelt on the past long enough, for one night. Now she must look forward, make plans for a new life. Kristina switched on the computer at the small desk in the family room, got out her address book, and began composing letters to other antiques dealers all over the world. Her wares were envied far and wide, and selling them would be an easy matter, once her colleagues knew she was going out of business.

  She worked into the small hours of the morning, then went upstairs to shower and crawl into bed. Barabbas slept at her feet, heavy and warm, and hers was a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

  The next day she went to the shop and sent off the letters she had written the night before, via her fax machine. By lunchtime she was already receiving offers. Several dealers, in fact, were flying in from other parts of the world, while others asked for a complete inventory list. Kristina kept her stock catalogued on the shop computer and updated the information once a week. It was an easy matter to print out a copy and begin responding to the requests.

  All the while she waited for the brass monkey-man to show up, human again and bent on revenge. Benecia Havermail could hold a doorstop hostage as long as she wanted to, but even she wouldn’t be able to reverse the spell Kristina had cast. She would, however, have a better chance of defending herself.

  At home Kristina let herself in, half expecting her assailant to pounce on her. Instead she was greeted by a whimpering Barabbas, eager for a walk and supper.

  Kristina let him out, trusting him to return when he was ready, although she knew he wanted to go home to Valerian, who was his true master. Because the wolf had been commanded to keep watch over Kristina, however, he would do so, no matter how lonely he was.

  While Kristina was making supper—a light pasta dish—the telephone rang. She didn’t need her lost magic to know the caller was Max.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He let out a long breath, as though he’d feared she wouldn’t answer. “How was your day?”

  She smiled as she chopped red, yellow, and green peppers to roast and put on top of her pasta, to give it some color and pizazz. “It was pretty good, really. Nothing jumped out at me, or anything like that. How about you?” Max laughed. “Wish I could say the same,” he said. “My players are all keyed up for the four-day weekend, and most of them were on hormone overload in the first place. I spent the day letting the smaller guys out of lockers.”

  “I don’t know how you stand the little devils,” Kristina said, cooking as she spoke. A little salad would go nicely with the pasta, she decided.

  Max, too, was making dinner; she could hear the homey, accompanying sounds over the wire. “Coming from you, that’s an ironic remark,” he teased. “Given the sort of company you keep, I mean.”

  His words reminded Kristina of all she would have to tell him, in the very near future, and dampened her spirits a little. Thinking of Michael, she said, “Considering the cruelty of some human beings I’ve known, I marvel that Valerian or even Dathan could be called ‘monsters.’”

  “Did I hurt your feelings?”

  That was Max for you. No beating around the proverbial bush; just get right to the point. The concern in his voice made Kristina want to weep.

  “Maybe a little, but I know you didn’t intend to.”

  “Sorry,” Max said. She hadn’t known anyone even remotely like him since Gilbert Bradford, Duke of Cheltingham.

  “It’s all right,” she insisted. Her appetite was gone, though. She turned off the burner under the pasta and took the chopped peppers out of the electric grilling machine she’d ordered off an infomercial one night, a few years before, when she hadn’t been able to sleep. “Vampires and warlocks aren’t subject to the rules of political correctness.”

  “Just give them time,” Max said ruefully with a grin in his voice.

  There was so much she wanted to tell him—that she was human, that she was fertile, that she was closing her shop and leaving Seattle, but none of it could be said over the telephone. She had had to give up Gilbert, and now she would lose Max, but this time she would have some very sweet memories to take away with her, along with a freshly broken heart.

  “How are Bree and Eliette?” she asked, holding her breath while she awaited his answer. She was still very afraid of Benecia and Canaan; they could so easily turn their envy on Max’s little girls, who had everything they wanted. Innocence. Mortality. Not just one future, but many.

  “Only slightly less rowdy than my football players,” Max replied. “They’re getting excited about Thanksgiving—not that they’re all that thankful. It’s just that, thanks to TV, they know it’s a greased track from Turkey Day to Christmas.”

  Kristina smiled again, but wistfully. Although she had had plenty of beautiful toys as a child, and a great fuss was made over her birthday, even the boldest vampires did not dare to observe the holy days of any of the great religions. Nemesis and his Superiors were very touchy about such matters, and no sane fiend would invoke their ire.

  “That must be fun—filling stockings, keeping secrets…”

  “To tell you the truth,” Max confessed when Kristina’s voice fell away, “it’s something of a hassle. And it bothers me a lot that the central idea is Getting Stuff. Whatever happened to peace on earth and goodwill toward men?”

  “I think both are where they always were—in the hearts of men and women. It’s just a matter of what you focus on.”

  “You’re right,” Max said. “First my mom and dad made Christmas happen, then Sandy took care of it. The last couple of years I’ve been—well—going through the motions.”

  Again Kristina’s heart was touched with sadness. She wondered if being in love was always like riding a roller coaster, or if her mood swings were connected to her new humanity. “I bet you’re not giving yourself enough credit,” she said.

  “Maybe,” he allowed.

  It was then that Barabbas scratched at the kitchen door. Kristina stretched but couldn’t quite reach the knob. “Hold on a second, will you, Max?” she asked.

  His voice was warm and low, sexy as a caress. “Maybe I’d better let you go. The spaghetti is about to boil over. Call you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it,” Kristina said.

  She hung up the telephone and opened the door. Standing behind Barabbas, in the early darkness of late November, were Benecia and Canaan. They were dressed as ludicrous little pilgrims, complete with buckles on their shoes, Puritan bonnets, gowns, and aprons.

  “Barabbas,” Kristina commanded in an even voice, “bring Valerian.”

&nb
sp; The wolf darted away into the night, and while Canaan looked unsettled by this development, Benecia smiled. Her uncanny beauty made her all the more hideous, all the more vile.

  “Aren’t you going to ask us in?” she asked in her small, bell-like voice.

  Kristina had no choice, and she knew it as well as they did. She just hoped Valerian wasn’t too far away to help.

  The fact that Benecia didn’t seem particularly worried about the other vampire was not encouraging. Stepping back, Kristina admitted them.

  “Where is the doorstop?” she demanded.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Benecia replied. “I gave it to a junk dealer. It’ll be interesting to see where the thing turns up, don’t you think?”

  Kristina might have gone for the little beast’s throat if she hadn’t known it would mean instant—or worse yet, not instant—death. She said nothing. What could be keeping Valerian?

  “I believe he’s busy elsewhere,” Benecia said with acid sweetness, as if Kristina had asked the question aloud.

  Kristina drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She must stay calm, at all costs. Vampires of this ilk were like wild, vicious animals, unreasoning, provoked by the scent of fear. “What do you want from me?” she asked in what she hoped was a reasonable and even tone of voice.

  “A plan has occurred to us,” Benecia said.

  Canaan was still keeping an uneasy eye out for Valerian.

  “What sort of plan?” Kristina went for a tone of contempt, in what was probably a futile effort to distract Benecia from the terror she felt.

  “One that would allow us to be human, to live out normal lives.” She paused and smiled, showing her white teeth, as perfect and pearly as a doll’s. “We might even be your daughters. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Kristina swayed inwardly as the full weight of Benecia’s words struck her. Great Zeus, the little beasts were talking about possession, planning to abandon their own vampire bodies and take over those of Eliette and Bree!

  “I will do anything to stop you,” she whispered. “Anything.”