Tonight and Always

by Linda Lael Miller

  Daisy shrugged out of her jacket. "Okay," she said, opening the kitchen door and cocking one thumb. "Barabbas, go home."

  The wolf shot through the slim gap as though he had springs in his haunches.

  Daisy closed the door. "Valerian is pretty crazy over this marriage of yours," she said. There was no judgment in the remark; it was just an observation.

  "It's none of his business," Kristina replied in the same tone. The tea was ready, and she carried the pot to the family room table on a tray, along with sugar cubes, a small pitcher of milk, and two cups and saucers. The irony of the phrase "family room" struck her, and she laughed, though the sound came out sounding more like a sob.

  "You're right," Daisy agreed, letting the sob pass with-commenting or commiserating. "But since when has that stopped Valerian from meddling?" She sat down across from Kristina. "I guess you gave up the shop because you'll be leaving here."

  Kristina nodded, stirring sugar into her tea. "There is that. And I've been in the business of collecting and selling antiques for about seventy-five years."

  "Because you loved it," Daisy pointed out. She could be implacably blunt, like Max. It was one of her most endearing, and most annoying, qualities.

  "It's gone," Kristina said. "That's the bottom line."

  "You own the building, don't you? Maybe you could start up again sometime. If you get bored with being queen of the warlocks." There was a twinkle in Daisy's eyes, along with a great deal of empathy. "What exactly will you do, anyway?"

  Kristina shook her head. "I don't have a clue—beyond the obvious, of course."

  Daisy, who had been a homicide cop in Las Vegas and consorted with all sorts of sleazeballs in her more recent career as a private investigator, actually blushed and averted her eyes. Although neither of them took the subject any further, Kristina was pretty sure they were both wondering what it would be like to have sex with a warlock.

  She felt a new yearning for Max, deeper and more desperate than ever.

  "Where will you live?" Daisy asked.

  Kristina didn't know that, either. And since she no longer possessed magical powers, she wouldn't be able to transport herself from one place to another at will as she had done in the past. "Probably in Transylvania," she said, trying to make the best of a bad situation by turning it into a joke. It didn't work.

  "Don't," Daisy said.

  At last Kristina broke down and cried. "I'm going to have one weekend with Max," she sobbed, "just one weekend. And the memories of that will have to last for the rest of my life."

  Daisy lowered her head for a moment, obviously feeling Kristina's pain, bowed by it, probably imagining what it would be like to be separated from Valerian, once and for all. She tried to offer consolation. "You're mortal now. Maybe in another lifetime…"

  Kristina's sobs had subsided to inelegant sniffles, but her sorrow was as great as ever. "No," she said. "I knew Max once before—he was someone else then, of course—and it just wasn't meant to be."

  "Don't tell me he was that Michael character who threw you down the stairs and left your foster son in a workhouse!"

  Kristina didn't need to ask how Daisy had known those things, details she had confided to no one else besides Phillie and her "guardian vampire." Valerian had told her, of course. "No," she said. "Max wasn't Michael." But she didn't offer any more information than that.

  "Have some more tea," Daisy said. "Have you got any brandy? If you ask me, you could use a shot of firewater."

  "No, thanks," Kristina replied. She would have liked to escape the pain, but she didn't care for the idea of dulling her senses, especially now that Barabbas was no longer there to guard her. "How's the new nanny working out? Not to mention motherhood in general?"

  Changing the subject proved a good tactic. Daisy's face brightened, and the uncomfortable subjects of Dathan and Max were forgotten, at least temporarily. "She's a wonder worker—now that she's told Esteban he's safe with us, that we're not going to starve or beat him, he's doing better. He still sleeps on the floor once in a while, but he's not hiding food, and he's trying to learn English. He adores Valerian."

  Kristina remembered how tenderly the legendary vampire had held the little ragged boy that night in Rio, and was touched. Ah, but it was not a simple thing, this matter of good and evil. Was Valerian, who preyed upon mortals and sustained himself on their very life's blood, a monster? What of Esteban's birth mother, who would sell her own child into an unthinkable fate? Was she not the true fiend, though a human heart beat within her breast and her soul might still be salvaged through grace, should she repent, however unlikely that seemed?

  "To know Valerian," Kristina answered at last with a slight smile, "is to love him."

  Daisy laughed. "I certainly do," she said, "but you've got to admit—it's a matter of perspective."

  It was a comfort just having Daisy's company for a little while, and by the time her friend left, Kristina felt better, if a bit lonely. She built a fire, took a nap on the family room sofa, and lapsed into a dream. She couldn't remember it after she woke up, and that troubled her, for she'd been left with a sense of urgency, part terror, and part hope.

  The next day was Thanksgiving.

  Kristina packed a small bag for the weekend in the mountains with Max and dressed carefully in a tan cashmere skirt, high brown leather boots, and a long, ivory-colored silk sweater. When Max and the girls arrived to pick her up, she saw by the warmth in Max's eyes that she'd chosen well, and that was something of a relief, for with all her sophistication, Kristina did not know exactly what one wore to a family feast. She'd never attended one before.

  Max took her bag and put it in the back of the Blazer while Bree bounced around him, babbling questions. Was Kristina taking a trip? Where was she going? Was he going along, too? Could she and Eliette go?

  Eliette walked more sedately, keeping close to Kristina's side. She was usually reserved, but she'd been the one to cuddle closest the other night, when Kristina had slept over in Max's guest room and his children had joined her in bed. "Bree is just a kid," she confided to Kristina. "She doesn't know about these things."

  Kristina tried not to smile. She also felt bruised inside, for she guessed that Eliette had begun to let down her guard a little, to see her as a friend. Which meant the child would be hurt again, to some degree, when Kristina and Max went their distinctly separate ways.

  "What things?" she asked, casually offering her hand.

  Eliette took it, after a brief hesitation. "Oh, kissing and stuff. Like you do with Daddy."

  "Oh." Not a very original or profound reply, but Kristina was stumped.

  Mercifully they had reached the Blazer, and Eliette pulled free and scrambled into the back beside Bree, who was already buckled in. Max helped Kristina into the passenger seat and then went around to get behind the wheel.

  He was whistling softly under his breath.

  "Aunt Elaine moved to Arizona," Bree chimed from her booster seat. "She breaked her heart. I think she fell down."

  "She didn't fall down, ninny," Eliette said. "She wanted to marry Daddy, and he said no."

  Out of the corner of her eye, Kristina saw Max tense slightly, but she had to hand it to him. When he spoke, his voice was matter-of-fact. "Aunt Elaine missed your grandparents," he said. "Besides, they're getting older and they need her."

  Max hadn't exactly lied; he hadn't denied that Sandy's sister, Elaine, was in love him. It was probably true that she missed her parents, and they might even need her help, if their health was poor or something like that. But he had certainly steered the conversation away from the subject of his sister-in-law.

  Kristina gave him a teasing, sidelong look, to let him know she wasn't fooled.

  He chuckled and shook his head.

  The day was wonderful, straight out of the fantasies Kristina had cherished all her life.

  Max's parents lived in a large colonial-style house, built of brick, in one of Seattle's better, though certainly not excl
usive, neighborhoods. There was a small duck pond out back, and the spacious property was fringed with fir and maple trees. A few gloriously yellow, brown, and crimson leaves still clung to the wintry branches of the maples.

  The people in the living room, some gathered around a piano singing, and others in front of the fire arguing politics, looked like figures from some painting celebrating Americana. The air was filled with lovely aromas—roasting turkey, spices, scented candles, and a variety of perfumes.

  Mrs. Kilcarragh came immediately to greet Max with a kiss—the girls had already shed their coats and gone running to sit on either side of the piano player, whom Kristina deduced, by the resemblance, to be Max's father.

  "Kristina," Mrs. Kilcarragh said warmly, taking both Kristina's hands in hers. "It is a joy to meet you at long last. I'm Allison, and that handsome devil at the piano is the girls' grandfather. Do come in and meet our other guests."

  There were an overwhelming number of people in the Kilcarragh house, but that only made it better. Kristina loved the laughter, the music, the talk, and the food, and she could not remember a happier day in all of her life.

  After the meal, which was unbelievable, the men retired to watch the football game, Max included, and the women cleaned up. Kristina was thrilled to help—she had not known this particular kind of female camaraderie ever, and being part of it was an experience so sweet that it swelled her heart. Oh, to be a part of this family, to share in other celebrations, to belong.

  But it wasn't to be, and all the pretending in the world wouldn't change that. Nor would she squander such a precious gift by looking ahead to a bleak future, however. Kristina kept herself firmly in the present, listening to the women's chatter.

  Gweneth, Max's sister, whom she remembered from her one visit to the shop when she'd wanted to buy the brass monkey, was in charge of drying water glasses as they were washed and rinsed. Since Kristina was doing sink duty, they were in close proximity.

  "I've found the world's ugliest gift for Max," Gweneth announced to the room at large, with glee and an obvious sense of accomplishment. "He'll never be able to top this."

  "What?'' asked one of the aunts, grinning.

  "Yes, what?" echoed somebody's cousin's sister-in-law.

  Gweneth's eyes twinkled as she shook her head. "I want it to be a complete surprise. Trust me, though—he will hate this. And the best part is, I've hidden it right under his nose."

  Allison shook her head, looking less than amused. "You and Max are getting too old to play such silly games," she said. She looked around the room in general, as if seeking confirmation for her statement. "Why can't they give each other regular presents like everybody else?"

  "That wouldn't be any fun," Gweneth answered.

  Soon the china and silver were clean and put away, and the football game was over, and practically everybody over the age of thirty was stretched out somewhere in the big, cozy house, taking a nap.

  Max found Kristina standing at a window in the dining room, watching the light change on the waters of the pond behind the house. He slipped his arms around her waist, kissed her nape, and drew her back against him gently.

  "Ready to go?" he asked.

  Kristina turned in his arms, looked up into his face, and smiled, even though her heart was breaking.

  "Ready," she said.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 17

  « ^ »

  "You have a wonderful family," Kristina said softly as she and Max drove out of the city and onto the freeway leading to Snoqualmie Pass. She had watched him say good-bye to Eliette and Bree, and had thought that Eliette clung a little at the parting, as though unwilling, even afraid, to let him go. Perhaps the child had been remembering another day, when she'd lost her mother, and very nearly her father as well.

  "Thank you," Max replied, flinging her a sidelong grin. "Since I've never met your parents, I can't return the compliment, but if they made you, they have to be special."

  " 'Special,' " she said, with a smile and a nod. "You missed your calling, Max Kilcarragh—you should have been a diplomat."

  He laughed at that. "I wonder if my players would agree," he replied. "You might not believe it to look at me, but I'm one of those guys who paces the sidelines and shouts when things aren't going well in a game."

  Kristina studied him soberly. "Do you care that much about winning?"

  "I don't give a damn about it," he answered, eyes mirthful. "I just think a little yelling and an occasional dose of pressure make the kids better prepared to live in the real world. And, no, I don't use the same techniques with Bree and Eliette, if that's what you're wondering."

  "I was," Kristina confessed. "It's a bit hypocritical of you, though, wouldn't you say, to shout at other people's children?"

  Max smiled, flipped on his signal light, glanced into both the side and rearview mirrors, and changed lanes. "No," he replied with certainty. "The guys on my team are all at least sixteen years old. There's a big difference."

  By tacit agreement, they avoided the subject of Kristina's closed shop and all it might mean. It was as if nothing existed beyond the darkest edges of the upcoming Sunday night; everything difficult, if it had a bearing on the present, would be discussed then.

  "I guess you're right," Kristina conceded. "So someday when your daughters are that age, and they complain that a teacher is pressuring them—''

  "I'll try to stay out of it, unless I think there's a deeper problem." The freeway was crowded with holiday travelers, and dusk had descended before they left Max's parents' house. He concentrated on his driving and did not look away from the road when he spoke again. "What about the letters? What happened after both your in-laws died so quickly?"

  Leaning back against the seat and closing her eyes, Kristina sighed. Although she had been rereading the letters, she didn't need to do that to remember. It was just that the process made her feel close to Phillie, who had been her dearest and truest mortal friend except, perhaps, for Gilbert Bradford.

  In a quiet voice she brought Max up-to-date from the place where he'd left off—explaining, though it was difficult, about Joseph, and the injuries she'd suffered at Michael's hand when she finally confronted him one too many times. She made very little mention of Gilbert, however, except to say that he'd sent Michael away to Australia, never to return.

  "And did he?"

  Kristina shook her head. "No," she said. But there was much more to the tale, and, as they drove, she began to tell it, unconsciously lapsing into the accent of her English upbringing and the formal phraseology of the time…

  "After Michael had gone away, I believed I should have peace at last, but I did not. I was frantic over Joseph's passing—ironic, isn't it, that one's life can be even more horrible than so wretched a death as he suffered? But such children were common in nineteenth-century London.

  "For five years I worked among the poor—I could not remarry since I was still legally Michael's wife—but in the end the hopelessness of it was simply more than I could bear. I needed a respite, but did not know what to do.

  "Finally, I decided to go traveling, simply to get away. I rode elephants in Burma and climbed mountains in Peru and Africa. I was in China, perhaps eight years after I had left England, when I began having the dreams.

  "They were extraordinarily vivid and always terrifying. In them I was visiting Australia—a place I would never go, as large and fascinating as it was, because I feared encountering Michael. I could not be sure I wouldn't kill him with my bare hands if I saw him again. I blamed him completely for what had happened to Joseph.

  "In the nightmares I saw a debauched Michael, aged by drink and whoring and the use of opium. He was in a small courtyard, beating a woman, slapping her again and again, first with the front of his hand, then with the back. She flinched, of course, for she was smaller, but she did not cry out, nor did she attempt to defend herself. She simply glared at him with such hatred that her dark eyes glinted in the moonlight.

 
"At last he hurled her down into the dirt of a flower bed. She put out her hand, only to balance herself, but her fingers closed round the handle of a small gardening trowel. In that moment I became her, entered her body, took over her thoughts.

  "Now I was the one clasping the trowel. And I had no compunction about striking back. I raised my hand and, with a strength born of years of hatred, drove the point of the tool straight into Michael's throat, and deep. He had not expected the attack—indeed, it had all happened very fast, in that way of dreams.

  "Blood spurted from his open jugular vein, staining his shirt, his coat, the very stones of the courtyard. He put his hands to his throat, eyes bulging with horrified rage, as if to stem the flow. Of course, he could not.

  "With a gurgling sound I shall remember as long as I have the capacity to recall anything at all, he slumped to the ground and perished there at my feet, and even then I felt no remorse. My hands and dress—indeed, her hands and dress, whoever that ill-fated woman had been—were sticky with the crimson evidence of my guilt, but I would have celebrated, rather than mourned.

  "It was always the same dream, and it went on for months on end, in exactly the same manner. Each time it ended as other people rushed into the courtyard, grasping at the woman, crouching over Michael, squashing the delicate flowers under the soles of their shoes.

  "About eight months had passed, I suppose, and I was in Paris, because my mother had bid me to come to that city on other business, when I happened to pick up an English newspaper left behind at a table in front of a sidewalk cafe. In it was a discreet report of Michael Bradford's murder, somewhere in New South Wales. He'd been stabbed with a garden trowel, by an unnamed woman who had subsequently been taken into custody. Before the alleged killer could be tried, however, she hanged herself in her cell.

  "I was so stricken that I took to my flat for three days and would not come out for any reason. It wasn't that I spared any grief for Michael, but every time I thought of that poor woman, I was bludgeoned with guilt. Had she been blamed for a crime I had actually committed, while thinking I was merely dreaming? How else could I have known so much about Michael's death if I hadn't been there?