Nora Roberts's Circle Trilogy
Page 66
HEART OF THE SEA
Born In Trilogy
BORN IN FIRE
BORN IN ICE
BORN IN SHAME
Chesapeake Bay Saga
SEA SWEPT
RISING TIDES
INNER HARBOR
CHESAPEAKE BLUE
Dream Trilogy
DARING TO DREAM
HOLDING THE DREAM
FINDING THE DREAM
Anthologies
FROM THE HEART
A LITTLE MAGIC
A LITTLE FATE
MOON SHADOWS
(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)
The Once Upon Series
(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)
ONCE UPON A CASTLE
ONCE UPON A STAR
ONCE UPON A DREAM
ONCE UPON A ROSE
ONCE UPON A KISS
ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT
J. D. Robb
NAKED IN DEATH
GLORY IN DEATH
IMMORTAL IN DEATH
RAPTURE IN DEATH
CEREMONY IN DEATH
VENGEANCE IN DEATH
HOLIDAY IN DEATH
CONSPIRACY IN DEATH
LOYALTY IN DEATH
WITNESS IN DEATH
JUDGMENT IN DEATH
BETRAYAL IN DEATH
SEDUCTION IN DEATH
REUNION IN DEATH
PURITY IN DEATH
PORTRAIT IN DEATH
IMITATION IN DEATH
DIVIDED IN DEATH
VISIONS IN DEATH
SURVIVOR IN DEATH
ORIGIN IN DEATH
MEMORY IN DEATH
Anthologies
SILENT NIGHT
(with Susan Plunkett, Dee Holmes, and Claire Cross)
OUT OF THIS WORLD
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Susan Krinard, and Maggie Shayne)
BUMP IN THE NIGHT
(with Mary Blayney, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Mary Kay McComas)
Also available…
THE OFFICIAL NORA ROBERTS COMPANION
(edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)
Valley of Silence
NORA ROBERTS
JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
VALLEY OF SILENCE
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2006 by Nora Roberts.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 1-101-12870-4
JOVE®
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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The “J” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
To my own circle,
friends and family.
Good and evil, we know, in the field of this world grow up together almost inseparably.
—JOHN MILTON
Presume not that I am the thing I was.
—SHAKESPEARE
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Glossary of Irish Words, Characters and Places
Prologue
There were pictures in the fire. Dragons and demons and warriors. The children would see them, as he did. The old man knew the very young and the very old often saw what others could not. Or would not.
He had told them much already. His tale had begun with the sorcerer who was called by the goddess Morrigan. Hoyt of the Mac Cionaoith was charged by the gods to travel to other worlds, to other times, and gather an army to stand strong against the vampire queen. The great battle between human and demon would take place on the sabbot of Samhain, in the Valley of Silence, in the land of Geall.
He had told them of Hoyt the sorcerer’s brother, killed and changed by the wily Lilith, who had existed near a thousand years as a vampire before making Cian one of her kind. Nearly another thousand years would pass for Cian before he would join Hoyt and the witch Glenna to make those first links in the circle of six. The next links were forged by two Geallians—the shifter of shapes and the scholar who traveled between worlds to gather in those first days. And the last of the circle was joined by the warrior, a demon hunter of the Mac Cionaoith blood.
The tales he had told them were of battles and courage, of death and friendship. And of love. The love that had bloomed between sorcerer and witch, and between the shifter and the warrior, had strengthened the circle as true magic must.
But there was more to tell. Triumphs and loss, fear and valor, love and sacrifice—and all that came with the dark and the light.
As the children waited for more, he wondered how best to begin the end of the tale.
“There were six,” he said, still watching the fire while the children’s whispers silenced and their squirming stilled in anticipation. “And each had the choice to accept or refuse. For even when worlds are held in your hands, you must choose to face what would destroy them, or to turn away. And with this choice,” he continued, “there are many other choices to be made.”
“They were brave and true,” one of the children called out. “They chose to fight!”
The old man smiled a little. “And so they did. But still, every day, every night of the time they were given, that choice remained, and had to be made anew. One among them, you remember, was no longer human, but vampire. Every day, every night of the time they were given, he was reminded he was no longer human. He was but a shadow in the worlds he had chosen to protect.
“And so,” the old man said, “t
he vampire dreamed.”
Chapter 1
He dreamed. And dreaming, he was still a man. Young, perhaps foolish, undoubtedly rash. But then, what he believed was a woman had such beauty, such allure.
She wore a fine gown in a deep shade of red, more elegant than the country pub deserved, with its long, sweeping sleeves. Like a good claret it poured over her form to set her pure white skin glowing. Her hair was gold, the curls of it glinting against her headdress.
The gown, her bearing, the jewels that were sparkling at her throat, on her fingers, told him she was a lady of some means and fashion.
He thought, in the dim light of the public house, she was like a flame that burned at shadows.
Two servants had arranged for a private room for her to sup before she swept in, and simply by being had silenced the talk and the music. But her eyes, blue as a summer sky, had met his. Only his.
When one of the servants had come out again, walked to him and announced that the lady requested he dine with her, he hadn’t hesitated.
Why would he?
He might have grinned at the good-natured comments of the men he was drinking with, but he left them without a thought.
She stood in firelight and candlelight, already pouring wine into cups.
“I’m so glad,” she said, “you would agree to join me. I hate to dine alone, don’t you?” She came toward him, her movements so graceful she almost seemed to float. “I’m called Lilith.” And she handed him wine.
In her speech there was something exotic, some cadence of speech that hinted of hot sand and riotous blooming vines. So he was already half seduced, and completely enchanted.
They shared the simple meal, though he had no appetite for food. It was her words he devoured. She spoke of the lands to which she had traveled, those which he’d only read of. She had walked among the pyramids, she told him, in the moonlight, had ridden the hills of Rome and stood in the ruined temples of Greece.
He had never traveled beyond Ireland, and her words, the images they invoked, were nearly as exciting as she herself.
He thought she was young to have done so much, but when he said as much she only smiled over the rim of her cup.
“What good are worlds,” she asked, “if you don’t make use of them? I’ll make use of much more. Wine to be drunk, food to be tasted, lands to be explored. You’re young,” she said with a slow and knowing smile, “to settle for so little. Have you no wish to see beyond what you’ve seen?”
“I thought perhaps to take a year when I’m able, to see more of the world.”
“A year?” With a light laugh, she snapped her fingers. “That is a year. Nothing, a blink of time. What would you do if you had an eternity of time?” Her eyes seemed like depthless blue seas as she leaned toward him. “What would you do with it?”
Without waiting for his answer, she rose, leaving the trail of her scent behind as she walked to the small window. “Ah, the night, it’s so soft. Like silk against the skin.” She turned back with a gleam in those bold blue eyes. “I am a night creature. And so, I think, are you. We, such as we, are at our best in the dark.”
He had risen when she did, and now as she came back to him, her scent and the wine swam through his senses. And something more, something thick and smoky that hazed over his mind like a drug.
She tipped her head up, and back, then laid her mouth over his. “And why, when we’re best in the dark, would we spend the dark hours alone?”
And in the dream, it was like a dream, misty and muddled. He was in her carriage, with her full white breasts in his hands, her mouth hot and avid on his. She laughed when he fumbled with her kirtle, and spread her legs in seductive invitation.
“Strong hands,” she murmured. “A pleasing face. It’s what I need, and need, and take. Will you do my bidding?” With another light laugh, she nipped at his ear. “Will you? Will you, young, handsome Cian with the strong hands?”
“Aye, of course. Aye.” He could think of nothing but burying himself in her. When he did, with the carriage swaying madly, her head fell back in abandon.
“Yes, yes, yes! So hard, so hot. Give me more, and more! And I’ll take you beyond all that you know.”
As he plunged, his breath coming short as he neared climax, her head reared up again.
Her eyes were no longer blue and bold but red and feral. The shock that rushed into him had him trying to pull back, but her arms suddenly wrapped around him, implacable as iron chains. Her legs hooked around his waist, keeping him inside her, trapped. While he struggled against her impossible strength, she smiled with fangs gleaming in the dark.
“What are you?” There were no prayers in his head; fear left no room for them. “What are you?”
Her hips continued to rise and fall, riding him, so he was helplessly driven closer to peak. She fisted a hand in his hair, yanking back his head to expose his throat. “Magnificent,” she said. “I am magnificent, and so will you be.”
She struck, the fangs piercing his flesh. He heard his own scream, somewhere in the madness and pain he heard it. The burn was unspeakable, searing through skin, into blood, beyond the bone. And mixed with it, sliding through it was a terrible, terrible pleasure.
He came, in the whirling, singing dark, betrayed by his body even as it dipped toward death. He struggled still, some part of him clawing for the light, for survival. But the pain, the pleasure dragged him deeper into the abyss.
“You and I, my handsome boy. You and I.” She dipped back, cradling him in her arms now. With her own fingernail, she sliced a shallow slice across her breast so that blood dripped from it as it did, horribly, from her lips. “Now drink. Drink me, and you are forever.”
No. His lips wouldn’t form the word, but it screamed through his mind. Feeling his life slipping away, he struggled weakly for that last hold on it. Even when she pulled his head to her breast he fought her with what was left of him.
Then he tasted it, the rich and heady flavor that flowed from her. The bulging life of it. And like a babe at its mother’s breast, he drank his own death.
The vampire woke in absolute dark, in absolute silence. Such was the way for him since the change so long ago, that he roused each sunset with not even the sound of his own heartbeat to stir the air.
Though he had dreamed the dream countless times over countless years, it disturbed him to fall from that edge yet again. To see himself as he’d been, to see his own face—one he’d not seen while awake since that night—made him edgy and annoyed.
He didn’t brood over his fate. That was a useless occupation. He accepted and used what he was, and had through his personal eternity accumulated wealth, women, comfort, freedom. What else could a man want?
Having no heartbeat was a small price to pay, in the larger scheme of things. A heart that beat aged and weakened, and eventually stopped like a broken clock in any case.
How many bodies had he seen decay and die over his nine hundred years? He couldn’t count them. And while he couldn’t see the reflection of his own face, he knew it was the same as the night Lilith had taken him. The bones were still strong, the skin over them firm, supple and unlined. His eyes were sharp of sight and unfaded. There was not, and would never be, any gray in his hair, any sagging in his jowls.
Perhaps there were times, in the dark, in private, when he used his fingers to see his own face. There the high, prominent cheekbones, the shallow cleft in the chin, the deep-set eyes he knew were a strong blue. The blade of his nose, the firm curve of his lips.
The same. Always the same. But still, a small indulgence to spend a moment reminding himself.
He rose in the dark, his leanly muscled body naked, shook back the black hair that framed his face. He’d been born Cian Mac Cionaoith, and had gone by many names since. He was back to Cian—his brother’s doing. Hoyt would call him nothing else, and since this war he’d agreed to fight might end him, Cian decided it was only right he should wear the name of his birth.
He’d prefer
not to be ended. In his opinion, only the mad or the very young considered dying an adventure. But if that was his fate, at this time and place, at least he’d go out with style. And if there were any justice in any world, he would take Lilith with him to dust.
His eyes were as keen as his other senses, so he moved easily in the dark, going to a chest for one of the packets of blood that had been transported from Ireland. Apparently, the gods had deemed to allow the blood, as well as the vampire who required it, to travel through worlds from their circle of stones.
Then again, it was pigs’ blood. Cian hadn’t fed on humans in centuries. A personal choice, he mused as he broke open the packet, poured its contents into a cup. A matter of will, he thought, and well, manners, come to that. He lived among them, did business with them, slept with them when he was in the mood. It seemed rude to feed off them.
In any case, he’d found it simpler to live as he liked, to stay off the radar, if he didn’t kill some hapless soul on a nightly basis. Live feeding added both thrill and flavor nothing else matched, but it was, by nature, a messy business.
He’d grown accustomed to the more banal flavor of pigs’ blood, and the simple convenience of having it at his fingertips rather than having to go out and hunt something up every time hunger stirred in him.
He drank the blood as a man might his morning coffee—out of habit and the need for a kick on waking. It cleared his mind, jump-started his system.
He troubled neither with candles nor fire as he washed. He couldn’t say he was overly pleased with the accommodations of Geall. Castle or not, he imagined he was as out of place in this medieval atmosphere as both Glenna and Blair.
He’d lived through this sort of era once, and once was enough for anyone. He preferred—much preferred—the daily conveniences of indoor plumbing, electricity, Chinese bloody take-out, come to that.