Immortal with a Kiss

by Jacqueline Lepore

  It was a moment of such pleasantness—the three of us together sharing a modest repast—and it meant much to restore my spirit. When we finished eating, Sebastian took me down to the courtyard, intent on following me back to Blackbriar on horseback alongside the trap I’d borrowed to ensure my safety.

  “That is ridiculous,” I told him. “I have my bag with me. Should I come under attack, I would be worried about you. I can handle myself, Sebastian, as long as I am prepared.”

  These were courageous words. I did not mean them. I wished I did, and so hoped by putting on a brave face I might fool him. Maybe myself, as well.

  “I will take you halfway, then. I want to take this chance to speak with you away from Father Luke. I do not wish him to know this—God knows what he will get into that thick skull of his to do—but there is another family gone missing in the village. A woman and her young child. The man is under suspicion, of course.”

  “You think that he has harmed them?”

  “No, I think the vampire had them for its supper,” he quipped sharply. “And that poor man will swing for it unless we intervene.”

  I shook my head. “No, Sebastian. I can take on nothing else. I am doing my best as it is, and it is not enough. It is not—”

  “Emma, Emma—I did not mean for you to worry about this. I will see to it, as much can be done. I wanted you to know, that is all. You are, after all, our de facto leader.”

  I swallowed at that. It was a daunting title, and yet I knew it was true. “I am a wreck. Forgive my snapping at you.”

  He took me all the way to the edge of Blackbriar lands and I rode the rest of the way by myself. Upon arriving at the school stables, I made quick work of getting the horse brushed and safely into its stall without disturbing the groom. That done, I slipped unseen into the building. I met up with no one as I crept upstairs, but just as I was about to enter my bedchamber, a small shadow lurking in the hallway startled me.

  “My God, Eustacia!” I exclaimed as I recognized her. My hand withdrew from the bag I had slung over my shoulder, where it had already closed about a sharpened stake.

  The girl was wide-eyed and wan as she stepped into the light cast by the wall sconces. Her appearance alarmed me. “What is it?” I demanded. “Is something wrong? Is someone hurt?”

  “I was afraid you had been . . . The girls said she would come to you. Mrs. Andrews, you are in danger!”

  I took a step toward her, but that was the wrong move. She shied away, and I realized she was here on a thread of courage that might snap at any moment. “Do you mean Margaret? Vanessa? Did they threaten me?”

  “She did,” Eustacia said.

  “Who, darling?” I urged. I almost reached out my arms to give her comfort, but constrained myself.

  She began to cry silently, fast-moving tears streaming down her cheeks. I could see the struggle within her. She wanted so badly to tell me, but her terror would not let her. “We are all alone,” I promised in a whisper. “And I will never speak of what you tell me to anyone. I vow it. Who said they would harm me, Eustacia?”

  She shook her head, backing away. I did move then, suddenly so as to surprise her. I grasped her by the shoulders, my voice steady. “Who is this she?”

  “I do not know!” she wailed. She struggled in my hands, but I clamped down, gripping her cruelly.

  “Tell me,” I commanded. But I knew, even before she hissed the name through trembling lips.

  “They call her the Cyprian Queen!”

  My hands went numb. Eustacia slipped away as I stood stunned in the dimly lit hall.

  That night, I dreamed of my mother. She was pale as snow, her lips livid crimson, her eyes black and flat and devoid of expression or intelligence. She leaned over me, her mouth gaping into a lurid smile. I wanted to scream, but in the dream, the sound choked me, closing, tightening in my throat until I could not breathe.

  I saw the elongated teeth, gleaming like Diana’s moon on a velvet midnight sky. Light glinted off them, as it does on fine steel, and a small scarlet tongue darted out in anticipation.

  “No. Stop.”

  My words came out slowly, painfully. I was unable to call out, even to beg for my life.

  Then she changed. Her face became the one I knew, the image of the portrait I’d studied as a child. It was a soft face, pretty in repose. Uncle Peter had told me she could dazzle an entire room. I had no memories of her, save one sad one of her weeping that had come to me only recently, so I had had to imagine those features animated. Here, in my dream, I saw the rosebud mouth curve into a soft smile. The eyes, no longer dead, shined down at me with love.

  I reached for her. But she began to fade away, as if pulled by some unseen force. The farther away she got, the more she struggled to return to me. A shadow fell between us, and I looked up at a towering figure, large, muscular, broad, with something of a bully’s face and a pugilist’s physique.

  He smiled at me, as if we shared a secret. I saw, then, two men behind him, wearing metal-plated armor fashioned into breastplates and short skirts. Sandals bound their feet. One carried a spear, the other a sword. There were chains in one’s hand, and they led to the large man’s wrists and ankles.

  With two fingers, he traced the shape of a cross in the air, first one long down stroke, then the cross stroke, but this latter he did at the lower end: it was the inverted cross, the sign of the devil, of black magic. Of witchcraft.

  I awoke, breathless and drenched in sweat. Leaping out of bed, I checked the windows and my door. The fine line of salt I’d drizzled on the sill to seal it was unbroken. I lit the candle and inspected the room, listening intently for the scuttling sound of rats. When I was certain I was safe, that it had been nothing but a dream, I crawled back into my bed. I was exhausted. I needed sleep. I curled up tight under the coverlet, clutching my crucifix in one hand and a vial of holy water in the other.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was no longer going to be denied or thwarted; I would have the story of my mother today. This was my resolve when I awoke, and I hurried to breakfast, found Eloise Boniface and told her in no uncertain terms that I must speak with her without delay. I led her, rather mystified, away from her toast and coffee and pulled her into the salon.

  “I know you remembered something about my mother,” I said without preamble. “I would like not to wait any longer for you to tell me what it is.”

  “Dear Emma, please do not be so disconcerted. The event I recollected was of no import, really. I simply thought you might find it interesting.”

  There was trepidation in her tone and on her face and I realized how I must have come off. Given my state of mind—after yesterday’s discussion and my restless night—my lack of tact was not surprising. I tempered myself. “I am having dreams, you see. I thought if we talked, it might help put to rest some of the wild imaginings that have come over me.”

  It was not exactly a lie. Not the truth, either—not completely. But it worked. Eloise’s expression changed from one of mild alarm to compassion. “Poor dear. I should never have said anything in the first place.”

  “You mentioned an accident. What happened?”

  “Laura had a bad fall, you see. Your mother was a dreadful horsewoman, did you know?”

  Unexpectedly, I laughed. “No, I did not, but as it happens, so am I.”

  Eloise smiled. “Yes, well, despite Laura’s lack of skill, she liked to be alone, so she would ride during her free time, to get away, you know. Alistair was the son of the hired man here and he worked with his father. He was infatuated with your mother, though no one knew it, not even Laura, I’ll wager. But it turned out to be fortuitous one day when she was out alone, for she was thrown from her horse and seriously injured. She probably would have died, but Alistair had followed her, you see, and seen the fall. He took her to his mother, who was a local woman, good with herbs. And though people called her a witch and other dreadful names—you know how they whisper about odd folk—Winifred was kindness itself�
�”

  “Winifred?” I exclaimed, remembering at once the upside-down tombstone in the wall of the Rood and Cup. But no, I corrected myself. Surely that had to have been placed long before this Winifred lived, and died, for the events being spoken of had taken place a mere score and ten years ago and the hearth wall at the inn was far older than that.

  “Yes, that was her name. She was well known for being a healer. If you had the headache or an attack of bile, she was the one who would mix you something and make you feel right. So that was why Alistair took her there, and the headmistress at the time allowed it, as it was sensible to have her tend Laura.”

  “Did my mother fall in love with him as well?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no, dear, for all he tried, and his mother, too, when she saw how her son doted on Laura. I cannot fault your mother. Forgive me for putting it this crudely, but he was unsightly. He was so tall, and wretchedly thin, and he forever had this very dour expression. Now, I believe Laura was fond of Alistair, but not in the same fashion as he was of her. He was something of a self-taught man, and they shared a passion for the classical literatures. I believe she thought of him as a friend but nothing more.”

  “But she regarded him well?”

  “Oh, yes. I recollect she was quite enthused about him when she returned to school. She spoke of how well-read he was, how he had educated himself in the library of the Suddington residence, for his father and he maintained the property when the family was away, as they often were for long periods of time. Oh, your mother was very impressed with Alistair’s knowledge of mythology, history, and literature. She liked him quite well and for a time after she returned to the school, they spent a great deal of time together due to their shared interest in these subjects. Then it all came to a head when he gave her that necklace. It was a wretched, ugly thing, not the sort of thing any Christian woman would wear. Imagine, a thing like that with that terrifying dragon on it—”

  I started. “A dragon?”

  “He had stolen it, and we all knew it, and where he had gotten it.”

  “Holt Manor,” I said, remembering the necklace from the portrait Lord Suddington had shown me.

  “Exactly. He was always lurking about that place, as if he belonged there! He thought better of himself than he was. Young Alistair was somewhat obsessed with that house.”

  “What happened to the necklace?”

  “It was returned, and there was no real harm done. After that, Laura began to grow uncomfortable and she put an end to all of it.”

  I leaned forward anxiously. “What do you mean? That was the end of the friendship?”

  “That was the end of Alistair.” Eloise waved her hand as if to demonstrate the justifiable dismissal of the thief. “He was disgraced. After all, he had stolen an heirloom from the most prominent family in the neighborhood. Laura was right to turn in the necklace, and cut him off without a word afterward.”

  “What happened to him?” I felt myself tense. Somehow, this sign of the Dracula had to be significant.

  I was disappointed, however, when Eloise shrugged and told me, “His mother sent him away and we never saw him again.” She studied me, and frowned. “Oh, do not look so, dear Emma. Yes, I know it is not much of a story, not for a daughter seeking to learn of her mother when she was a young lady. You see this is why I wish you had not made so much of my small recollection. It was nothing so important, not even of much interest, I’ll wager.”

  “That is not true,” I replied honestly. “I have always been eager for any information about my mother. No matter how small or insignificant this memory might be to you, it means a great deal to me.” I hesitated. “Let me ask you a question of a completely different sort. I am trying to find out information about something known as the Cyprian Queen. Have you heard any mention of such a thing?”

  Eloise blinked and seemed bemused by my question. “No. What is that, dear?”

  “I am not sure.” I sighed. “It seems some of the girls are talking about it. From what I have gathered, I am not certain it is wholesome.”

  She raised her eyebrow. “The . . . Cyprian Queen? As in the queen of Cyprus?”

  “Mrs. Boniface! Mrs. Andrews!” a sharp voice cut in. Miss Sloane-Smith had come up behind us, and by the look of her, with her high color and sternly set jaw, she was in a temper. “What is this nonsense? Should you not be with your classes?”

  I rose. “As a matter of fact, we were just finishing our conversation.”

  Eloise seemed oblivious to the headmistress’s state as she gathered her knitting and headed for the door. “I must be getting my classroom in order myself.”

  I followed her out, but Miss Sloane-Smith waited at the door and grabbed my arm, silently staying me. I stared at her, but she did not meet my gaze until we were alone. The glare she gave me then took me aback. “I will not have nonsense spread about my school. We have had a difficult year, and I want all to go smoothly from here on out.”

  “I am sure I agree,” I told her.

  “Why were you asking about the Cyprian Queen?”

  I froze for a moment, then answered carefully. “I was curious. I heard some things—”

  “When I retained you, you assured me you did not listen to gossip!”

  I glanced meaningfully to where her hand gripped my arm, and after a moment, she released me. I thought I saw the blaze of hatred flare in her eyes before just as quickly subsiding. It clearly galled her that she could not terrorize me as she did Miss Easterly and the others.

  Drawing in a steadying breath, she said, “I do not know what you meant, bringing up this thing, this Cyprian Queen, but I do not want it mentioned again. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Why?” I snapped, my pride stealing my good sense. I could not help myself; she reminded me so much of Judith.

  “Because it is nonsense, that is why. Dangerous nonsense far beneath the attention of a teacher of this school.” She leveled a finger at me and began to point. “We do not deal with superstition, Mrs. Andrews. It is bad for the school.”

  I was stunned by her fervor. She knows, I thought suddenly. She knew about the Cyprian Queen!

  I could hardly demand she tell me. Lord, how I wanted to shake her, to rail at her to open her eyes to what was going on. People had died, and she wanted only to bury the happenings as deeply as possible. That was deadly, I was convinced.

  Ironically, it was to Judith’s credit I maintained my composure. All of those critical lectures on my overly “warm” nature had left their mark, and I held my tongue, nodding to show I understood.

  She left me then, and I closed my eyes, taking in deep breaths to steady me. But I was shaken. Deeply shaken, and equally determined Miss Sloane-Smith would give up her secrets one way or another.

  A few days later, there was great rejoicing in the village of Blackbriar. The woman, Rose, who had gone missing a week ago along with her child had returned. She offered no explanation for her absence, but it was generally acknowledged that some nefarious man had seen her, wanted her, and taken her but that she’d managed to escape with her child, although she could not bring herself to speak of her ordeal. So many had gone missing in recent months, never to be seen again, it was considered a veritable miracle by all that she and her child had come home safely.

  Sebastian and I knew better. When the rumors of her sickness—nerves, it was said—reached us, we paid special heed. It appeared she had developed a severe depression. She abhorred light. She was found wandering in the night. She had no appetite and suffered severe moodiness.

  We digested this news soberly. We understood clearly what had happened to Rose, and perhaps her child. And what we had to do.

  I arrived at the inn just before dawn, once again sneaking out of the school and into Sebastian’s rooms without detection. “My bag is down in the trap, behind the inn.”

  “Excellent. The timing should be good. James, her husband, will be gone before the sun comes up. And she will be weak. But we must hurry. We d
on’t want it to get too late and risk being seen by anyone else.”

  Father Luke stepped forward. “I am coming with you,” he said, shouldering the bag Sebastian had prepared.

  I balked at the idea. “Absolutely not,” I insisted. “You are not strong enough.”

  Sebastian was not so kind. “You will be a hindrance.”

  “If I drop dead on the spot, let me lie there, then,” the priest growled as he pulled on a woolen coat. “I am not allowing the two of you to go out there alone.”

  “It is my job,” I said with an effort at patience.

  He leaned in close to me, frightening me a little. “It is my job to save souls.”

  “Ah, here is the righteous avenger for God!” Sebastian exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “You were not so devout wallowing in the opium hell I found you in.”

  “Sebastian!”

  “He needs to be made to see sense.”

  “I need to cease being treated as a child!” Father Luke thundered.

  “You are an invalid,” Sebastian yelled back, completely undaunted by the priest’s towering rage.

  The priest’s lips peeled back as he surveyed Sebastian. “Now enough discussion,” he said at last with soft menace. “Neither of you have the physical means to stop me, despite my weakened state, and we are wasting time.”

  There was no more arguing after that.

  The cottage was a humble but neatly kept dwelling on the edge of the south woods, a few miles from the cobbled streets of the village. We pulled the trap I’d brought from the school behind a thick tangle of brambles set a little way off. Father Luke took up a position nearby to keep guard while Sebastian and I crept close.

  “The husband is gone,” I whispered, pointing to a row of boots by the back door. A pair made for slender feet—woman’s feet—and a tiny pair for a child. I paused, staring at those boots. They were very small indeed. Dear God.