Descent into Dust

by Jacqueline Lepore

I rounded the bed and went to him, wrapping my arms about him and pulling him into an embrace. He clasped me gratefully. “Dear me, Mrs. Andrews, what can you be thinking—such improper doings with a gentleman in your boudoir. And one who is besotted with you beyond all proper admiration, at that.”

  I laughed and pulled back. “You may be the great love of my life, Sebastian.”

  He smiled. “Your heart is spoken for, you wretched woman. Have you had an opportunity to discuss matters with Mr. Fox?”

  I paused. Valerian and I had not spoken as yet. “It is not the time,” I stated.

  “You are a coward,” he chided affectionately.

  “Imagine that,” I said, smiling ruefully. “After all we’ve been through, I find I am not intrepid after all.”

  “Well, he is not the simplest man I’ve met. You can see that a mile off. There is a mystery there, mark me.” He broke away with a deep, nourishing breath. “Well, thank God I am done with all this darkness and suspicion. It is only parties for me from now on, and lovely gossip and fashion and all the refreshing intrigues of society life. I think I will start a rumor to amuse me. I do love a scandal.”

  I laughed. “You make it sound so sordid.”

  “Oh, but it is, my dear, it is—deliciously so.” He stopped, serious again. Touching my chin, he shook his head at me. “You are a brave, foolish woman. Ah, well, I shall not cry over the fun we could have had.”

  “Emma!” Alyssa’s voice arced into the room. She stood in the doorway, glaring at Sebastian. “May I speak with my sister?” A crackling cloud of tension around her drove Sebastian away at full flight, a parting smirk behind her back his revenge.

  I expected a theatrical display, or at the very least a bit of the vapors. But she was stony, direct, and quite a bit more firm than I’d ever known her to be. “I wish you to know I am not a child. No one will tell me what is happening. The house is like a mausoleum and everyone smiles and pats my hand. And now you are leaving.”

  “Darling, I am sorry—”

  She held up a hand to stop me. “I wanted you with me. I need you, Emma.” Her façade wavered. “But I shall be strong. I just do not wish everyone to treat me as if I am a fragile thing. So there it is.”

  I smiled, suddenly so proud of her. “You are having a child. Your life is your family and that is so wonderful, Alyssa. But my life will take me on a different path. I hope, though, that we shall be better sisters to each other. You have grown up. You are to be a mother.”

  “And you are different, as well.” She regarded me with a calm thoughtfulness. “You were right, Emma—was that it? Whatever awful things you did to Henrietta that made Roger send you away, you were right? You did something and it was brave, I think.”

  I was touched, because I saw the hope in her face. She wanted me to have been vindicated. She wanted me to be the heroine. I was reminded that she was an orphan like myself. Perhaps, if we had ever been able to know each other deeply, we would have discovered much in common. She was my sister, after all. Inside, beyond what Judith had instilled in her, was a woman I now suspected I might well like.

  But it seemed I would not get the chance. Not yet, anyway. “Everything is well now,” I told her.

  She pouted a bit; she was still Alyssa. Then she pointed to my portmanteau. “When are you going to get something better? That is a disgrace.”

  “It is my mother’s,” I said simply, and for the first time in my life, I did not cringe to mention Laura.

  Alyssa peered at me, then snapped up a set of lawn chemises. “Really, Emma,” she chided, and began to refold them, laying each one neatly in its place.

  My farewell to Valerian Fox took place in the garden later that morning. He sent word for me to meet him there, but he waited for me by the portico doors, and we walked outside together, silent and sad and neither one of us truly knowing what it was we wanted to say.

  The sunshine was a shock after so many long, dreary, drizzly days. There’s a smell one can only describe as green, the vibrant scent of new life breaking out of its earthly prison, and it tingled in my nose. Birdsong rang out in isolated calls, as if the creatures were tentative and untrusting of the mild clime. In time, they’d grow bold, diving through the air and working furiously to build nests in which to welcome their newly hatched young.

  “Will you go with your sister?” he asked at last.

  “My life is not by her side, not any longer. I have written to Dom Beauclaire and asked if I might study at one of the secret archives. When I was in France, he kept mentioning the one in Copenhagen as having many of the resources I need, so I may go there.”

  “It will be a cold winter in Denmark,” he commented. We took the path to the right, moving easily with each other. “I have enormous faith in you, you know,” he said. “You are a remarkably resourceful lady. The Glastonbury Holy Hawthorn, for example. That…” He arched his index finger and smiled, “now, that was genius. I have been wasting my time patiently carving the hard woods of the rowan and ash. What a mind you have for these things.”

  “But I was born to it.”

  The words lingered, heavy. I was sure he knew where my thoughts turned.

  “You are going to find your mother,” he said.

  I swallowed. “She needs me, Valerian. She is still…” Not alive. I let the sentence hover in the air for an uncertain moment before finishing: “Suffering.”

  “It will not be easy,” he warned. His eyes were full of concern. “I wish I could help.” He hesitated. I could feel the tension coil around him, and in his eyes lights of sadness burned like low coals. “Were it possible, I would not leave you.”

  My heart wrenched. I knew it was not easy for him to say this. He did not strike me as a man who cared to have emotional ties, and perhaps it was not so easy to say good-bye to me as he would like it to be.

  I did not betray my reaction, therefore, and replied with an equanimity I did not feel, “But you must find Marius.”

  His head came up as he inhaled sharply, his eyes going to the horizon as if thinking of the wide world out there into which the great vampire lord had fled. “I have no choice.”

  We’d come to the row of roses, my cousin’s pride. They were ugly and bare just yet. In a month they would be gorgeous, their thorns covered by leaves and petals. “I could not have done a thing without you. I owe you so very much, Valerian. And…I should have trusted you. I’m sorry I did not.”

  He waved his hand. “I do not fault you.”

  I caught the hand in my two, surprising him. He was still hurt that I had not taken him into my confidence when I’d detoured to Glastonbury. “I am sorry,” I said to him, passion in my voice.

  “No, Emma. No. You are Dhampir.” With great deliberation, his fingers stroked his cravat under which lay the welts on his neck. “You must always trust your instincts. Never question them. Never. I am touched by the vampire. If I cannot trust myself, how can I ask it of you?”

  “Valerian,” I murmured. “You saved me when you could have had Marius.”

  He smiled, and for the first time I saw the shadows lift from his face. His hand clasped mine tightly. “Oh, Emma, what good would it have done me to save my soul if you were lost to me?”

  His gaze flickered over my face. I felt the tension tighten around us for one excruciating moment and then he broke my gaze, looking off into the distance. “It is not fair, you know,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “Everything,” he said with a sigh.

  I swallowed. “Yes,” I whispered. “It is most unjust.”

  His gaze returned to roam my face. “In all of the hardships I have endured through my many…many years, I have never allowed myself to indulge in self-pity. Not once. But I cannot seem to help myself today.” His smile was so sad I felt a lump rise in my own throat. We turned and headed back to the house.

  “I have something for you,” I said, remembering it as we gained the flagstone porch. I drew a parcel from the pocket of my day dress
.

  He looked at me in consternation. I could see he recognized the oilcloth in which he’d wrapped the switch of hawthorn that had pierced Marius and still carried precious drops of his blood. His mouth worked for a second or two before he gained his voice. “Why are you giving this to me?”

  “I do not need it. And if you find Marius, or Emil, or whatever he is now, you may find a use for it. Should I come to understand the way to tapping its power, I will send word to you.” I laughed softly. “So you see, Mr. Fox, I do trust you.”

  He slipped the oilcloth into the pocket on the inside of his coat. “I shall endeavor to honor that trust.” His eye caught mine. “And you, Emma, you have something you must honor.”

  I closed my eyes briefly under the stab of that reminder. “It is my hope you will eliminate the need for me to make good on my promise.”

  “Indeed,” he said, taking my hand in his, unfurling my fingers, and touching his lips reverently to the palm. “I shall never wish to disappoint you.”

  My second departure from Dulwich Manor was much improved from the first.

  Mary embraced me with tears in her eyes. “I do not wish you to leave,” she finally confessed as we stood on the entrance steps of her great house.

  “Darling, it is not forever,” I said, and kissed her on the cheek.

  “And Alyssa is weeping,” she added hopefully, thinking this might sway me.

  I smiled. “Alan will console her.”

  She laughed. “He will not thank you for that.”

  “But he is her husband. It is his place now.”

  She studied me for a moment. “Yes. Emma, I want to thank you—”

  “Please, Mary,” I began but she cut me off.

  “I was not kind to you. I did not understand. I still do not, but I know you saved my daughter’s life. I confess, I had doubts about you. In the past, we all wondered…That is, there were times when we did not know…because of your mother, you see…”

  I waved away her stumbling words. “Things have changed,” I said softly. “Let us leave it at that.”

  She nodded, her eyes glowing. I was glad she spoke no more. It was enough to forgive each other and to trust the bonds of family held us fast.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “you are indeed quite changed, Emma.”

  Roger, with Henrietta in his arms, came up to us. “When will you come again?” Henrietta asked.

  “I am not even gone yet!”

  “But I miss you already.” Only Henrietta could speak like this, without petulance or demand. It was merely a statement, spoken solemnly, with her eyes wide and honest.

  I searched her face. I could not seem to stop doing so. What was I looking for? Some sign of the vampire, a mark of how he had taken her, almost to a hideous death, laying his hand on something inside her as he had me…But her gaze was clear, her features untroubled. I did not feel the mark of the vampire on her. I would never stop worrying about it, though.

  “I shall visit you quite soon,” I said briskly to ward off my own emotionality.

  Her little brow furrowed slightly. Not good enough. And I thought it likely I would, in fact, not see her soon, not for a very long time.

  She nearly leapt out of her father’s arms to hug me tightly. When she released me, Roger kissed my cheek, an affectation of his I had always loved. But this time, he froze for a moment, with my cheekbone pressed against his lips. I could hear the hitch in his breathing.

  Mary, beside him, laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. He raised his head and they looked at one another, then down and away. He released me. “Have a care on the roads. The mud will be treacherous after the rains last week.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I found my voice was a bit rusty. I cleared my throat and turned to descend the steps to my waiting carriage.

  Once inside, I pulled back the drape so I could wave to them all as the driver pulled away. Henrietta’s small hand extended as if she would summon me back. When the carriage rounded the end of the drive, I let the curtain drop so I did not have to see the house growing smaller on the horizon behind me.

  My driver took us across the plains, down the road scored over the pattern of the ancient stones, a path of ages, where death and life came up against each other, and I felt it fitting to leave Avebury by way of this ridgeway. I leaned my head back on the deep cushions, closing my eyes. I should rest, I thought. I must prepare for all that lay ahead. I must be ready. Always ready. Semper praesum.

  I smiled as my carriage rumbled along the road.

  EMMA ANDREWS

  LONDON, AUGUST 1926

  A+ AUTHOR INSIGHTS, EXTRAS & MORE…

  FROM

  JACQUELINE

  LEPORE

  AND

  AVON A

  Meet Jacqueline

  I am a native Philadelphian, born in South Philly and raised first there, then later in the suburbs. I attended the University of Pennsylvania for both undergraduate and graduate studies, earning a Ph.D. in psychology. I moved with my husband to Maryland immediately after that and have practiced here for more than twenty years as a licensed psychologist. I have three children and a houseful of pets.

  Every writer begins as a reader. I cut my teeth on Gothic novels and Nancy Drew mysteries, which I consumed with a voracious appetite, loving every heart-pounding moment of suspense. I began writing when I was in the seventh grade, filling notebooks with unfinished stories of horror, science fiction, and romance. By senior year in high school, I was doing short story collections, but these were never shared—writing was my “dirty little secret.”

  It was always my dream to write a full-length novel, and I began attempting this in college. I eventually succeeded many years later, and years after that found the courage to “come out” about my peculiar hobby of making up stories. I found a terrific second career as a writer of romantic fiction, but after a while I wanted to challenge myself again to create a new, completely different sort of story. With the Emma Andrews series, I have found my way back to all those Gothic traditions I treasured growing up. So I’ve come full circle, and just as Emma finds her true self, so have I.

  The Origins of Emma Andrews

  The Emma Andrews series began as a historical detective series! No vampires in sight, believe it or not.

  I was reading historical novels—lots of them—and I felt inspired. As I began to formulate the structure of the series, I couldn’t get a handle on the “hook,” that is to say the unique quality of my series or lead character that makes it special and different from anything else. Meanwhile, I kept being drawn to the concept of the Gothic novel. I grew up reading the books of Victoria Holt, Daphne du Maurier, Mary Stewart, Phyllis Whitney—and I still love them. My favorite parts were always the spooky elements. So I thought a little touch of the supernatural might be the ticket for my detective—as if she were a medium who is helped by supernatural forces when solving crimes. (Terrible, I know, but at least it was a start.)

  Then a stray comment from a friend brought it all together for me (thank you, Donna!). She mentioned how many successful novelists have taken a concept or a character and pushed it way over the top. I had an ah-hah moment and the idea for the series veered drastically off course from its original trajectory. Suddenly all the ideas I’d been tossing around combusted into something very hot. I decided the series would have a full-on supernatural theme, and naturally, my mind went to that quintessential evil being, the vampire. I had the idea that my heroine would be a neophyte, an underdog who has to navigate the repressive society of Victorian England and find a way to fulfill her destiny as a vampire hunter.

  Now I had not read many vampire novels at this point, save the seminal Dracula by Bram Stoker and a few of Anne Rice’s early works. I knew there were all kinds of vampire and vampire hunter series out there, not to mention the absolute plethora of vampire romances. (I had not yet read the Twilight books, nor Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse series—both of which I am a rabid fan o
f now.) What I saw on the shelves looked largely like slick, urban, sexy vampire-type books. My series was going to be different, which might mean it was not sellable. However, I had to write it. If it got published, then great. If not, then that would be great too (although, admittedly, not as great) because I had to tell this story, even if only to myself.

  Once I started writing, it became apparent that some of the problems Emma faces in Descent into Dust would not be resolved by the end of the book. That surprised me. It also became apparent that her core group—Sebastian, Valerian, and Father Luke—began taking on more prominence as I developed the plot, with exciting stories of their own. I began to look at the series not as simply episodic, though I still intend for each book to still be a separate “mystery,” but as an ongoing quest of wider scope. It was unbelievably exciting trolling the Internet and poring over books to get the rich details that would comprise my vampire world. I culled inspiration from established Catholic traditions, world folklore, and Romantic literature, as well as drawing on my own psychology background to map out an exploration of human emotion and the complexities of real relationships. The result is, I hope, something you have found as thrilling to read as I did to write it.

  The Cyprian Queen

  Read on for a sneak preview of the next Emma Andrews adventure, The Cyprian Queen, which will be available from Avon A in March 2011. I hope you will enjoy accompanying me further into the dark, mystery-steeped world of vampires and hunters. Don’t forget your sharpened stake. And a little holy water never hurt.

  The scrape of the monk’s footsteps, like sandpaper on the smooth marble surface of the palace’s long central hallway, was startling in the silence. From where I was seated behind the raw wooden table I’d made my desk in what used to be a ladies’ sitting parlor, I saw his tonsured head bowed as he advanced toward my doorway, his brown-garbed form dwarfed by the towering windows of the great hall. I think I knew even then that what I’d felt hurtling toward me had finally arrived.