For All Eternity

by Linda Lael Miller

  Calder hoped his smile was reassuring, and that it didn’t reflect the annoyance he felt at being cosseted and caged like some exotic bird, or the terrible, clawing grief that bruised his heart. “Don’t fret, Pillings. I’ll be happy to bear the brunt of Miss Tremayne’s fury—if indeed she ever finds out that we conspired to ignore her instructions.”

  At that, the driver cracked his whip in the moist, cool air, and the carriage moved forward, wheels rattling over the cobblestones, leather fittings creaking.

  Reaching the bank, Calder arranged for a transfer of funds from one of his own accounts in Philadelphia. Even there, an ocean away from his own country, the Holbrook name was influential enough that strangers would advance pound notes against it.

  Leaving that establishment, he went to the wharf, where he booked passage on a ship leaving for New York the following morning. If he and Maeve could not agree on a course of action when they spoke that evening, he fully intended to be aboard the vessel.

  After that Calder visited a shop where men’s clothing was sold ready-made, and purchased enough garments for the journey, which would take ten days to two weeks.

  Provided, of course, that Maeve didn’t give in and change him into an immortal, as he wanted her to do.

  Eventually Calder returned to the Tremayne house, where he was greeted with no little relief by Pillings. He enjoyed a lengthy luncheon in the library, while Pillings and the footman carried his purchases upstairs and stowed them away in his rooms.

  When he’d finished his meal, Calder paced, impatient. It would be hours before Maeve awakened, and even then he might not see her. She was an unpredictable creature and might start off on one of her adventures without bothering to speak with him first.

  The thought filled him with frustration and loneliness. Every moment, every hour away from her side, was like a wound to his spirit.

  He could go to the chamber belowstairs and wait there, holding her hand, until she opened those beautiful, impossibly blue eyes of hers, but he was afraid of drawing attention to her. Calder knew little about vampires, but he had gleaned, both from things Maeve had said and from an obscure book on the subject that he’d found on one of the library shelves, the worrisome fact that a blood-drinker was never more vulnerable than when it lay sleeping.

  At that point Maeve was utterly unable to defend herself. He could not risk having one of the servants follow him, or worse, some supernatural being. He had no idea who—or what—might be watching with interest the events taking place in this household.

  The thought only deepened his wish to be a vampire himself, to share Maeve’s fate, be it damnation or an eternity of walking the earth. He didn’t care, as long as he could be with her.

  At sunset, while Calder was having tea beside the fire in the sitting room off his bedchamber, Maeve appeared before him, her form seeming to knit itself from the very ether.

  She took in the boxes of new clothes with a sweep of her eyes, then stood frowning down at him, her arms folded.

  Calder rose from his chair, out of good manners, yes, but also because he’d felt like an errant schoolboy sitting down, looking up at her, awaiting his fate. “What have you decided?” he asked quietly.

  He saw an infinite sorrow in her eyes and knew her answer before she spoke. “I will not be the one to damn you, Calder. I cannot sever the invisible cords that bind you to your Creator.”

  He did not attempt to argue, for he could see that she’d made up her mind. He was sick at his soul—his very heart seemed to crumble within his chest—and he would not allow himself to think of being parted from her, inevitable though it was, because he could not bear the knowledge.

  “Tonight,” she said before Calder found the strength to speak, “you will see other vampires firsthand. I will show you what dreadful creatures they can be.”

  Calder was shattered, but he was also intrigued, for he was first and foremost a scientist, and he was more than curious, he was greedy for whatever knowledge of vampires he could garner. “How?” he asked simply.

  Maeve smiled, but her eyes were liquid with mourning, for she knew he would not stay and await her brief appearances, warming himself on the hearth like a lapdog. “There will be a vampire ball,” she said. “Right here, in this house, this very night. Will you be my escort, Dr. Calder Holbrook?”

  *

  CHAPTER 10

  « ^ »

  Maeve’s guests began arriving at approximately ten-thirty that night. Most were vampires, ruddy from recent feedings, but Calder noticed a surprising number of mortals, too. These brave, or perhaps reckless, souls were artists mostly, and writers; curious people, like himself, fascinated by the nightwalkers.

  All were ushered into the great ballroom, where gaslights flickered softly, their glow dancing golden in the polished mirrors that lined the walls. At the far end, on a dais, a small orchestra played Mozart.

  Glancing at the butler, Pillings, who was unruffled by this grand and innately horrible affair, Calder realized that he’d been wrong, thinking the other man didn’t know that there was something very different about the mistress of this house. Pillings obviously understood that the majority of that night’s visitors were not human.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” Calder said in a low voice after making his way to the butler’s side.

  Pilling’s manner was smooth and rather smug. “Because I couldn’t be certain that you did, sir.”

  Calder smiled, though he felt raw inside, and broken. Maeve had made her decision; she would not turn him into a vampire, and since she wanted him to stay in London, where she could protect him, she probably wouldn’t agree to transport him home by means of her strange magic, either. All of which meant that he would be traveling back to America by ship and leaving Maeve behind forever.

  The prospect of being parted from her filled Calder with a grief the like of which he had not felt since those torturous days, weeks, and months following his daughter’s death. All the same, there was no question of staying. He would have died for Maeve but, ironic as it was, he could not live for her—not if it meant enduring an insipid, sheltered existence. As it was, he felt like a tame mouse, caged, running round and round inside a wheel.

  Just then Maeve came to his side. She looked magnificent in a voluminous gown of purple velvet, the skirt decorated with crystal beads that glimmered like frost over clean snow. She might have been mortal, except for the pale, extraordinary perfection of her skin and the restrained energy she exuded with every movement.

  Calder looked down into her eyes and felt himself tumble, then free-fall, headlong into her very soul, where he would doubtless be a prisoner forever, even if he never saw her again. “How can I leave you?” he whispered raggedly.

  Maeve laid one slender, elegant hand to his cheek, and her touch sent a charge through his system. Then, silently, she linked her arm with his and led him the length of the ballroom and out through a set of French doors. They stood then on a terrace, under a glittering arbor of stars.

  “Perhaps it’s better if you go away,” she said coolly, but Calder wasn’t fooled. He heard the sorrow in her voice and felt it throbbing in her soul, the counterpart of his own mourning. “Better if you have no memory of me, or of what we’ve shared together—”

  “Wait a minute,” Calder snapped, unable to hide the note of desperation that reverberated through his whole being. “What do you mean, ‘if I have no memory of you’? Surely you can’t—” He paused, realizing that Maeve could do virtually anything she wished. “You wouldn’t—take that, the most precious gift I’ve ever been given!”

  She looked away for a moment, then faced him squarely again. “One night soon, when I can bear it,” she began evenly, “I will return to the precise instant when you first saw me, outside that church at Gettysburg. I will adjust that moment, make myself invisible to you, and all that came after will be undone.”

  Calder felt his eyes go wide. “No!” he protested in a hoarse cry.

 
; Maeve nodded sadly. “I should have done it days ago.”

  He shoved one hand through his hair and turned away to stand at the stone railing of the terrace, looking out over the rooftops of London. “I can’t endure it,” he said.

  He felt her hands come to rest on his shoulders. “It’s for the best, darling,” she said.

  Calder whirled, putting his arms around her slender waist, pulling her close to him. “What about you?” he demanded, and although he sounded angry, what he really felt was wild, raging despair. “Will you remember?”

  She regarded him for a long moment. “Briefly,” she replied. “Then, after a while, our time together will seem like a lovely dream, the kind that comes just as one is waking from a pleasant sleep.”

  “You can’t do this,” Calder rasped. “You can’t!”

  Maeve’s gaze was steady. She tugged at the chain around his neck, brought the pendant from beneath his collar, lifted the necklace over his head, and dropped it into her bodice. “I can, my darling,” she said gently. “And I will. For your sake, as well as my own. Perhaps, by the grace of the One who cherishes all mortals, you will be protected from the evils that surround you now.” She took his hand. “Come now—let us dance together while we can. Then I will take you home to Philadelphia and your wounded soldiers.”

  He swallowed hard, knowing it would be useless to argue the point, that night at least, and finally nodded. Even so, he could not, would not accept Maeve’s decision without a fight.

  Inside, among the pallorous, beautiful ghouls, they danced, two lovers doomed to be parted so completely that soon, too soon, they would not even remember each other.

  Midway through the evening a family of vampires arrived. Maeve explained that they were the Havermails, Avery and Roxanne and their offspring, Canaan and Benecia. The smaller pair were, in some ways, the most chilling of all the fiends Calder had seen that night, for although their eyes were ancient, they were trapped forever in the bodies of little girls.

  Calder shuddered in Maeve’s embrace as they waltzed.

  “And you were aggrieved that we’d never have children,” Maeve jested. Although she was plainly teasing him and her eyes were mirthful, Calder knew her sorrow was as fathomless as his own.

  At eleven-thirty Maeve called a halt to the dancing and stood on the dais, in front of the orchestra, to address her guests.

  Her voice was at once gentle and full of authority. She told the crowd about a vampire called Lisette, who had been creating blood-drinkers at random. They were mindless, inferior creatures, she said, and because of them the angels were ready to make war on all nightwalkers, not only vampires, but every supernatural being.

  Calder listened in fascination as Maeve went on to say that the warlocks were outraged over this situation. Either the vampires would have to join forces with their age-old enemies, to destroy Lisette and defeat her growing army of ghouls, or the warlocks would make war on all blood-drinkers. Their hope was that, by wiping out vampires, the warlocks could appease the warrior angels and their commander, Nemesis, and thus avert their own destruction.

  A stir rose in the gathering, and then one of the macabre child-vampires stepped forward. She was small and blond; Benecia Havermail, Maeve had called her.

  “Where is Valerian?” she asked in a clear voice. “Can we not depend on him to lead us? He is the oldest and most cunning vampire of us all.”

  Maeve seemed to grow before Calder’s weary eyes, to loom taller and more imposing. She was terrifying to see, in her beauty and her power, and yet he knew he’d never loved her more than he did at that moment, when he first realized that she truly was royalty.

  “Valerian has disappeared,” she answered without hesitation. “And even you, Benecia, should know better than to expect leadership from him. Furthermore, he is not the oldest blood-drinker—Lisette and the members of the Brotherhood of the Vampyre are ancient compared to him.”

  Benecia subsided a little, though she didn’t look happy about it. Calder imagined encountering such a creature on a dark sidewalk some evening, in the thin light of a gas-powered street lamp, and shivered.

  “Tonight,” Maeve went on, “Dathan, a warlock, will come to this house. He seeks a pact between our kind and his, a temporary truce. His suggestion is that we band together, blood-drinker and warlock, long enough to destroy our common enemy.”

  An elegant-looking male vampire with dark hair and eyes stepped forward. Like the other guests, he wore formal clothes, but there was an air of refinement about him that went deeper than appearances. “Are you suggesting that we trust those creatures?” he asked of Maeve. “Warlocks have been our greatest foes from the beginning. What is our assurance that they won’t turn on us, that this isn’t some sort of trick?”

  Murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd, but Maeve silenced the lot with a single sweep of her eyes.

  “Your question is a reasonable one, Artemus,” she said to the elegant male, “but this is a desperate time and it calls for desperate measures. Keep in mind, all of you, that we have more fearsome enemies than warlocks—angels. And they will descend on us in legions, these beings, unless we stop Lisette and destroy her minions. It will take all our strength to accomplish such a task, and that of the warlocks as well.”

  Calder was mesmerized, having forgotten his own despair for the moment. Maeve had spoken of the approaching cataclysm and stressed that all their circumstances were dire indeed, but he had not guessed the true scope of the situation. Incongruous though it seemed, the matter was one of life and death for immortals.

  Roxanne Havermail stepped forward, to stand next to Artemus. She, too, was beautiful, but, like her daughters, she made Calder’s skin crawl. “If Lisette is sent to face the Judgment, there will be no queen. Is that not so?”

  A collective groan followed her words.

  Roxanne bristled. “Well, if there’s going to be an election or something, I think I should be considered.” She cast an accusing glance in Maeve’s direction. “I am eminently suited to be queen, it seems to me, since I’ve been around much longer than certain upstarts I could mention.”

  “Yes,” muttered a short, squat male vampire in a bottle-green waistcoat, breeches, and a ruffled shirt, who stood within range of Calder’s hearing. “Roxanne has been around, all right. Around the block.”

  The female’s gaze sliced to her critic’s face in an instant; she had heard him plainly, even though a considerable distance lay between them. “You may keep your fusty old opinions to your fusty old self, Clarence Doormeyer,” she said, and Doormeyer actually quailed.

  Having dispensed with her detractor, Roxanne turned back to Maeve, hands resting on her hips. “Well? Will I be queen or not?”

  “There will be no dominion for you to reign over,” Maeve responded reasonably, “if we do not stop Lisette in time to appease Nemesis and his armies.”

  “We have something to say about who is queen, it seems to me,” put in a male dressed in the garb of a seagoing brigand. The remark started another uproar.

  Maeve raised both her hands in a graceful command that there be silence. There was. “Such matters need not be decided now,” she said.

  Roxanne went back to stand beside her vampire husband, looking disgruntled and unhappy. Apparently she’d expected a coronation on the spot.

  “What will I tell the warlock, Dathan, when he comes to me tonight to ask for our decision?” Maeve went on, and even though she didn’t raise her voice, there was a note of steel in it that brooked no further nonsense. “Do we stand together against this threat, or do we scatter like frightened hens and perish at the hands of angels?”

  For a moment the room seemed to rock with a sort of silent thunder. Then Artemus spoke again.

  “I say we have nothing to lose by allying ourselves with Dathan’s followers, and our very lives to gain. What other choice do we have? Shall we allow angels to take us, and find out firsthand what special hells their Master has set aside for the doubly damned?”
/>
  Silence reigned again, then Canaan Havermail spoke up in her sweet, horrid, piping voice. “Suppose it’s all a lie?” she offered, glaring at Maeve. “Why should we trust this one? Perhaps she is weak, like her brother.” Her unholy eyes sought and found Calder in the crowd, and he felt his spirit shrink before the magnitude of her evil. “Here is the proof. Maeve Tremayne consorts with mortals!”

  Maeve’s fury, though contained, was nearly tangible. Calder feared that she would explode and that when she did, the mirrored walls would shatter and the marble floor would undulate with the force of it.

  “Look around you, Canaan. There are any number of mortals here,” she said. “I am not alone in finding them diverting.”

  Diverting. The word sliced into Calder, sharp as a scalpel. Was that what he was to Maeve—a plaything, a curiosity, a diversion? He pushed the feeling aside to consider later.

  Just then, the doors to the terrace burst open, as though they’d been struck by some great, silent wind, and all heads turned.

  Calder felt his heart pound in a combination of excitement and fear.

  In the next instant a creature as lovely as any angel of the highest realms appeared in the opening. She was female, with flowing golden hair, eyes the color of bluebells, and a sweetness of countenance that was truly remarkable.

  Calder glanced at Maeve and saw that she was watching him, a pensive expression on her face. It gave him hope, though precious little, to think she might be jealous of his attentions.

  “It’s Dimity,” someone whispered close behind Calder. With reluctance he shifted his gaze from Maeve, who was more poignantly beautiful to him than any angel could ever be, to watch this new drama unfold.

  Dimity did not speak, but instead stepped aside to make room for a second entrant. This creature was male, and he seemed to blaze with some fire of the soul. He was so tall that he had to lean down as he stepped through the doorway from the terrace, and when he lifted his head again, Calder saw that his eyes were as black as polished onyx. His hair was fair, like Dimity’s, and he wore medieval garb, leggings and a tunic. He carried a magnificent sword with a jeweled hilt.