No matter what came of it, she decided, gazing up at a star-splattered sky, she could not abandon Valerian. She would have to find a way to help him.
When she turned to face Dathan again, she saw that he had divined her thoughts, and he was coldly furious.
“Come,” he said in a charged but otherwise even voice. “Let us seek the troublesome Lisette and move to destroy her.”
Maeve assessed the sky. “It will be morning soon. I cannot tarry much longer.”
Dathan looked violently impatient. “Then shift yourself to the other side of the world, where the light won’t reach.”
His reasoning was simple, and it wasn’t as though the option hadn’t occurred to Maeve many times since her making as a vampire. Some blood-drinkers, however, had experimented with the technique and never been seen again.
“It would be logical,” she reflected, “for Lisette to do that. It’s evident that she can move about during the day, from what Isabella said about Lisette’s sudden appearance in her and Valerian’s love-nest that morning. But I doubt our queen has progressed to such a point that she can endure the full glare of the sun.”
“Exactly,” Dathan said. “Let us go there—to China—and search for her.”
Maeve turned, looked down into the warlock’s handsome face in surprise. “You can do that? Travel so far, simply by the power of your mind?”
“Of course we can,” he replied with exaggerated politeness. “Did you think we had no magical powers?”
Maeve went to stand facing him, on the stony, much-trampled ground. The druid stones were obviously a popular meeting point for humans, too, though only the most intrepid would venture there at night. “Let us see what powers you have,” she challenged coolly. “Just as dawn arrives, we’ll take a little journey together.”
They waited, side by side, cloaked in silence and private musings, until the first glow of pink and apricot rimmed the horizon. Then, like a fledgling swimmer plunging into deep water, Maeve thrust herself into the unknown, the darkness on the opposite side of the globe.
At first, dazed by the swiftness of the trip and the energy it required, Maeve could not discern where she was. She knew only that Dathan was beside her, and that he supported her with a chivalrous arm around her waist.
After a few moments Maeve’s head cleared. She had not teen stricken by the distance, she knew, but by the avoidance of the vampire sleep that would normally have claimed her just then.
“Fascinating!” Dathan remarked, looking down into a moon-washed pit, where dozens of life-size bronze soldiers marched in formation, accompanied by life-size horses and chariots. The excavation had clearly been abandoned for some time, and Maeve knew intuitively that there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, more of these ancient sculptures buried all over China.
Maeve marveled, but not at the industry of a long-dead civilization. No, it was her own ability to resist that all-encompassing sleep that amazed her. It was probably these reflections, she would conclude later, that prevented her from sensing the impending attack.
They came out from behind every soldier, those terrible, blood-drinking corpses Lisette had made, making a shrill sound that was part shriek and part groan.
Dathan muttered an exclamation and tensed beside Maeve, and she knew that if he’d had a sword, he would have drawn it.
“Great Zeus,” he rasped, “there are hundreds of them!”
Maeve nodded, a half-smile forming on her lips at the prospect of challenge. “It would be my guess,” she said, “that we have found more than this army of blathering creatures.”
“What?” Dathan demanded, bracing himself as the creatures scrambled out of the pit and began lumbering toward them.
“Lisette is here,” Maeve said calmly.
In the next instant a geyser of blue-gold light exploded in the center of the pit full of statues, and as the glow solidified into a female shape, looming some twenty feet off the ground, even the mindless army stopped and stared.
Maeve applauded. “Very impressive,” she called as the shape became Lisette, dramatic and horrible in a gauzy gown that caught the night wind.
“Are you insane?” Dathan hissed, as the bluish light of Lisette’s countenance played over both their faces.
“Perhaps,” Maeve said, taking a step forward to stand at the precipice of the pit. “If you can summon your warlocks, you’d better do it now. Otherwise, you and I are doomed to a terrible end that might well have a beginning but no finish.”
Dathan shuddered, the way a mortal would have, and whispered back, “Don’t be naive. I don’t have to send for my armies—I brought them with me.”
Maeve did not look over her shoulder; indeed, she did not shift her gaze from Lisette’s shimmering form. Still, she could feel the warlocks now, gathering in the darkness behind her and Dathan.
Their presence, while reassuring, was by no means a reprieve from Lisette’s vengeance, however. She was possessed of spectacular powers—that much was obvious—and her army of brainless marvels would fight tirelessly at her command, not out of any such unvampirelike trait as loyalty, of course, but because she controlled them so completely.
“You are bold, Maeve Tremayne,” Lisette said in an earsplitting and yet strangely sweet voice, looming there in the darkness like the angel of death.
Oddly, Maeve thought of a movie she had seen once, during one of her reluctant visits to the twentieth century—a tale containing an alleged wizard, who had projected a terrifying image to frighten visitors away. All the time he’d been hiding behind a curtain, pulling levers and twisting dials, a nervous, fretful little man with no magical powers at all.
“Yes,” Maeve agreed. “Some would even say brazen. Show me your true self, Vampire. I am not misled by this theatrical trick of yours, though I must say it’s memorable.”
The creature that Lisette wanted them to believe was herself undulated with furious, beautiful light, and a continuous shriek of rage filled the night, loud enough, piercing enough, to shatter the very stars themselves.
Suddenly the banshee-like cry shaped itself into words. “Kill them!” Lisette screamed, and her troops, mesmerized only a moment before, began their stumbling, awkward advance again.
Battle erupted all around Maeve and Dathan, but they were in the eye of the storm, at least temporarily, for the warlocks came out of the night to meet the vampires and engage them in bitter combat.
Unearthly shrieks rent the air as warlocks were cut down by the vampires’ superior strength and, conversely, blood-drinkers were infused with the poisonous blood of their enemies.
Maeve concentrated on Lisette, whose image still hovered above them, shining and huge, and her thoughts transported her to a niche in a sheer cliff overlooking the battleground.
There Maeve found the vampire queen, no bigger or more daunting than she was herself. Lisette looked disconcerted for a moment, but then, with a scream of madness and outrage, she flung herself at Maeve.
They fought, the two vampires, snarling like panthers battling over a kill on some African steppe, tearing at each other. Maeve felt herself weakening, felt the vampire sleep threatening her, and redoubled her efforts, knowing that if she did not win this battle she would be left in the open to face the ravages of the morning sun.
Just when Maeve believed she could not continue, that the disastrous sleep would swallow her, however, Lisette turned to vapor and vanished.
Maeve collapsed against a wall of the shallow cave. She was alone, and gravely weakened, and if she did not feed and rest in a dark, safe place, she would be lost. She tried to transport herself back to her lair in England, but the effort failed. She clutched her middle and slid helplessly down the side of the cave to the ground.
She heard the battle going on and on outside. Evidently, when Lisette had fled—if indeed that had been her intent—she had not chosen to take her horrid soldiers with her.
Maeve’s head lolled, and she thought of Calder, and then of Aidan and Valerian
. This was the ironic end of it all, then, she reflected, with a strangled sound that might have been either a laugh or a sob. She was wounded, the dawn was inching slowly, inexorably, toward her, and her only hope of rescue was a band of warlocks—warlocks, who six months ago, even six days ago, had been her implacable enemies.
She had almost lost consciousness by the time the din ceased, and she could feel the first light of dawn creeping into the cave, finding her with its acid fingers, tearing at her injured flesh.
Then—surely it was only a dream—strong arms lifted her, and she felt a rushing sensation, and the burning stopped.
Maeve opened her eyes slowly, fearing to find that Lisette had come back for her, and brought her as a captive to some place of temporary safety. She found, instead, that she was inside an old crypt—there was no telling what country she was in—and Dathan was with her.
He smiled, though his blue eyes were as cold as ever, and held a golden goblet to her lips. “Drink,” he said.
Maeve knew the chalice contained blood, the substance she most needed and that, at the same time, most repulsed her. She hesitated, quite sensibly, for this supposed gesture of mercy might well be a ruse. Dathan might be offering her the poison that flowed through his own veins, or those of one of his multitude of followers.
“Take it,” he ordered gently, reading her mind. “It’s low-grade stuff—we stole it from a refrigerator in a nearby hospital—but there’s no warlock taint to fret about.”
Maeve’s choices were limited, since she could not regain her strength, or indeed even survive, without ingesting blood. She decided to take the risk and let the stuff flow in through her fangs, completely bypassing her tongue.
When the chalice was empty, she sank back onto silken pillows and regarded Dathan with questioning eyes. Her wounds had already begun to mend, closed by the cool, healing darkness and her own mystical powers, but she was frightfully weak.
“You saved me,” she said with emotion. “Why?”
Dathan narrowed his eyes at her and sighed again. He would have made an excellent martyr, it seemed to Maeve.
“Not out of anything so misguided as mercy,” he finally replied with a shrug. “We cannot achieve our objectives without you.”
Maeve tried to rise, but Dathan pushed her back down again.
“Wait,” he said. “You must have more rest and more blood. You will be of no use to us without your strength and your powers.”
“None of that will matter,” Maeve argued, “if our time runs out and Nemesis is unleashed with his sword of vengeance.”
Dathan did not look quite so desperate or despairing as he had in times past. He shoved a hand through his thick, maple-brown hair. “We can conclude by the events of last night, I think, that Lisette’s new lair is somewhere in the region of that excavation.”
Maeve nodded in full, if reluctant, agreement. “How did your warlocks fare against those monsters of hers?”
“Like your encounter with the queen,” Dathan answered, “it ended in something of a draw. We fought until dawn was imminent, and then the opposing forces fled, of course, to escape the light. That was when I found you on the floor of that cave—until that moment I thought you’d deserted us.”
Had Maeve been mortal, she would have flushed with annoyance and outrage. “Do you believe me to be such a coward? Think again, Warlock—I have as much courage as ten witches!”
Dathan laughed and handed her the chalice again; it had been refilled and brought back by a cloaked creature Maeve had glimpsed out of the corner of her eye. “And as much pride, I vow,” he said. “Drink up, Mistress Tremayne. I fear we have many frightful adventures still ahead of us.”
*
CHAPTER 13
« ^ »
Somehow Calder passed the night without awakening William and throttling him, and with the morning came a drizzling rain and a steady stream of visitors. Like crows in their black garb, the mourners passed by the casket single file, peering inside to see how death suited Bernard Holbrook.
All morning and all afternoon they came, the grieving, the curious, the indifferent, the relieved, and the secretly pleased. They ate hungrily of the food Prudence and her small staff had prepared, and speculated among themselves about Calder and William and the bruised state of their faces.
Calder hated every moment of that interminable day and dreaded the one to follow, for that would bring the funeral, the eulogies, the grim and final business of burial. To him, the world looked dark, and it was difficult to believe that the sun would ever shine again.
After the last of the sorrowful callers had left, Calder and William accidentally found themselves alone in the large dining room. William took a piece of smoked turkey from a platter and bit into it, regarding Calder through swollen eyes.
“We’ll have the reading of the will tomorrow, after the ceremonies,” the elder brother announced, reaching for another piece of meat.
Calder shrugged. “I don’t give a damn about that,” he said.
“Good,” William replied. “Papa was closeted away for hours one day, just last month, with his lawyers. I recall that he was especially exasperated with you at that time, so don’t be surprised if you find yourself in the street, with nothing to live on but that pitiful stipend the army pays you.”
Although Calder’s stomach rebelled at the very sight of food, he knew only too well that he would not be able to think clearly or function well in an emergency if he did not eat. He went to the long table, against his will, and filled a plate, taking slices of turkey and ham, some potato salad, and a serving of Prudence’s famous fruit compote. Then, by a deft motion of one foot, learned in boyhood, he drew back a chair.
He paused for a few moments, regarding the food he’d taken and envying Maeve because she didn’t have to trouble herself with the stuff at all. As he took up his fork, Calder raised his eyes to William’s face.
“Take it all,” he said, only a little surprised to realize that he meant it. “Take the money, take this goddamned mausoleum of a house, take the illustrious Holbrook name and the power that goes with it.”
William blanched, his fingers tightening over the back of a chair. Plainly he hadn’t been expecting Calder’s acquiescence, but another fight instead. “You can’t be serious,” he said.
Calder ate a few bites of ham, chewing each one thoroughly, before answering. “You murdered my mother,” he said at last. “And that old man lying in there with his eyelids stitched together covered up for you. As far as I’m concerned, if I never see you or this place again, it will be too soon.”
Sweat beaded on William’s upper lip. “I killed Marie? Where did you get such an idea?” he demanded hoarsely, pulling back a chair of his own and collapsing into it. “And why is it that you can’t speak of our father with some semblance of respect, even now?”
“I loved him,” Calder conceded. “But respect is another thing. As for my mother’s death, well, you might say I have a way of looking into the past.”
William’s hand trembled visibly as he reached for a carafe of Madeira and then a wineglass. “I didn’t lay a hand on her,” he said.
“You’re a liar,” Calder replied, still eating. He knew his calm manner was unnerving his brother, and he was pleased by the fact. “She was going to leave this house, and our esteemed father, and you intercepted her. There was an argument, and you gripped her by the shoulders. She struggled, and you wouldn’t release her—until you thrust her away from you in a moment of fury. That was when she tumbled backward over the railing and fell twenty feet to the floor of the foyer.”
William had managed to pour wine, but his subsequent attempts to raise the glass to his white lips failed because he was shaking. “Pure fantasy,” he said.
Calder stared at him for a long, purposely disconcerting interval. “It happened just that way,” he insisted quietly, “and we both know it. Kindly don’t insult me with your denials.”
After casting a yearning look at his wine, W
illiam wiped one forearm across his mouth. “If you really believe this—this delusion, then why haven’t you tried to avenge Marie’s death?”
Calder smiled grimly. “There has hardly been time for that,” he said indulgently. “Still, we’re young, you and I,” he added with a shrug. “There’s no rush.”
At last William made a successful grab for his glass and raised it tremulously to his lips. After a few audible gulps, his color began to return, and he was steadier. “Is that a threat?”
Again, Calder shrugged, reaching for a platter and helping himself to some of Prudence’s cold rice salad. “It might be. Then again, it might not. To be quite frank, I haven’t decided how I’ll deal with you.” He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments, swallowed, and then gestured at William with an offhanded motion of his fork. “Rest assured, though, that I will deal with you.”
William swallowed the rest of his wine and reached for the carafe while he could. “You don’t scare me,” he said, though his manner and the pallor of his complexion gave the lie to his words.
Calder smiled again and continued to eat.
That night he waited for Maeve to come to him, prayed that she would, and finally she appeared. She was as ethereal as a spirit, and throughout the magical encounter that awaited him, he feared he was only dreaming.
Without a word she slipped into bed beside him, encircling him in her soft, strong arms. She kissed the underside of his jaw and sent shivers of forlorn desire rushing through his system.
“Maeve,” he whispered.
She touched his lips with an index finger to silence him, then trailed kisses down over his chest and his belly. His manhood surged upright in response, and he drew in a harsh breath when she touched the tip with her tongue.
For All Eternity Page 18
