Calder groaned and arched his back, completely in her power. He whispered a plea, and she granted his wish, consuming him, and he writhed in a fever of passion and need. At the last possible moment, she moved astride him, and took him deep inside her, and rode him while his body buckled beneath hers in the throes of triumph. She muffled his ragged shout of release by laying one cool hand over his mouth.
“I love you,” he told her when their encounter was over, and she lay beside him, close and slender and solid. “Please, Maeve—don’t leave me. Don’t work your sorcery and make us forget each other—I can’t bear the prospect of that.”
She leaned over him and kissed his mouth, but lightly, brushing his lips with her own. Still she did not speak, but in truth there was no need of it. Everything she was thinking and feeling was plain in her dark blue eyes.
Calder’s vision blurred as he looked up at her, and he touched her smooth cheek with an index finger. “So incredibly beautiful,” he marveled in a whisper, certain he would perish with the loss of her. He wasn’t sure, in fact, that he himself would exist at all, without the knowledge and memory of Maeve Tremayne.
Maeve smiled at him, the expression full of sweetness and sorrow, and then removed herself from his arms, from the warm tangle of the bedsheets. Once again she was wearing the soft, gauzy gown she had shed earlier to enter Calder’s embrace.
He gave a low, despairing cry and stretched out a hand to her, but between one heartbeat and the next, she vanished.
Calder wept, though he did not make a sound, well aware that Maeve had made up her mind to destroy their love, to tear it from the universe by its very roots.
For the first time in his life he wanted to die.
Perhaps, he thought later, when he’d composed himself a little, she had already begun the mysterious process that would erase her from his memory, and him from her own. Perhaps he would awaken the next morning, or the one after that, with no recollection of the beautiful vampire who haunted his soul, as well as his mind and body.
Even though he knew the transition itself would probably be painless, the prospect of it was the purest torture.
Calder tried to reason with himself. Undoubtedly he would simply go on with his life, treating his patients, perhaps meeting another woman, marrying, fathering a houseful of children. The war, God willing, was bound to end soon, and the sundered land would begin to mend itself into some new and better nation.
No, it wouldn’t be a bad existence, and he wouldn’t know the difference anyway, wouldn’t know what he was missing any more than the corpse of his father, still lying in a wash of candlelight in the parlor, could comprehend that life was going on without him.
Still, for all the dangers and all the terrible things he would see and probably do, Calder wanted to be with Maeve. And yes, he wanted to share her fantastic powers, too, but only because they would enable him to help his patients in ways that were impossible then. He could travel into the future, for instance, into the late twentieth century, the era to which the mystery of time had progressed, according to Maeve, and learn even more about the art of medicine than the miraculous textbooks had taught him. He would be able to bring that knowledge back to people who suffered, along with chemicals, pills, and serums that could kill pain without making the heart race the way morphine did. Vaccinations that would protect small children who in his own time were cruelly felled by maladies such as measles, diphtheria, and whooping cough…
He drifted off to sleep, and morning took him by surprise. Confused, uncertain if Maeve had come to him during the night or simply worked some trick of the mind on him and created the illusion of herself.
By rote, Calder washed and dressed and went downstairs to the dining room, but even as he filled his plate at the sideboard and went to the table, his thoughts were muddled. He was not aware of William’s presence until his brother spoke.
“Calder.”
William had taken a seat at the head of the table, but he wasn’t taking breakfast. A hot cup of coffee steamed before him, and he poured rum into the brew as Calder looked at him in cold silence.
William was flushed now, his eyes feverishly bright, like those of an animal approaching the last stages of rabies. “I think you should go away,” he said. “To Europe, perhaps, or maybe out West. I’m sure Papa left you enough money to make a new start.”
Calder pushed back his chair, dropped his fork to his china plate with a deliberate clatter, and stood. “You’ve waxed generous, all of a sudden, even reasonable. Why is that, William?”
His brother started to answer, choked on his own words, and began again. “I want to be fair, that’s all.”
“You want to be fair,” Calder repeated softly in a marveling tone. “Of course you do. And General Lee wants to hand all of Dixie over to Mr. Lincoln, tied with Union-blue ribbons.” His voice hardened. “Damn it, do you take me for a fool? You’d murder me in my sleep if you thought you could get away with it!”
William closed his eyes tightly for a moment and swayed in his chair. He didn’t speak again as Calder turned and strode out of the room.
Valerian sat in the cool, dark dungeon, knees drawn up, back pressed to the dank stone wall behind him. Had his captor been anyone other than Lisette, he’d have escaped easily, but her power was as strong as it had ever been—perhaps stronger, in that peculiar way of diseased minds. It was her magic that held him; the chains and bars and heavy iron doors were just for show.
He sighed, ran one hand through his mane of chestnut-colored hair, and wondered what Maeve and the others were doing, two hundred years into the future in the nineteenth century. It was just possible, he thought with a scowl, that Maeve was glad he was out of the way or, worse, that she hadn’t even noticed that he was gone.
Valerian thrust himself to his feet, which were half buried in the fetid straw covering the floor. Rats and mice and a variety of other vermin populated the stuff, rustling and scurrying in the darkness.
“Lisette!” he shouted, his voice echoing in that enormous, lonely tomb of a place. “Damn you, show yourself!”
There was no answer, of course. Lisette had simply dropped him here, sometime in the middle of the seventeenth century, and it was entirely possible that she planned to let him rot. That would probably be a more effective, and more twisted, form of torture than anything else she could have devised.
In the distance he heard a creaking sound and the terrified blathering of a mortal.
Valerian closed his eyes and at the same time tried to shut the sound out of his ears, repulsed and shaken by it, but his efforts were futile. Until that night, he’d been sustained by animal blood, inferior stuff that barely kept him conscious. Now, plainly, Lisette or one of her several lieutenants had apparently decided to serve up a feast.
No doubt he, Valerian, was being fattened up for the kill.
A vampire called Shaleen, a dark-haired minx of a creature Valerian had never encountered before his imprisonment, appeared in the arched doorway of his cell, gripping a half-starved, flea-ridden mortal by one arm.
The boy was dressed in rags, all bones and filthy in the bargain, and he blinked in the darkness, all the more terrified because he could not see the fate that awaited him.
Shaleen, who was beautiful and eminently sane, unlike most of the ludicrous creatures Lisette surrounded herself with, curled her lip contemptuously and flung the unfortunate, blubbering human down at Valerian’s feet.
“Here,” said the other vampire, quite uncharitably. “Your dinner.”
Valerian ignored the pitiful creature groveling in the rancid straw, at least for the moment, and fixed his attention on Shaleen. “Did Lisette make you into a blood-drinker?”
She studied him with insolent brown eyes. Her hair, a lovely caramel color, tumbled to her waist, unbrushed, with a thistle entangled here and there. “No,” she answered. “Did she make you?”
Valerian’s making was a memory he cherished, and he had never shared the experience with another being, not eve
n Aidan or Maeve. “No,” he replied shortly as the mortal clutched at his clothes, begging in incoherent phrases for mercies that were not forthcoming. “Why do you stay here? Why do you help her?”
Shaleen smiled. “I’m a new vampire. Lisette is teaching me her magic—I’m going to help her rule, after she destroys Maeve Tremayne once and for all.”
Valerian laid a hand on the mortal’s head, stroking him in consolation, the way he might have done with a whining dog. Using the oldest magic he knew, he numbed the poor wretch’s mind, thus calming him. “Surely you’re not foolish enough to believe it will be easy to stop Maeve? Her powers are as great as Lisette’s—perhaps greater, because she isn’t mad. Furthermore, Maeve has fate on her side—she is the blood-drinker of legend, the one who will overthrow Lisette.”
Shaleen’s lovely face hardened, only for a moment and almost imperceptibly, and yet in that time Valerian discerned that she had fancied herself to be that vampire. In her heart of hearts, she was plotting against Lisette, planning to supplant her.
Valerian smiled. “You are very ambitious indeed,” he said. He let the smile fade, for he had not lived so many centuries without learning a few things about dramatic effect. “You are also foolhardy. Lisette will recognize your duplicity, and when that happens, the worst sinner in hell will be better off than you.”
She raised her chin in defiance, did the beautiful and treacherous Shaleen, but there was no hiding her fear, not from Valerian.
“Help me get out of here,” he said softly in his most persuasive voice, one that had lured many a mortal and not a few vampires into his web. “Your plan cannot succeed, little one. Lisette is too suspicious, and much too powerful, to fall for such bumbling deceptions as yours.”
He saw her waver, sensed her indecision, but then she withdrew into the doorway.
“Lisette warned me about you,” she said accusingly. “She said you were a better liar than the devil himself, and twice as charming, and she was right. Enjoy your supper, Valerian.”
With that, Shaleen went out, shutting the great door behind her, and Valerian looked down at the whimpering, half-conscious, pathetic excuse for a human clinging to his leg. Gently he bent, grasped the lad by his painfully thin shoulders, and drew him to his feet.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said in the tenderest of tones as he gazed deeply into the terrified blue eyes of his next victim. “I promise you will feel only the keenest pleasure, and no pain at all.”
Valerian bared the fragile throat, found the warm, sweet place where a full vein pulsed just beneath the skin, and sank his fangs in deep. Bliss flooded him as he drank, and he felt the specimen tremble in his hands and beneath his lips, not with pain but, just as Valerian had promised him, with an almost unbearable ecstasy.
Maeve was a little distracted; her thoughts kept straying to Calder. She was torn between guilt—she had tricked him, after all—and the hope that, by making him believe she’d been with him earlier in the night, by projecting an image of herself into his mind, she had afforded him a measure of comfort…
She strained to catch hold of what Dathan was saying and pulled herself back into the conversation.
“… as far as we have been able to discern, the time of his captivity is the middle of the seventeenth century…”
“The seventeenth century?” Maeve echoed, round-eyed, seeing that one of Dathan’s warlock spies had brought in a scroll. Closer examination proved that Lisette herself had penned a description of Valerian’s exact whereabouts on the crumbling parchment. The message itself, of course, was intended to taunt Maeve, to challenge her. “That’s before my birth as a human—and I can go back no farther than my death.”
Dathan arched an eyebrow. “Are you so certain? After all, you thought you couldn’t escape the vampire sleep, either, but you did exactly that when we traveled to China.”
Maeve nodded thoughtfully. More than ever, she wished Valerian was here—he knew about these things. Once, in fact, in an effort to help Aidan find the secret of transforming himself from vampire to mortal, Valerian had actually ventured back beyond his own mortal lifetime. The trouble was, the effort had nearly destroyed him, and he’d been incapacitated by the resultant weakness. Time was running out, and Maeve couldn’t afford the long recuperation her friend and mentor had needed.
On the other hand, the war with Lisette was going to be much more difficult, if not impossible, without Valerian’s counsel and moral support. Furthermore, if he perished in the skirmish ahead, then any victory, however sweet, would be tarnished by the loss of him.
Dathan paced. “Surely,” he snapped, “you are not thinking of gallivanting off into some other century simply to rescue that worthless Valerian!”
“Your opinion of my friend does not concern me,” Maeve said coldly.
“Perhaps it will,” Dathan retorted, “if I tell you that we are watching your beloved Calder Holbrook, far away as he is. We can and will take him hostage, Maeve, if you do not listen to reason!”
Maeve trembled with both shock and fury. Stupidly perhaps, she had not expected a threat to Calder to come from this quarter but instead from Lisette. “Here and now,” she said, and the even meter of her own voice surprised her, “I make this vow. If you lay a hand on Calder, I will flay you alive and serve you to the devil on a dozen different platters.”
Dathan drew back slightly and raised both hands, palms out, in a jaunty gesture of conciliation. “That’s a very colorful threat,” he said. “And I assure you, I’ll keep it in mind.”
Maeve narrowed her eyes and leaned toward him. “See that you do, Warlock,” she replied. “And keep this in mind as well: I make promises, not threats.”
Although his eyes snapped with rage, Dathan did not press the matter further. Maeve, for her part, was not in the least reassured, for if she should be felled, as had nearly happened in China, Calder would be left completely unprotected.
Rising from the couch where she’d reclined and then sat, Maeve straightened her gown and ran splayed fingers through her long, loose tresses. “I will send Dimity to check on Valerian,” she said quietly, and no nuance of the preceding argument showed in her countenance. “She is medieval, like him, and may be able to reach that time in history without danger to herself.”
“Fine,” Dathan said, his eyes still glittering with controlled fury. “That will free the two of us to seek out Lisette and make yet another attempt to finish her.”
Maeve nodded distractedly. She was not thinking of Lisette, or even of Valerian, but of Calder, far away in Philadelphia. She should make another trip back in time, she knew that, to the night when he’d first seen her, in that grisly churchyard at Gettysburg, where the dead and maimed had been laid out in endless rows. Once there, she would blind Calder to her presence, as she should have done in the first place, and in that moment his attachment to her would be undone.
Knowing what needed doing and actually tackling the task were two different things, however, and Maeve was not anxious to destroy Calder’s memory of her. Selfish as it was, she needed the certainty that he loved her, that he wanted her, that he would recognize her if she came to him.
None of those things would be true from the instant she changed history and, for all practical intents and purposes, she’d be alone in eternity once again.
She left Dathan, in his underground hiding place somewhere in the French countryside, and sought out the vampire Dimity.
Maeve found the other blood-drinker haunting London’s seedy dockside area, as usual, and they fed together on a pair of deserving louts before retiring to Dimity’s graciously furnished cellar to confer.
There, seated in comfortable chairs and cheered by the light of a lively fire in the grate, Maeve told Dimity that Dathan’s warlocks had learned where Lisette was keeping Valerian. Dimity nodded when the explanation was through and said she’d attempt a visit to his cell. If possible, she promised, she would find a way to release him.
“I could not ask for more,
” Maeve said, rising. After offering a quiet thanks, she took herself away and met Dathan in another part of London, one where sleek carriages rolled past through the fog, carrying passengers who would never have believed that such creatures as vampires even existed.
“I’m certain Lisette is in China,” Dathan said without preamble, falling into step with Maeve as she passed a street lamp glowing with sickly blue-gold light.
Maeve took her time answering. “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “It’s possible, you know, that she’s found herself another, safer lair. She has to be aware that we’ll look for her in that same area.”
“She is reckless,” Dathan argued, and it was a statement Maeve could not refute. Lisette was reckless, making dramatic appearances, taking captives, spawning those dreadful creatures in defiance of the entire supernatural world.
“We’ll try again,” she agreed with dignity.
Dathan nodded, satisfied that he’d swayed Maeve to his way of thinking. “Shall we meet just before dawn, then, at the circle of stones?”
“I will be there,” Maeve said, and in the next instant she realized that the warlock was no longer beside her. In fact, he was nowhere in sight.
She shrugged and set out to feed a second time. In the hours to come, she would need all the strength she could muster.
Dathan idled the rest of the night away in a backstreet tavern, nursing a mug of bitter ale, and watched in detachment as a variety of monsters came and went.
Oh, yes, there were vampires among the revelers, mostly new ones, heedless of the dangers of prowling places they did not know, and one or two warlocks came in as well. Still, it was among the human beings that Dathan found the greatest number of fiends.
He marveled to himself that mortals frightened their children, and each other, with tales of witches and warlocks, vampires and werewolves, while some of the vilest things in all of Creation lived next door to them, or up the street, or just down the road in the next village. And those beasts were not supernatural at all, but other humans, with beating hearts, brains throbbing with mysterious electrical impulses, and, supposedly, souls.
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