For All Eternity (The Black Rose Chronicles) (20 page)

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.

Calder was drawn toward him, and the wild thought crossed his mind that this was the legendary Arthur, King of Camelot, founder of the Knights of the Round Table.

He soon realized, however, that everyone else in the room, with the exception of Maeve and the vision called Dimity, had retreated.

“Do not be afraid,” the lovely female said in a voice as soft as a summer shower. “Gideon has not come to do harm to any of you, but to relay a message.”

Calder saw Maeve move to approach the giant, Gideon, and he followed, wanting to be at her side whether the outcome of the confrontation be good or ill.

“What are you?” he asked baldly. Gideon’s person shone so brightly that Calder had to squint.

Gideon smiled. “I am a Comforter,” he said. “A Guardian.” His wondrous features became solemn. “What are you doing here, Mortal, with these blood- drinkers?”

Calder stepped a little closer to Maeve. An angel. God in heaven, this creature was an
angel,
albeit without wings, robes, harps, or halos. The experience was remarkable, even after encountering vampires. He tried to answer, but no words came to his mind, and no sound to his lips.

Dimity linked her arm with the angel’s. “Do not try the poor human, Gideon,” she said in a tone of good-natured scolding. “He has the gift of free will, just like the rest of us.”

Calder found his voice; he had to answer, for his own sake and for Maeve’s. “I’m here because I love Maeve Tremayne.”

“You must indeed love her,” Gideon replied. “More than your own soul, in fact.”

“Yes,” Calder answered.

Maeve laid a hand on his arm in an unspoken command that he be silent. “What is your business with us?” she asked Gideon.

“I’ve come to warn you all,” he said in a clear voice, “for I feared that you would not believe Dimity if I sent her in my stead.” The angel paused, perhaps formulating his thoughts, perhaps translating them into words lesser beings like humans and vampires could understand.

“Why would you, an angel, an
enemy,
want to help us?” Benecia Havermail demanded.

It was Dimity who answered. “You heard what Gideon said. He is a Comforter and a Guardian—it is his task to look after one particular mortal. That mortal, a child, has been sorely abused by people who should nurture and protect him. I, and some other vampires, feed on the likes of that little one’s tormentors, and certain of the angels appreciate that. They, you see, are not permitted to take vengeance on human beings, no matter how grievous the offense.”

Finally Gideon spoke up. “Mind you, one and all, that I have no sympathy with those among you who feed on the blood of innocents.” He laid one great hand to the hilt of his sword, and Calder saw his muscles tighten as he gripped it. “Such vampires should be shown no more mercy than their victims have known!”

“What message do you bring?” Maeve asked, and although there was no fear in her voice, Calder had seen her glance quickly at a small timepiece hidden beneath a ruffle on the bodice of her gown.

“Listen well, one and all,” Gideon began, and though he spoke quietly, the words reached into every comer of that enormous room. “I come at the order of my commander, Nemesis. He bid me tell you that if the renegade vampire, Lisette, is not stopped, he will destroy each and every one of you, with pleasure, and that even the darkest comers and crevices of hell itself will not hide you from his wrath.”

Calder felt a communal shudder move through the room, and he was afraid himself, but his fascination had not lessened. Had anyone told him that such creatures as these actually existed, he would have dismissed that person as mad. Now, here he stood, watching as the light and the darkness confronted each other.

Having spoken, the great angel turned and walked away, bending low again as he passed through the doorway onto the terrace, and, after a quick nod to Maeve, Dimity followed him. The doors closed with a crash behind them.

A moment later Maeve’s ballroom erupted with the terrified chatter of vampires who faced an enemy they could not hope to defeat.

“Silence!” Maeve shouted, and, reluctantly, the others obeyed her, though it seemed to Calder that the air fairly crackled with the force of their fear, outrage, and frustration. “What else must happen before you are convinced that our only hope is to rally our forces, join ourselves with the warlocks, and bring Lisette down like the rabid animal she is?”

No one spoke or even moved. Even Pillings, or perhaps
especially
Pillings, stood motionless and stricken, watching Maeve.

“If you stand with us, come forward,” she said, stepping up onto the dais again and indicating an area in front of it. “If you do not, leave now.”

Still, for what seemed like the longest time, no one moved. Then all the mortals, except for Pillings and Calder himself, headed toward the door, followed by a few sullen vampires. The others gathered, as Maeve had bid them to do, looking up at her with expressions that ranged all the way from fearful reluctance to unbounded admiration.

Calder watched in wonder as she dispatched groups of vampires to other parts of the world, where they were to do all in their power to find and destroy Lisette’s creations. When the long-case clock in the entryway chimed twelve times, however, she left her followers and strode toward the front door.

Calder was right behind her, even though he knew instinctively that she didn’t want him there.

Reaching the massive door, she swung it open, and on the step stood another visitor. He wore a black cloak and pushed back the garment’s yawning hood to reveal a head of shining brown hair and an innocent, boyish face.

This, Calder knew, was Dathan, the warlock Maeve had spoken of earlier, and the newcomer greeted her with a single word.

“Well?”

“We will join forces with you,” Maeve said in a cool, reserved tone. It was plain that she didn’t relish the prospect of dealing with warlocks any more than her colleagues did, despite the fact that she had offered the suggestion herself.

Dathan inclined his head in a cordial nod. “Very well,” he said. “All that remains is for you and I to plan our strategy.”

Maeve looked back at Calder over one slender shoulder, and he saw a fathomless grief in her eyes. “Yes,” she answered distractedly. “That is all that remains.”

Calder felt a chasm open between them, a vast, eternal one, and some part of him died in that instant.

Dathan spoke again, and his words wrenched Maeve’s attention back from Calder. “We have word of your friend, Valerian.”

At that, Calder turned away, for there was no love lost between him and Valerian, and he frankly didn’t care what predicament that vampire might be in. His mind was full of the terrible, splendid things he’d seen and heard that night, while at one and the same time his heart was breaking.

In his rooms he gathered his things together and began packing them neatly into the trunk he’d purchased that day. He wanted to weep, but that release, which would have been so welcome, was denied him by his own long-standing habit of stoicism.

Although he waited, Maeve did not come to him that night.

Maeve spent the remainder of the dark hours with Dathan, laying plans to find and destroy Lisette. She did not allow herself to think of Calder, indeed, she could not afford the indulgence, for there were so many things to be decided.

According to Dathan, Valerian was alive, though he was indeed a captive. Lisette almost certainly planned to use him as a weapon or a pawn, and for the moment there was nothing Maeve could do about that.

Just minutes before sunrise, she went to Calder’s rooms and found him sprawled across his bed in his clothes, sleeping as deeply as a child. Maeve lay down beside him, wrapped her arms around him, and thought of the great house in Philadelphia.

In moments they were there, on Calder’s bed, and he was still asleep, though his rest was fitful now and probably haunted by dreams.

Maeve kissed his forehead and then, with only seconds to spare, vanished, assembling herself inside a small space a dozen feet beneath the surface of the earth. There she settled, in that gravelike place, into the vampire sleep.

Calder awakened suddenly, his body drenched in sweat, and sat bolt upright. He was stunned to find himself in his own bedroom in the Philadelphia house, bathed in the light of a late-summer sun.

He blinked, terrified that, his time in London, and Maeve, and the vampire ball, were all just fragments of some feverish dream. He was still trying to discern between reality and illusion when the door of his room flew open and William burst in.

“Where the hell have you been?” his brother snarled, storming over to the side of the bed and gripping Calder’s shirtfront in clenched fists.

Calder threw William’s hands off and stood up. “What the devil do you care?” he countered, just as furiously. He groped for the pendant Maeve had given him and found it gone.

William paled, but with fury not fear. He knew, in some part of his withered little soul, that Calder would never do him actual physical harm, because it would have been a violation of his personal code of honor.

“It’s Father,” William said. “He’s taken sick, and the doctor says he’s dying. He’s been asking for you, though I can’t think why he’d make the effort. He must know, as I do, that you don’t give a damn about him now any more than you ever have!”

Calder had believed himself to be utterly without sentiment where his father was concerned, but this news shook him, distracted him from the mysteries Maeve had brought into his life. “Is he here, or did you have him taken to the hospital?” he snapped, already halfway to the door.

“Father would never set foot in a hospital,” William snapped. “Besides, there isn’t a bed to be had because of this damn war. You ought to know that better than anyone.”

Calder ignored his half brother, wrenched open the door, and strode down the hallway to his father’s bedroom. He found the old man sitting up, though he looked smaller, as the dying often do, as if his body were crumbling in upon itself.

Bernard held out one hand imploringly and croaked Calder’s name.

Calder realized, with shattering suddenness, that the little boy who had loved and idolized his father still lived, tucked away in some part of his psyche. His own caring struck him with the force of a meteor, and tears sprang to his eyes.

“Papa,” he said, clasping the offered hand in both his own and brushing his lips once across the knuckles. He started to pull away. “I’ll get my bag—”

“No,” Bernard protested. “Don’t—go. I want you to listen. I’m sorry, Calder, so sorry—for all the things I did and—all the things I should have done—and didn’t. I loved you, and—I loved your mother. But I didn’t have your strength—none of us did. Not your mother—not Theresa or Amalie—not William. You were always so—impatient, so in-intolerant.”

Calder’s shoulders heaved as grief assailed him for the second time in twenty-four hours. A sob tore itself from his throat. He could not speak.

“Rest, Papa,” William said from the other side of the bed. It seemed to Calder that his half brother’s voice came through a pipe or tunnel, from somewhere far off. “Don’t try to talk.”

“I’ve made my peace with you, William,” Bernard said quite clearly. “Go now, and let me do the same with your brother.”

Calder sat down on the edge of Bernard’s deathbed, still too overcome to utter any of the words that crowded his heart and throbbed in his throat.