For All Eternity (The Black Rose Chronicles) (4 page)

The senator never stood a chance.

“Don’t you think you’re cutting it a bit close?” Tobias demanded when Maeve popped into her special chamber underneath the London house, soon after her feeding. “The sun will be up in five minutes.”

“What are you doing here?” Maeve countered, pulling off her jacket and tossing it aside. “Don’t you have a satin-lined coffin waiting for you someplace?”

Tobias shook his head. He looked young, with his slender frame and eternally boyish features, but in fact he was a founding member of the Brotherhood of the Vampyre. He had been among the first blood-drinkers created, long ago on the lost continent, during a series of medical experiments.

“Such a bold creature,” he said. “You remind me of your brother, Maeve—you seem to have no sense of what is appropriate, and that fact may well be your undoing.”

Maeve tossed her hair, wishing she could brush out the sticky mousse, but there was no time. Soon the consuming need to sleep would drag her down into the darkest depths of her own mind. “It’s beginning to get on my nerves,” she confided, sitting down on the row of crates to kick off her motorcycle boots, “the way everybody keeps comparing me to Aidan.”

Tobias, apparently in no hurry to return to his own lair, wherever it was, leaned against the dank brick walls and folded his arms. He was clad in a plain tunic, colorless leggings, and soft leather shoes. “It’s natural, I think— you are his twin, after all.”

Maeve tried to be polite to her uninvited guest, though she could not quite bring herself to smile. She’d just dumped a state senator in a crumpled heap behind the

Last Ditch, seriously anemic but alive, and his blood had left her feeling a little ill.

“I
was
his twin,” she corrected her elder. After that she paused and then made an effort to be polite. “Please forgive my tart manner, Tobias—it must be the costume.”

Tobias took in her tough-chick getup with quiet amusement. “Indeed,” he agreed. His expression turned serious in the next instant, however, and he went on. “Word has reached the Brotherhood that Valerian has been attempting to incite some kind of rebellion against Lisette. Is this true?”

Maeve felt uncomfortable; for all her quarrels with Valerian, she was no snitch. Besides, she owed the other vampire a debt, since he’d given her immortality in the first place. “What if it is?” she asked moderately. Even respectfully.

Tobias might have sighed then, had he been human, or even a little inclined toward feigning their singular traits. Instead, he just looked resigned and weary. “Valerian has been a nuisance since his making,” he said. “Still, I personally find him entertaining, and therefore I tend to overlook his . . . foibles.” The elder paused, regarding Maeve with a searching stare for a long moment before continuing. “Did he ask you to lead some kind of campaign against Lisette, as we suspect?”

Maeve hesitated, then remembered that it would be absolutely useless to lie to an elder. Her thoughts were probably as clear to him as if they were goods on display in a shop window. “Yes. For some reason I cannot quite grasp, Valerian sees me as the next queen. But don’t worry—I’m not interested in a political career.” Exhaustion swamped her, tugged at her consciousness, and she marveled because Tobias seemed unaffected by the vampire’s need to lie dormant during the daylight hours. “1 hope you’re—not planning to—sleep here,” she struggled to say. “I have a—reputation to consider— you know.”

He bent over her. “You must not confront Lisette,” he said clearly. “She is more powerful than you can ever imagine, and we will all suffer if she is angered. Besides, it is not ours to protect humans—that is the task of angels.”

“Angels,” Maeve repeated softly. And then she drifted into the dreamless place where vampires slumber.

Gettysburg, 1863

The battle had ended days before, Calder reflected as he moved among the wounded. The little church on the outskirts of town still brimmed with them, as did the whole of Gettysburg, and the graveyard had long since been filled. In many ways the aftermath was worse than the fighting itself, for there were no surges of adrenaline now, no stirring drumbeats and certainly no talk of glory. This carnage around him, the crushed or sundered limbs, the blinded eyes and deafened ears, the putrid infections and the dysentery,
this
was the true nature of war.

A boy dying of gangrene clutched at Calder’s wrinkled shirt as he passed, grinding out a single word. “Doctor—”

Calder braced himself, knowing the child-soldier was about to plead for something to kill the pain, and there was nothing. The supply of morphine, inadequate in the first place, had been exhausted long before. “Yes, son,” he said gruffly. “What is it?”

“I reckon the Lady will come for me tonight, as she came for those others I heard about,” the lad said. Instead of desperation, Calder saw hope in the youthful face, along with agony. “She’ll take me home to heaven.” Several moments passed before Calder’s suddenly constricted throat opened up again so he could speak. A week had passed since he’d seen the beautiful specter, and every moment of that time he’d been telling himself she’d been a figment of his imagination. “The Lady,” he said, somewhat stupidly.

The boy released his hold on Calder’s shirt. “You ever see her?”

Calder sighed. He was on the verge of collapse as it was, and he didn’t have the strength to lie. “I thought I did,” he admitted. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Phillips, sir. Private Michael Phillips, Twentieth Maine. I fell when the Rebs tried to take Little Round Top.” Again the boy grasped at Calder, this time closing grubby fingers around his wrist. “You get them to take me outside and lay me in the sweet grass,” he rasped. “They say she won’t come inside the church—that’s mighty strange, for an angel, don’t you figure?—and I want her to take me.”

Tears stung Calder’s eyes, and he looked away for a moment. Damn, but it still galled him that he couldn’t save them all, every last one, instead of just a few lucky ones here and there. After all this time in medicine, first as a civilian and then as an Army surgeon, he continued to find the reality nearly unbearable. “You seem to know a lot about this Lady,” he said.

“She’s about all anybody talks about,” Phillips replied weakly. It was plain that he was barely holding on, and the stench of his infection came near to choking Calder. “Will you get me outside, Doctor, so’s she can find me?” Calder raised a hand and signaled for a pair of orderlies. They were actually ambulatory patients, these ready helpers, one of them hailing from Richmond, Virginia, the other from somewhere in the New Hampshire countryside. For them, the fighting was over; one would be sent home, with a permanently lame leg to remind him continually of his brush with glory, and one to a prison camp.

“This is Private Michael Phillips.” Calder performed the introductions with proper dignity, once the orderlies had reached him. “He wants to see the blue sky when he looks up. Get a stretcher and find a place for him outside.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy from Richmond.

As gently as they could, the Yankee and the Confederate shifted Phillips onto a canvas stretcher stiff with dried blood and hauled him through the open doorway and down the steps. Calder followed as far as the church porch and stood watching them, gripping the rail.

He should have been thinking about home, he supposed, or about those peaceful, idyllic days before war had tom the nation into two bleeding parts. Instead his mind was full of the mysterious woman he’d seen moving among the fallen soldiers that night a week before. Had she been real? he wondered yet again. After all, he hadn’t been the only one to see her—she was the hope and comfort of many of the wounded, and their description of her matched the vision Calder himself had glimpsed.

His hands tightened over the railing until the knuckles ached. The reasoning, scientific part of him said she could not be an angel or a ghost as the others believed. No, as beautiful and real as the Lady was, she was merely a projection of all their tormented brains—his, those of the other doctors and orderlies, and, most of all, those of the patients themselves. The power generated by such grief and suffering had to be formidable.

Calder watched as Phillips was carefully laid out on the grass, in a space left by a boy who’d passed on that morning, and found himself wishing with his whole heart that the Lady was real. Just then, he very much needed to believe in some benevolent force, however strange and inexplicable.

He got through the rest of that day by rote, and at sunset a messenger rode in, painted with dust and so weary he could barely sit his horse, bringing word that four doctors would arrive within the week to relieve Calder and the others.

The news filled him with both relief and despair. He was mentally and physically exhausted; soon he would be of little or no use to the fallen soldiers around him. Still, he hated to leave them, and, even more, he feared that he would never see the Lady again.

That night, while Calder sat waiting, his back to a birch tree, she returned. It was about two in the morning, he reckoned, though he did not take out his pocket watch, and she went straight to Phillips.

Calder was fascinated, stricken by her beauty and her magic, unable to move from his post by the tree and approach her as he’d hoped to do. Instead, he simply watched, powerless and silent, while she smoothed back the dying child’s rumpled, dirty hair and spoke softly to him.

As Calder looked on, the lad raised his arms to her, like a babe reaching for its mother. She drew him close and held him tenderly, and for a moment Calder believed she truly was an angel.

She rocked the boy against her bosom for a sweet, seemingly endless interval, then bared his fragile neck and buried her face there. Phillips shuddered in her arms and then went still, with that same trusting abandon in his bearing that Calder had seen in the other soldier, the one she’d taken on her last visit. The Lady seemed to nuzzle him, and when she lifted her head, her gaze met Calder’s.

He felt some kind of quaking, deep in his being, but even then he knew it stemmed from excitement, not fear. He willed her to come to him, and she did, drifting along with steps so smooth that she appeared to be floating.

When she stood only a few feet from him, her dark tresses tossing in the slow summer breeze, her pale skin bathed in moonlight, he believed in whatever she was, believed with the whole of his spirit.

“Who are you?” he managed to whisper after a long time. His voice was a raspy sound, scraping painfully at his throat.

She drew nearer, knelt beside him, and touched his hair. At first he thought she wasn’t going to speak, because she was just a vision, after all, and therefore without a voice. Then she smiled, and Calder felt a pinch in his defeated heart as she said, “What does it matter who—or what—I am?”

“It matters,” he confirmed.

“Perhaps it does,” she said. She removed the pendant she was wearing, an exquisitely wrought golden rose on a long chain, and put it around Calder’s neck. “Very well, then. I am quite real, and this shall be your proof.”

“You truly are an angel,” Calder marveled hoarsely.

She laughed softly. “No,” she said. “My name is Maeve, and I am quite another kind of specter.” She searched his eyes for a long moment, an expression of infinite sadness in her face, and then lightly kissed his mouth.

He felt a surge of sensation, both physical and emotional, and was completely lost to her in the space of a single heartbeat. He groaned and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, she was gone.

Calder was paralyzed for a time, full of confusion and wonder and a peculiar, spiraling joy, but when he could move, he groped for the pendant. It was there around his neck, real and solid to the touch.

“Maeve,” he repeated, in a whisper, as though the name itself had the power to work magic in a world sorely in need of just that. “Maeve.”

Maeve was distracted as she worked at her loom that same night, her mind full of Calder Holbrook. She had been foolish to approach him and worse, to speak to him and leave her precious pendant, like some smitten maiden in a troubador’s song.

She felt a surge of emotion that would have caused her to blush, had she been human. For all practical intents and purposes, she thought, she
was
a virgin. While she and Valerian had often engaged in torrid bouts of mental sex after her making, no man had ever touched her before that. Now, no man ever would.

The idea was oddly painful, and that made Maeve furious with herself. She had, after all, vowed never to become involved with a mortal, and she wasn’t the least bit like the legendary Lisette, who enjoyed bedding human lads at the height of their physical prowess.

Maeve murmured a curse, trying to shake the images that suddenly filled her mind, images of herself, coupling with Calder Holbrook. The effort was futile.

“It would be dangerous,” she said aloud, at once irritated and dizzy with desire, working her shuttle so forcefully that it was in danger of snapping. “Such a thing must never be allowed to happen!”

But Maeve still felt the hot, powerful yearning, stronger even than the need for blood. Knowing that at the height of her savage passion she might well lose control and actually kill her lover did nothing to ease the wanting.

She had always been so pragmatic, oblivious to the charms of humans—beyond drawing sustenance from them, of course. What was happening to her?