Immortal With a Kiss (18 page)

V
alerian wanted to see me.

He sent a messenger with a sealed note the next day, asking me to meet him at Serena Black’s cottage as early as possible. I sent back a time I was free, which was late afternoon that day.

As I handed back the message, I realized the youthful messenger was none other than the Irish boy. My God, how the handsome youth had changed! His face was drawn into lines of unhappiness, and his pale Celtic complexion was waxy. I was thinking of what I might say to him when he spun away and was gone, as if he could not get away from the school fast enough.

There was no time to wonder about his strange behavior, for I had a class waiting, and a busy day giving examinations. When the appointed time arrived, I made my way to the cottage in a cold, wet downpour, arriving drenched and in a foul temperament on Serena’s doorstep.

“Your man said he would be here at five,” she said as she took my coat and shook it out for me. “You still have half an hour to wait.”

“I told you before, he is not my man.”

Serena looked at me. “I do not know why you always say that. Of course he is.”

I did not have the energy to argue with her—and besides, what in the world would I say to try to explain the complicated relationship Valerian and I shared?—so I silently followed her into the kitchen, where she prepared a pot of tea for us.

“You steep tea as expertly as any Englishwoman,” I complimented, taking a bracing sip from my steaming cup.

“I have been here long enough to learn.”

“When did you come to England?”

“After the war. My man was an English officer. He brought me back with him as his wife.”

Her face, beautiful as a Roman statue, was perfectly still. “Sometimes that seems like another lifetime ago.”

I asked, “Do you miss your country?”

She smiled. “My country? Yes. It is very different there, of course. My house is here, my medicines and my plants, so I stay here. But sometimes, I long to see the gentle hills, and hear again the songs that we all sang at every celebration.” She carefully touched the rim of her cup to her lips and sipped in genteel silence.

“You must miss your family,” I said sympathetically.

Her expression changed, eyebrows forking down into a deep V. “No. That I do not miss.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “I do know something of strained relations with one’s relatives.”

“It is not strain,” she said sharply, and I could see in her fathomless, liquid-brown eyes nothing but defiance. “They are dead to me. And I to them.”

I was taken aback, naturally. “Did they object to your marrying an Englishman?”

“They objected to my being a whore,” she said without apology.

That gave me pause. “Oh.”

“You are shocked?”

I was, most certainly. This gentle, intelligent woman was the farthest thing from what I thought a prostitute was like—not that I had ever known any. But one hears of coarse women, and I would have never guessed Serena Black to be associated with them.

“It is none of my business, after all,” I said diplomatically. “All I know of you is how kind you have been to me. We were strangers when you took me in your home and cared for me. You never judged me then, when surely the situation had to appear scandalous.”

She stared at me for a moment, then shrugged. “My family did not mind the food I provided. They enjoyed the bread, the cheese, the occasional joint of meat for their table. My mother and sisters and brother had food to eat during the war when so many starved. The fact that it was gotten in payment for nights when I warmed a certain officer’s bed . . . Well, that they could not accept. Though they ate the bounty my sins bought them, the guilt of it was all mine.” She spoke woodenly, as if she’d frozen out all feeling on the matter a long time ago.

“Oh, Serena, I am so sorry.”

She shrugged. “I am not ashamed of what I did. I am proud.” Her chin jutted out as if to show me how untroubled she was about her confession. “I
survived
, yes? And they survived. I loved them, and so I did what I did. There is no shame. Not my shame, anyway.”

“No. I can see no shame.” I meant it. I thought her heroic.

“I met a soldier later, after the English were leaving, and he brought me to England. He married me, even knowing what I was. So, I am here now, where I am a mystery, being a foreigner, and people are a little afraid of me. They stay away. I like it that way.”

I understood completely. When you were alone, no one could hurt you.

The sound of Valerian’s horse outside drew Serena to the window. “He is here,” she said. “I will leave you alone.”

The cottage atmosphere changed the instant Valerian swept in the door, tall and dark-visaged. He was scowling.

Serena took his rain-sodden cloak and ducked out of the room.

“There is tea in the pot,” I said, making no move to rise to get it for him.

He managed quite well on his own, and joined me at the scrubbed oak table. “I spent the last few days going through church records. I wanted to check out what the old woman told you about the Cyprian Queen coming when she was young.”

“Was she telling the truth? Were there any reported deaths of young girls back then?”

He nodded. “In the early years of this century, five girls died, two of them local, the other three students at the school. Their parents buried them here. I went back further, and it happened again, roughly seventy years before. Four deaths were recorded near the beginning of the eighteenth century, all girls around the age of fourteen.”

Though I had expected this, the news was still weighty. “How far back does it go?”

“Although the records date back only to the Anglican reform, the first documented case of large numbers of girls dying in a few-months span—outside of a general sort of illness—was in 1587. It seems it began then, under circumstances much worse than what has occurred since. That year more than twenty girls were found dead, and I would surmise not all who went missing were found. A nobleman, a Sir Reginald Smyth, was tried for these crimes by the assizes. He was found guilty and hung at the crossroads. After the execution, the murders ceased.”

“But how? They would have killed an innocent man.” I took a sip of my tea. “The murders would have been committed by a vampire who poses as the Cyprian Queen, would they not?”

“I would think so . . .” He shook his head. “It must be so.”

“I wonder how many others fell under suspicion through the years.”

Valerian nodded. “I’ve found a few people in town who vaguely recall talk of the Cyprian Queen, but it is not a flourishing legend. There is not much interest in it, except one fellow. Ah . . . Charles . . .”

I perked up. “Charles Morton?”

Valerian raised his eyebrows. “He nearly took my head off when he heard me asking around about it.”

“He is Miss Sloane-Smith’s cousin. He reacted the same way to me, as if I were spreading slander against him personally.”

Valerian was thoughtful. “That is interesting.”

“Perhaps Ruthven has merely borrowed from a local tragedy. This Smythe attacked young girls, so the vampire uses this affectation of the Cyprian Queen to ensnare and seduce girls in his hunting ritual, returning to do it again and again through the years.”

“But that makes no sense. Ruthven cannot achieve carnal gratification, so why the elaborate ruse?”

“Just indulge the idea for a moment. Blackbriar must be one of this vampire’s hunting grounds. Just as local memory fades, he comes again, repeating the process over the years as he cycles through his nomadic existence.” I paused, thinking. “But why would both Sloane-Smith and Morton be so sensitive about the subject of the Cyprian Queen? What could their connection be? I cannot believe they are minions, or
strigoii vii
. There is not a shred of evidence for that.”

Valerian frowned. “It is possible she is merely protecting the reputation of the school, as she claims. And Morton is a trustee, by the way. The branches of that family are all tied to the school going back generations.” He shrugged. “I have seen people attach themselves to far more trivial things to achieve a sense of self-importance.”

“Sloane-Smith lives and breathes Blackbriar. It is her whole world,” I agreed. “She is very proud of the fact that her entire family is dedicated to the school.”

“She is not the only one. Morton clearly takes being a trustee very seriously. He would want to protect the prestige of the school at all costs.”

I sighed. “Yes, I see how this all makes sense.” But I could not dismiss the possibility that there was some other, darker reason for their secrecy on the topic of the Cyprian Queen.

Valerian stood for a moment, deep in thought. “Something has been troubling me, something Naimah told me.”

My spine stiffened, as it did every time Naimah’s name was mentioned.

He regarded me carefully, and I wondered if he knew how sensitive I was on the topic of his mentor and former lover. “Naimah guarded many secrets. I mentioned to you the alchemist who gave her the gift of long life. She writes in her journals of him, how he devoted his life—his many lifetimes, I should note—to studying vampirism.”

“He is not a vampire,” I said, stating what seemed obvious. My heart kicked with excitement. “How does he know how to cheat death, then?”

“Not cheat, not completely, but evade.” Valerian nodded slowly. “He has made it possible for mortal man to evade death for a long, long time. He has done this in the hopes of finding a cure one day, a cure for vampirism.” His eyes were dark and intense as they watched me.

“But . . . is it possible?” I asked, incredulous.

“He has not succeeded yet, not completely. But during his quest, he has discovered something scarce to be believed.”

“A way to give a human long life?”

“Exactly that, but there is more. Naimah writes in her journals of hearing a tale many years ago of a German man whose young daughter had been transformed into a vampire a very long time ago. This young girl was purported to still live as
strigoii vii
, imprisoned by her father on the island of Santorini, where he has studied and conducted extensive research to cure her. There is something about that place that has made it possible to develop this elixir for long life. Through this elixir, he has been able to sustain her in her state of
strigoii vii.
”

“Of course,” I offered, “so that if he can cure her, she will still be alive.”

He nodded. “How Naimah learned of this, or got him to give her the elixir, I do not yet know. Perhaps it will be revealed in one of the other journals. I know only that she was sworn to secrecy, a vow she honored until the hour of her death. That was why she made me promise a long time ago that I would come to her, no matter what, when she neared death.”

“She wanted to give you her journals,” I said, understanding now why it was Valerian had been gone so long, unable to communicate with me. “She must have thought there was a chance that this information might save you.”

His jaw worked. I found I was not jealous at this sign of emotion. I realized, suddenly, that petty state no longer bothered me. “In death, she is no longer bound to her vow of silence.”

“You want to find the alchemist, don’t you?” I inquired. “You must. He might have the cure by now, and it will release you. Why did you not go directly to Santorini to search for him? Why did you come here?”

He looked at me as if I were daft to not know already. “I came for you. What if you needed me? And you did—you do, don’t you?”

A lump pressed painfully in my throat. “But what of you? Now that we know the reason you were bitten, now more than ever it is imperative you find a way to be released. You cannot become part of this war Ruthven warned about . . .”

“But I will be. What was it Ruthven called me? Ah, yes: Marius’s ‘half-made brat.’ Seeded with the blood of the vampire so that I will become a soldier one day as a vampire newly born, vicious and hungry, ready to fight for my maker.” His voice grew reedy and thin, filled with disgust. “I would be
strigoii mort
, a monster robbed of all personality or . . .” He choked off, his brave exterior deserting him. I reached out my hand and grasped his arm. Cutting a self-conscious glance my way, he cleared his throat. “What point is it to wonder?”

My heart broke at the dispassionate way he spoke, as if he were trying desperately not to care. “We shall not let that happen to you,” I vowed. “You came to me because you knew I would be stronger with you. And you also know that you are stronger with me. I will help you. When this is done, we will search for the alchemist of Santorini.”

He smiled at me, kindness and gentleness in his eyes. “So then, dare I hope that you have forgiven me?”

“Forgiven you?”

“For deserting you.”

I cast my gaze away from his. “There is nothing to forgive. You have explained it all. And I feel rather foolish, so perhaps you should be the one to forgive me.”

He stepped forward, frowning. “Whatever for?”