Immortal With a Kiss (20 page)
“We all have,” I told him.
“No. I do not want comfort. I do not want compassion or understanding. Just . . .”
“All right,” I assured him. “I will only listen.”
He paused, then nodded slowly. “Very good, then. Very good.” His mouth twisted very slightly. “Do you still have the crucifix you stole from my church?”
“It hangs over my bed. I learned my lesson after the incident with the rats.”
“I stole a crucifix from a church once,” he said. “That was why I never minded you took it. I thought if it were important enough for you to remove it without asking permission, then you must have it. I know that was the case for me.” Then he settled in. His voice was steady, emotionless. He told me this story:
My family was not religious, although I was raised Calvinist. I envied the Catholics, with their cheerful priest and their statues and paintings and colored light from the stained glass. I used to sneak into the village church and stare at those things, imagining the Bible stories they depicted. It was an escape from my home. My home was a terrible place.
We were poor. My two brothers, older than me, were brutes. It was nothing for me, the youngest, to be pummeled into submission over the most trivial matter—a scrap of bread or the use of a threadbare sweater—and come away sporting a welt or a bloody lip. My father was unsympathetic. All he cared about was drink. My mother was too busy working to put food on the table to bother with us boys, and she caught her share of cuffs and kicks as well from my da’s fists. It was a miserable house, a miserable life, and it made me mean.
We used to steal, my brothers and I. Those were the good times, when I was with them as opposed to being the brunt of their aimless rage. One day, they put me up to taking the money from the poor box at St. Alfonse’s. I had no compunctions about doing so. We were poor, weren’t we? And I had no morality back then. I liked the crucifix hanging near to the box, and I took that as well. But the priest, Father Lawrence, caught me in the act. I thought I was done for, but instead of getting the lash, as expected, I was taken inside and given a meal. Later, Father Lawrence told me he’d been ready to beat me, as I deserved, but when he’d grabbed my collar he’d seen the bruises along my neck.
So, I kept the crucifix and got away without a scratch. Except I could not live with what the priest had done. It was like something foreign, and it haunted me. For the first time in my life, I felt pangs of guilt. I kept the gold crucifix secret, knowing it would have been nearly my life if I was discovered keeping such a valuable trinket from my greedy family. But I would take it out when I was alone and gaze at it for long periods of time. The look of agony on the Savior’s face mesmerized me. I knew enough Christian doctrine to realize Christ had died for sinners. And I knew that I was a sinner.
I began to do things to pay the priest back for his kindness. They were of dubious virtue, but they were the only way I knew to try to make reparations in order to put a stop to the disturbing rumblings of my conscience. I stole apples from a neighbor’s orchard and left them on the back stoop of the rectory. I even dared encroach on the squire’s land and left a brace of rabbits for the priest’s dinner. Given these offerings, I felt entitled to sneak inside the church and gaze at the beautiful pictures of the saints. I continued to raid and pillage, leaving my spoils like a well-trained hound at the priest’s doorstep.
Then one time, the father was lying in wait, having camped out in the cold all night to catch me. He gave me a proposition. He would teach me, for he had noticed my fascination with the church, in exchange for my doing legitimate chores for him. I wanted to leap at this chance, but you cannot imagine how terrified I was, for I knew if my brothers learned what I was doing, they would beat me senseless. I accepted anyway.
But they caught on eventually, and did what I knew they would. When Father Lawrence saw the results, he was appalled. I was in a bad state, you understand, so much so that Father Lawrence insisted I move into the rectory.
That was when I was able to study in earnest. Father was also teaching another student, George Wentworth. George possessed an intellect far beyond mine. His mother baked and cleaned for Father Lawrence in exchange for her son’s education. I discovered, not long after moving to the rectory, that she and Father Lawrence were lovers. I was shocked to learn this, of course, but I was also happy for the father. I had always sensed a sadness in him, and I hoped love could cure it. And George’s mother was a pretty woman. It was easy to see she was neglected by her husband and she was kind to me. She would bring me clothing, and food treats from time to time, although they could ill afford it. George’s sister, Bethany, often came with her mother when Mrs. Wentworth was at the church. She would practice reading with us while they were gone. I was besotted with her.
One day, when I was fifteen years of age, a bishop visited the parish. Father Lawrence presented young George to him. I was so jealous I could not keep away, and hid myself to spy on the meeting. The bishop spotted me hovering, and I felt he picked up instantly on the resentment I could not keep from my face. I had been told I had heavy, unpleasant features, and tended to glower. I fled, thinking I’d been exposed as the ungrateful sinner I was.
Bethany found me sulking behind the barn. While she consoled me, something magical happened: she kissed me and, to my utter shock, she told me she loved me. I was incredulous. I had never before had anyone’s love. We began seeing each other every chance we could get and soon we decided to marry. I abandoned my education to find work. I saved every ha’penny I earned so Bethany and I could be wed as soon as possible. It soon became urgent, for she gave me the news that she was carrying my child.
Now, my brothers had come around through the years to bully me. I had found if I gave them money, they left quickly. But when they came to me during this time, I refused to give them any of my hard-earned wages. I had grown taller and stronger than them. I gave notice that they were never to come around again, that I was marrying Bethany and soon would have a family to provide for. Intimidating them felt good. I thought I had won, that I had broken free of the dark, shameful past they represented. But I did not understand, not yet, that evil will never be denied.
A week later, Bethany went missing. I was a madman, searching all day and all night. I finally found her, out on the moors, soaking wet and nearly dead from exposure. She’d been beaten and obviously badly abused. Raped. I brought her to her parents’ house. Her mother took her from me to clean her up and put her to bed. But after Bethany was recovered, she would not see me. Her mother told me it was because Bethany feared I would despise her, sullied as she felt. I wanted so badly to assure her nothing was further from the truth. I loved her; nothing would change that. But before I could reassure her, she succumbed to despair. She tore open her delicate wrists in great, shredding gashes and let the life’s blood drain from her . . .
I never loved drink as the other men in my family did, but I sought the tavern that night. I would have inhaled fire if I thought it would dull the pain. I found my brothers already well into their cups. They were of good cheer and welcomed me, and I emptied my purse buying round after round. When my money was exhausted, one of my brothers fished a trinket out of his pocket and slapped it down on the table in lieu of coin. I recognized Bethany’s necklace immediately and I knew then it had been these two who had killed her, and my child. The stupid brutes were too drunk to realize they’d just given themselves away.
I said nothing. I was somehow stone-sober. And cold. I remember being very cold.
When my brothers had consumed the last of the gin their money would buy, I stumbled out of the pub with them, pretending to be as drunk as they were. Then, when there was no one around to see, I knocked them unconscious. Then I placed my hands around their necks—first one, then the other—and snuffed the life from each one in turn.
I did not fight when the magistrates came for me. I was imprisoned to await the trial. I was sure to be found guilty and hung. That was fine with me; I was ready to die. But I did not wish to go to hell. Bethany and our baby would be in heaven and I wished desperately to be with them. I asked for Father Lawrence to hear my confession. I told him my entire tale.
A few days later, I received a surprise in the form of the bishop. He told me he had noticed me when he’d come to the village to inspect George for the order. He said he liked the hungry look in my eye and my recent actions showed I had certain desirable qualities. That was when he told me of the Order of the Knights of Saint Michael’s Wing.
I recall him asking me, with a keen eye to watch my every reaction, “You know what it is to hate. I need someone whom I can teach to hate the right things, evil things. That strength—your strength—can save the world.”
That was how he made me believe I could achieve redemption for what I had done. I entered my training in the Order while at the same time studying to take my vows as a priest. I learned to listen, to submit, to suspend all thought of self. The authority of the Church was a solace, and I, its servant, was redeemed. I did not have to think for myself. They taught me all the answers, what to do, what to believe. They gave me purpose, one so great, so vital, it eclipsed all I had ever been or hoped to be, and I embraced it.
I was sent to Saint Michael in the Fields, one of the most important outposts that guarded the fragile line where the worlds of the living and the dead come together. They gave me all the tools I would need should I be the one called to battle. Life was suddenly simple, clean. I was good again. A priest of God. A protector of the world. I had found redemption. For a time, at least. Until I lost it all over again.
Father Luke lapsed into silence. He had not looked at me the entire time he’d spoken. I did not know what to say. What came to my mind was inadequate, trivial. As if I could make an impact with mere words.
“My mother is a vampire,” I said suddenly. “I am made from the very fact that she is undead, that she drinks the blood of human beings to subsist. I know nothing about her, save this. And I do not know how much of that blood, which flows in my veins, lays claim to my soul.
“Valerian Fox is a partially made vampire. He is caught between two worlds. Not human, not completely. Not yet undead. If Marius bites him once more, Valerian will become stricken with the thirst and crave nothing more than that final bite, that transformation into evil.
“Sebastian cannot be accepted by society. He clowns to cover his pain, but the man’s heart is nothing but love although he can never have love, not openly. He pretends it does not matter. But he feels; he
feels
it all, and deeply.
“We are all broken, father. We are all lost, and frightened. That is why we need each other.”
He shook his head. “You do not understand. I am not just broken. I am shattered. I am beyond redemption. I want the opium. I want oblivion.”
“I love you,” I whispered fervently. “I cannot imagine what I would have done these past weeks without you here with me. I need you.”
He shook his head, refusing the consolation I offered. “The others—”
“They are not enough. None of us are enough without each other.”
He finally looked at me. “Emma. You forgive too easily.”
“Forgive? I cannot afford to forgive. I am merely being selfish. You tell me of your suffering, of your desire for your drug, and I say the one thing I know will trap you here with me. I tell you I love you and that I need you, and I know I have just bound you as surely as with iron chains anchoring you to that chair. You can no more leave me than you could take my life.”
He blinked, his hard features blank. I could believe that face had taken blows, I could believe those hands had killed. I could believe he had both loved and hated. He was no saint. He was just a man.
“We will talk again,” I told him. “I will pray for you, father. I will pray this telling will unburden you.”
He bowed his head, his jaw working with emotion. I left swiftly, knowing that if he were close to tears he would not wish me to see it.
S
uddington was in the dining room when I descended the stairs. I paused to say hello, acutely aware of Valerian’s stare. Suddington immediately came to his feet.
“Ah, here is that face which launched a thousand ships. Not to mention those poor topless towers!” He laughed and held out his hands to me. “Mrs. Andrews, I am cruel to tease you so, but you blush so prettily. This is an unexpected pleasure. Will you join me for supper?”
I would have welcomed his hearty charm any other time, but I was not up to it after my talk with Father Luke. And there was Valerian’s presence, keenly felt, glaring from the other side of the room.
“I have to decline, I am afraid. I have student reports to prepare. We are finishing up the term this week, you know.”
“Then I shall look forward to your having some free time during the break,” he replied amiably.
I might have more than a term break’s free time if I did not redeem myself with Miss Sloane-Smith, I thought.
Valerian caught up with me in the stable. “I am taking you back,” he announced.
“Do not be foolish. I travel the road all the time.”
“You do not have to fight me at
every
turn, Emma,” he countered wryly.
“I am merely being sensible. It would not do for me to be seen in the company of a man when my status at the school is fragile. We cannot afford for me to be dismissed.”
He bowed, yielding. But as he retraced his steps back into the inn, I noticed his jaw grinding in frustration.
I almost called him back. I was equally as frustrated. If truth be told and I were honest, I thought as I pointed the trap toward the road that led up to Blackbriar, I would see that I was afraid. But that fear was not something I was willing to explore.
My breath came in puffs of smoke but I barely noticed the cold as my mind turned from the subject of Valerian Fox to Father Luke. I was much affected by his story, and my empathy for his terrible loss put me in a somber mood.
Then, just when I was about to climb the series of switchbacks and inclines that paved the way from village up the fell to the school, the voice of Ruthven rose like a snake from the gathering darkness and hissed into my ear.
I have missed you, Sister.
I pulled the conveyance to a halt. All around me was still, and I realized how silent and still the woods had been all the while I’d been passing through. “Ruthven? Is that you?”
Have you yearned for me?
“I want to know more of you,” I replied. “Are you what they call the Cyprian Queen?” I peered into the woods, where shadows gathered into knots of secret darkness. Where was he?
I do use that name, for it embodies beauty and romance, and erotic love. I shall show you all the wonders of these things.
I felt the touch of a finger trip lightly down my spine and jumped, crying out softly. He was before me all of a sudden, seeming to materialize from nowhere. In the darkness, I felt his power emanating across space to me, affecting each nerve. I struggled to make out his features, for I could see no more than a suggestion of golden hair, of a wide, inviting smile in a shadow-hidden face, of a lithe male figure clad in black. He was affecting an appearance, merely. Well did I know the vampire’s true form was hideous; this was merely an illusion.
Yes, I am indeed a god, my love.
He reached toward me. I cringed from him, even as a part of me wanted to take that hand stretched out . . .
You will marvel at me, at my beauty and my power. You will know me as none other ever has. My long wait will end. We shall roam my kingdoms, and find our pleasures together.
I forced myself to concentrate. “Is this what you offered my mother? Laura Newly. It was many years ago, but you have been here before, haven’t you?”
The timbre of a chuckle floated around me.
She was never one of mine.
I was shocked. My mind railed against this—it couldn’t be! “But . . . You made her. It had to be you.”
Enough with your questions. What does any of it matter? You will care for no one else from your old life when you have me. You are destined for me and only me. I understand at last why I failed with all the others. You are whom I’ve waited for all these ages.
Something touched the back of my hand. I started, crying out softly and swatting furiously at the spot. I could not stand to have this
thing
violate me again. “Stop that!” I shouted.
I will show you what I am. I will show you the Cyprian Queen—and all I can give to you.
And then it was happening again—that vile touch was on me, everywhere. All my courage, all my independence drained from me. “Please! Please, no!” Panic made me beg. I could not bear it again.
I tore at my clothes, needing desperately to reach those unseen hands. I could feel them all over me, invading, grasping, pinching, pulling me apart. I heard him whispering, cajoling, wheedling.
Then I heard a different voice, a new one, speaking my name. And hands, different hands, feeling wonderfully substantial and secure, holding me.
“Emma! Emma! It’s Valerian.”
The horrid touch was gone. The beautiful shadow figure was gone. Valerian has chased him off. I surged upward, clutching, climbing, writhing into the safety of Valerian’s arms.
“He was here!” I cried.
“Hush. I know. I followed you from the village. I saw you talking to someone.”
“Did you see him? He wants to . . . He tried to take me, Valerian.” I was sobbing, unable to calm my racing heart, my stomach sick with revulsion and fear.
“He cannot now,” he said, yanking off his crucifix and placing it over my neck. “I am here.” He dragged me down from the trap, the exertion nothing to his extreme strength, and he bore me away. I did not know where he was taking me, and I did not care. I buried my head in the curve of his shoulder and inhaled his scent, ridding my lungs of the sickening stench of Ruthven’s perfumed presence. I pressed my cheek, my lips, and my temple against his skin, wanting to fill my senses with as much of Valerian as I could get.
When he laid me down, I was amazed to find I was in his rooms. He had carried me all the way to the inn, I realized. “I will get Serena,” he whispered.
I pulled at him, preventing him from leaving. “Do not leave me!”
He grasped my hands, freeing himself, and folded them in his warm, strong palms. “I have protections here. You will be safe while I am gone.”
“No. I need you,” I gasped. “He tried to do to me what he did before. Eustacia said they liked it, but she was horrified by it as I was. He is the Cyprian Queen, do you not understand? This is what he does to them!”
“To whom, Emma?”
“The girls. He uses . . . desire. He makes them want him. He fools them into thinking he is their demon lover, but he is a vampire, Valerian. He makes them think it is all some kind of a wonderful adventure when it is simple lust, and he controls them with it.”
“We have discussed this,” he told me calmly. “No manner of vampire craves sensual pleasure.”
“It’s not that. He used the Irish boy. That was why he sent him . . . before. It’s . . . It was power. It is all about power. He talks of being a god. It is a game to him, to move these girls this way and that, manipulate them and twist them. They are mere amusements.”
He bowed his head and brought my fingers to his lips, squeezing his eyes shut as he kissed them. “Your hands are cold.”
He was trying to distract me, calm me. I was touched, and I realized that my faith in him, which had been so sorely strained, was restored. I suddenly had the impulse to trust him with the deepest horror. “He speaks of me as the one.”
“The one?”
“His mate,” I choked.
Valerian’s dark gaze glittered. His fingers stroked my skin. The fluttering pulse in my wrist lay under his fingertips, and I had an acute sense of connection to him. It was like a balm, this small caress. “Why is he doing this to me?” I whispered.
I do not know why I asked him, when I knew the answer. The blood of my mother, the vampire who had made her, bound me to Ruthven. He thought me a sister, and as the gods of Olympus had lain with each other, sanguinity notwithstanding, he believed that blood connection would satisfy something he’d been searching for all of his existence. Something his sadistic games only soothed for a little while but never fully satisfied.
He expected me to revel in the pleasure he inflicted on me. To him, he was offering a great gift . . . “I am going to retch!” I exclaimed, mortified that I was so weak.
“I am here.”
“No, you . . .” Valerian gathered me into his arms and the swell of nausea subsided. I clung to him desperately, taking everything I needed to breathe, to exist, from him.
“Is it possible for a vampire to be mad?” I whispered.
“There is much that is possible,” he murmured soothingly, stroking my hair.
My breathing eventually slowed under his calming touch. My thoughts unlocked, and I realized something. “The sick game, it is all a puppet play for his vanity. There is more than the evil of the vampire in him, Valerian. There is something else, something twisted and . . . wrong. He craves being all-powerful, toying with these girls as gods play idly with the fates of mortals.”
Valerian sat back, but he still held my hands. My thoughts were falling into place quickly. I could scarcely speak fast enough to keep pace with them. “Yes, a god. That is how he sees himself. And so he seduces the girls. But it is not sex that he craves. He wants for them to admire him, adore him, make him their everything. If you could sense what I did, the sickness in him to be acknowledged as superior, even supreme.”
Our bodies were pressed intimately against one another. I knew it was improper, but I could not bear to break contact, wanting every inch of myself entwined with his lean strength.
“He did not make my mother. I thought perhaps . . .” He squeezed my hand. I said, “Yet we are made both from Lliam. And I do not even know who that is.”
“Enough for now. You have been through an ordeal.” Valerian reached for my face, gently molding his palm to the contour of my cheek. “You will find the answers in time. We will search together.”
“I cannot go through another attack,” I said. I noticed then how my fingers were biting into his flesh. The ghost of Ruthven’s putrid touch still shivered along my skin. I felt better here with Valerian. More than better. I felt safe.
“Then I will protect you,” he said tenderly. “You have only to let me, Emma.”
Could he do so? I believed that he would. He had always given me courage. That was why I had felt his absence so keenly. I had not wanted to accept how vulnerable I was where he was concerned. But I could not fight it any longer. I no longer even wanted to.
He was a part of me in some way, a stranger in many others. But our connection was real, tangible almost—elemental, essential. And as I lay with him, shivering as my flesh twitched in the aftermath of Ruthven’s invasion, I turned my face to his, my hands pulling him toward me. I sealed my lips against his.
This was nothing like the kisses we’d shared before. This kiss flared instantly, filled with passionate need that was unapologetically carnal. Everything the abhorrent Ruthven had tried to stir in me now flowered, flowed, flooded. I could do nothing to control it, to stop myself. My fingers dug into the silk of his hair and my mouth opened to invite the sensual kiss of lovers.
He did not indulge me for long. When my hands went to untie his cravat, he locked his grip over my wrists. “Emma,” he warned, pulling away.
My fingers wheedled into the knot and deftly undid it.
“No,” he said more firmly. He kept his body rigid, and I opened the neck cloth, exposing his secret. Bending my head, I kissed him there, overlaying the old puncture wounds with my own kiss.
Nothing magical happened. They did not disappear. He did not even seem to register what I had done. But I sensed a war within him. Looking into his face, my gaze touched those piercing, sharp cheekbones, then slid down the shadows that stretched like gouges underneath. It was a lean face, a bleak face.
“This is not right,” he murmured, but I knew he was weakening. I placed my hands flat on the smooth skin of his chest where his shirt gaped. He was pale, warm, unblemished, devoid of the roughness of a man. I thought him exotic, unspeakably beautiful, graceful, masculine. For all his leanness, power shifted under my questing hands, strength of far more consequence than the most heavily muscled of men.
I reveled in his realness, his pureness. The infliction of Ruthven’s touch had been a mere impostor, thin and feeble now that I had the truth in my grasp.
“Emma,” he whispered, as if begging me to allow him to stop. He could have extricated himself any time he wished. “Not now, not like this.”
I was suddenly afraid his better judgment would defeat me. I could not bear that. I kissed him again.
“I am not strong enough to keep refusing,” he murmured against my cheek. “If you knew . . . I’ve thought of this, of us together. Of making love to you. But not like this. You are not yourself.”
