Time Without End (The Black Rose Chronicles) (17 page)

He’d read her thoughts again. “I promised a small reminder of what we had together,” he clarified with a smile. “And now for one of my more impressive tricks.”

With no more preamble than that, he vanished. In the space of an instant—with no drumrolls, no smoke, no mirrors—he was simply
gone.

Daisy swore and leaped off the stool, as if to pursue the magician into thin air. She thought she heard, far in the distance, the faintest echo of a chuckle.

She stood there for a few moments, open-mouthed, convinced she was certifiable, before her basically pragmatic nature took over. After washing her face, brushing her teeth, and gulping down two aspirin, Daisy fell into bed and slept like a dead woman.

She did not dream.

With the morning and full consciousness came vivid memories of the night before—her “spontaneous regression” to the fifteenth century, Valerian’s wild, and undeniably fascinating, tale of living six centuries as a vampire, that soul-shattering kiss, and, finally, his spectacular disappearance.

He was a magician, she reminded herself. But that single fact didn’t explain all the things she’d seen and felt. There was more to it—much more.

All right, then, Daisy’s highly developed left brain argued, he was a hypnotist as well as a stage wizard. He’d said straight out that he could project his own image into her mind at will, hadn’t he? That, supposedly, was how he had joined her in the Horse and Horn, when she was Elisabeth Saxon, erstwhile tavern wench.

Somehow, logical as it was, that explanation didn’t work, either.

Daisy tossed back her covers and got up. She was probably getting an ulcer from trying to figure this out—better to let it simmer in her subconscious for a while and think of other things with the everyday brain cells. She’d gotten to the crux of more than one case that way—using what O’Halloran called her woman’s intuition.

She smiled. He’d never claimed to be original.

After going to the bathroom, Daisy opened her front door and picked up the newspaper lying on the mat. The headline wiped the smile from her face.

POLICE DUB RECENT CRIMES ‘VAMPIRE MURDERS.’

“What police?” Daisy grumbled, pushing the door shut with her foot and scanning the article as she crossed the apartment to the kitchenette. “Nobody asked
me
about the case.”

The piece was peppered with quotes from one Detective John P. O’Halloran, who was, according to the reporter, “in charge of the investigation.” Daisy might have been his golf caddie, for all the mention she got, but she didn’t care about that. What bothered her, and she knew it was a waste of time to worry about it, was the way the press seemed to
glamorize
what had happened.

Whoever the killer was, he was sure to get off on the attention and notoriety.

When the telephone rang, she was already reaching for the receiver to call the office. She almost hoped it would be the screwball who’d harassed her after Jillie Fairfield’s murder; there was a thing or two she wanted to say to him.

Alas, the voice that replied to her brisk “Hello, this is Chandler” was O’Halloran’s.

“It’s your partner,” he said, master of understatement that he was.

Daisy dragged over one of the stools from the breakfast bar and perched on it. “Oh, yes—the dimpled darling of the Fourth Estate. Tell me, O’Halloran, did you have to stay up all night to make the world safe for old ladies and Cub Scouts, or did you just take care of it on your break?”

“Smart-ass,” O’Halloran said fondly.

“Have you got something new to tell me about the case, or are we going to go on exchanging sloppy sentiments all morning?”

He cleared his throat, then took a noisy slurp of what was probably coffee. He was stalling, and that was a bad sign.

“O’Halloran,” Daisy pressed.

“All right, all right,” her partner blurted. “The chief saw the EMT’s report on your collapse at the supermarket last night. He wants you to take a few days’ leave and get a checkup.”

“Are you telling me that I’m suspended?”

“I’m telling you that you have to rest a few days and see a doctor. Don’t come unwrapped on me now, Chandler, because this wasn’t my idea. It came down from the brass.”

“Shit,” Daisy muttered, chewing one fingernail.

“You shouldn’t talk like that. It ain’t becoming.” Daisy struggled to regain her self-control before going on. There was no sense digging herself in deeper. “What the devil did Charlie tell those people?”

“That you passed out.”

“And?”

O’Halloran let out a long-suffering sigh. “And the head office got a call from the checkout lady late last night—Marvella somebody. She was worried—said you were talking gibberish while you were out.”

Daisy closed her eyes. ‘They want me to take a drug test, don’t they, O’Halloran?”

“Look, it’s routine—you know that. Any one of us could be asked to pee in a cup at any time.”

She sighed. “I’m not popping pills or shooting up,” she said, suddenly feeling as if she could crawl back into bed and sleep for two weeks. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Hell, yes,” O’Halloran answered gruffly. “Of course I know that. Look, partner, don’t try to buck the system, okay? Just catch up on your sleep, get the checkup, and come back to work. If you stay out too long, somebody might get the idea that you’re the real supercop and I’m just the sidekick. I’ve got to think about my image, you know.”

Daisy laughed, even though there were tears gathering along her lashes. “Don’t worry, fella—your reputation is safe with me.”

She hung up the receiver and moved around the apartment in a sort of stupor, showering, brushing her hair and teeth, dressing in jeans and a lightweight sweater, making toast and a poached egg for breakfast. When she’d done those things, she got into her car and drove downtown.

After a thorough examination and a lot of questions, the official department physician announced that Daisy was suffering from exhaustion and recommended that she take two weeks’ leave. Her first instinct was to resist, but then she reconsidered. She had all the signs of a classic case of burnout, and if she kept pushing herself, she might just wake up one morning to find that she was an ex-cop, with her law enforcement career behind her forever.

With that specter staring her in the face, Daisy filled out the necessary papers, called O’Halloran with the news, and then went back home. For now, she told herself, it was enough that there would be no question that she’d been abusing drugs.

She stayed in her apartment just long enough to pack and call her sister, Nadine, who reported that she was getting labor pains. Within half an hour Daisy was on her way to Telluride, tape deck blaring. The screaming ghosts of all her fears and doubts followed along, staying just inside the outermost edge of her awareness.

Valerian

Las Vegas, 1995

I knew Daisy was gone when I arose that evening, rested and ready to feed, and then to resume the hunt for my enemy. Her absence gave me a bereft, hollow sensation, in that dry and atrophied thing that had been my heart, but I thought it better that she was far away. The greater her distance from me, the safer she would be.

I fastened my cuff links, smiling to myself. I had chosen a special pair that night for luck, antique gold ones that had been a gift from a cherished friend, George Bernard Shaw. But it wasn’t the jewelry that gave me pleasure, it was the idea of keeping a certain promise to Daisy.

Tonight she would know my magic in a new way, and I hoped it would cause her to remember all we had been to each other over the centuries. She had been a will-o’- the-wisp, flitting from one identity to the next, having the same face and body but a different name in each generation, and having no conscious memory of me whatsoever.

I, on the other hand, had always been Valerian. Endlessly, eternally myself.

I confess that I grow weary of my own company on occasion, fascinating though I am. One gets to know one’s self, over the course of centuries, and the utter absence of surprise can grind at the spirit.

“How like you, Valerian, to wax philosophical,” observed a cheerful feminine voice, catching me completely off guard.

I whirled to see Maeve standing only a few feet away, gloriously beautiful in her flowing, iridescent robes, her long dark hair falling free around her shoulders, her dark blue eyes like windows into the heart of the universe. She has a penchant for the dramatic, our Maeve, a fondness for spectacular entrances and fiery exits.

But then, so do I. Perhaps it is a trait of vampires, after all, for they tend to be flamboyant creatures.

“You honor me,” I said with a slight inclination of my head, “both by your visit and your words.”

She laughed. “Still charming as a serpent,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “What a flatterer you are.” She paused again, gazing upon me thoughtfully. “I came to ask if there have been more difficulties with this rogue vampire you spoke of the other night.”

“I have not been successful in tracking him down,” I admitted ruefully. I thought of Daisy again and my resolve to protect her strengthened. “But you have my vow that I will put an end to his mischief, whoever he is.” Maeve picked up one of the pretty glass bottles I kept on my dressing table and examined it with the absorbed interest of one who appreciates fine craftsmanship. “Do not be too hasty, my friend,” she warned, returning the bauble to its place before turning her gaze to my face. “This may not be a blood-drinker, but a warlock, for instance, only posing as one of us. I feel certain that this is some sort of trap.”

I almost whispered my next words. “Could it be that Lisette has returned?”

“No,” Maeve answered with a reassuring lack of hesitation. “She is most certainly dead. You saw her perish—we all did.”

“Still—”

“If Lisette had managed to resurrect herself, even in some other form, I would know it. We have other enemies, Valerian. There are many monsters roaming creation—ones we know nothing about. According to Calder, who has been performing some very interesting experiments since his transformation, there could well be other species of vampires, with different powers from our own. He has even uncovered evidence that gaps might exist between dimensions—passageways leading in and out of other realms and realities.”

I found the mere prospect so overwhelming that I could not speak. The fiends of my acquaintance were daunting enough, without being joined by a host of other horrors skulking back and forth from one world to another.

Maeve folded her arms and looked at me with sisterly concern. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

I smiled sadly, touched and somehow calmed by this reminder that she cared for me. “I have found her again.” “Not—?”

I nodded, reaching up to straighten my elegant string tie. I often wear formal garb to hunt—a cape and tails, ruffled linen shirt and cummerbund, trousers with silk stripes down the outer seams—due to that theatrical streak I mentioned before, I suppose. And because my victims expect me to resemble the classic media vampire. Who was I to disappoint the poor wretches?

“Yes,” I said. “Same face, same body. This time her name is Daisy Chandler, and she’s a homicide detective with the Las Vegas police.”

Maeve looked worried. “You know what always happens—the ruby arrives, she dies, and then you are heartbroken. You must avoid this woman at all costs, Valerian, for your own sake as well as hers.”

I wanted to weep at the impossibility of the situation, at the injustice and terrible irony of it all. “It’s already too late,” I confessed. “Besides, there is no avoiding Daisy. It’s part of the curse.”

“The curse,” Maeve mocked. Surprisingly, considering what she is and what she’s seen, my revered queen is not in the least superstitious. “That’s a medieval idea. There is no dark magic at work here—someone or something is
causing
these things to happen. Find the root of the problem and you will know how to solve it.” “So practical,” I said with a sad smile. Maeve is young, in terms of being a vampire, having been made quite recently, in the turbulence of the eighteenth century. “Do you fancy that I’ve never
tried
to uncover the cause? I have searched for centuries, all to no avail. And every generation or so, the horror repeats itself.”

She approached me and put a gentle hand on my arm. “Perhaps Calder can find some remedy in science,” she said in an effort to lend comfort.

I laughed, though my feelings resembled bereavement more than mirth. “You have great confidence in that husband of yours.”

Maeve nodded. “I have,” she admitted. “And it is well placed, I assure you. Now, come with me. We’ll feed together, and then search for this mysterious foe of yours.”

“It has occurred to me,” I said, looking down into her sweet, beautiful face, “that our cause would be better served by keeping watch over the four young women who remain in my employ. I shall sever all ties with them, of course—when I again perform my magic act, I will appear alone—but they seem the most likely targets.”

“What about this Daisy woman? I should think she would be in the gravest peril of all.”