Immortal With A Kiss Part 20

Judith had many sayings, always self-serving ones that drove her point home with the punctuation of ageless wisdoms. The one I remember her telling Alyssa all the time was: "It is always darkest before the dawn," which was meant to bolster Alyssa when she became dispirited, such as when her cheek sported a "ghastly" spot, or her courses came on just when she was looking forward to a particular outing. Judith's plat.i.tudes for me were of a different nature, designed to admonish me. When she thought I was being selfish, she would tell me that "good deeds bring their own reward."

It was ironic that I recalled this when I found the letters at last, for I was in the middle of doing a good deed when it happened. One particularly cold day, when Alyssa was fretting that Roderick would catch a chill, I offered to fetch a blanket for her from a trunk in a rarely used bedroom. This was the room where Judith had stashed my mother's portrait-barely waiting until my father was buried before she had it taken down from the drawing room where it always had hung. In the trunk, I searched through the pile of old quilts and knit blankets to find the softest, thickest one, for only the best would do for young Roddy.

And so, that was where I found them, nestled among the woolens scented with sachets of lavender. There were not very many, tied in a packet by a ribbon, but they were as pristine as the day they were delivered; I a.s.sumed most of them were unread. I recognized her hand, the one I'd seen only once before, when I'd found those terrible words written on the flap of her portmanteau. Emotion reared up in me, stinging my eyes with unshed tears, and my heart began to thunk heavily in my chest. This was the first real, tangible connection to my mother I'd ever had.

I gently thumbed through the pack. Those on top were addressed to my father. I took one out, opening it with shaking hands. The date was 1842, three years after my birth. The place was Inishmore, Ireland.

Ireland? How curious-my father had known, then, where she was. Why had he not brought her home?

My Beloved Stephen, How can I express how sorry I am for the pain I caused you? I am wicked, and have no right to contact you, but I am weak. I am so alone, so lost and ashamed for what I've done. You cannot imagine how I torment myself with regret. Foolishness, vanity, spite-they are sins that carry their own penance, for in living mine I know the burn of true repentance. Perhaps this is what h.e.l.l is, after all-the natural consequences of what we ourselves choose.

I skimmed through the entreaties for forgiveness, looking for a particular thing. I at last found it: my name.

How I miss my baby, my darling Emma. I think of her all the time. Tell her, Stephen. Tell her that I love her. Do not let her forget me, and tell her I would be with her if only that were possible.

I closed the letter, too excited to read it all the way through. I gathered the pack, tying it back up into a ribbon, then thought better of taking them with me. I did not have time to get to my room with them without arousing suspicion. I had been gone too long already; Alyssa was impatient and would probably send someone after me if she did not come herself any second. Besides, what if I met someone in the hall? I had no way of hiding them. I decided my impatience notwithstanding, I would have to wait and come back for the letters later that night.

I summoned Valerian and Uncle Peter, arranging a rendezvous in the conservatory, where I told them about the letters.

"It does not surprise me your father did not go to her," Uncle Peter explained. "He knew there was another man. He did not, of course, imagine a vampire. Nor would he have thought for one moment, despite her paroxysms of conscience, that she was not with her lover willingly. No, dear Emma, remember your father's pride. He would believe she knew the way home if she had chosen to return."

"Could she still be there?" I asked.

"I very much doubt it. It was a long time ago," Uncle Peter replied sadly.

"But there could be traces of her there, or clues to where she traveled next," Valerian interjected. He leaned forward to address Uncle Peter. "Forgive me, for I know I am coming in late on this. Most a.s.suredly, the two of you have already thoroughly discussed this matter. While I do not mean to make you go through it all again, I have some questions."

"Go right ahead," Uncle Peter agreed.

"When Laura began to change, what was different in the house, or even in the area? Can you remember any major alterations in normal life?"

"As I told Emma, there was the business of Astrid, who was a diabolically clever girl who set her sights on Stephen. It was through her manipulations that the seeds of mistrust and betrayal were sown. Stephen's pride made it worse."

"I've explained most of this to him," I clarified, to save time.

"Other than the business with Astrid, was there anything else unusual or out of the ordinary?" Valerian asked. "Was there anyone new in the neighborhood, anyone spotted lurking about the house?"

"There was a stranger in Weybourne. You know how it is in these country towns, a new arrival is the talk of the neighborhood. But as far as I know, they never met." Uncle Peter caught himself, his eyes glowing as realization dawned. "Oh, I see. You think he might have been the one who . . . But I am afraid there is nothing else I can tell you, not about him. I never even saw the man. If he was a man." His head jerked. "Wait. One more thing. When it first began, when Laura first began to show signs of secretiveness, she and Stephen had a terrible row. It was over a necklace he found her wearing. She refused to say where she had bought it. When Stephen tried to take it, she went wild. I never saw it again after that."

My blood went to ice. "Was this necklace a silver dragon with a teardrop pearl?" I asked desperately.

His eyes widened. "My G.o.d. How did you . . . ?"

I closed my eyes. My voice trembled. "Did she ever mention anyone by the name of Alistair?"

He frowned, about to deny it, then stopped. His swarthy complexion paled. "That was the name she called out when she was feverish. Well, we thought it was fever then. But she called out to him, begging him . . . You see why your father believed so soundly she had taken a lover. He told me once he feared the guilt was what had driven her mad."

Fighting back my rising state of emotion, I related the story Eloise Boniface had told me. Peter listened, frowning, nodding, and when I was finished, he gave a great sigh. "Well, then, we can a.s.sume at last this is the connection. This Alistair must be the one who made her over."

Valerian spread his hands. "But does this have any connection to the Cyprian Queen, to Ruthven and what he is doing now?"

"It has to," I replied. "There cannot be so much coincidence in all the world as this-two vampires in the same remote area, preying in different ways on students at a small girls' school like Blackbriar."

"But it did not happen at the same time," Valerian clarified. "You mother was never part of the Cyprian Queen business. You friend, the Boniface woman, would have told you if she had been acting strangely. What happened to her happened years later." He puzzled over this. "I agree it has to be related, but I don't see how."

"Perhaps when I have had an opportunity to read the rest of the letters, I will know more."

But I never got to see those letters. Alyssa must have belatedly realized her error in sending me to fetch the blankets. That evening, when I went back to the bedroom chest, I discovered every last one of them was gone.

The scene was ugly. Beyond ugly. I was . . . well, I would like to say I was not myself, but the harsh truth was I was myself.

I spoke truly from my heart-a very bruised heart-for the first time in all my life with my sister, venting my full wrath and hurt when Alyssa told me that she had burned them. Alan was with her, and he stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders, looking stone-faced and unmoved as I shouted at the two of them.

"Those letters belonged to me! How could you have destroyed my property, something you have no right to do? How could you have been so selfish?"

"I was only thinking of you!" Alyssa insisted tearfully.

"No you most certainly were not," I countered. "You cannot bear to think of my attachment to my mother. You hate her, and you hate me."

"But, Emma, that is not true!"

"It is!" I thundered, pointing an accusing finger at her. "Your only use for me is when I dance attendance on you. You are a spoiled child-your mother's child through and through. You think every part of our relationship should serve your interest, and you are afraid of what makes me different from you. You had to destroy those letters to keep me to yourself."

"No! You must understand why I did it."

"I do, you see. You are weak and small. You think only of yourself, and you do not care whom you hurt to get what you want."

Alan's face gathered into a glower. "Shut up, Emma. You are upsetting Alyssa."

"No, we cannot have Alyssa upset!" I shot, incensed at his interference. I was fairly shrieking now, so hysterical was I. "It must not be allowed. My stepmother set that standard, and no matter how much grief it cost me, Alyssa's fair brow must never be marred by the pucker of a frown. This ent.i.tles her, I suppose, to destroy my life, to treat me no better than a servant whose duty it is to bow to her every whim-do not upset Alyssa at any cost! Well, that cost, it seems, is too often mine to pay. This time, what you two took from me was irreplaceable, but it was the last thing I will ever sacrifice to this insipid brat again!"

"You sniping b.i.t.c.h!" Alan shouted, lunging for me. He moved quickly, rounding the chairs. It happened so quickly, I did not even have time to react, but suddenly Valerian was in between us. He had forgotten to move normally and his preternatural speed put him between Alan and me in the blink of an eye. It was an unforgivable lapse, especially for a man who never lowered his guard.

But I doubted Alan would believe the evidence of his eyes; the stupid were ever easy to confound. Valerian stood in front of me, protective and threatening in that quiet, still way of his that so effectively diminished Alan's bl.u.s.ter.

"Move away." Valerian spoke in a velvet-smooth tone, yet there was no mistaking the steely threat. I watched Alan's face go red. By contrast, Valerian's paleness was unmarred by emotion. He seemed made of marble.

"Get out of here, Fox. This is a family matter. It does not concern you."

Meaning to brush past Valerian to get to me, Alan took one step. Only one. Then Valerian's hand shot out, grasping Alan's shoulder. Alan stopped cold, as if he'd come up against a stone wall. He pushed against Valerian. In response, Valerian flicked his wrist and Alan crumpled to the ground.

The rest was a blur. Alyssa began screaming. I felt Valerian's hand on my arm, his voice at my ear. "Let us go," he said commandingly. "Now."

I obeyed without thinking, turning my back on my sister prostrate over her groaning husband. Valerian took me upstairs. "Be ready to leave in an hour," he told me. "I am taking you away from this place."

Only a fool would set sail for Ireland on winter seas. I was one such fool, an angry, embittered one when I left Castleton. Valerian had found an Irish vessel sailing from Seaforth Dock in Merseyside, called The Angel Gabriel. I was a notoriously bad sailor, but with a name such as this, I thought it a good sign.

The cabin a.s.signed to me was close and airless, and I was ill on the short voyage over the rough seas to Dublin. However, my mood was undaunted. I had a place, now, where I could look for my mother: Inishmoor, which lay on the other side of the island, just out from Galway.

Valerian went to work immediately upon our arrival to put the word out to his contacts. After five days, he informed me that so far his sources had unearthed no information about my mother in the area of Inishmoor.

"Perhaps I should go myself to the Inishmaan," I suggested. "This was where she was when she sent the letters."

"And look where?" he posited. "An island it might be, but it is hardly small enough for you to go knocking on every door. And who knows how long she was there? She might have spent only a night before moving someplace else. No, we should wait for more information. Give my agents time to work."

"Agents?" I asked, intrigued.

He gave me an apologetic grin. "They are not the usual sort, as you might well imagine. Not pretty, not principled. But they are dedicated, and are deeply entrenched in the sort of world we are interested in. How do you think I have managed to maintain close contact with a vampire of Marius's magnitude all these years?"

I had not thought of it, but I now realized his ability to track and find the undead was certainly formidable. "It sounds quite a sophisticated network."

"Let us just say it is effective. In any event, I wanted to tell you they've found out something I had them investigate-not about your mother, but another matter. Do you recall Peter mentioning a man by the name of David Stoker?"

"Yes. He was the one who was known to have information on the Dracula."

"Exactly. Obsessed with the Dracula legend is more to the point. Stoker's an Irishman, and a Dubliner to boot. He has family here. It is a tenuous connection, for they say his brother, Abraham, detests any mention of David. But as we are here, I thought I might pay them a visit and see what I can ascertain about the man."

"I am coming with you!"

Any other man would have informed me that such an errand was not the proper place for a woman. Valerian did not. Instead, he bobbed his head in agreement. "We have to come up with a ruse. Do you have any ideas?"

Our story was this: Valerian would pose as a Cambridge historian who was researching the expansion of the Ottoman Empire into Eastern Europe. I would be his dutiful wife, a bit of a bluestocking, who acted as his secretary. We contacted the family under this guise, requesting information on the legend a.s.sociated with Vlad III, known as Vlad the Impaler.

"We are particularly interested in the supernatural aspects of the legends surrounding him," I said as we brainstormed our approach, "as we believe there are actual events of importance that have been misinterpreted, and are thus of substantial historical value."

"That is good," Valerian said. "I think it wise to apply to his vanity. He will not wish to expose his brother's obsession if he thinks we take it literally. Therefore, let us say David contacted us when he learned of our research, to offer his theories on how these 'preposterous' stories grew out of actual events."

"I am a terrible liar," I warned.

He gave me a mysterious smile. "Leave that to me."

And sure enough, we gained entrance into the very active Dublin home of Abraham Stoker and his wife, Charlotte, who I learned was something of a feminist-which was an unexpected blessing, a.s.surance that Stoker would accept my presence as my "husband's" a.s.sistant. Getting the couple to talk about David's obsession, however, was nearly impossible.

"My brother's illness has brought our family great grief," the very austere Abraham Stoker told us. The couple had invited us into the formal parlor, but did not extend their hospitality to an offer of refreshment. I had the feeling the husband was receiving us at his wife's insistence. He was certainly making no secret of his reluctance.

Mrs. Stoker was patient with us. "David was not all bad. He had his problems, as most men of great mind do. Yes, it was true, he was too warm on the subject of certain . . . legends. But he was a scholar and a fine man. He was an exhaustive researcher, and dedicated beyond imagining. I for one am thrilled to learn his research might be of some service to the academic community."

A shadow pa.s.sed by the door, the movement catching the corner of my eye. I glanced over but saw no one. Were we being watched?

"If you only knew how important he is to our needs," Valerian said, very carefully picking his way through the truth.

"Surely you know my brother disappeared two years ago. I have not seen or heard from him since."

Charlotte Stoker looked to her husband. "Perhaps they might wish to have a look through his papers."

Stoker colored, turning an alarming shade of vermillion only an Irishman could achieve. Mrs. Stoker said, "Oh, Abraham, you did not destroy them, did you?"

"Of course not, although why you prohibit that course of action, I cannot see. They are no use to anyone."

I would have interjected if Valerian had not. "If you please, Mr. Stoker, to allow us-my wife and me-to be the judge of that."

The couple ignored us. I had the impression they were well used to lively debate. "I insisted you keep his belongings for precisely this purpose, naturally. David was a brilliant man."

"There is a fine line between genius and madness," Abraham warned.

Something p.r.i.c.kled the hairs on the back of my neck. I glanced over my shoulder, searching the hall. I had the uncanny impression once again that I was being watched. Yet I saw no one.

Valerian was speaking. "That may well be, but your brother's emotional well-being, or lack of it, does not diminish the fact that he may have made a very important contribution to our research."

Abraham Stoker harrumphed, but he rose and disappeared, his wife trailing after him. The sounds of their quarrel drifted back to Valerian and me, still seated in their parlor.

"What do you think?" I whispered.

He chuckled. "She is formidable. I'll wager we have the papers in our hands in moments."

He was correct. The Stokers returned quickly, Abraham with a sheaf of papers.

His stern expression bore testimony to his dislike of losing this particular battle. "I will not allow these out of this house. If you find something of value, excellent. You have one hour."

"Abraham," Mrs. Stoker murmured.

"Two hours," he corrected crankily.

"Thank you," I said sincerely, taking the packet as if I were receiving the Holy Grail. Mrs. Stoker pulled her husband out of the room, their quibbling resuming once the door was shut behind them.

Valerian and I exchanged an amused glance, then set to work.

Opening the file, we found nothing more than a collection of notes filled with handwriting, drawn figures, and snippets of newspaper. These were arranged in haphazard fashion, jottings and lengthy entries jumbled onto a page. Portions were circled, underlined, scored through. The whole effect was chaotic, nearly indecipherable.

I gave Valerian a helpless glance. "Two hours?"

He divided the file in half, slid a packet to me and settled in to peruse the other himself. I attended the first few pages of my a.s.signment, making a discovery right off. "He mentions something known as 'Spring-heeled Jack' very often. Listen to this-an account from the Times in London. Let's see . . . this was some time ago, about twenty years ago. A woman named Mary Stevens was accosted by a strange figure who leaped at her from a dark alley. Hmm. It says the hysterical girl reported the strange creature ripped at her clothing and tore at her flesh with claws that were 'cold and clammy as those of a corpse.' "

"A vampire attack?" Valerian said.

"A very unusual one. Look at the rest of this."

The material described something quite different from the stealthy, fatally efficient killer we knew vampires to be. This thing was a gibbering miscreant bent on cruel mischief. Its sobriquet came from the ability to disappear by leaping great heights, a terrifying stunt it used to taunt its prey.

Several accounts throughout England and Ireland had been remarkably similar in describing the thing's appearance, which was reported as "devil-like." Many echoed the description given in public testimony in London of an eighteen-year-old victim named Jane Alsop. I read it aloud for Valerian.

"She says: 'He was wearing a kind of helmet, and a tight-fitting white costume like an oilskin. His face was hideous; his eyes were like b.a.l.l.s of fire. His hands had claws of some metallic substance, and he vomited blue and white flames.' "

I stopped, my eyes fixed at the next word.

"Go on," Valerian urged.

"Here Stoker writes over the article. A name." I pointed to the circled word. "Lliam."