Chapter 2
Valentin Jaus drove his Jaguar up the long drive to the black-granite-and-gray-slate medieval manor he called Derabend Hall. A dozen guards in dark suits stood at their posts around the mansion, which was a replica of Schloss Jaus in the Austrian Alps.
During his human life in the fourteenth century, Jaus and his home would have been referred to as the master and his castle, his guards the garrison. Now the master of Derabend Hall was a major metropolitan entrepreneur, guarded at his lakeshore estate home by private security.
Names and locations changed; life remained the same. So it was for all of the immortals known as the Darkyn.
The men nodded in deference to their suzerain as he followed the path out to the gardens. There he found the old man sitting in the gazebo, his head bobbing as he dozed beside a bottle of bloodwine and an exquisite Baccarat crystal goblet.
Like all tresori, Gregor Sacher had been trained from birth to serve his immortal Darkyn lord. He had been Valentin's human servant for more than fifty years now, long past the age he should have retired. His grandson, Wilhelm, had been at his side since leaving high school, and was now more than ready to lake up Gregor's post. But Gregor had so far refused to step down, always finding some excuse to avoid the comfortable retirement he had earned. Neither Wilhelm or Valentin had the heart to force the issue.
A slim, dark-haired boy whose features were a younger version of the elderly man's came out of the shadows and walked to the steps of the gazebo. "I tried to persuade him to come inside, my lord, but Grandfather insisted he was not tired."
"He is a proud man, Wil," Jaus said as he gazed at his most devoted servant and oldest human friend. "We must allow him his dignity." He came down the steps. "What news?"
Wil updated him on the day's events and various business projects concerning the jardin. "The district attorney's office called in regard to Miss Lindquist. They are accepting the plea agreement our attorneys offered. She will be incarcerated at an appropriate psychiatric facility for the term of her sentence."
Jaus felt satisfied. The confession he had compelled from Diane Lindquist had included the details of the emotional and sometimes physical abuse she had suffered at the hands of her brother. "What of the media?"
"Our contacts at the newspapers, periodicals, and broadcasting companies have been successful in suppressing the story," Wil said. "No more reporters will be sent to the facility. There has been a limited amount of exposure on the Web from independent sources, as usual, but our Internet contacts are now working to eradicate it."
The Internet caused more trouble than it was worth. "Did you see to the video of Miss Lindquist's confession?" He could not allow it to remain in human hands, as he appeared on the tape while compelling the human female to confess. To protect their identities and keep their immortality from being discovered, Darkyn never allowed themselves to be filmed or photographed.
Wil nodded. "The copy given to the police has been erased, and the original placed in our vault."
The old man stirred, murmuring in his sleep. "The vault. Must not… forget… secure… vault."
Jaus went up and woke him gently. "You are issuing orders in your sleep, old friend. Why are you not in bed?"
"I cannot rest when you go out alone, master." Sacher sat up, wincing a little as his arthritic joints protested the movement. "Wilhelm said that you went to the Lighthouse. Did you find Miss Lopez well?"
"I did." He glanced at Wil, who came to take Gregor's arm after Valentin helped the elderly tresora to his feet. "We will talk tomorrow. Rest now, mein freund."
Jaus watched until his tresora and his grandson were safely inside, and then poured himself a goblet of blood-wine. He drained it quickly, refilling the glass and taking it with him down to the seawall.
Light from the full moon turned the lake water black and fathomless, and plated the pebbles onshore in pewter. He knew his guards would watch over him from their various vantage points, but they would not intrude on his privacy. Nor would Wil, no matter what matter of jardin business became pressing.
No one came near the suzerain of Chicago when he walked down by the water.
So many times Jaus had come here to think, to worry, or to brood. It had first become his habit after he had noticed his young neighbor, Jema Shaw, walking down by the lake at night. Jema, his first love. His only love. He closed his eyes, remembering her.
A love doomed from the very beginning.
Jaus climbed over the short seawall and made his way toward the rocks. Despite all his caution and longings and endless inner debates, this was when he felt most ridiculous. He had come to this country to acquire power. A man in his position had thousands of responsibilities, and no time to indulge such useless pursuits. He also knew nothing would come of going to the rock and speaking to his lady. He never dared to do anything else.
Still, he went to her, as helpless as a storm-tossed ship driven to shoals.
"Good evening, Miss Shaw," he said as soon as she noticed him approaching.
"Mr. Jaus." She turned and smiled. "How have you been?"
"Very well, thank you."
Their conversations rarely varied from the polite, impersonal greetings exchanged by passing acquaintances. Before and after such meetings, Jaus often thought of many clever remarks he might have made, but whenever he spoke to Jema, none of them would come out of his mouth.
It would help if she gave him permission to use her given name, but she never had, and the rigid manners he had been taught as a boy prevented him from using it without her leave. Thus they had remained Mr. Jaus and Miss Shaw. It made Valentin want to dash his own head against the rocks. No, that was not precisely true. It made him want to scoop her into his arms and carry her back to his house…
Jaus swore softly as he banished the memory of that night from his mind.
He could never have had her; he had known that. Aside from the fact that Jema was human, an illness believed to be juvenile diabetes had been slowly stealing her life away year after year. Valentin had been well aware that her sickness had meant that they could never be together, and still he lost his heart to her. So he had watched her from afar, pining in silence, or walked down on the shore with a schoolboy's hopes of exchanging the occasional polite greeting with her.
Ironic that he had thought words were all that they would ever exchange.
Jema had not been stricken with diabetes, but by Valentin's own blood. A simple accident in his gardens during her infancy had caused the exposure, when he had removed a sliver of glass from her tiny hand, and had somehow cut himself in the process. Although they would never know for certain, Jema had probably ingested a few drops of his blood by sucking it from her thumb. It should have poisoned her, as Darkyn blood had been fatal to humans for the last five centuries. Somehow it hadn't. That in part may have been due to the Shaws' family doctor, a crazed man obsessed with Jema, who had used powerful drugs to keep her alive while trying to acquire the secrets of immortality.
The mad doctor was now dead, and Jema had completed the transition that had started in her infancy to finally became Kyn. But it was not Valentin's love or blood that had saved her. That honor belonged to Thierry Durand, the Kyn lord with whom Jema had fallen in love. Thierry, who had made Jema his sygkenis, his woman, his life companion.
Thierry, who had cut off Valentin's arm while dueling with him over Jema.
Each time Valentin came down to walk beside the lake, he thought of his loss. It was impossible to escape his memories of Jema, so he embraced them, as he would never embrace her. They were all that he had left, the last spark of feeling in his frozen heart. He had already accepted what had happened to him as his penance, for none of these things would have occurred if he had not tainted Jema as a baby with his own blood.
Luisa is lonely… So am I.
The gardener's pitiful confession slipped into Valentin's thoughts so quietly that at first he thought the words his own. Absently he flexed his good hand. He had not fed on nor had any physical contact with human females since losing Jema. What blood he needed he took from males, or from the supplies the jardin kept stockpiled for their use.
That explained why the brief contact with the Asian girl had produced such unfamiliar sensations. Abstinence had made him forget how warm and alive mortal women felt to touch.
The gardener, the Asian girl, the human. He scowled. Why did he avoid naming Liling Harper, even in his remembrance of her? Her name might sound like some sort of exotic music on the tongue, but she was simply another of the humans who served his jardin.
The girl did not know it, of course. Only humans whose families had served the Kyn for generations were entrusted with the vrykolakas's dangerous secrets. Only they knew that the Kyn were immortal, dependent on the blood of humans, and maintained secret communities and compounds in every part of the world.
Liling Harper remained ignorant of his nature and how much influence he had over her existence. She did not even realize that she owed her only friendship to him, in an indirect sense.
After installing Luisa Lopez at the Lighthouse, Valentin had asked that fresh flowers be brought to her room every day. As the facility gardener, Liling had been given the task. His security guards logged her visits, which grew longer each week, until the two were spending hours together.
Initially Liling's interest in Luisa had worried Valentin, who had ordered an investigation and background check. Through that he learned that the gardener was twenty-six, single, and lived alone in a one-room apartment near the Navy Pier. She had immigrated from Taiwan to the United States at the age of sixteen, and through a series of very fortunate sponsorships by prominent Chinese-American citizens had been naturalized.
Liling had no criminal record or outstanding debts, and lived simply and frugally. She had to; her annual salary roughly equaled what Valentin spent during one visit to his tailor.
"She's diligent and punctual," the chief administrator at the Lighthouse reported over the phone. "Never late, never calls in sick or asks to leave early. She keeps the grounds immaculate, of course, and the gardens have become a showcase. The nurses adore her."
Valentin learned that Liling was not only a favorite of the Staff, but had become very popular among the most seriously ill patients at the facility.
"Some of them have said that her touch removes their pain," the administrator said, his voice growing wry. "Of course, sir, you have to realize that these are the same patients who regularly talk to Elvis and are convinced that aliens steal the chocolate pudding off their dinner trays."
Valentin suspected the patients were responding to the girl's interest and kindness. The sort of attention she gave them also had some bearing. How could you dislike someone who brought you flowers?
Doubtless Liling's stature and appearance likewise contributed to the many favorable opinions of her. Barely five feet tall and built as slender and delicate as one of her flowers, Liling Harper seemed as fragile and vulnerable as she was exotic. Small women often brought out protective instincts in others, as their diminutive size made them seem more childlike and helpless. Her skin, sun-kissed to a burnished gold, enhanced the natural drama of her ebony eyes and full, curved lips.
Liling kept herself as tidy and well-groomed as her gardens. Her thick black hair, always neatly confined in a precise French braid, hung down from the back of her head to the very end of her spine. Two plain gold hoops adorned the lobes of each small ear; a waterproof watch encircled one wrist. She also wore a silver chain around her neck, but kept it tucked inside the collar of her staff polo shirt. She used no cosmetics, and kept the nails on her slim fingers short but neatly manicured.
To Jaus she seemed almost painfully shy and reserved, more interested in her own thoughts than in the world around her. He had seen her drift off into a daydream more than once. He wondered what she thought about during those moments when her eyes took on that faraway look. Probably her gardens.
Valentin acknowledged that she was the only human female who—despite a similar petite form—did not remind him of Jema Shaw. Jema was American; Liling was not. The gardener spoke excellent English, but her accent and hesitancy with some words made it obvious that it was not her cradle language. Jema had been wealthy even before she became Thierry Durand's sygkenis; Liling worked hard, possessed little, and lived a modest life. Thus, the fact that he could not banish the image of her face from his thoughts was meaningless. Jaus knew that if he took her and fed from her, the temporary and highly annoying attraction would die. Just as it had with every other human female except Jema Shaw.
As he thought of how ii would be to take Liling Harper's blood, his dents acérées emerged, full and sharp into his mouth, while his cock stiffened against his fly.
His cell phone chimed, and when he flipped it open the screen displayed a small brown bird perched on an arrow. Valentin tapped the answer key and held it to his ear. "What is it?"
"Good evening to you, too. Lord Jaus." Robin of Locksley, the suzerain of Atlanta, said with good-natured cheer. "I can call tomorrow, if I have interrupted something."
"No, forgive me." Valentin breathed in deeply, reaching for the iron control that had never failed him. "My mind was elsewhere. How may I be of service?"
"I have been trading with the Kyn who have recently come from France and Italy." Robin said, "and I acquired a blade that may be of interest of you."
Valentin felt the weight of his dead arm drag at his shoulder. He could not hold a sword anymore, much less use one. "I thank you. Rob, but I have enough blades."
"This one is a two-handed sword with a very unique hilt." Locksley continued as if Jaus had said nothing. "It is solid, handworked silver, with two rubies, four star sapphires, and eight black diamonds inset in the grip. I believe you can guess the letter they form."
"That cannot be my grandfather's sword," Valentin told him. "The Nazis looted the church where it was kept on display when they invaded Vienna."
"As it turns out, my friend, the night before the Nazis arrived, the blade was smuggled out of the country to France. It was hidden there, along with several other important pieces, for safekeeping." Robin said. "The tresori responsible never revealed the location to anyone and were later killed during the occupation. Kyn using the same tunnels to flee the Brethren only just discovered the cache last year."
Valentin had little left in the way of personal effects from his human life: a few daggers, his father's hauberk and spangenhelm, a tattered banner. His grandfather's sword, wielded in so many wars of state that his men had referred to it as the King Maker, had been his family's most prized possession.
"I can ship it to you next-day air, if you like," Robin said. "UPS does not pick up here at the compound until five thirty."
"No." The idea of humans handling his grandfather's sword made Valentin's gut knot. "With your permission, I will come to Atlanta to see it. If it is authentic, you have but to name your price, my lord."
"I already have your friendship, and Scarlet claims I have too many automobiles as it is. Let me think." Locksley made a hmmmm sound. "I have several men who wish to move up in rank, but Will is likely to outlive all of us. Would you consider one of them to serve as your seneschal?"
Valentin had not had a seneschal since the night he had dueled with Thierry. "That sounds more like the sort of trade Cyprien would propose."
Robin was silent for a moment. "There is no deceiving you, is there? You know Michael. He worries."
Michael Cyprien, the American seigneur who ruled over all the suzerain and their jardin, had been a friend of Valentin's for centuries. He had also spent much of his human life as Thierry Durand's ally and closest friend. The duel and its aftermath had created a rift between Michael and Jaus, one that they never acknowledged, but that existed just the same.
Jaus had not cared, but Cyprien had never been a man to leave well enough alone.
"Do your men know that I executed my last seneschal for betrayal?" Valentin asked.
"They do. I believe if you accept an oath from one of them, he will do everything in his power to avoid a similar fate." Robin's tone changed, grew more persuasive. "I would give you the sword for nothing. Val. But I think Michael is right about this. It is time for you to… move on."
Valentin had no desire to replace Falco or change the status of his household. No did he wish to be micromanaged by the seigneur. But he could not walk away from the chance to regain possession of his grandfather's sword, and his pride would not allow Locksley to make a gift of it. "I will agree to consider them, but that is all."
"Excellent. I await your arrival."
Jaus ended the call and checked his watch. Five more hours until dawn. He needed something to do, something to fill up the time. Something to keep him from thinking about Jema.
He walked up to the gardens, where Wilhelm was waiting for him. "Bring me the file on Liling Harper."
The boy stood. "At once, master."
After making a small dinner salad for herself, Liling wandered restlessly around her apartment. The thought of watching television or reading didn't tempt her, and it was too dark to work in the tiny garden she had planted in the back of her building, so she pocketed her keys and went out into the night.
It was a short walk from her apartment to the Navy Pier, one of the main reasons she had rented the place. She liked seeing the lights of the enormous Ferris wheel from her windows; she had probably ridden it herself a thousand times now. Walking among the tourists and suburbians who came to enjoy the pier's attractions made her feel less lonely.
There were places at the pier where she could be alone, too. She walked past the family pavilion and the Navy Pier Park, pausing for a moment to watch the laughing, shrieking children riding the Ferris wheel before she continued down the walkway. She liked this side of the pier, where the long line of boats waited to ferry visitors out onto the lake; if she didn't get seasick the minute she stepped foot on a boat she'd take a cruise every night.
She intended to stop at the Häagen-Dazs Café for ice cream, but an odd sensation on the back of her neck made her keep walking. She glanced around several times, but no one strolling along the pier paid any attention to her.
At Festival Hall, she walked into the lower-level terrace and entered the Smith Museum, her favorite place on the pier.
The long, quiet galleries of the museum housed 150 stained-glass windows, with access provided at no cost for public viewing. The first stained-glass window museum in the United States, Smith showcased some of the most spectacular secular and religious windows in the country.
Liling loved the hushed atmosphere of the museum as much as the glowing, magnificent displays. It seemed more like a cathedral of light and art than a tourist attraction; to walk through the galleries and see the jewel-bright colors fed some nameless hunger inside her. Her childhood had been so dull and gray; here she could commune with the genius of John La Farge and Louis Comfort Tiffany, and see the world through their eyes.
As magnificent as Smith's collection of important glassworks were, Liling's favorite piece was Seated Woman in a Garden, a stair-landing window created by an unknown artist at the turn of the twentieth century. She always went to that one first, to stand in the gentle white, copper, and turquoise glow and study the woman in the glass.
The artist had used hundreds of tiny pieces of glass in vibrant colors, so that sunlight shining through would cast beautiful light on the landing of a staircase. But it was the figure of the woman, not the unusual colors, that drew Liling. With her white gown slipping from one shoulder, and her fiery red hair echoed by the delicate, intricate glass flowers growing all around her, the woman in the window sat alone, but seemed serene and happy.
"She looks as if she is waiting for her lover."
Liling turned, amazed to see Valentin Jaus standing just behind her. "Mr. Jaus. What are you doing here?"
"I am stalking you."
Her chin dropped. "Pardon me?"
"I make a poor joke. Luisa told me that you often come to the pier at night," he said. "I have never visited it, and I had some spare time tonight, so thought I might do the same. When I arrived. I saw you walking ahead of me and followed you here."
No wonder she'd felt that odd sensation of someone watching her. She'd never have guessed in a million years that it would have been Luisa's wealthy friend, however.
"It's so strange to see you outside the hospital." She couldn't believe she'd blurted that out. "Not that there is anything strange about your coming here. You can go anywhere, of course. It's just, uh, very unexpected."
"I was equally disconcerted to see you," he admitted. "I did not wish to appear untoward by approaching you, but I felt curious about this museum, and it seemed the polite thing to do." He watched her face carefully. "Perhaps I was wrong."
"Oh, no. I'm glad you came here. This is a beautiful museum. I come to see the windows here at least once a week." Which officially made her the dullest person in Chicago. "I hope you enjoy the displays, Mr. Jaus."
"As you are far more knowledgeable about this place, would you tell me which gallery houses the Tiffany collection?" he asked. "I find his work especially riveting."
"It's right through here." Liling led him to the gallery, where the displays had been placed strategically in deep wells of shadows and startling theatrical pools of light.
The Tiffany windows were magnificent examples of stained-glass art in its most evolved form. Liling told Jaus about the different types of glass the artist had used to create his windows, and the often daring techniques he had developed to bring a sense of movement and life to each piece.
"How do you know so much about this man?" Jaus asked.
"I bought a book about Tiffany at the gift shop," she said, glad for a reason to think about something other than his shoulders, and how his suit fit them. "It has all the facts about the windows, and some pretty interesting trivia about the artist, too. For example, Tiffany specialized in designing religious and memorial windows, but he preferred depicting flowers and landscapes rather than people and icons. He felt nature was much more divine than man. He also used the symbolism of flowers in much of his work. The poppies and passionflowers in this piece represent the Resurrection and the Crucifixion of Christ."
"Whatever his intentions, he created glorious art." The artificial light shining through the window cast Jaus's face in red and gold. "Although I would guess that you prefer the window of the woman in the garden."
"There is something about her that is so mysterious," she admitted. "As if the artist knew that she had a secret. Sometimes I think that if I keep looking at the window, I'll discover what it is."
He didn't smile, but he seemed amused. "You must tell me if you do."
He never asked; he commanded. Liling thought. Like a general… Oh, she was not thinking about that while he stood right next to her. "This next window is very pretty, too."
As they walked slowly through the thirteen displays, Jaus mentioned the particular reverence Chicagoans had for stained glass.
"I imagine it all began shortly after the Great Fire, while the city was rebuilding," he told Liling. "Immigrants drawn here by industry and the opportunity for work began decorating their churches, business, schools, and homes with the stained glass they once had known in Europe. Many of our old buildings have been carefully preserved, which is why Chicago itself is like one enormous glasswork museum."
"I can believe it," she told him. "In my book, it says they even put stained-glass windows in some of the old railroad cars." She gave him a curious look. "You seem to know a lot about the history of the city. Have you studied it?"
He nodded. "I know it as well as if I had lived through it."
A security guard stepped into the gallery. "Folks, the museum is closing now."
Liling felt startled. Had she actually been talking to the poor man for an hour? He must be bored out of his mind. "Well, it was very nice running into you. Mr. Jaus."
He followed her out of the museum, but as she turned to go he caught her arm. "It is late. Permit me to escort you home, Miss Harper."
Not a question, but another command.
"There's no need," she said, feeling embarrassed again at the thrill she felt in response. "I live only a couple of blocks away."
A large family leaving the pier passed by, obliging her to move closer to Jaus to make room for them. The scent of camellias came over her, making her feel warm and a little sleepy.
She didn't want to go home anymore. "Do you have to go now?"
"I can spend more time with you," he said, "if that is what you wish."
Her head bobbed up and down as she caught the edge of his lapel between her thumb and forefinger and leaned in to breathe his scent. "You always smell like your flowers. Why is that?"
"I spend a great deal of time in my gardens." His voice had changed, some of his words slurring, and his crystal eyes shifted down to look at her throat.
"Then why are you so unhappy?" she heard herself ask.
He drew back. "I don't know what you mean."
"You can't be unhappy in a garden." Her head began to clear, and she pulled her hand back, appalled at the way she had touched him and spoken to him. "I shouldn't have said that. It's none of my business."
"Perhaps that is the secret of the woman in the window," he said, putting more space between them. "I will not detain you any longer. Miss Harper. Until we meet again."
"Good-bye. Mr. Jaus." She turned and hurried away.
Chicago City News photographer Boyce Kinney picked up his latest batch of proofs from production on his way to the morning editorial meeting. He'd tried to get a shot of Daniel Lindquist in his room at the Lighthouse, but security had grabbed him before he could set foot on the ward.
His editor was philosophical about the missed opportunity. "No one is running anything about Lindquist or his sister trying to kill him; it's dead in the water. Yesterday it seems our fine, upstanding state senator Ryan Litton was arrested downtown for soliciting an underage prostitute."
"Oh, yeah?" Kinney perked up. "How old was she?"
"He's fifteen," the editor said, grinning. "I want you down at the courthouse; Litton will be arraigned at noon. They've shut out the media from the courtroom, so get me all the close-ups you can outside. Anything showing him in cuffs or being handled by the cops."
"Hang on." Serena, the Lifestyles editor, plucked one of Kinney's photos off the table. "Who's this?"
Kinney glanced at the photo he had taken of the Asian girl in the gardens outside the Lighthouse. He'd snapped it only to check his lens adjustment. "Nobody."
"What's this mark on the back of her shoulder?" Serena used a magnifier to inspect the spot, and then answered herself. "Looks like a tattoo of a bird of some kind."
"Everybody's got a tattoo these days." Kinney stretched and yawned. "Who cares?"
"I'm running a front-page piece on the next generation of nursing homes." Serena told him. "These are great colors, and the gardens are amazing. I could mention Lindquist, since he's a patient there, maybe work in a paragraph or two about the sister."
The senior editor shook his head. "The powers that be aren't interested in raking Lindquist over the coals. They were very specific."
"Old golfing buddies never die." Kinney made a jerking motion with his closed fist. "They just keep their circle of friends happy."
"So I don't utter a peep about Lindquist; got it." Serena studied the image again. "I still need a color shot for this piece. Her back is to the camera, so we don't need a sign-off. Mind if I use it. Boyce?"
Lifestyles ran only feel-good stories that rarely did anything but take up space, so there was nothing in it for Kinney. "It's okay with me."
A day later his editor clapped him on the shoulder. "You're not going to believe this. AP picked up that garden shot of yours. We've had reprint requests from a dozen agencies overseas, too."
His first big break, Kinney thought, and it had to be a throwaway shot he'd taken only to check his camera settings. "Too bad I didn't get the girl's face. She'd be famous."