Authors: Colleen Gleason
Even now, all he wanted was to load up with his lethal ash stakes, his silver-tipped arrows and crossbow, his silver cross, and destroy. In his mind, he saw himself as a medieval berserker…dead-minded, wild, and brutal. Unforgiving.
“I have to send her away. I can’t ever see her again…not until Iscariot is dead.” Through the pain and anguish, Max found clarity and determination—at least for now. “That’s the only way Macey will be safe.”
“Max—”
“
No
. There’s no other way to keep her safe. You know it. And if she’s to follow in my footsteps…if she too is called to be a Venator and wear the
vis bulla
…” His voice trailed off. Max didn’t know whether his daughter, his only child, would be blessed—no,
cursed
—with the powerful family legacy of vampire hunting…but surely Wayren knew whether Macey would be called to hunt as a Venator. Wayren knew everything.
He looked at the pale woman, and that was all he needed. He read the answer in her eyes.
A shiver rattled through him.
Macey
. His bright-eyed, curly-haired imp would someday face the same horror and the same evil he did. And she would be responsible for destroying it.
As long as she remained alive.
As long as she knew about her legacy…
He stilled.
Perhaps she could yet be protected.
Perhaps she need never know.
Perhaps he could somehow keep her safe.
“Send her away. Take her, Wayren—I don’t want to know anything about her: where she is, what she’s doing, who she’s with…unless—” He stopped, unable to say the words.
Unless she dies
. “Take her. Go.” The words were thick and choked. “And leave me alone.”
The soft swish of Wayren’s gown was the only signal of her acquiescence. He felt rather than heard her leave…and with her went the last vestiges of peace and comfort.
Max swallowed, his eyes settling on the carnage Iscariot’s men had left for him to find. The brutal message. The only recognizable part was one delicate hand still wearing her two favorite rings: her delicate diamond wedding band, and a heavy cabochon-cut stone. If it weren’t for them, he might believe there’d been a mistake.
Ah, Felicia
. Tears stung his eyes, and the dark, heavy ball of rage settled deep inside…then swelled, encompassing him and enveloping him.
Today he had lost the two people he loved more than anything.
But he must go on. He had a job to do.
A life to live.
~ Solitude ~
Rome
Ten years later
“Tell me,” snarled Max Denton, his fingers curling into the vampire’s heaving, convulsing throat, “how to find Rastingard, or I’ll make it long and slow.”
As “it” clearly referred to the death Max had planned for the whimpering, shuddering undead, the vampire’s struggles became more desperate. His legs twitched helplessly, scraping along the ivy-covered stone wall against which he was pinned, his hands pulling in vain at the powerful fingers around his throat as leaves fluttered against his head.
Max casually hefted the silver-tipped stake in his left hand as the red glow began to fade from the vampire’s irises. Not that one could kill an undead by squeezing his throat, or by any means other than a stake to the heart or decapitation, but the discomfort was an incentive for the bastard to tell him what he wanted to know. Max Denton preferred efficiency and speed above all else—and the bastard was already wasting his damned time.
Max had a bloody damned appointment in an hour.
“I can let you fry in the sun if you prefer,” he told the choking vampire. “In another forty minutes, you’ll be kissing the dawn as it spills over the wall. It’ll smolder over you, inch by blessed warm inch. Or you can be a helpful bloke and tell me what I want to know, and it’ll be over. Just like that.” He smiled coldly.
Fear widened the undead’s eyes. He kicked feebly, then nodded as much as the tight curve of Max’s hand would allow.
“Now there’s a smart move,” he said, and relaxed his fingers just enough for the blood-sucking fiend to take a shallow breath. A low-grade disappointment filtered over him as he battered back the red-hot fury that threatened to surge forth.
Too bloody easy
. But he needed the information, and he didn’t have time to dally. “Where is—”
Max stilled. The back of his neck had gone sharply colder than it had been a moment ago. His pulse spiked and he allowed the familiar rush of fury and anguish to barrel through him as he glanced behind to see a small army—at least four—of vampires climbing over the wall of the courtyard.
A dark, determined smile stretched his lips.
Ahh. Yes. Now we’re in for it
.
Max reached behind a shoulder and yanked a crossbow bolt from his quiver. “Be right with you,” he told the vampire, then shoved the silver-tipped arrow into one of the undead’s shoulders. He used enough force to plunge it through flesh and bone and into the crumbling mortar of the wall behind him.
The vampire screamed, pinned like a butterfly on display—pinned and helpless, ready to be tortured and destroyed just as Felicia had been ten years ago. His fury and madness reignited by the ever-present memory, Max spun to face a red-eyed creature lunging across the courtyard toward him.
The silver tip of his stake flashed in the moonlight as he met the vampire, slinging off his quiver and whipping it up and into the face of the undead as he came toward Max. He followed it up with a thrust of the stake into the stunned creature’s back, and his assailant exploded into a cloud of foul-smelling ash.
Vision tinged with darkness, nostrils flared like an animal on the hunt, muscles vibrating with fury, Max launched himself at the other three undead. He noted with satisfaction that one of them had the ruby-tinged eyes of a Guardian vampire, and he decided to save that bastard for last.
Whether this was one of Rastingard’s Guardians who’d torn into Felicia, ripped into her flesh, raped and drank from her…Max would never know.
But it didn’t matter. Every Guardian, every undead of any kind was nevertheless sentenced by the executioner that was Max Denton.
Blinded by fury and focused only on destroying, on
hurting
, he kicked and spun, ducked, and pummeled. Mindlessly, ruthlessly, Max leapt, dodged, punched—expressing his ongoing fury in lieu of an instant slaying.
A ham-sized stone from the ground became a weapon he smashed into the face of a vampire. An old iron gate became a battering ram, and then a broadsword as he swung it around. Its rusty edge sliced jaggedly through an undead’s throat, severing his head and turning the creature into a cloud of dust. Wild and yet calm, Max took on the nearest undead by grabbing his wrist and spinning him fiercely, slamming him face-first into the nearest stone wall. The crunch of cartilage and bone crashing into rock wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he desired, nor was the cry of pain from the stunned vampire.
Max wanted more. He needed
more
.
Fury and pain trammeled through him, and Max spun the creature around once more with all his unhuman strength—this time launching the vampire into one of his undead companions. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, Max followed through by thrusting a powerful foot into them from behind. The two vampires tumbled to the ground and he followed, leaping on top of them and slamming their heads into the ground with two well-placed steps. Then, panting, a stake in each hand, he pivoted back and swooped down to finish them off with two sharp thrusts.
The twin poofs of dust glittered silently in the moonlight, and Max realized he was alone. Even the vampire pinned to the wall was gone, dammit, without having spilled his information. Heaving from exertion, blinded by tears of pain and rage, his pulse fast and hard, Max gripped his stake. Alone.
Always alone.
A wave of emotion rushed over him, dark and empty and brutal. A sob threatened to roar up from the depths of his soul, and Max managed to subdue it even as his shoulders shook and tears streamed from his eyes.
No matter how many battles, no matter how many vampires, no matter how much violence…it never changed.
There was never peace.
The barest of sounds had him snapping his head up to look toward the courtyard entrance, vision blurred and sweat dampening his face.
A slender shadow, a wisp of movement, disappeared as quickly as it had come—or perhaps it had been a trick of his eyes in the moment of madness.
Either way, Max was alone.
~ Witness ~
Not very far away from the piles of undead dust wrought by Max Denton was the tiny, unassuming church of Santo Quirinus.
In a quiet part of Rome, far from the tourist and shopping areas and twelve feet below the small church, was a den of underground activity.
The Consilium, as it was known by the few people aware of its existence, was accessed through a secret door in Santo Quirinus’s church confessional. One navigated down a tricky stairwell, and at the bottom of the steps, through a door, was a large chamber that had once been part of the catacombs frequented by the early Christians. In the center of the chamber was an active fountain with clear, sparkling water that flowed at all times.
In the last few decades, electric lights had been installed, as well as running water, telegraph and telephone systems, and even some basic appliances…but despite these modernities, the essence of age and history nevertheless permeated the place.
The fountain chamber was the central location of the secret headquarters of the Venators, and several arched corridors branched off from the space like spokes from a hub. The corridors led to laboratories, training rooms, sleeping accommodations, a locked storage room filled with mysterious and powerful objects, and a small infirmary. Along the main corridor—which led to the library belonging to the enigmatic Wayren—were portraits of the leaders of the Venators over the centuries. Each one was lit by a single, small bulb.
Among the dozens of paintings of the powerful
Summa
Gardellas—the leaders of the Gardella family vampire hunters—were only four women.
Despite the number of times Savina Eleiasa had walked down this corridor, she was always compelled to pause at the pictures of the most famous women Venators, the four female
summas
. Even today, though she was in a hurry to arrive at the meeting—or more accurately, not to be seen on her way
to
the meeting—she nevertheless slowed her pace.
For tonight in particular, these strong, powerful women were on her mind.
What sacrifices they had made.
What dangers they’d faced.
What they’d given for their calling.
The serene, honey-blonde Lady Rosamunde Gardella, an hermetic and mystic from the 13
th
century who nevertheless had carried the stake.
The fiery-haired, green-eyed Catherine Gardella, who wore the ruff collar and bejeweled gown in the style of her queen, Elizabeth. (How on earth had she ever wielded a stake in that clothing?)
The great Eustacia Gardella, with her snapping black eyes and white-streaked ink-black hair, who’d been slain in 1821 not far from this very location.
And the incomparable Victoria Gardella, who’d been the last and most recent female
summa
.
Victoria’s great-grandson Max Denton should have taken on the title now that the previous
summa
, an uncle of his, was dead…but he declined.
Denton walked his own path of darkness and grief, and hadn’t been seen at the Consilium for years.
But now he was back.
Savina took a deep breath as she looked at the painting of Victoria Gardella. She could hardly believe the scene she’d just witnessed only moments ago, in a dark, abandoned courtyard…but it had to have been Max Denton who’d been the whirling dervish of fury.
On her way to the Consilium, Savina was attracted by the sounds of fighting and the unmistakable scent of vampire dust wafting over a stone wall. Before she could investigate, an undead scrambled over the wall above. His coat fluttered, and a number of objects tumbled from his pockets as he landed heavily on the ground in front of her. As the vampire staggered to his feet, Savina had the advantage. She noticed a large bloody patch below his left shoulder just as she whipped out her stake and silver cross. The latter caused the vampire to rear back and away as if she were thrusting a burning brand at him.
“Not so fast,” she said, showing him her pointy weapon.
Not a member of the Gardella family’s far-flung branches, Savina wasn’t a Venator herself. But she knew how to wield a stake, and she had her own skills—especially when she had the advantage of surprise against a wounded vampire who was now backed up against the stone wall, courtesy of her hand-sized cross.
Moments later, after brushing away the remnants of undead ash with satisfaction, Savina shoved the items that had fallen from his coat into her own pockets. She could hear the battle still going on from beyond the wall. When she peered around the corner of the courtyard gate, she saw a Venator in the midst of a cluster of vampires, fighting them off. The only way to describe him was crazed.
She didn’t get a good look at the warrior’s face…but the rage and pain pouring from him, the brutal efficiency in every movement, the cold violence as he slammed and punched and destroyed told her this was a man broken and grieving. One bound to avenge. One desperate to find peace, but unable to do so.
She realized with an uneasy certainty that this must be Max Denton, on his return to the Consilium after years of absence.
Tonight, Savina had seen Max Denton at his most uncontrolled, his most vicious…and his most vulnerable. For when all the undead—at least four, maybe five—had been reduced to clouds of dust, he stood there in the stillness, shoulders shaking, head bowed, face buried in a powerful hand. Savina was nearly moved to reveal herself…
And then he looked up, his face wet and taut, and she ducked away as her insides wrenched at the rage and emptiness the moonlight revealed in his face.