Authors: Colleen Gleason
No, Max Denton was not a man willing to be comforted. And certainly not one to be pleased at being observed in such a vulnerable moment.
And that was why Savina disappeared into the night before he could see—or worse, recognize—her, and that was why she was rushing along the corridor to arrive at the meeting before Denton could.
“Ah, Savina, you’re here. I was beginning to worry—I’d expected you an hour ago.”
She smiled at Paolo, the Keeper of the Consilium and the right-hand man to the
Summa
Gardella—or in this case, since Denton had disdained the role, the right-hand man to Bellitano, the Regent
Summa
Gardella.
Paolo was sixty if he was a day, with sharp, dark eyes and a wicked smile that—if the tales were true—had broken many a heart in his younger years. He was bald, keeping his head shaved by choice, and he wore an extravagant white mustache. A small silver cross hung from one of his earlobes, and though it wasn’t his
vis bulla
, it was nevertheless an effective amulet of protection.
Savina embraced him, feeling the surprising strength of his elderly arms, and smacked an enthusiastic kiss on each softly sagging cheek. If it hadn’t been for Paolo, she would have been banished from the Consilium after her father died in disgrace. As it was, despite everything she’d done to help the Venators since, there were still those who looked at her—well, not with suspicion, but with reserve.
“I have news, Paolo,” she said, pulling back. “Unexpected but good news pertaining to Alexander Purcell, and more importantly—Rastingard. That’s why I’m late.”
“Rastingard? Indeed? Well, that will be most welcome, I’m certain. No, no, save it, my dear—I’ll be happy to hear it when you tell the others. No need for you to repeat it.” Paolo gestured her into Wayren’s study.
At the thought of the “others,” which would certainly include the rough, angry Denton, Savina had a pang of nerves. That was very unlike her. After all, she’d faced down much more daunting tests than an angry, gloomy Venator—including scaling the side of a thirty-foot wall at the edge of a mountain in the Alps, or sneaking into the bedroom of the Prince of Russia…while he was sleeping.
Wayren wasn’t in her study at the moment, and Savina didn’t know whether she would attend the meeting or not. The tall, graceful woman was something of a mystery, even to those in the inner circle at the Consilium—coming and going as she pleased, never ruffled or out of sorts, and filled with seemingly endless knowledge of the past, present, and sometimes even the future.
However, Bellitano was present in the room, and so was the chief weapons-master, Estevan. They’d chosen seats around a generous round table and were bent over some metal contraption likely created in the armory. Walls lined with bookshelves enclosed the chamber, which was windowless, high-roofed, and well-lit. Savina had been told that the chamber’s arched ceiling penetrated the church’s dais above, the top of it creating the base for the tabernacle.
Savina looked curiously at the small device they were examining, for she’d been the recipient of Estevan’s experiments more than once. She credited the fact that she was still alive more to his creativity than to her own abilities.
“Savina, have a seat. We’re just waiting for Denton.” Bellitano glanced up with a brief smile, then returned to his business with Estevan.
Denton, Wayren, Paolo—who had been Keeper of the Consilium for the previous summa—and two other senior Venators, had chosen the acting Summa Gardella for his position. Bellitano was somewhere in age between Denton and Paolo and had smooth, dark skin and cropped wiry hair that was beginning to gray at the temples. Tall and powerful, with shoulders that seemed too broad to fit through a small doorway, Bellitano was descended from a Venator named Brim, who’d fought alongside Victoria Gardella a century earlier.
“What do you have there, Estevan?” she asked, settling onto a chair next to the weapons-master.
Before he could respond, the door opened.
“Surely you haven’t started without me.”
Now that he was fully illuminated by lamps instead of the faulty moonlight, Savina could see every detail of the celebrated Max Denton. It had been fifteen years since they’d been in the same room, but, yes, she’d recognized him earlier tonight. He had definitely been the berserker slayer she’d witnessed in the courtyard.
Being a Venator, he was of course sleekly muscular and graceful, filling the room with his very presence—as the rightful
summa
should do. His dark, curly hair looked as if the hat he carried had recently mashed it down. He must have somehow remembered to retrieve it after his furious battle.
Though not yet forty (Savina had done a quick calculation), he wore a weary, closed expression that made him seem older than his age. Yet beneath the weariness she recognized the violence and fury that had etched deep lines in his handsome face. He carried a battered leather satchel in his other large hand, and a crossbow and quiver were slung over his left shoulder.
He scanned those seated at the table, and his cool gaze softened slightly as it met that of Bellitano. Maybe even the beginning of a smile? No, surely not from the likes of him.
Denton nodded greetings at Estevan and Paolo…and he stopped when his attention came to Savina. “And you?” His eyes bored into her, dark and emotionless.
Savina lifted her chin, kept her voice bland. “And I was just thinking to myself how interesting it would be to see you again, Max. It’s been…what…fifteen years? And now my heart is slain like a vampire beneath your stake that you don’t even remember me.”
His jaw shifted, and he set down his satchel and weapons with a solid thump. When he lifted his eyes back to her, they were filled with darkness. “Oh, I remember you, Savina Eleiasa. Your father stole Hannever’s Chest and betrayed my family.”
~ Contempt ~
Still standing, Max turned from Savina to his trusted friend. “I assume there’s good reason Nellito’s daughter is here, Bell. I can’t imagine what it is, but I’m certain you’ll enlighten me.” He bared his teeth in a smile that was not meant to be the least bit conciliatory and settled into the nearest chair. “Please.” His abrupt gesture was intended to entice Bellitano to explain. Immediately.
Max folded his hands and waited, for the chamber had gone silent.
And well it should
.
He was mildly startled when the first person to speak was the woman herself. Her large, almond-shaped eyes had not moved from him since he arrived, and her opinion of him blazed loud and clear from their dark irises.
“Apparently you’re of the mind that the sins of the father are to be visited upon the child,” she said. “A sorely narrow and lacking viewpoint to be sure. I’m here,” she continued when Max would have spoken, “because you need my assistance to gain access to Alexander Purcell’s residence. We have a rare chance to get to Rastingard, destroy him, and obtain his personal papers—including the letter that’s gone missing. Surely even you are aware of how rarely Rastingard is seen outside of his stronghold.”
Even
you
are aware?
Did she truly think he had no idea what was happening in the world of mortal versus undead simply because he didn’t visit the Consilium, and sit in meetings, and feel everyone’s pity toward him?
Max gritted his teeth, then flickered a glance toward Bellitano then Paolo, both of whom he was just about ready to put into the category of traitors themselves.
They’d told Nellito’s daughter about the letter?
They’d brought her in on this most sensitive issue?
No one
should know about this but the three of them.
He felt a sharp pain on one side of his jaw and forced himself to relax before he cracked a damned tooth. Of course he knew Rastingard was a recluse, normally barricaded away in his mountain fortress from which he managed his undead pawns and mortal minions. In fact, so little was known about the mysterious undead that that was precisely why Max was here. This
was
a rare chance to assassinate the man.
However... “We have no confirmation Rastingard is even meeting with Purcell,” he said coolly. “It’s only rumor. So any plans we devise tonight must be tentative and most likely a waste of time. Aside from that, Rastingard is known for changing his travel plans at the last minute. Therefore, I can’t imagine what assistance you might imagine you could provide, Miss Eleiasa.”
Of course, if Max hadn’t indulged himself toying with that small tribe of vampires in the courtyard tonight, the undead that actually had some information wouldn’t have scuttled over the wall into the darkness. Max would have wrung it out of the sniveling undead, and they
would
have had confirmation whether Rastingard would actually be leaving his residence to meet with Purcell.
Savina—why the hell had he called her Miss Eleiasa?—smiled slightly. She had a full, wide mouth that was straight and elegant, rather than puckered and lush. And though Max knew it was common for women to wear rouge on their lips, she clearly didn’t subscribe to that style. At least, for the purpose of a pre-dawn meeting.
He drew his attention from the shape of her mouth to the words that were issuing from it, and it took more effort than he liked to hide his surprise and irritation at her speech.
“…Purcell is at his estate in England, as I expected, Bellitano. I—er—a vampire jumped from a wall and landed in front of me. He was clearly making an escape from some altercation, but I intercepted him with a pointy ash-salute and picked this up in the process.” Savina wasn’t looking at Max any longer; she had turned her attention to the others around the table, and she tossed a small folded paper onto the surface.
That gave him a moment to put together the unspoken pieces of the puzzle. The vampire he’d pinned with his crossbow bolt had climbed out of the courtyard while Max slayed the other undead, and Savina—clearly also on her way to the Consilium—had encountered the escapee by chance. A strange, unpleasant prickle that had nothing to do with sensing the presence of an undead—but everything to do with acute discomfort—trailed over the back of his neck. For when he’d pulled himself from the depths of his despair and madness, Max had seen the slip of a shadow near the courtyard entrance.
More likely than not, it had been Savina. Damn it to bloody
hell
.
And that explained why she was now all of a sudden avoiding his eyes.
“A telegram,” said Paolo, opening the paper. “‘At Crenshaw. Stop. Midsummer Ball. 22nd. Stop. Plenty to share. Stop. Rg to attend. Stop.’” The older man looked up. “Apparently Purcell’s feeling generous about sharing the houseguests at his Midsummer Ball which will be…just a week from today. And just as obviously, the elusive Rastingard will be the guest of honor. Nice work, Savina.”
“How did you get that from a vampire if you staked him?” Max cut in. Everyone around the table knew when a vampire was killed whatever was on his person—unless it was made from copper—disintegrated along with the body. It made for a foul-smelling mess, all that ash exploding everywhere, but the lack of dead bodies to explain easily made up for it.
“It came from his jacket as he climbed over the wall. He landed in front of me, and it fell to the ground.” Savina’s reply was easy…but she only glanced at him before turning her attention back to Bell.
“And so,” the acting
summa
spoke smoothly, as if to iron out whatever wrinkles had arisen in the chamber, “it appears you both will be traveling to a house party at the great estate of Crenshaw Hall in the—Lake District, is it?—of England, as we’d planned. Via train from here through France to Normandy, then you can take a boat across the Channel and get a motorcar to drive through London and for the rest of the trip.” He glanced at Estevan, who grinned boyishly and nodded. “A house party. Which is what you’d been preparing Savina for all along.”
“Yes. And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll collect the prototypes of some of my inventions to show you when you’ve finished here. I’ll be in the lab, waiting for you.”
Max nearly smiled at the weapons-master’s clear and obvious delight as he rose from his chair. What must it be like to have such joy and light in one’s life…to be able to embrace a new challenge with enthusiasm. Then Bell’s words sunk in.
“Pardon me, but did you say
both
of us?” Max had a way of speaking oh so politely, but lacing his words with such venom and warning that most people would shrink away when he employed that tactic.
Of course, neither Bell nor Paolo were moved to react in that manner—hell, they’d both known him when he was in nappies—but to Max’s further aggravation, Savina Eleiasa didn’t even blink.
Surely none of them were mad enough,
foolish
enough to expect
Max Denton
to take a partner with him. An assistant. And certainly not a woman. And most definitely not a woman who looked like Savina Eleiasa, who’d turn the head of every man they encountered, whose exotic beauty and blatant femininity was unforgettable, and would be stamped on every person’s memory—and would be completely useless when it came to being unnoticed and undercover.
He didn’t give them an opportunity to respond. “And no one has explained precisely
why
the daughter of a traitor to the Venators is not only in the Consilium, but here in
this
of all meetings.” Suddenly incensed—for wasn’t it enough that Nellito’s betrayal had ultimately cost Max his wife and daughter when he stole the chest, but he must be reminded of it by Savina’s presence,
and
in a meeting with highly sensitive information?—he stood abruptly. “I’m finished here.” His mouth was so tight he could hardly form the words.
There was a reason he hadn’t darkened the hallowed halls of the Consilium for years. The only reason he was here now was because of Macey.
God damn it
.
“Perhaps,” said Savina’s quiet voice, “you might hear us—me—out before you dash off into the sunrise like your namesake Max Pesaro was wont to do, all gloomy and martyr-like and all.”
He turned from looping up the satchel and quiver over his arm. “Your father cost my wife her life when he took Hannever’s Chest. I don’t believe there is anything you can say to keep me from dashing off, as you put it, to seek revenge on those who took it.” His smile was no more than a sneer.