When Twilight Burns (16 page)

“But you have. I never thought you would be one to engage in—”

“Social frivolities?”

Had she said those words aloud?

Max positioned her firmly, his hand at her waist, his legs nearly brushing hers. Their hands clasped, glove to glove, and were angled properly, bent and apart from their bodies. Very correctly, in fact. And the first steps into the waltz, which brought them immediately and swiftly into the center of the room, he executed so smoothly and perfectly between the other dancers that she could not help but look up at him in surprise. Again.

“You needn't look so bloody shocked,” he said as they whirled past another couple. “I may dislike dancing, but I'm quite good at it.”

Indeed. And as he eased them in and around the other couples as if they were cogs within a well-oiled watchworks, without hesitation, without lurching or shifting, or even coming within inches of anyone else, she realized she'd been foolish to expect anything other than grace and timing from a man who fought like Max. After all, a man who could glide through the air could surely navigate the dance floor.

In fact, gliding through the air was something she had been unable to fathom ever doing, after having spent only one day practicing her
qinggong
under Kritanu's direction. She wondered if Max knew about that. She realized she was gripping his shoulder more tightly than she needed to, and eased her touch.

“If you dislike dancing, why are we out here?” she asked impertinently.

“How else can we talk without being overheard?”

She looked up, realizing again how tall he was. She wasn't a short woman, and her eyes barely reached to Max's broad shoulder. But he was looking down at her, and she could discern the expression in his eyes. He didn't look as though this social frivolity was much of a hardship at all. Victoria felt suddenly breathless and flushed, so she spoke. “Did you have something you wished to tell me?”

“I had rather hoped the opposite. What have you done about that Bow Street Runner?”

She didn't bother to ask how or what he knew of Mr. Goodwin's second visit and ensuing interrogation. “I've set Barth and Oliver to spy on the man and find out what they can. Charley followed him today when he left, and returned with his direction. Now Oliver and Barth are taking turns watching him.”

Barth was Verbena's cousin, and the hackney driver who habitually took Victoria to the unsavory parts of town when she was hunting vampires. After all, she could hardly take the Rockley carriage—or any other carriage that might be identified as hers. And Oliver, who was Barth's friend and the bane of Verbena's existence, had traveled to Italy with Victoria and her maid. He was a large man who more often than not was cowed by Verbena's sharply wagging finger and tart tongue—though she barely reached to his elbow.

“But he is a legitimate Bow Street Runner? Not that it matters; they're so bloody corrupt anyway.”

She nodded as he directed them through an unexpected, complicated maneuver between two other couples—one of which was completely out of step with the music—and felt the surprise of cooler air over her leg when her skirt swirled wide and open. “When Charley followed him, he returned to the magistrate's office. Someone will need to make inquiries about him, however, to see what else we can learn.”

Max nodded, used gentle pressure at the center of her back to direct her into a spin, and Victoria nearly gasped aloud as she came face-to-face with Sara Regalado. Max's hands tightened on her, and they twirled again, away from Romeo and Juliet, who were waltzing in a much more structured manner.

“I wonder,” he said after a moment, breaking into her enjoyment of the elegant flow of their steps and the confident touch of his hands guiding her movements, “if it has occurred to you the new marquess might be our daytime vampire.”

“James?”

“James, is it? Such familiarity with a man to whom you have no attachment.” He managed, somehow, to lift his chin while looking down at her, annoying and arrogant even behind the mask.

“Of course it's occurred to me,” she replied. It was at least partly true. “And it's also occurred to me that it could be you as well.”

Ah! She'd succeeded in surprising him—she saw it in the sudden glint in his eyes and felt it when one of his steps wasn't quite as perfectly smooth as the previous.

“After all, for all I know, you've been captured by Lilith, turned undead, and have come to London for some nefarious purpose—drinking the special elixir, of course, so you can move about in daylight and so that I cannot sense your vampirism.”

“Very good, Victoria.” He nodded gravely, but there was reluctant humor in his eyes. And she swore she saw his lips twitch. “But I suggest you keep a closer eye on the man. He recognized you rather quickly and easily tonight, without knowing that you are, indeed, a huntress. Unless, of course, he does know who you are.”

“I rather think it was the hand of my mother that assisted him in his recognition of me.” She lifted her chin, but looked over his shoulder. James Lacy was standing near the edge of the dance floor where they'd left him. “He knows no one else here, and acts otherwise indifferent to me.”

“Are you trolling for compliments? There's not a man in this room who's indifferent to you, Victoria. Particularly in that gown.”

She looked up at him, startled by his tone. “Then you must include yourself in that group.”

He gave a little laugh, rare humor lighting his eyes again. “If you consider the fact that I've wanted to wrap my hands around your elegant neck since that moment two years ago when you mistook me for a vampire then, yes, I am most definitely not indifferent to you.”

“But you've kissed me.”

“That I have.” His eyes were very dark.

“And you rather enjoyed it.”

“Did I?” he sounded amused. “I seem to have forgotten the details.”

Victoria felt a rise of irritation, and she tightened her grip on his shoulder. But she made her smile sweet and knowing. “Are you trolling for a reminder?”

She imagined that, behind the mask, his eyebrows rose in that sardonic manner. “What would be the point? Sebastian, Zavier, Beauregard, James Lacy…I have no desire to be one of many, Victoria.” And now all humor vanished from his expression. “No man does. So, if you would like my advice—”

“No, I don't—”

“—then I suggest,” he continued smoothly, “if you wish to keep Vioget, you keep your kisses, and suggestions of them, confined to him. And most definitely away from the Marquess of Rockley.”

+ Eleven +

Dinner is Announced

After their waltz
, Max deposited Victoria at the edge of the dance floor where Vioget and Rockley waited. It was a bloody relief to release her and step away. He bowed curtly and took himself off to investigate whatever the hell he could find to investigate.

She'd be too damned busy to do so herself for awhile, if the expectant expressions on the faces of her two panting suitors were any indication. It looked as if Vioget might have a bit of a fight on his hands, although Max had no concerns Victoria would make the same mistake with this Rockley as she had with the previous one.

Max's scalp was hot under his hat, and his mask felt stifling. His fingers still remembered the warm, delicate feel of her spine through that scandalously thin gown—if one could call it a gown. Hadn't she been wearing a damned corset?

Some years ago, he'd been witness to Parisian women dampening their thin muslin gowns so that they clung to the very outline of their entire body—a Madame Gorhomme and her luxurious form sprang immediately to mind, prompting his tight mouth into a smile. But a glance at the dance floor stopped it. Christ, the fabric of Victoria's long toga was just as thin and revealing as Madame Gorhomme's—without benefit of water. And then there was the bare shoulder.

Hard to believe, he thought as he sidled his way through the warm crush of guests, that the lithe, light body he'd just handled was the possessor of such power and skill. A man could hardly fathom it…yet he'd experienced it firsthand: the strength and grace of her slender arms, the whirl of a powerful leg slamming into a vampire twice her size, the fire in her eyes and the flush of battle reddening her cheeks…all of which simply made her more fascinating to men like Vioget and Zavier. And even ones who had no idea who she was, and what she was capable of—like her husband and the new American marquess.

Even creatures like Beauregard, whom she was bound to slay.

All thanks to the two
vis bullae,
hidden somewhere under that gown. And one of them was his.

While he wore only one, even though it was useless to him.

Max had an urge for whiskey to cleanse the bitterness in his mouth. He gestured for a sequined footman to pour him one, and turned back to watch the dancers.

God damn Lilith for taking away his only passion, the single purpose in the life he'd salvaged after Papa and Giulia were gone. When he was done here in London, he was going after the vampire queen. He'd send her to Hell and, God willing, would die himself in the process. And at last he'd find out if he'd paid enough penance for destroying his family.

He took a healthy swallow of whiskey.

“Good evening, Maximilian.”

Damn.

“Sara.” Bloody hell. He'd been so damned distracted he nearly walked into the chit.

“I knew that had to be you,” she said, her full lips curving under her rose-colored mask. She spoke smoothly, in their native Italian. “I haven't forgotten how beautifully you waltz. Shall we, for old time's sake?”

“No.”

Sara's lips formed a generous pout. “Whoever she was, not only did she get you to dance, but you were completely captivated. I shall have to be jealous, Maximilian. Or…perhaps it is Lilith who will be jealous.” The pout had disappeared, along with the manufactured teasing in her voice.

Max's body drained of sensation. Sara and Lilith? Good God. “So you have allied yourself with Lilith the Dark. A dangerous proposition. She's not known for constancy to her minions.”

“Are you concerned for my well-being, then, Maximilian?” She leaned into him, confident and bold. Her fingers wrapped around his arm and her leg brushed against his.

“Not in the least.” He grasped her wrist and set her away. “Have you turned undead?”

She smiled, looking up at him from under her lashes. “Would you like me to drink from you, Max?”

The whiskey in his belly churned. Lilith's bites on his neck had finally disappeared, but the memories assailed him: red, hot, pain, pleasure.

His mouth dried; his head suddenly felt light. He was weaker now. He had little power and only mortal strength. To be trapped by her fangs and her thrall would be so much worse. He felt for the silver ring that bulked out his gloved finger, and the feel of it steadied him. He'd die before he would submit to her.

“I see the idea excites you,” Sara murmured, and he felt her close to him again. “Perhaps I can arrange—”

“You are a foolish young girl,” he said sharply. “If you continue on this path, you'll end up like your father—a pile of ashes at the other end of a stake.”

And then he noticed Victoria. Something had caused her to stop in the middle of a waltz. She was looking over the crowd of people—

Max realized he smelled smoke. Something was burning.

Victoria was hurrying toward the patio doors, and he saw movement out there, beyond the openings: tiny red lights glowing. Many of them.

Good Lord. Vampire eyes.

He started to move, and someone screamed from behind him. “Fire!”

“It's in the hall!” someone else shouted, and suddenly there was a wave of panicked people, pushing and shoving onto the dance floor, toward the patio doors.

In an instant he realized what was happening, and he looked down at Sara, who'd grabbed his arm and leaned back into him. She had a pleased smile on her face as she looked up.

“I do believe it's dinnertime.” And then she moved against him. Something hard and metal poked into his ribs. “But never fear. I've other plans for you.”

 

+ + +

Tearing off her mask, Victoria burst out into the summer night, stake in hand. Immediately, she saw at least a dozen pairs of vampire eyes swimming in the dark.

As she launched herself at the nearest one, she heard screaming behind her. The first vampire
poofed
into dust with little fanfare, obviously not having expected an attack. But when she turned, Victoria found herself facing three more undead.

Her loose gown whipped about her legs as she leaped onto a stone bench near the edge of the patio. The smell of smoke filtered through the air. She was aware of the flood of people coming out of the ballroom, running and shouting, but her attention was on the trio of vampires who clustered around her perch.

Kicking out with one foot, she caught a vampire in the chin as he lunged for her, and followed the momentum by jumping onto one of his companions. As they tumbled to the stone paving, she slammed the stake down, missed the creature's head, and found herself rolling onto her back, tangling in her filmy skirt and the loose length of her hair.

The vampire came with her, his red eyes angry and glowing. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pinning her arms down. His fangs gleamed as he lunged toward her. Victoria gave a great buck and twist and used his own upended weight to set him off balance, then flipped him onto the uneven stones. Her elbow planted against the ground, she made a quick slash. The stake slammed into his chest, blasting a poof of dust and ashes into her face. She took a moment to tear away the long overlayer of her skirt, leaving a shorter, less hampering amount of fabric. Her vision had tinged filmy pink and she was vaguely aware of the harder pounding of her heart, and a sharp, driving anger.

Before she could rise, something landed heavily on her back. The air exploded from her lungs and her face ground into grittiness. Cheek scraping against the rough patio, she levered her feet up behind her, kicking her second assailant in the small of the back as he lunged on top of her. The force of her heels sent the vampire sprawling toward her head, and she used the moment of imbalance to shove him to the side.