When Twilight Burns (21 page)

Sebastian explained what had happened in the sewers, and also at the masquerade ball when he'd come upon her next to the dead Crusading knight. “She told me she has moments where she doesn't feel the same.”

“And you've just now decided to share that important detail?”

Before Sebastian could reply, both men cocked their attention toward the door. That had been a definite sound in the front hall. Glancing at the clock, which now read well past midnight, Sebastian listened.

A low murmur of voices told him someone had arrived, and then the parlor door opened.

Victoria tottered in.

Taking in Victoria's appearance, Sebastian stepped quickly toward her. He wanted to drag her into his arms, but the closed expression on her face held him back. “My God, Victoria, where have you been?” He settled for taking her hands—they were gloveless. Her hair was a disaster, her clothing—

“You do look frightful,” Pesaro agreed.

Sebastian would have twitched a smile if the moment hadn't been so tense. Pesaro not only had no taste for fashion, he had no idea how to speak to a woman, no concept of charm. He had the glass in his hand again and remained in his nonchalant position, yet…something in his demeanor had changed. It was on edge.

Sebastian felt it, but he turned his attention back to Victoria. Her face was scraped up—there were long red scrapes along one cheek as if she'd ground it against something—and there was blood everywhere. Her hair was matted and tangled, a bushy black mess hanging in her eyes and face.

But it was the look on her face that arrested him. Cold, marblelike. Her rich green-brown eyes hard and empty. Long lashes dark against pale skin. Even her lips were pale, almost the color of lavender.

“I was taken to the magistrate. They were going to have me hung.”

“Drink this.” Pesaro thrust a hand between them, shoving his glass at Victoria. “You let them take you?”

“I didn't bloody
let
them take me,” she replied, ignoring the glass. Her eyes flashed now, hot and furious, at Pesaro.

The men listened as Victoria explained, quite clearly and concisely despite her obvious anger.

“Then you left them?” Pesaro said at the end. He rose from his chair, smooth and tall, and stood over Victoria.

“What the hell else was she to do?” Sebastian snapped. He had taken Victoria's hand during her story, and felt the chill in her fingers. “He was going to have her hung. I'd have killed him myself.”

“Where did this happen?” Pesaro said in a calmer voice than Sebastian had expected, shrugging into his coat. “Where did you walk away?”

Victoria's lips seemed to have a hard time moving, but she replied, giving him the direction of an address in Whitechapel. “I couldn't,” she said, pulling away from Sebastian. “I had to leave.”

“Leave them to die?” Pesaro turned back to her, and for a moment they stood, facing each other as if ready to come to blows. Something snapped in the room, tightened, and stretched. He looked as though he was about to wrap his fingers around her throat, and Sebastian closed his fingers into his palm. “I thought better of you, Victoria. It was as good as murder.”

“They were alive when I left.”

“With no chance of survival. Their fate was sealed.” Pesaro turned away, then stopped suddenly, pivoting back to Victoria, his eyes narrow and sharp. He looked at her again, delving long and hard, then he raised his eyes to meet Sebastian's. The bald condemnation Sebastian expected to see had gone; instead, it was a knowing look, filled with meaning. And then Sebastian understood.

This wasn't Victoria—not the Victoria he knew.

Pesaro pushed between Sebastian and Victoria, marching toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

Pesaro didn't break stride. “To see if there is anything to salvage.”

“I'll go with you,” she said. “You can't go alone.”

That insult stopped Pesaro, who turned back, his hand on the doorjamb. Even Sebastian was taken aback by the ferocity in his expression. “I don't want you with me.” He flung the door closed behind him.

The room settled into quiet again. Sebastian saw Victoria's stricken face, and familiar discomfort curdled in his belly. The way she looked after Pesaro, the way she'd looked when the man had miraculously appeared after the fire…Sebastian didn't like it.

He didn't like it at all.

Which was why he was very glad he'd told Pesaro that Victoria knew everything about Giulia, and what her reaction had been.

A bit of an exaggeration, of course, but all was fair in love…and war.

 

+ + +

Victoria dreamed of blood.

Rivers and ribbons of it, the smell, the thick coagulation…it filled her nostrils, settled on her tongue. She bathed in it. Choked on it.

She opened her eyes to find the sun streaming into her bedchamber. The bedclothes were twisted and wrinkled, cocooning her legs and wrapped togalike around her middle. Her head pounded, and her face felt tight and sore.

But she had to rise.

Even knowing her wounds would heal within a day, seeing herself in the mirror did little to improve Victoria's spirits. Her face was mottled with bruises, and there was a long scrape on the side of her jaw.

Downstairs, dressed in a simple gown that was barely more than a chemise, her hair pulled into a single braid, Victoria found Kritanu in the
kalari,
the room they used for training. It was a large space for the small town house, for Aunt Eustacia had had a wall removed between the music room and a parlor. The chamber was well lit, spacious, and covered by a shining wooden floor, which Kritanu claimed was the best surface for training. There were piles of huge cushions in the corner, used not only for seating or reclining, but also for padding during training sessions.

She didn't expect to see Max, but he was there in a mock battle with Kritanu. Both men held long slender swords, blades curved in a gentle arc, and they clashed and slid and gleamed.

When she came into the room, Max stepped away from the exercise, letting the tip of his weapon bump to the floor. He was dressed in loose, ankle-length brown trousers and a cream-colored tunic streaked with sweat. His hair was pulled back like a pirate's. His large feet were bare, but a slender cord encircled one of his ankles. A small silver cross hung from it.

“I found nothing last night,” he said abruptly. “I wonder if you gave me the correct direction.”

“Of course I did.”

“There was no sign of any destruction, nor had anyone heard any unusual disruption.”

“Does it mean nothing that they would just as easily have hung me?” Victoria asked, suddenly wanting a sword in her own hand. She'd like to make Max dance at the other end, and she knew she had the strength and speed, if not the skill.

He must have understood her desire, for he glanced at Kritanu. “Would you care to surrender the blade to Victoria? I do believe she wishes to stab me.” His smile was nothing more than a flash of teeth.

Kritanu relinquished his weapon and stepped back as Victoria hefted it in her hand. She was used to the shorter
kadhara
knives, or a long slender épée. But this was a much more serious blade. Heavier, and it would move differently.

“Perhaps you'd best don some protection,” she returned, slicing the blade experimentally in front of her, from shoulder to floor. She adjusted the angle of her wrist and felt the weapon balance more comfortably.

Max snorted. He riposted back at her with a deep swipe that stirred the air. “I look forward to fighting unfettered—for I have no reason to hold myself in check matched against you.” He moved neatly to the side when she brought her blade up again, and the metal weapons smashed together. “And…to answer your question…it does mean something that they wished to hang you.”

The hem of her chemise would limit her from taking great steps, but it was full enough for her to lunge forward. He skimmed easily aside, his feet leaving the ground in a low glide, and she watched in chagrin. Max landed on the floor, and she saw that he was grinning.

Max grinning was a sight that riled her to the core.

Victoria met his blade and forced him back several steps. “Does it?”

“Yes,” he replied, surprising her by pressing forward into her space. Their blades slid and then he neatly stepped to the side. “But you cannot forget—you are bound to protect mortals from the undead, Victoria. You cannot walk away just because one of them angered you.”

“Angered me?” She sliced more viciously than she'd intended, and he leaped back under her onslaught. “He would have shot me on the street. Or hung me at Newgate.”

“An unpleasant occurrence, to be sure. I don't fault you for wanting to save your skin. But…it was the manner in which you did.” He slashed and she felt the gust of air next to her face. “Venators have superhuman powers. If we—you—begin to use those abilities to pass judgment on mortals…that is wrong. It is nothing more than abuse of the gifts given.”

“I've never abused my gift,” she replied, knowing that it was untrue. “I wouldn't.”

Max lunged. “But you did. Last night.”

“And what about your own foolish actions?” she replied, whipping her blade viciously through the air so that he was forced to leap back. His smile flashed, as if pleased that she'd caught him off guard, and he moved forward.

“Of what foolish actions do you speak?” he asked, dipping to the side and bringing his blade up sharply. She reacted and the metal clanged and rang in the room.

“Max, Lilith is here in London. Clearly, she would love nothing more than to get her hands on you again.”

She saw his mouth tighten, the glimmer of humor gone. “And of course, I cannot protect myself.” He lunged sharply and Victoria dodged, hearing the blade whistle next to her ear.

“You must admit,” she said, starting back toward him, “that it might be a bit more difficult now.” He met her blade without backing up, and their arms strained against each other before the force of her blade caused his to slide away.

“I have the means to take care of myself.” He came at her again, this time gliding on the air, and she was forced to raise her blade higher to stop his onslaught.

“But if she caught you again…and bit you, put you back under her thrall—”

“I won't give her the opportunity. She cannot do it with a single bite…and it required some participation on my part.”

“What?” Victoria stopped, and he caught her unawares, slicing down the side of her arm. The blade brushed along her sleeve, but did nothing more than scrape the fabric. “Participation?”

“Christ, Victoria, it wasn't willing participation,” he snarled. “If I'd known the salve she was putting on the bites would cause them to never heal, and to bind me to her, don't you think I would have stopped her?” He slashed violently.

They fought in silence for a moment, Max's feet back on the ground, and Victoria aware of the trickle of perspiration down her spine.

“Incidentally, I don't believe he's dead,” Max commented, easing back after a particularly feisty tip-to-tip dance of their swords.

“Who?”

“The Runner.”

“What?”

“I told you…I found nothing and could locate no one who'd seen or heard any disturbances. And,” he said, shifting to the side, and then suddenly around her, dragging the tip of her blade with him, “I have a recollection that might interest you and may clear up the matter even more.”

Victoria pivoted after him, striking out with her weapon as he brought his down. Their blades smashed, caught, and with a great jerk, she gave a powerful twist.

Both blades tangled, their guards twisted, and flew through the air, landing a few feet away with a dull clatter.

“A draw,” he said, looking down at her, barely breathing hard. He'd pulled his hair back in a short, thick stub at the back of his head, but one strand fell over his face. He pushed it back and planted his hands on his hips. His brown feet spread wide, making him look more like a pirate than ever. All he needed was a gold hoop in his ear—although Max would probably opt for silver, if he was thus inclined.

“Your recollection?” she asked, noticing how the vee of his tunic revealed dark hair brushing the curve at the base of his throat. He'd drawn her hand there once, beneath the warm cotton of another shirt, over flesh and muscle, to touch the
vis bulla
for strength. She stepped back. She was more out of breath than she'd thought.

“Goodwin, yes? Frederick Goodwin was the Runner's brother?”

“Yes, Lord Truscott.”

“There was a Goodwin in the Tutela. It may have been he. If so, then I doubt he met his end—he or his cohort—at the hands of the undead.”

Victoria understood, and a flare of anger sparked. “But if not, I'm nevertheless absolved from my sin of passivity if Goodwin was a member of the Tutela? Mortal or no?”

“If he was a member of the Tutela, Goodwin would have been safe with the vampires,” Max reminded her. “You wouldn't have been leaving him to his death. If he wasn't Tutela, it wasn't your place to determine whether he lived or died.”

“So I should have let him—”

“And,” Max continued smoothly, “if he was Tutela, it would explain his animosity toward you. The Venator who took his brother's life.”

She didn't like the train of this conversation, for the condemnation from Max still weighed heavily on her. Perhaps she shouldn't have left Goodwin at the hands of the vampires…but at that time, it was the only thing she could do…wanted to do.

It was as if all concepts but self-preservation had evaporated from her mind. Leaving only a single-minded need for survival. Red-tinged anger, blind wrath. Conscienceless fury.

Then she remembered. “He did say something…something about protecting his brother. ‘After all I did to protect him.'”