When Twilight Burns (27 page)

“Before I tell you my story,” she said, moving into the house and closing the door behind her, “is Max well? Is he still…here? How long have I been gone? Did anyone—George and Sara—anyone try to attack?”

“This is the second morning after you left. There were no attacks here,” Kritanu replied. His face had sobered when she mentioned Max, and she felt a thrill of apprehension. “Max is…the same.”

“The same?” Victoria went cold. “He is unconscious? For two days?” She started to dash off, but the older man grabbed her arm.

“No, no, he is awake. Has been. I meant to say that he is where you left him.” The accusation in his face was unmistakable. “As you ordered. Victoria,” he said, his voice turning harder than she'd ever heard it, “you are
Summa
Gardella…but never ask me to do such a thing again.”

“You didn't release him.” She wasn't certain if she was relieved or terrified Max was still safely where she'd put him.

“I was prepared to do so if you had not returned today.” His eyes carried concern and admonishment. “You should never have done that.”

“I'll release him now,” she said, turning away. It had been for the best. She didn't expect Kritanu to understand; he didn't carry the same burdens she did.

For all of her hurry to get to the sturdy wooden door surrounded by silver crosses and blessed with holy water, Victoria found herself frozen when it came time to lift the bar that had blocked Max in. What would he say? What would she say?

She took a deep breath. The heavy slab of wood had been wedged tightly in its brackets; a sign that someone had violently shoved at the door, and its moorings creaked as she forced it from its place. Automatically, she stepped back, half expecting Max to come blasting out.

Nothing happened, so with clammy hands she opened the door.

He was sitting on the bed, his long legs spread out in front of him.

“Max.”

At the sound of her voice, he moved. With the grace of a jungle feline, he swung his feet onto the floor and stood, then strode toward her. Not particularly quickly, nor casually. But with general purpose.

Victoria braced herself for the onslaught—the railing, the anger, the accusation.

He walked past her and out into the hallway without a word, without an acknowledgment.

“Max,” she said again, turning after him.

He didn't pause, but continued on his way down the hall.

She would have thought him deaf or blind if it had not been for the expression in his eyes: dark and angry.

 

+ + +

The hackney lurched to a violent halt, and Victoria heard the clatter and subsequent roll of a wooden stake by her foot. She looked across the dark interior, catching Sebastian's eye. “Shall we?” she asked.

“Most definitely,” he replied, bending to retrieve his weapon. There was relish in his voice and amusement in his eyes, and she knew the carriage ride home would be far more interesting than the one they'd just completed. Perhaps, at least then, he would keep his stake well in hand.

The pair slipped silently from Barth's vehicle, well hidden by convenient shrubbery that lined the wall of St. Heath's Row most distant from the house. Shadows, in concert with the sliver of a waning moon and dark clothing, made them invisible.

Victoria led the way along the wall to a particularly dark corner. A robust oak spread its shadow over the area and blocked any view from the rear of the house. Sebastian stood flush against the tall stone relief and she climbed up to stand on his shoulders; then, once atop the wall, she reached down to pull him up.

Once over the cross-studded wall, she led the way to the second servants' entrance, where she knew the door would be unlocked. Verbena had been playing matchmaker with the lower footman at Grantworth House and the belowstairs maid at St. Heath's Row, both of whom were taking a postmidnight stroll through the gardens at this very moment.

Verbena had assured her mistress the footman and the maid would be much too busy examining the night-blooming pink primroses to notice any trespassers. She had also ascertained, when arranging the assignation, that the Marquess of Rockley was expected to dine at home that evening and intended to remain in residence that night.

He had, in fact, declined any invitations for dinner or parties since the ill-fated carriage ride during which they'd gone to view the night sky.

When Victoria had returned from her brief captivity this morning and begun to attend to matters other than Max, it had been with great skepticism and suspicion in regards to James. Either he had been fully aware and involved in her kidnapping—which would make him a vampire or, at the least, a member of the Tutela—or he had been ignorant of it, as he claimed.

According to Kritanu, James had called on her home the morning after the nighttime carriage ride, explaining that there had been an accident, he'd been knocked unconscious, and when he came to, Victoria—Mrs. Rockley, as he'd called her—was missing. According to Kritanu, the marquess had appropriately wrung his hands and paced the parlor as he accepted the blame for whatever had happened to her, begging that word should be sent to him the moment there was any news.

Victoria listened to Kritanu's description of the man's agitation with a skeptical ear, and decided that, instead of returning his call or sending word of her return, she would find out the truth her own way tonight. Unlike Max, Sebastian had been delighted to see her, and more than delighted to join her in the excursion.

Max she had not seen since he stalked past her, and she had no need for his company anyway. She'd kept herself busy the rest of the day, and had sent an urgent message to Wayren by pigeon. She prayed the wise woman would have some advice or information about Lilith's prediction.

The unobtrusive servant's door was well oiled in preparation for late-night assignations, and Victoria led Sebastian through the narrow hallway. She'd never had occasion to traverse the backstairs area of St. Heath's Row, but she obviously knew the layout of the portions of the house common to the marquess and marchioness.

When they came to a hallway that gave an option for right or left navigation, Victoria started off to the right…but a firm hand on her arm drew her back. “This way,” Sebastian whispered, close to her ear.

“How do you know?” she whispered back. “You haven't spent as much time here as I have.” She pointed. “The stairs are to the right.”

An amused smile tipped his lips and she thought he was going to kiss her right there, to which she would have put an immediate stop. But he resisted, simply responding, “You might recall that I visited your maid in the servants' quarters while you were still staying here. She did, in fact, sleep four floors directly above us here. To the right is the kitchen. To the left are the stairs.”

Chagrined, and reminded that Max had also had to correct her navigation more than once—she always seemed to get turned around when inside a building—she followed Sebastian as he swiftly moved down the left passage. And soon they came upon a narrow, steep staircase. He glanced down at her, but she sailed past him, nose in the air. Even
Summa
Gardella wasn't perfect. Once they were on the third floor, Victoria knew her way around the bedchambers.

Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaked. A clock hummed, gearing itself up to toll the hour, and moments later, as they reached the third floor, Victoria heard the rolling strokes of two o'clock.

And she realized that the back of her neck was cold. She smiled in the dark.

He was here. He wouldn't need to drink the elixir at night, unless he expected to be near her.

Which he obviously didn't.

Stake in hand, holding it close to the loose black trousers she wore when she moved about at night, Victoria continued on her way. A myriad of thoughts ran through her mind as she, with Sebastian close enough behind that she felt the brush of his coat, eased through the rear hallway.

Of course James could be lying in wait for her, expecting such a visit. Or the undead she sensed might not be the new marquess at all. But there were ways to find out, and tonight she would do so once and for all. She knew he was in the house; the only question was in what condition she might find him.

When she and Sebastian reached the door to the marquess's dressing room, she opened it and slipped in. Once inside the chamber filled with clothing and the smell of male grooming, Victoria turned to Sebastian and planted a hand against his chest in a clear message. She'd already told him this was her task, and he needed to be watching for any unforeseen problems. This was a reminder she expected him to stay put.

In the darkness, he grasped her wrist and she thought for a moment he was going to silently demand to go with her. Or to tell her to be careful, or to try to kiss his way into changing her mind. None of which would be effective. He drew a breath, his chest expanding under her hand, and squeezed his fingers around her skin in a quick little caress. Then he reluctantly released her.

Good. At least the man had learned something.

Victoria cracked the door from the dressing room to the bedchamber. The back of her neck was frigid, and unless James had company in his chamber, she knew she had found her daytime vampire.

Silent as a spirit, sticking to the shadows, she moved across the floor. The thin soles of her black slippers slid across polished wood, and then found the cushier texture of a fringed rug. When she stood at the side of James's bed and heard his even breathing, she had a moment of doubt.

What vampire would be sleeping soundly during the night?

She'd at least expected to find him awake, watching her with those red eyes.

But he was actually snoring.

Victoria looked down at him, adjusting the stake in her grip. She could shove it into his chest with a quick thrust, and it would be all over. If she wasn't mistaken.

But why should she be? The last time she'd tried to stake someone who wasn't a vampire—not counting the time Sebastian had inserted himself between her and Beauregard—had been more than two years ago, when she'd mistaken Max for an undead. It had been her first time, and she'd been misled by the stereotypical description of a vampire that came from Polidori's novel.

Victoria raised the stake.

Then she pulled it back. If she was wrong, the stab would kill a mortal James.

She sighed. There was no help for it. She'd have to awaken the man.

Fumbling in the deep pocket of the tunic she wore over her trousers, she pulled out a small vial of holy water. This was as good a way to awaken him as any.

The splash on his forehead sent up a soft sizzle and a curl of steam, and his eyes flew open—wide and red.

“Good evening, James,” Victoria said calmly. She had placed her hand around the front of his throat, using her weight to hold him down. She held the stake fisted directly over his chest. “I do hope I didn't wake you.”

“You.” He growled in a voice that sounded deeper and more guttural than the one to which she was accustomed. His fangs shot out, pale in the darkness.

“Before I drill this into your heart and send you to your fate, I do hope you'll answer one question for me.” He didn't respond, and she tightened her hand around his throat. He coughed, but an undead couldn't be strangled, so it was merely a discomfort, not a threat. “Are you really James Lacy, Kentuckian?”

He smiled and shifted suddenly. She allowed him to throw off her hold, to let him think he might have a chance to escape. He'd probably tell her more if he did. They eyed each other; he had risen onto his knees on the bed, and she'd stepped back as if cowed. “What do you think?” he replied.

“I think not. You were much too gullible.” She glanced at his nightshirt and her lip curled. “I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of meeting an undead dressed for bed.”

His smile widened, and those fangs poked into his lower lip. “If I had known you were coming, I wouldn't have bothered. Perhaps you'd like to join me?”

He lunged, and yanked her onto the bed next to him. She sprawled for a moment, then rolled onto her back, keeping the stake behind her hip. “No thank you. What did you do to the real James Lacy?”

The undead reached for her tunic, grabbing a good handful of the material, and jerked her up as if she were a doll. Victoria sagged, yet she was ready beneath her feigned weakness. It was a game, now. How much information could she get before he became suspicious or bored?

“It was our plan from the beginning—caught him when he got off the ship from America. Insisted that he take a ride, and relieved him of his papers and clothing. Then we fed on him.” He laughed. “In fact, I'm feeling a bit hungry at the moment, Victoria Gardella. Did you think you could sneak in here and get away without me knowing?”

She rolled her eyes. “You were snoring. I could have turned you to ash before you even awoke.”

“Is that so?” His eyes burned bloodred, and his fangs gleamed sharply.

She pulled her arm from beneath and met him as he lunged, shoving the stake into the center of his chest. “Yes, indeed,” she told him as he froze, and then
poofed
into dust.

There was movement behind her, and she whirled to find Sebastian standing there. His stake was at the ready.

Victoria frowned. “I told you to stay back.”

“I did. Mostly.” He smiled, and her anger could do nothing but sap away. This was Sebastian, and either he wasn't as confident in her abilities as Max was…or he cared more.

She thought she knew which one it was.

“Should we clean up the ash?” he asked. “It stinks.”

Victoria nodded. “Let's. And then there will be another strange disappearance of the Marquess of Rockley.”

They brushed the dust onto a pillowcase. Then he poured it into the cold fireplace.

Victoria was waiting when he finished. The back of her neck was normal; there were no other vampires in the vicinity. The daytime vampire—at least, one of them—was dead. And so was the real Marquess of Rockley.