When Twilight Burns (30 page)

But this time, she suspected he would not. He had no reason to; he was no longer a Venator. And he'd made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Victoria in any respect. Apparently, with Kritanu and Wayren's blessings—if their reticence in discussing the subject was any indication.

Wayren, Sebastian, and Kritanu had talked with Victoria about their suspicions and what the threat could be, and how it might be carried out. They'd all agreed it was likely not so much a plan to control members of the crème de la crème of England, as to kill some or all of them.

Queen Caroline (who, Victoria suspected, based on her interaction with George, was either a member of the Tutela or a vampire herself) certainly hated her husband enough to do so. Perhaps the queen had offered Lilith protection. After all, that was the purpose of the Tutela, was it not? To protect, and serve, vampires.

But nothing was certain, so all they could do was be in attendance at the festivities, and be prepared for anything.

The day of the coronation was a hot, sticky one, as is common in July.

Victoria abhorred that she was expected to dress as befit her station instead of in something more comfortable for fighting vampires or other threats. At least she wasn't counted among the king's closest advisers and compatriots, for they were required to follow his majesty's example and dress in the style of his predecessors, the Tudors. They would be wearing heavy brocaded and laced ensembles with sleeves slashed to show different fabric beneath, neck ruffs, and abominably wide and stiff farthingaled skirts. Not for the first time, Victoria wondered how her ancestor, Lady Catherine Gardella, could ever have been an effective Venator with such fussy and heavy gowns.

Yet Victoria's own dress had to be not only fitting to her wealth and title, but also serviceable in the event that she had to be more active. In this case, Verbena had come to her aid by supervising the creation of a frock that had a skirt split into wide trousers. The trouser legs were full enough to be mistaken for the bell of her skirt, and there were two flaps of fabric in the front and the back that fell like aprons over the split of the gown. They looked like embroidered decorations, they blended so cunningly with the rest of the dress. If necessary, Victoria could remove them to give her greater freedom.

“It's a shame Brim and Michalas haven't yet arrived, though Wayren expects them any day now. But I don't expect anything to happen at the coronation itself,” Victoria said to Sebastian and Kritanu in the foyer of the town house. She pulled on her gloves and checked to make certain the several stakes were arranged on her person. Her
kadhara
knife she slipped into its sheath under her skirt. They were waiting for the carriage, which would take them to Westminster Abbey. “But it's best if we're prepared in any case.” She glanced at the crossbow Kritanu carried, and counted more than a dozen wooden bolts in the quiver he would wear under a cloak.

“Of course nothing will happen at the coronation,” said a peremptory voice. “The vampires won't be able to enter the holy space of the abbey.”

Victoria's stomach flipped and she felt, to her great mortification, warmth flush over her cheeks. But one look at Max, who'd materialized from the back hallway near the servants' quarters, served to destroy her surprise and delight.

Although he was dressed appropriately for attending the coronation—in a splendid ruby-and-garnet brocade waistcoat, with a crisp white shirt and black neck cloth, and a coat that rivaled Sebastian's perfectly tailored attire—he didn't acknowledge her presence by even a supercilious glance down his long, straight nose. Instead, he directed his comment to Wayren, who, to Victoria's surprise, had appeared along with him.

“Normally, I would agree with you, Max,” she said coolly, determined to force his attention to her. “But with the use of the special elixir, the vampires have been able to do many other things that they normally cannot. I prefer to make no assumptions in this case.”

He looked down at her then, his expression carefully blank—even his eyes. They remained flat and dark, without even the hint of anger from before. His mouth was hard and thin. It felt odd—as though they were the only two in the space, as though some subtle struggle was happening…something she couldn't quite identify.

“I hardly think that Lilith has allowed her entire army to partake of that dangerous serum,” Max replied loftily. “It would rather be like cutting off one's nose to spite one's face. But, nevertheless, to the abbey we will go. And, after that, to Westminster Hall where the feast shall be held.”

He turned as though by some magical means he'd sensed the arrival of the carriage. Or perhaps he simply faced the door, whose glass sidelights exposed the sight of the vehicle.

To Victoria's surprise, Wayren joined them in the carriage. “I am not able to fight,” she told Victoria. “But I will ride there to learn the direction and survey the area, and then return to the house in the event that Brim and Michalas should arrive.”

Not for the first time, Victoria wondered about the ageless woman, but now was not the time to allow her mind to be clogged by questions she'd never have answered. Instead, she and Wayren sat across from Sebastian and Max, while Kritanu insisted on riding on the exterior jump seat, serving as footman. Because of the potential threat, Barth had been asked to play coachman today, which was evidenced by the abrupt launch of the vehicle.

Sebastian had been uncharacteristically quiet, and Victoria felt his attention settle on her, lift, and then return. He looked magnificent, with his rich golden neck cloth tied in a ridiculously intricate knot and a bronze-and-copper waistcoat beneath a chocolate coat, and dark trousers. Rich leonine curls, tighter in the sticky heat, contrasted with the dark squabs of the interior of the coach, gleaming like honey on the window side, and lush brown on the other. He looked like a burnished topaz statue, but the mischievous smile that usually lit his eyes and tweaked his full lips was gone.

Victoria glanced at Max, who was glaring out the window. Taller in the seat than his companion—though just as broad of shoulder—he was a dark foil, with his sharper features, swarthy skin, and slash of dark brows. He'd pulled his hair back in that unfashionable club rather than letting it fall in thick, unruly waves; perhaps it was too long for him to let it hang free. His jaw appeared hard and set as usual, but he'd relaxed his mouth since their exchange in the foyer. Victoria felt a little shiver run through her belly at the sudden, unexpected reminder of the one time he'd kissed her, against the cold, wet stone wall. He'd barely looked at her since, and certainly hadn't tried to repeat it.

Unlike Sebastian.

She looked between the two men without appearing to do so, a strange prickling rolling down her spine. Odd to see them, next to each other, facing her—as though to showcase their contrasting personalities, appearance, history. They were so different, and yet…much alike.

Her heart was beating harder, and she didn't know why.

Or perhaps she did.

Her stomach filled with butterflies, and she looked away.

The speed of the coach had slowed because of the crush of spectators. They surged and waned like ocean waves, held back from the canopied walkway that had been erected for His Majesty. “Two million yards of Russian duck fabric to cover it!” she remembered hearing Lady Winnie screech, her small eyes round with disbelief.

As a peer, Victoria should have been part of the coronation procession, but of course it was more prudent for her to remain apart and prepared to engage. No doubt Lady Melly would have something to say about her absence, but that could be attended to later.

They arrived at Westminster Abbey more than an hour before the king was due to arrive. This gave them time to look around and observe the site. Wayren left with Barth shortly after, promising to send him back with the carriage as soon as she returned to the house.

Victoria and Sebastian happened to be near the main entrance to the abbey when a large, ornate coach arrived, thirty minutes before the king was due to make an appearance.

“Her Majesty, Queen Caroline!”

Exchanging looks, they hurried over and watched the corpulent queen clamber heavily down from her conveyance.

“Good God, she looks ill,” murmured someone next to Victoria.

She and Sebastian hurried closer, stakes at the ready.

As the queen approached the massive entrance to the abbey, the crowd falling back to allow her passage—or, perhaps, to move upwind—the doors slammed closed. Five burly men, dressed as pages, stood in front of them, barring her way.

“As Queen of England, I demand that you remove yourselves,” proclaimed Caroline in her heavy German accent.

“By order of the sovereign king, we refuse to allow you entrance.” The five men, much too large to be pages and who were later admitted to be prizefighters, stood nearly as wide as they were tall, effectively blocking her entrance.

Victoria and Sebastian moved closer, swiftly pushing through the crowd, heedless of civility. They were in time to see the queen beckon to her cortege, and six members of her party moved forward. “Remove them from my path,” ordered the queen. “No one shall prevent me from attending
my husband's
coronation.”

Her guards did as they were bid, and when Victoria saw the ease with which they shoved away and held back the five massive prizefighters, she looked at Sebastian. Clearly, they were undead, complete with superhuman strength and the benefits of the special elixir.

The queen had planned well.

Victoria needed only a moment to decide what to do. Taking advantage of the tumult caused by the queen's insistence, she darted off to the side. There was another door near the front of the abbey, and she was able to slip through quickly.

Smiling grimly, Sebastian was close behind her, and they made their way to the inside of the main entrance.

The doors were opening, and those inside the abbey didn't realize it was the queen attempting to gain entrance. Victoria and Sebastian hurried over to the door, pushing through throngs of people talking and choosing seats as they awaited the king and his procession.

When the doors at last surged open, Victoria stood on the side of the threshold. She was close enough to see the details of the queen's heavily beaded robe as she put one foot forward, onto the holy ground.

And then stopped, as though struck.

Shock and surprise flashed over her face, and she tried again…but the pain must have been too much, for she could move no further. Her face twisted in a horrible grimace, and her porcine eyes squinted in pain.

Max was right again. Of course.

Victoria eased forward, facing the queen, for everyone else had fallen away and was watching in horror and shock. Keeping her stake hidden in the folds of her skirt, Victoria said in a low voice, “You cannot enter here, Your Majesty.” This was not the time or place to engage openly with an undead.

“Get out of my way.”

Caroline looked at her, and Victoria knew at once what was happening. At this close proximity, she could see the way the queen's skin sagged, as if dripping from her skull. In fact, the entire massive person of the royal sagged, looking gray and quite unhealthy. She was dying, and Victoria knew it had to be because of the elixir. She'd probably been taking it for months while in Italy. It was just as Lilith predicted.

Would her other prediction come true?

Victoria pushed that unpleasant thought away, and remained facing the queen. As she looked at her more closely, she saw the flash of a shadow in her eyes. She'd seen a glimpse of something similar in James's irises on occasion, but had thought nothing of it until now, when the same look flickered in Caroline's. The sign of an undead, noticeable only at close proximity…there one moment, and gone the next. A look she thought she'd seen somewhere else as well. But where?

She could worry about that later; now Victoria moved slightly, showing her stake to the queen. “Step back, Your Majesty, or I will be forced to use this.” Again, she kept her voice low, and only for the ears of the royal.

Assassinating the queen, vampire though she was, would be difficult to explain.

Caroline focused her eyes on her. They were burning red now, and the very tips of her fangs were revealed, poking into her lower lip. But there was nothing she could do.

“You cannot enter,” Victoria said again, and moved closer. Glancing at the gathering crowd, she added, “The king has decreed it.”

The queen had no choice. She stepped back, her face a mask of fury and pain. There was no grace in her movements as she turned and lurched heavily down the stairs to her waiting carriage. No one dared approach her, and as the crowds watched and whispered behind cupped hands, Victoria felt Sebastian's arm slip around her waist.

He urged her off quickly before anyone could ask why and how she had managed to keep the queen from entering Westminster Abbey when five prizefighters had not been able to.

And, as it turned out, the official report published in the papers and letters described the altercation as happening outside of the abbey, on the steps, with the five men holding off the queen's procession on their own. There was never any mention of a beautiful young woman with dark hair and a stick in her hand.

Shortly after the queen's disappearance came the news that the king was to be delayed due to a torn piece of clothing, and after that, the rest of the coronation ceremony—though horribly long and boring in Victoria's opinion—passed without incident.

Not until nearly three o'clock did the party move from the abbey to Westminster Hall, with the newly crowned king and his twenty-seven-foot train. The train was embroidered with gold thread, and the pages (real pages, not the prizefighters) who managed the long length of fabric kept it spread wide so that all of its glory could be admired.

The king tottered a bit when he at last left the abbey; sweat streamed down his face and he looked pallid and gray. However, Victoria knew that was not due to anything other than an excessive amount of fancy clothing—including unseasonable ermine fur—and an extremely long, hot day. The king of England was not a vampire.