When Twilight Burns (8 page)

And wasn't here.

Sebastian remained silent for a moment as if to allow her thoughts to sink in, then he spoke. “The reason I wanted to find the underground abbey was not just to retrieve the ring, but also some old documents. The monks wrote not only holy pieces, apparently, but unholy ones as well—some vampiric history, as well as other information—and according to Beauregard, they might be of interest.”

“Of interest to whom—the undead or the Venators?”

“Either one.” He smiled ruefully. “I thought perhaps there might be information in them about another Venator who was nearly turned undead, and it might be relevant to…your situation.”

Victoria had heard of the four Venators who had been turned to vampires over the ages. Only four…but still. Their
vis bullae
hadn't saved them…although each had been wearing only a single one. “Did you find the documents?”

“No. They weren't with the ring.”

“Do you plan to go back?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. As you are aware, I generally prefer not to step into the lair of the lion, and it's quite obvious the undead have been making use of the place. After you drove Lilith from London two years ago, the number of undead decreased greatly. But it seems they might be resettling here once again.”

“What about a vampire who moves about and attacks in daylight?” Victoria asked.

“The only way that could happen is if the vampire drank of the special potion.”

Victoria narrowed her eyes. “The recipe we found behind the Door of Alchemy in Rome? The one you stole from the Consilium?” She tasted bitterness at the reminder of his betrayal.

“It's the only one I know of,” he replied evenly, meeting her eyes without shame. “You can stop stabbing me with your eyes. You've already left a scar on my shoulder,” he said, gesturing to where she'd staked him with the blow meant for Beauregard.

“You shouldn't have gotten in my way.”

His mobile lips thinned; obviously, he read the double meaning there. “Speaking of prevarication—Victoria, are you saying you've seen a vampire in the daylight?”

“Not directly, but I saw the fresh remains of his—or her—attack on a mortal. During midday.”

“Then it would appear that somehow, either you were mistaken—which of course is unlikely—or that the formula for the potion has fallen into the very hands from which you and Pesaro tried to keep it.”

“Apparently. And if you hadn't taken it from the Consilium at the behest of your grandfather, it might still be there, safely ensconced. What did you do with it?”

“Do you not recall? Beauregard showed it to you when you were in his chambers,” Sebastian returned, his voice softening slightly. “I meant to return to retrieve it, but when I did so, it was gone. Someone else found it first.”

“So it's possible.”

“Quite.”

“But why did I not sense the presence of the undead in the park today?”

“Because that is the other important benefit of the potion. It gives the undead a mortal-like aura that keeps us from recognizing them, and allows them to move about as one of us.”

Victoria felt a chill over her that had nothing to do with the presence of vampires. “That could be devastating to us,” she murmured, standing abruptly. “If they can move about, and we can't sense them…” She paced over to her dressing table, where the lamp had begun to gutter in its low kerosene. “They could move about, anywhere, anytime…”

“It isn't a pleasant thought, indeed,” Sebastian said. His voice was closer, and she heard the faint creak of a floorboard as he moved from his chair.

“Do you know where Max is?” she asked.

She felt him become still, and turned back toward him.

“Running from Lilith, I believe.” His laugh had an odd note to it. “I don't blame the chap myself…if I'd been caught by that vile creature, and finally broke free, I'd do the same.”

“He needs to know about Briyani. I've sent a message to Wayren.”

“Then I'm certain she'll find a way to notify Pesaro. It seems to me you have other concerns now.”

“Sebastian, why did you do it?” Victoria asked, suddenly feeling the pain of loneliness and betrayal. “Why did you steal from us? Why did you try to help Beauregard?”

He had the grace to look abashed—a decidedly unfamiliar expression on his face. “I acted irresponsibly and foolishly. I listened to him—he had the ability to enthrall me to some extent, even though I was usually aware of it and could control it. And he convinced me that it would be helpful in getting vampires and mortals to coexist.”

Victoria gave an unladylike snort. “And you believed him?”

“Love can be blinding sometimes, Victoria.”

She looked at him for a moment. It felt as though something in the air had shifted, broken…settled. “It can.” She drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. She'd made her own mistakes for love—marrying a mortal who had no idea about her secret life. And then lying to him, drugging him with
salvi
so that she could hunt vampires, thus endangering him and others that she loved.

Love was most certainly blinding.

Somehow, he must have understood what was in her face, for the next thing she knew, Sebastian was there again, drawing her into his arms. He lowered his mouth to hers, softly, as if in question.

She closed her eyes, kissed him back. She drew in his essence, his presence, pushed back the loneliness that had threatened her this day, these last weeks and months.

For this moment, this was comfort. This was Sebastian.

The kiss left her breathless, and suddenly Victoria felt the hip-high bed behind her, its edge pressing into the small of her back as Sebastian pressed into her front. Her gown gapped freely in the bodice due to his nimble fingers at the buttons along her spine. When he tipped her onto the bed, the coverlet was cool against her bare back.

His hands shifted smoothly to pull the fabric away as she looked up, dazed and desirous. It had been a long time…The bed hangings were open, and beyond the heavy maple canopy frame, she saw the painting of Circe and Odysseus.

The fog of sherry and pleasure dissipated, and Victoria came back to herself. She sat up abruptly, nearly striking him on the chin.

“No,” she said, looking around the room, remembering where she was. A chill raced over her, raising unpleasant goose pimples as she realized—oh, a myriad of reasons why she couldn't do this. “Sebastian…not here.”

Not where she and Phillip had made love, only a few precious times during their short marriage.

Not here, where she'd kissed him for the last time, felt his hands on her body and the length of him next to her…just before she drove a lethal stake into his heart.

Not on this bed, or in this room…or in this house.

+ Five +

In Which a Painting is Criticized

Max moved with
the shadows, alternating his quiet footsteps with the call of a night animal or the sift of wind through the trees.

The last time he'd been here at St. Heath's Row, slipping silently across the trimmed lawn and between the well-tended yew hedges, was nearly two years ago. That time he'd had no trouble gaining access to the residence, for Victoria had dismissed all of the servants for the evening.

She'd been expecting the return of her husband as well.

Max had followed Rockley through the house, unseen and unnoticed by the vampire who was driven purely by the need for his wife's blood. He could have staked the creature on more than one occasion—just beyond the gates of the estate, as Rockley crossed the threshold of his own home, as he mounted the stairs, drawn by Victoria's scent and her heartbeat.

But Max had waited.

Instead, he'd followed, listened, paused outside of the door Rockley had left open. The door leading to the chamber where she slept.

The sounds, the unmistakable ones of shifting bedclothes and sliding lips, of sighs, intimate murmurs, and ratcheting breathing at last forced him to peer into the room. The stake firm in his hand, Max tensed, tasting bitter disappointment…and a bit of self-righteousness. He had been right to come, for he was prepared to do what had to be done, what she was too bloody blind, too weak to do—

Then he saw her arm raise high, an elegant, slender limb caught by moonlight above the rumpled coverlet. And she plunged the stake down into the dark.

He saw the small explosion of silvery ash, heard the faint sob of grief, and he lowered his stake.

When at last she pulled herself up to sit, her rich, black curls had poured over her shoulders and gauzy white gown. That moment, that colorless image of pale skin, shadowed eyes, a streak of tears, was indelibly printed in his memory. He'd never forget the glaze of moonlight over her features, haunted yet determined, when she turned to look at him.

At last, she truly understood.

And that was the moment everything changed.

Tonight, he had no need or desire to enter the house. His destination was the small chapel on the grounds, and it was this brick building that he approached after making his way beyond the looming house.

The wooden doors curved at the top, forming a gentle point, but they weren't locked. They made only a soft snuffing sound when Max eased through.

The space was small, barely larger than a parlor. Four rows of benches lined each side of the aisle, padded with red velvet cushions. Candles of varying heights and widths burned around the altar and on the floor. The body, bound in white cloth, lay on a table in the center of the dais. Frankincense burning in a shallow bowl mingled its scent with that of the musky balm applied to the corpse's wrappings.

“Max.” Kritanu pulled smoothly to his feet. Despite his seven decades, he was as agile and strong as a man half his age. His jet-black hair had held no hint of gray until the death of Eustacia, only six months ago, when a wide streak of white had appeared overnight. His face also showed the depths of his grief: hollow mahogany cheeks, his skin so taut it shone, the squareness of his jaw more pronounced. “You should not have risked coming.”

“Of course I must.” Max strode up the aisle, his long legs making short work of the distance. He paused at the altar, facing the body of the man who'd been his companion for eight years.

Death was nothing new to him; in fact, he would eagerly accept it for himself. He'd wished for it more than once. Eustacia had said that was part of the reason he was so skilled as a Venator.

But that didn't mean he didn't grieve for the loss of a friend.

After a moment of prayer and commendation, he turned to Kritanu. “I'm sorry.” Those words, very simple, said many things.

The elder man's eyes shone with the understanding of all of them, the pinpoint of candlelight reflecting in his black orbs. “Briyani made his own choices, Max, just as you do. He fully understood the risk of staying with you. I'm glad he did. You should not be alone.”

Max's lips pulled in a humorless smile. “Nor should you.”

“You took a great chance in coming here tonight. I told you it wasn't necessary.”

“I wanted to see him. To say good-bye.” As he hadn't been able to do with Eustacia. Or Father. Or his sister Giulia. “I know how to move about unseen.”

“But Victoria?”

“Is apparently otherwise occupied.”

Kritanu looked at him, something suspiciously like pity in his handsome face. “And you shan't tell her you're here?”

“I have no desire to be ordered about, as she would be wont to do. To be at her beck and call. I'm no longer a Venator, and can be of little use to her or to any of you.”

“Then why come to London? The world is vast, and there are many places to hide from Lilith that she would never suspect.”

No one was more acutely aware of that fact than Max himself. But he'd been compelled to come to London, foolish as it had been.

He bloody well could have gone on, knowing that it would be safer for everyone if he went to Spain or Denmark or America, or even the wilds of Africa. Lilith would never find him there. But Vioget had raised the concern about Victoria, leaving Max with little choice but to assure himself all was well.

And, apparently, Vioget was still taking his job as protector quite seriously.

At least Max could give him credit for that.

He realized Kritanu was still watching him and selected a slightly easier topic. “Briyani and I were in Vauxhall, looking for vampires, when we got separated. I found some undead, but he never returned to our rooms. I returned to Vauxhall hours later and found no trace of him.”

“Briyani wanted to be a Venator,” Kritanu said. “He was a better Comitator than he would have been as a Venator, but he was preparing to attempt the trial for the
vis bulla.
I suspect he would not have succeeded, for although he was very brave, and a skillful combatant, he lacked many necessary attributes, including a cool head under pressure.”

Max looked at the swaddled corpse. Grief stirred again, more deeply. “I didn't know of his intentions.” The flash of a memory of his own trial, where he knew the choice was either success or death, assaulted him. He'd been more prepared for death than for success, for only five men over the centuries had ever achieved the
vis bulla
without the blood of the Gardellas in their veins.

Kritanu turned from his nephew and looked up at Max. “How does your training go?”

“I've neglected it as of late.” Yet, his body desired it—the quick, measured swipes with the
kadhara
knife, the kicks and leaps and thrusts of hand-to-hand
kalaripayattu
…and especially, the easy gliding of
qinggong,
where his body actually left the ground in long, sweeping arcs.

“Why should you do so? A lack of
vis bulla
does not eliminate what you have learned these years, Max.”

A soft scuff drew their attention to the entrance to the chapel, and Max immediately began to slip into the shadowy alcove next to the altar. It was better for Victoria not to know he was here.