by Lora Edwards
Armand turned at the sound of the door, and Victoria took an involuntary step back. His eyes blazed red and his breath came in heaving gasps. She had never seen this side of him, the rage all of their kind held inside. He always kept his tightly controlled, so something must have happened—something awful.
“Teagan, Bran, Delphine, Ovidia, the others—are they all right?” She felt her heart begin to thunder again at the thought of her friends and their children being in danger.
Armand closed his eyes and heaved a sigh, then another. When he opened them, they were back to the clear crystal blue of a cloudless sky. He sat down, putting his head in his hands.
“Yes, as far as I know, they are fine.” The gravel in his voice told her something terrible had happened. She moved to sit in front of him, pulling his hands away from his face and lifting his chin with her hand until he looked her in the eye. His eyes were covered in a red film from tears not yet shed.
“Tell me,” she said simply, and then she waited.
Armand sighed once again. “The countess has attacked again. She walked into the local institute installation and slaughtered everyone there, left the bodies strewn around the floor. She and her minions…they didn’t feed on them. It was slaughter, senseless slaughter, a message to me…to us that she knows we are close and she is capable of punishing us for our pursuit of her.”
Victoria sat back in her chair, stunned as she processed the information. “How many” she whispered through her own horror.
“She killed twenty-four. Four survived, and I believe she left them alive on purpose so they would be able to identify the perpetrator of the massacre. I have contacted Bran, and security has been increased at all institute outposts and of course in London. I have to find their families and alert them.”
“Let Bran take on that task, Armand. He is the head of the institute now.” Victoria gently took his hand.
Armand’s eyes flashed and he ripped his hand from her grasp. “No, this is my mission, my fault, and I am still the founder of the institute. They were my people. No, I will make the notifications.”
Victoria nodded; she expected no less from him. She put her arms around him, and he remained stiff for a moment before he relaxed in her embrace, wrapping his arms around her and placing his cheek on the top of her head. They stood that way for a long moment before he pulled back, looking in her eyes, and placed a soft kiss on her lips.
“I see that you asked because you care. I see that, and when this is all over, we will talk, but for now I have to do my duty to my people. We need to catch her and stop this madness.”
Victoria looked up at him, allowing a small smile to grace her face. She nodded, slipped out of his embrace, and shut the door to the study. He would do what he needed to do. He would inform the families, and that fiery anger would turn to cold rage. Victoria almost felt sorry for the countess; she had incurred the wrath of a powerful man, one who had already been determined to stop her before and would now stop at nothing to defeat her. She had harmed his people once again, and it was something Victoria knew he wouldn’t be able to forgive.
Chapter 36
Victoria stood outside Armand’s office. She was sure he could hear the nervous beating of her heart through the door. She knew after spending so much time together, he would recognize the rhythm of her heart, as she did his.
“Victoria, are you going to stand on the other side of that door all morning or come in and tell me what has you so nervous,” came the slightly amused voice of Armand.
She cursed herself; of course he knew she was standing out there. He had been in a mood since the attack on the institute and had holed himself up in the office, working with Bran to coordinate the safety of the other outposts. Armand was determined to not lose another of his own to the countess.
Opening the door, she stepped through into the study. He looked terrible. His skin was paler, if that was even possible for a vampire; it looked dry and almost wrinkled. It was obvious that it had been days since he had fed. The normally tidy office was strewn with papers, discarded wads of them littering the floor.
He turned his gaze to hers and she could see the pain and the anger, and behind that, the sorrow, as well as just a glimpse of the ravenous hunger he must have been feeling. She needed to get him to feed or the need would take over and Armand would regret what came from that.
“I think it is time we had our Carnevale party,” she said simply, and then she waited for the explosion she knew would come.
He didn’t disappoint. Whirling on her, his eyes liquid fire, he pulled back his lips and snarled like the predator he was. He advanced on her and she stood her ground, knowing he could hear her heart thumping in her chest. Oddly enough, it was not fear that had her heart pounding. The feral part of her reacted to the rage and hunger of the one her mind and heart recognized as her mate. It lit a fire in her as he advanced on her as a predator would prey.
He reached out and grabbed her, pulling her toward him as he growled. “Why would you want to host a party? Are you really that soft headed? It is not time for a party. I have lost an entire outpost of institute members, and it is possible that she will attack again. I have been plotting and planning with Bran to keep my people safe and you want to have a party?” He wrenched himself away, giving her a look of disgust.
Victoria stood, her hands primly folded in front of her, waiting for the leading edge of his rage to crest before she showed him the sense of what she proposed.
He paced and glared at her, snarling and spitting.
“I don’t want to have a party for the usual reasons. Think, Armand. Think past the grief and the rage, the desire for revenge. What does the countess value above all else?”
“Cruelty,” he responded, his voice flat and hard.
Victoria only nodded in response before speaking again. “As well as frivolity, being the life of the party. She cannot abide boredom, and she loves a good game. Do you think she could resist attending a party we throw? She expects us to retreat like a wounded animal, to hole up in this house and lick our wounds. We will not best her by doing what she expects. We need to surprise her and catch her off guard.”
Armand’s eyes cleared and interest sparked in them. “You do not think she would recognize it for what it is—a trap?”
“Of course she would, but she would come anyway. She believes this is all a game, something to entertain her as she has grown bored with the opulence and the meaningless parties and is looking for a challenge. I have seen it in her before. This will draw her out, and then we will have our revenge and be able to avenge the fallen.”
Armand came to her again, this time gently enfolding her in his embrace. “Forgive me.”
She looked up into his eyes, a hunger of a different kind lighting her belly. “There is nothing to forgive. You have been under an intense amount of strain, and someone waltzing in here and suggesting a party was bound to cause you some difficulty.”
Armand smiled into her eyes. “It did take some of the pressure off, but that was your goal all along. You led with the part that would cause me to explode and waited for reason to reassert itself. How could I have ever thought you wanted to have a party for any other reason?”
“Armand, you were not thinking rationally. You have not fed in days and have not rested. It is time to take a break. You cannot avenge and protect if you yourself are broken.”
He looked down at her as she stepped away from him, unbuttoning the collar of the gown she wore. The fabric came almost to her chin, and he watched as the slim column of her neck was revealed as she slowly undid each button, putting the pale skin on display.
“Feed from me.” Her voice was husky with desire and uncertainty.
He looked at her. Vampires could get sustenance from each other, but it was an intimate act, one rarely shared outside of mated couples or lovers. He knew what she was offering him was much more than the blood he needed to survive. He felt his lips curve into a smile as he stepped forward, pull
ing her to him more roughly than intended as desire and the need to feed welled up within him.
He looked at her one more time, holding back the roar in his head until he received the tiny nod. Then he stopped fighting the attraction, stopped fighting his hunger, and fed.
Chapter 37
Victoria threw herself into preparations for the party in the following days. She met with the cooks and staff, walked the bazaars, and picked up baubles and fabrics. She spent hours carefully creating invitations with the help of the butler, ensuring that anyone who was anyone of that time was invited, supernatural and human alike. Her fingers cramped and were covered in ink, but within a few days, a magnificent Carnevale ball had been planned.
Victoria reminded herself to tell Armand the staff deserved a few days off after they departed as they had worked tirelessly to get the planning for the party off the ground.
Victoria’s hands moved up to her neck as she thought of him, a ghost of a smile lighting her face. She had never shared blood with another of her kind until that day. He had fed from her and she from him, and through that intimate act, she’d learned his real feelings for her. They had agreed to table it for the most part until the mission was over, but she still felt the warm glow of his gaze each time they crossed paths, and he had come to her and her only for sustenance over the following days.
Victor had rolled his eyes and smirked, muttering that it was about time before leaving to gather more intel on the countess. He was mostly absent, preferring to hunt for blood and information largely on his own, and Victoria had gotten a small glimpse of what life may be like if she and Armand chose to pledge to each other. She felt like she had found her purpose and her mate, despite the nagging worry of the countess. She felt content for the first time since she had been turned. It felt good to be doing something, even if it was planning a party. She had been practicing every day in the ballroom with the program Ovidia had left for her, fighting the countess daily with magic and in hand-to-hand combat, and it gave her confidence. If she came upon the countess again, she would not freeze. She would fight, and she would end this.
Armand looked in the mirror and sighed. He hated the grand outfits required for social events with royals and elite of society. He was not in the mood for an elaborate party, no matter how necessary it might be. This could be the end of their mission. Word of the event had spread far and wide, and he was sure the countess would not be able to resist the allure of such a soirée, the chance to needle them. They had purposely not set up magical wards, ensuring that her entrance would be smooth. She was cocky and self-assured, and he hoped finding the place unprotected by magic would strengthen these tendencies in her. When she was caught off guard, they would fight and capture her.
The clock in the hall bonged the hour. He took one more look at himself in the foolish costume and sighed. It was time.
Victoria welcomed their guests, playing the gracious hostess to all manner of guests. She counted herself lucky to have traveled far and wide with the countess and to have learned many languages over the centuries. It was one of the things that had kept her sane. She kept her eye out for a long fall of midnight hair and a glittering blood-red gown, the signatures of the one she sought.
The party wore on, and people drank, laughed, giggled, and snuck away to dark corners for other pleasures.
Victoria laughed and danced, and to all who did not know of their mission, she appeared to be the wealthy consort of a high-ranking English nobleman, in Italy to enjoy the Carnevale.
Victoria was despairing of the countess showing her face. She surveyed the room to no sign of the woman.
“Lovely party, but you were always able to throw a lovely party.”
Victoria’s hands fisted at her sides at the purr of that familiar voice behind her. She stiffened and played the part of the frightened underling as she searched for the part in her skirt.
“Did you miss me, Amora? I know you threw this lovely soirée for my benefit, but now that I am here, you don’t know what to do with me. Scared little rabbit you are, as you always have been.”
Victoria’s hand grasped the cool silver handle of the dagger she had hidden in her skirts for just this occasion. She stood still and let the countess taunt her, waited for her to let down her guard.
She suddenly whirled, the silver of the blade winking in the light. She threw her body around just as she had been taught, and the knife sliced down the perfect cheek of her enemy.
The countess’s eyes went wide with shock as she brought her hand to her face. Victoria moved to strike again, and her adversary let out a frustrated howl before disappearing on the spot.
Victoria whirled one way then another, her blade bloody and ready for more, but the countess was gone.
Armand was suddenly at her side, running his hands over her body.
“Where is she? Did she hurt you? Where is the blood coming from? Victoria, speak to me.”
She looked up, the rage and fury turning her eyes as red as the blood that dripped from her blade. “Gone. Escaped.”
Armand contained his disappointment. He had to calm her; they didn’t need an enraged vampire in a room full of humans. He looked around and no one seemed to be aware the little tête-à-tête had even happened.
“She may have escaped, but you drew first blood, chérie.” He stroked her face and looked into her eyes. The fire there slowly dimmed, and she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When she opened them, they resembled the grey of a stormy sky.
“Yes, but she escaped again.” Victoria’s shoulders slumped. “This is the second time I have let her get away.”
“Yes, but this time you didn’t cower. We need to take into account her magic. The wound inflicted by the silver blade will not heal easily. She will bear your mark, and for that she will want revenge. It will make her less cautious. She will come, and we will catch her the next time.”
Victoria nodded her assent; Armand’s word had weight. The countess would come again, and next time she would be ready—she would not be expecting the mouse that had cowered before her in the past. The element of surprise was behind her. She would train harder, would make sure she ended it when the countess came for her again. She smiled at Armand, placing her hand on his face for a brief moment before turning back to the guests, who did not seem to have noticed the exchange. She would laugh and socialize, and later she would plot and plan. She would be ready.
Chapter 38
Her rage echoed off the stone walls as she paced the small tower room. She had retreated to her sanctuary, had needed to even as the thought caused her blood to rage. She paced back and forth, the blood of an unfortunate sycophant staining her satin slippers and the bottom of her already blood-red gown. Ripping him apart had quelled the razor edge of rage that had her eyes going black, but she still seethed.
So the mouse has grown teeth—pathetic. She reached a hand up to gingerly touch the scar that ran down her face. It was nothing a glamour couldn’t fix, but it burned. A silver blade—their kind didn’t use such weapons against each other, no matter the perceived slight. She had taught her everything she knew, had given her magic and immortality. Was it wrong that she had asked for something in return? The others were glad to serve, to bow and scrape, to acknowledge the gift they had been given.
The little mouse had never been one to fawn and flatter. There had always been the hint of rebellion, a streak of defiance in that one. She had been taught a lesson many times as she tried to escape the bonds of servitude. She had been brought back and punished time and time again, and still there had been that stubbornness. She had admired the bit of spunk and fire in the little mouse even after it had become tedious to punish her.
The final time she had run into the arms of the institute and hidden there, eventually coming out of hiding, and she had been punished severely for her actions. The countess had thought she’d ended her, but the mouse had a strength that came from the power of the countess herself, and she had used that power to dece
ive.
Another roar poured from her throat as outside the wind lashed and lightning lit the sky. Thunder boomed, causing the villagers below to huddle inside their homes. It might have been modern day, but there was still superstition, her kind feared and the night dangerous.
Her face would heal, but she knew she would carry the mark until her end. Even her power couldn’t completely heal the wound of a silver blade. They had made an error; it had been a game, a way to break the tedium of the vastness of immortal existence. It was a game no more. She would bide her time and she would wait.
The mouse may have drawn first blood, but she was the Bloody Countess. She would stand over her and watch the immortal life she had given her leave her eyes if it was the last thing she did.
Her confidence restored, a smirk crossed her lips. They were clever, but she had magic and wiles. She bellowed for a servant, and one came rushing in and muttering obsequiously, soothing her wounded pride.
“Clean up this mess, and send someone to help me out of this gown.” The countess swept out of the room, hardly noticing the fledgling’s cowering. She would have the last word, and they would weep for the destruction she would rain down on them.
She stopped and looked out at the crashing waves below her sanctuary. She blew a kiss out into the wind, adding magic to carry it across time and distance, one word that would reach the ears of the mouse and strike fear. “Soon.”
Victoria stopped in her conversation with a count. The wealthy man had not subtly been hinting that they should find a dark and secluded corner, and before she could beg off, she heard the whisper in her mind, the cool sweep of lips across her cheek causing a sharp shudder and icy fear to skate down her back.
