When Twilight Burns gvc-4

by Колин Глисон

  She wasn’t sure she did either.

  Victoria stepped closer, her foot sliding between his large booted ones as she met his mouth. Warmth flooded through her as though it had been released from some strict reservoir, and she sagged against him. His body was lean and solid, and as their mouths melded together, she moved her hands to touch his chest. It was warm under the linen shirt he wore, and she felt the curve of the muscle flexing there.

  Before she could protest, Sebastian was pulling at the buttons at the back of her gown. “Perhaps I could take Verbena’s place this evening,” he said after a particularly long, delving kiss.

  Victoria snickered against his mouth. “I’m disappointed in you,” she murmured, tugging away his neck cloth. “I thought you were more original. I imagine there must be dozens of eager lovers all over London offering to act as ladies’ maids on any given day.”

  He huffed a small laugh against her neck, close enough to the sensitive part near her ear that she quivered. “If I’ve lost my rapier wit, it’s only because of you, Victoria.” She felt him draw in a breath, his chest expanding beneath her hands. He covered her lips again, drawing her sharply against him, plunging and twisting his tongue deeply into her mouth.

  She allowed herself to taste him, the slick, sensual warmth flavored with brandy and clove, to let him coax and tease and seduce her with his mouth.

  And then she pulled easily away, firmly stepping back. “I have something to tell you.”

  He smiled crookedly at her. “Ah, well, I knew it couldn’t last. And, alas, I have things to tell you as well.”

  “So you didn’t come here expressly to seduce me.” She stepped away from the window and gestured to one of the two wingback chairs. “Perhaps you’d care to take a seat.” Then she turned the lamp brighter.

  “Ah, civility rears its ugly head,” he sighed, taking her suggestion. “Would you consider me uncouth if I mentioned how much, at this moment, I despise civility?”

  Victoria chose to ignore him. “Are you going to give me the copper ring? You took yourself off so quickly this morning that I didn’t have a chance to ask-purposely, I’m sure.”

  “You certainly have the sound of your aunt in your tone, now that you’ve taken her place as Illa Gardella.” He sat with one ankle positioned over his knee, lounging back into the depths of the chair.

  “No prevarications, Sebastian. I take my role as the leader of the Venators-of which you are one-as seriously as she did. What do you plan to do with the ring?” She sat in the other wingback chair and faced him.

  “The ring is one of the five Rings of Jubai that Lilith had made for her most trusted Guardian vampires,” Sebastian explained. Guardians were undead who had eyes that glowed ruby pink when they were angry. They were part of the vampire queen’s elite guard, and had the particular ability to easily enthrall mortals. They were very hard to kill. Beauregard had been a Guardian vampire. “Unfortunately, though you might expect otherwise, my grandfather was not one of the recipients of the five rings.”

  Victoria gave a little laugh. “To the contrary. Knowing Beauregard as I did, I’m not at all surprised Lilith didn’t count him as one of her most trusted Guardians. Not only did there seem to be no love lost between them, but he also was clearly a creature concerned only with himself.”

  “I’ll allow your disparaging comment about my grandfather to pass for now,” Sebastian said in a cooler voice. “I’m not ignorant of his faults, but he was still my grandfather and he never caused me any harm. What he did to you-tried to do-was unacceptable, and I reacted accordingly.”

  “You do have my gratitude for that,” Victoria replied, fervently meaning it.

  “Your gratitude? Ah, what a wealthy man am I,” he said dryly. Then his flippancy evaporated and a serious expression took over. “Before we talk further, there’s somethingI must tell you. I’ll get back to the Rings of Jubai in a moment, but first… Victoria, do you feel all of a piece? Since you… woke up, do you feel different?”

  She looked at him and recognized something desperate in his face, and stopped her reflexive “I’m fine” response. “Most of the time, I feel… the same. But there are moments when I do not.” Like when she was angry, her vision threatened to tinge red-literally. And earlier today, when Gwendolyn had been prattling on about her happiness and her wedding… how that surge of envy had caught Victoria by surprise, making her cold and angry. She’d been a lot more angry lately, come to think of it.

  Or… when she’d smelled the blood in the underground abbey…

  Now that she put it together, it made horrible, awful sense. She felt her face drain of color and feeling. “My God.”

  He seemed to understand, and reached for her arm. His slender fingers closed gently over the top of her hand. “Victoria, I’m certain you’re not a vampire… but I do fear that you still carry some residue of Beauregard’s attempt to turn you. I still… I feel the presence of an undead when I’m near you.”

  She stared for a moment without seeing as the pieces clunked into place. “That was why you didn’t seem to notice the vampires down in the tunnels.”

  He nodded ruefully. “Your presence makes it difficult for me to sense other-er, the undead.”

  Victoria thought for a moment. “Does Wayren know? How about Max? And Ylito?”

  “Wayren knows, and I’m certain she’s told Ylito and Hannever, for if there’s any hope of an antidote, they would help. As for Pesaro-well, he is aware of the situation. But… of course, he has his own concerns.”

  Yes, indeed he did. But she felt hollow anyway.

  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 there 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 that 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 behindthe Door of Alchemy in Rome? The one that you stole from the Consilium?” She tasted bitterness at the reminder of his betrayal.

  Two months ago in Rome, she and Max had raced against the vampires and Tutela to find the keys that opened the door to an alchemical laboratory that had been locked for more than a century. They’d succeeded in being there first, and had retrieved the notes and papers hidden behind the door, but Sebastian had stolen one of the pages to give to his grandfather Beauregard.

  “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 stabbed him with the stake 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 she 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 Victoriacame 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 had 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.