When Twilight Burns gvc-4

by Колин Глисон

  Nor was he dead.

  But Victoria was quite certain that he, and possibly others of his trusted advisors, were in great danger.

  In the hall, three hundred people ate from long tables that traversed the length of the vast, high-ceilinged space. Victoria consumed little in her attempt to move about and keep her attention honed for any unusual happening. Still, it was daylight, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that if anything else was planned, it would happen after the sun went down.

  “When the sun goes down,” said a deep voice in her ear, almost an echo of her thoughts. Victoria nearly jumped and turned to find Max behind her. He still wore that hooded expression, and refused to meet her eyes. He seemed, instead, to be fascinated by her earlobe… or, more likely, something beyond her shoulder.

  “Of course,” Victoria replied stiffly. “Lilith wasn’t foolish enough to think that the queen could enter the abbey, even if Caroline herself thought she could. I don’t believe for one minute that that was the extent of Lilith’s plan.”

  “The king,” Max continued as if she hadn’t spoke, “should be leaving the hall shortly to return to Carleton House. The sun will just be setting. I suspect that will be the time we’ll need to be our most vigilant.”

  “I’ve already come to that conclusion,” Victoria snapped, then realized he’d gone, slinking away into the crowd before she could reply. “We?” she added in the direction to which he’d disappeared.

  She turned away and found herself face-to-face with Lady Melly, who wore a forbidding expression. “Where have you been?” she asked with a smile on her face and a bite to her voice. In fact, the pleasant smile necessitated that her teeth remained ground together, and the words came out rather… clenched. “I’ve hardly seen you since we sat for dinner, and you certainly didn’t attend us during the procession.”

  “I told you, Mother, my slipper became soiled and I had to return home just before the procession started in order to change it. You wouldn’t have wanted me to attend the coronation with soiled slippers, would you?” Victoria lied blithely.

  “Gwendolyn Starcasset has been looking all over for you,” added Lady Melly in a slightly mollified voice. “Do come and make your greeting to her so that she will stop prattling to me about her wedding plans. I daresay,” she continued over her shoulder as she started off, towing Victoria behind her, “it’s as if no one has ever married an earl before. And Brodebaugh isn’t all that is, but she certainly can say nothing but praise for him.”

  Victoria allowed her mother to drag her through the crowds to their places at the long table. To her surprise, she found Sebastian present, with Gwendolyn and Brodebaugh. He appeared to be fully enjoying his meal, and Victoria realized how hungry she was, despite the bit of food she’d already had. It had been a long day, and, if she and Max were correct, it would be even longer before the night was through.

  Thus convinced to ease on her vigilance for a time, Victoria sat next to Gwen and proceeded to field questions about where she’d been and what she thought of the ceremony… and had she seen Rockley?

  Victoria could only answer in the negative, and instead turned the conversation back to her friend’s favorite topic: her nuptials, which were to take place in three days.

  “I daresay, I’ve slept nary a wink, between plans for the coronation and my wedding,” Gwen said, smiling. Victoria thought her expression still looked a bit weary, and she wondered if all was well with Brodebaugh.

  Or George. He and Sara were conspicuously absent.

  But before she had a chance to ask Gwendolyn about any of them, she caught sight of Kritanu. He was in a balcony overlooking the diners, and he tended to stand out due to his darkly complected appearance. He seemed to be gesturing to her.

  “Excuse me, Mother,” Victoria said, leaning toward Melly. “I thought I saw Rockley.” The excuse was guaranteedto justify her exit, and when Lady Melly’s face snapped toward the direction Victoria indicated, her daughter took the opportunity to escape.

  Kritanu met Victoria and said, “The king is readying to leave.” She glanced toward the table where George IV sat, and her companion continued, “I heard the order given moments ago. I’ve managed to obtain a position as footman to one of the coaches in the procession.”

  Victoria nodded. “Be safe,” she told him. “Do you know where Max is?”

  “He’ll be there.” Kritanu disappeared in the crowd of people, leaving Victoria to try to catch Sebastian’s attention.

  Outside of Westminster Hall, the sun had dipped to the edge of the horizon. As the king was climbing into his coach, the news came floating back to the bystanders: two overturned carriages had created a great accident, blocking the route by which the king usually drove to Carleton House.

  He would have to take a different course, through the slums of Westminster.

  Victoria caught Sebastian’s eye and nodded. This had to be it.

  With Barth’s assistance, they obtained saddled horses and started off in the direction the king would be traveling, able to move faster and more easily than a coach and procession.

  “We’ll get there first and scout out the area,” Victoria said to Kritanu as they rode past him and down a smaller side street so as to escape notice from the crowds. The sight of a lady riding astride-thanks to her split skirt- would cause just as much attention as the king’s cortege; possibly more.

  Victoria hadn’t ridden astride in a saddle for years, and doing so immediately reminded her of Phillip. The summershe’d first met him, long before either were old enough to be thinking of marriage or courting, he’d been riding haphazardly through the meadows between their families’ adjoining estates. She’d met him when he fell from the horse and he received a scolding from her… and then, later, he promised to take her riding.

  At any rate, Victoria was a confident enough horse-woman to make her way through the streets, although Sebastian was far ahead of her. Since the attention of those who were interested in such things was on the king’s path, the side streets were deserted of bystanders and the riders were able to move swiftly and attract little attention.

  But when they arrived in the dirtiest, most dangerous part of Westminster, where the crowds had already formed in anticipation of their sovereign’s unprecedented trip down their streets, Victoria felt nothing out of place. No sign of undead, no prickling of the neck… nothing.

  She and Sebastian traversed the streets, too high in their saddles for pickpockets, and not nearly interesting enough for other thieves in light of the coming procession. They heard shouts in the distance, behind them, heralding the approach of the royal cortege.

  Just then, the sound of pounding horse hooves drew Victoria’s attention. She turned, and around the corner flew Max, barreling toward them on a large mount.

  “The bridge!” he shouted, galloping past them.

  Of course! The Thurgood Bridge, which spanned one of the canals. Old and dangerous, and in a particularly dark section at the edge of Westminster, the bridge stood near the end of the king’s route. It would be the perfect place for a royal catastrophe.

  Victoria slammed her heels into her mount and raced off after Max, Sebastian thundering behind.

  When they reached the bridge, the back of her neck iced over almost immediately. Dark shapes filtered beneath the rickety structure, which wheezed and creaked even when no one crossed on it. Tiny red orbs glowed in the night, mostly beneath the edges of the bridge.

  It was a narrow span, just wide enough for a single vehicle. Built over a canal barely two wagon lengths wide, it was made of wooden trestles that created a web of dark beams above and below the bridge. The underpinnings cleared the canal’s flowing water by only a few feet. Brick buildings in various stages of disrepair staggered near the bridge and along the canal, looming like awkward shadows. They seemed to be converging on the narrow crossing, keeping it dark and close.

  Max was already off his horse, and Victoria tore off the apronlike coverings
to her skirt as Sebastian roared up and leaped off his own mount.

  The vampires were taken by surprise by the sudden onslaught of stake-bearing Venators. Victoria clambered down the mucky slope at the side of the canal, feeling cold mud ooze into her slippers as she came face-to-face with an undead.

  She kicked and caught the vampire in the chest, sending him falling back onto two others that had been climbing up the bank behind him. As they struggled to right themselves, she turned to another undead that had leaped down from the bridge. Her stake found its mark, and the female poofed into dust.

  “Under the bridge,” she heard Sebastian shout, and turned to see him and Max disappear into the darkness under the span.

  In the melee that followed, Victoria was barely aware of the hordes of undead; she focused only on staking and stabbing as she worked her way along the mucky bank toward the inky shadows under the bridge. Once she found her way there, even in the dark she could see what was intended. The undead were clambering up and around the trestles under the bridge, ready to swarm the rickety structure when the carriage crossed over. The span’s weakness would allow for the weight of only one vehicle at a time, leaving the king’s coach to cross without its guards.

  Victoria could only guess at the vampires’ plan, but when she saw a low, flat shape in the shadows below, thanks to her improved night vision, she recognized it as a boat. Then it made sense: when the carriage was unprotected on the bridge, the undead would take that opportunity to seize the king and make off with him via the water below, taking him, no doubt, to Lilith, where he would be killed.

  Hanging by one arm over a rough wooden beam, she kicked out at a vampire, propelling herself toward another in time to stake him. He exploded in a satisfying puff of ash, and Victoria was able to swing her feet and pull herself up onto one of the trestles.

  She turned in time to see Max struggling with a vampire across the underside of the bridge. He was crouched on a beam, holding onto a rafter above him while battling a red-eyed undead with one free hand, and his powerful legs. As Victoria watched, a second vampire landed behind Max, effectively trapping him between the two undead.

  She didn’t hesitate, but swung herself toward the altercation just as Max knocked the first vampire off the trestle. The undead splashed into the canal below, and was carried away by the sluggish water.

  Max turned in time to see Victoria slam her stake into the second vampire, leaving her panting on the shaft next to him. He whirled on her furiously, his dark face close to hers. “I don’t need your bloody help.” Then he leaped away to knock another undead from the bridge, putting distance between him and Victoria.

  The sounds of the approaching procession reached Victoria’s ears, which were ringing from battle and from Max’s unpleasant words. She stared after him, fury pounding in her ears and her knees shaking-not with fear, but with pure anger.

  Suddenly, something shoved her from behind, and she lost her grip on the wooden trestle. The next thing she knew, she was tumbling through the air, and landed with a splash in the water below.

  Twenty-Two:

  Wherein a Taut String Snaps at Last

  When Victoria broke through the surface, she realized the gentle current had carried her away from the bridge. Her clothing was heavy and clinging, and though the water’s temperature wasn’t a shock, it was muddy and smelled unpleasant.

  She wasn’t a strong swimmer, but the summers she’d spent wading and splashing in the small lake at Prewitt Shore came back to her, and she was able to keep afloat and paddle awkwardly toward the edge.

  She’d hardly gone far downstream, however, when her foot struck the mucky bottom of the canal near its bank. One of her slippers was gone, and the other one sank into the sludge. Her stake had disappeared when she fell, but she half swam, half slogged her way to the shore, knowing that she had others hidden. When she clambered to the top of the sloping bank, her split-skirted attire was plastered to her body, making movement awkward and slow.

  By the time she got back on land, and rushed as quickly as her sodden clothing and bare foot would allow, the king’s cortege had reached the bridge. Crowds of people surged toward the carriage, and she could hear frantic shouts from the center of the procession.

  “Keep close! Keep close, by God!”

  She recognized the king’s voice ordering his guards. He was known to be leery of large crowds, especially ones that verged on moblike behavior, for he didn’t want a repeat of the kinds of horror toward royalty that occurred during the French Revolution. She couldn’t blame him in this case, for the entire environment of close, looming buildings shadowing a narrow bridge, and the thronging crowds, would have made anyone nervous- especially someone like herself, who knew there were more than mortals to be leery of.

  Victoria hurried toward the crowd, stones and sharp-edged bricks cutting into her foot. She saw that the king’s carriage was broaching the bridge, ready to cross. The mob was pushed away and the coach started over the span. Even from her vantage point, Victoria could hear the creaks and groans of the wooden trestles as the royal vehicle rumbled across.

  But she couldn’t see any gleam of red eyes, either above or below the bridge. The back of her neck was no longer chilled, and despite the fact that she was soaking, nor was the rest of her body. It was a warm night, and the sludgy, rank mud had already begun to dry on her skin.

  About the time the carriage reached the other side of the bridge, Victoria felt a presence behind her, and heard the long, deep breaths of someone who’d been working hard. She turned to see a dripping Max standing there, also watching the coach traverse the canal.

  “Safe,” he murmured.

  “I can swim,” she said tartly. “Even in a gown. I didn’t need your help.”

  “I was speaking of the king, Victoria. He’s safe. We can go home now.”

  Pressing her lips together in annoyance, she looked at the bridge. Now that the king had crossed, the crowd was beginning to disperse. The threat did appear to be over, for the remainder of the route to Carleton House was through safer, more well-lit areas. And it wasn’t more than a short ride.

  Then she recognized a familiar silhouette as he hurried toward her. He was not wet.

  “All right, then, Victoria?” asked Sebastian as he approached. “They’re gone. The ones we didn’t get have run off.” He looked at Max. “Get a bit wet, Pesaro?”

  “Felt good,” Max replied. Then, with a curt nod, he walked away.

  Victoria turned to Sebastian, fully conscious of the smell emanating from her person and the press of stones against her bare foot. “I have to return the horse Barth borrowed for me.”

  He looked down at her. “Will you bite my head off if I suggest that you go home with Barth in the carriage so you can divest yourself of those wet clothes? The horses are Brodebaugh’s; Kritanu and I will take them back. Much as I’d like to be there to assist you with your toilette…” His head tipped to the side, blocking out the moon behind him. It had waxed into a new quarter in the last week, and it shone bright and bold, casting a silver gilt over his curls. “… I think I shall pass on the opportunity this evening.”

  “I do smell rather rank,” Victoria agreed. “I daresay the canal water isn’t much cleaner than that of the sewers.”

  “I daresay you are right.” They both chuckled, and Sebastian moved toward her for a kiss. Then he thought better of it and straightened. A wry smile ticked at the corner of his mouth. “Good night, then, Victoria,” he said, something like regret tingeing his voice.

  She felt him watching her as she walked away.

  The dried sludge from the canal made Victoria’s skin itch, and had saturated her hair, which had fallen in smelly, dripping strands about her shoulders. The special frock with the split skirt would have to be burned, and her remaining slipper was so stained that it no longer showed a hint of pink.

  By the time Verbena had finished bathing her mistress and washing the stench from her thick mass of hair, it was past
midnight. She toweled the hip-length curls as dry as possible, then coiled them into a loose, sagging knot at the back of her neck so that it would be able to dry without tangling too much. Victoria dressed, not in a night rail, but in the loose trousers and tunic she wore when training, along with soft slipperlike shoes. She had a suspicion that Sebastian might come to the house with Kritanu after they brought the horses back, and she thought it might be best if she weren’t in her bedchamber if and when they did.

  After dismissing her yawning maid for the night, Victoria went down to return the kadhara knife to the cabinet in the kalari training room. She was surprised to find it lit by a lamp that cast a golden glow over the area, and thought she might find Wayren within. But it was Max.

  He was standing at one of the cupboards, apparently also returning a weapon to its rightful place. At first he didn’t hear her enter, and she noticed that he was garbed in clean clothes similar to her own-trousers and a tunic in undyed linen, bare of foot, his dark hair loose and making damp marks on the back of his shirt.

  Victoria felt short of breath, and realized that her stomach was coiling and loosening with nauseating speed. She stepped into the room, letting the door close silently behind her.

  Max turned. She saw his attention flicker past her. “Where is Vioget? And Wayren?”

  “So you cannot deign to speak to me if no one else is present?” Victoria countered, stepping into the room. For some reason, she felt as though she was in control… despite the fact that his face still bore that flat, empty expression.

  But the rest of him… Her mouth went dry and, suddenly, her heart was thumping so hard she was certain it was audible. The sleeves of his hip-length tunic were rolled halfway up his arms, showing an expanse of swarthy skin and muscle that would never be revealed in polite dress. And the loose neck of the shirt made a vee below the hollow of his throat, exposing the same dark hair that grew on his legs and scattered over the tops of his long, elegant feet. He was still wearing the leather thong and silver cross she’d noticed around his ankle before, but no other adornment. Except, perhaps, a vis bulla-her vis bulla-beneath the shirt. Her lungs tightened.