Bleeding Dusk gvc-3

by Колин Глисон

  “No,” Sebastian said quietly, and with unusual brevity. Then he turned away. He looked at Victoria, and she realized they’d all begun walking and were approaching the wall of the villa’s grounds. Beyond it was the street, and perhaps even Oliver, waiting with the carriage.

  Or—Victoria’s thoughts flew away as she was caught up in Sebastian’s strong hands and pushed against the stone wall. He’d surprised her, and before she could shove him away, he was holding her shoulders there, pinned under his fingers as he leaned close. She drew in her breath, half wanting him to kiss her and half wanting to send him spinning away for his effrontery.

  But before she could make her decision, he spoke. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again, but stay away from my grandfather.”

  “He deserves to be staked,” she replied smartly, just before he bent to kiss her, catching her off guard again. When, moments later, he released her, Victoria opened her eyes to see both Zavier and Max standing there.

  Sebastian was gone.

  Max looked bored.

  And Zavier looked as though she’d just turned into a demon herself.

  Twelve

  Lord Jellington Acquires a Rival

  Victoria clawed her way out of the dream and came back to reality, panting as though she’d been running.

  Her skin was slick and her fingers fisted so tightly she could barely pry them open. The images stayed with her, even as she tried to focus her gaze on the familiarity of her bedchamber. But all she could see were the vestiges of glowing red eyes, glittering black shards, an ebony face with twisted green horns and an evil smile. Max, Sebastian, Aunt Eustacia…even Phillip…all with drawn, elastic faces in horrific expressions, and claws, and streaming blood.

  She made herself sit up, shake off the terror of the nightmare, and tried to slow the rampant pounding of her heart. She reached for the bellpull to call for Verbena.

  The bedclothes were rumpled and twisted, half sagging from the bed, and sunlight—so clean and pure in comparison to the horrific malice in her dream—blasted through the filmy drapes. By the color and angle of the sunbeams, Victoria knew it was well past noon.

  She started to climb from the waist-high bed, but a twinge in her side reminded her that Verbena had put her to bed very early this morning after much clucking and salving and bandaging.

  After passing through the vampire, the bullet had shaved the edge of her right hip, leaving a deep red track in her skin. Her left leg had had claw marks and bruises on it that would already have started to fade this morning.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, her toes barely brushing the floor, Victoria looked at herself in her dressing table mirror. She had dark circles under her eyes and one slight bruise on her right cheek. She didn’t look that bad.

  But then there was Max.

  Last night, after directing her toward the carriage where Zavier and Oliver waited, he’d attempted to send her off without him. “I’m not leaving you here,” she told him flatly, walking back in his direction. “You’ve lost too much blood and you need to have those wounds seen to.”

  His mouth moved in annoyance or amusement as they faced each other, both bristling with obstinacy. “Don’t be a fool, Victoria. This isn’t the first time I’ve lost a great deal of blood, and I doubt it will be the last.”

  “I am Illa Gardella and I—”

  “Don’t attempt to order me about, Victoria, for the only result will be your own mortification. Now be off and have your own injury seen to.” He turned and faded into the shadows, and she heard the unmistakable sound of a bridle clinking, then the soft snort of a horse.

  Left with no other choice, Victoria climbed into the carriage, where Zavier waited. He said little during the ride back to Aunt Eustacia’s villa (Victoria didn’t believe she could ever come to think of it as hers, despite the fact that it was). Zavier merely watched her, as if trying to assimilate who she really was.

  It had been unfortunate that he’d seen her kissing Sebastian (or, rather, Sebastian kissing her, for she’d been more a recipient than a participant in that particular instance), but there was no help for it. Sebastian had no doubt planned it thus, at any rate, although whether his intent was to annoy Max by wasting time with such frivolity or to stake his claim, so to speak, for Zavier’s sake, Victoria couldn’t say.

  But the thing that bothered her most about the situation was that Max had been right. Zavier was not only hurt and offended, but Victoria knew that he wasn’t the right man for her to become intimate with in any fashion. He’d developed into a good friend and was a brave and skilled Venator, but his kiss had meant nothing to her. Having been kissed by two men last night, she knew there was only one of them she’d want to kiss again.

  Now, however, as she slipped from her bed, feet touching the flat, hooked rug that wasn’t quite as welcoming as the thick Aubusson one back at home, she realized with great disgust that she’d been diverted from getting information from Sebastian about Aunt Eustacia’s bracelet.

  Not that kissing Sebastian was a hardship—it wasn’t in the least, for the man had very skillful lips and hands and…well, other means of distracting her. But there was a time and a place for that sort of activity, and Sebastian was a master at disregarding propriety.

  There was a brief warning knock on the door to her chamber just before it opened and Verbena bustled in. “Yer mother and t’other ladies’re belowstairs,” she said. Behind her came a short parade of servants carrying a tub and buckets of water to fill it. “They’re wantin’ t’see you, my lady, and find out what happened last night to ye.”

  “Blast,” Victoria said under her breath. She needed to get to the Consilium.

  “And I’m wanting to know,” Verbena said as she closed the door behind the last of the servants, “how th’ corset worked. Just so’s I can tell that Oliver so he’ll quit badgering me about it. Just because he had the first thought of it don’t mean he’s got t’know everything. And yer gown, my lady…what happened to them roses?”

  Victoria sank into the hot water and sighed a long breath as she listened to the maid’s comfortable prattle. Her wounds burned, but it was more than bearable in conjunction with the pleasure of the bath. At some point, she’d need to tell Verbena that her whole coiffure had fallen apart when the vampires disarmed her and removed her stake—an inconvenience that would have to be rectified in the future. The long sagging of her hair had been a distraction.

  At last, when the water was turning tepid, she stepped out into a large towel brandished by Verbena. As she turned to take a seat at the dressing table, her maid reached toward the clutter on it.

  “What is this, my lady?” Verbena asked, her fingers pausing over the leather thong and the obsidian flake.

  “Don’t touch that,” Victoria said, snatching at the shiny black pendant, closing her fingers around it to keep it hidden from prying eyes. It was heavy and warm in her hands for something so small, and she felt a sizzle of awareness prickle her fingers just as it had at the villa. “Just finish my hair so I can get on with my business.”

  Verbena’s eyes opened into full circles, but she wisely said nothing. Victoria was suddenly weary of the chattering maid, who always seemed to have to know what was going on. Could she not simply leave her to do her duty without trying to also be her confidante?

  Images from her dream—of grasping, clawlike hands, and the gleam of the black splinters of obsidian—suddenly came back to her, nearly blinding her with their force.

  But now, in the daylight, fully awake and away from her bed, Victoria wasn’t as overwhelmed by the dream and the evil it portended. Shaking the images away, she recognized what it was telling her, what she must be aware of. The vampire had been wearing a piece of Akvan’s Obelisk, and Akvan was back. He’d been called back to earth by the destruction of his obelisk.

  If that little chip was important enough for the vampire to wear, how important must the larger shard be, the one Victoria stored at the Consilium?

  O
ne thing was certain: Victoria was going to take the small piece to the Consilium, where it would be safe from prying eyes and hands. As soon as she could make her excuses and extricate herself from her mother and the other ladies, she would remove the pendant from her home.

  In the meantime, the safest place for it was in the pocket of her gown.

  As she came down the stairs, Victoria heard the excited chatter of feminine voices in the parlor. She vacillated for a moment, considering whether she should ask for something to eat before joining the elder ladies, but her decision was made for her when she heard a high-pitched squeal from—it could only be—Lady Winnie, and the door opened as the other ladies chuckled in response.

  “Victoria,” crowed the duchess. “Come and join us.”

  “We feared you would lie abed all the day,” her mother added. “Come, sit, and let us tell you of our adventures last night.”

  Victoria was swept into the elegant chamber and seated on the only uncushioned surface in the room: a straight-backed chair situated betwixt her mother and the duchess. Just where she’d prefer not to be.

  Before the ladies had an opportunity to begin their interrogation, there came a rap on the parlor door, and then Giorgio stepped in.

  “For the signoras,” he said, looking at Lady Melly and her two companions as he gave a little bow. And then he stepped back, and into the room came three more servants, each carrying a bouquet of flowers larger than the one before.

  Victoria watched in amusement as the three ladies dug through prickly stems, fernlike leaves, and various colored petals to find each bouquet’s enclosed letter.

  “For me?” Lady Winnie clasped the smallest collection of flowers to her ample bosom, burying her face in the beautiful lilies that carried their precious scent throughout the room. They were white with pink blushes down their centers, and when she pulled her face from their ivory petals her bulbous nose was streaked with yellow pollen. She didn’t seem to know or care, even when she began to sneeze violently enough that the poor lilies released more pollen into the air. “It’s from that lovely gentleman we met last evening,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath as she finished her explosive sneezing.

  “So he did not come to call, but he sent flowers in his stead.” Melly, who was the recipient of the largest and most glorious of the flower arrangements, sniffed. It was made of roses of every shade of pink imaginable, and with a single white rose in the center.

  “But he sent you the largest of vases,” Lady Nilly said, nearly hidden behind a profusion of pink gillyflowers and red tulips. “You most certainly must be the one who caught his eye.”

  “But he did not come to call,” replied Melly, her long, slender nose still lifted in disdain. “I shall ensure that we are not home tomorrow in the event he should attempt to show his face,” she added, thrusting the massive vase at Victoria. “In fact, my dear, I believe you should accompany us to make calls.”

  “Make calls? On whom?” Victoria asked, startled into paying attention by the large bouquet Melly had given her, and her mother’s imperious comment. “We know no one here.”

  “You’ve been in Rome nearly six months, and you know no one here? That is abhorrent, Victoria. But it’s also not true. You know the Tarruscelli girls, of course.”

  “Yes, indeed. That is all—”

  “So you will go on calls with us tomorrow. And we none of us will be here if Alberto deigns to show his face.”

  “His handsome face,” Winnie corrected her. “His very handsome face. Although he is a bit shorter than Lord Jellington. And bald. And he cannot spell ‘enchanted.’”

  “Alberto?” squeaked Nilly. “He signed his name Alberto on your card?”

  “He must be in love, Melly!” the duchess said, arching her brows. They were thick and wiry, and when she lifted them they looked as though they were trying to meld into one long, dark swath across her forehead. “He didn’t sign my card as Alberto.”

  “What a lovely name.” Nilly sighed, clasping her skinny, blue-veined hands to her nonexistent bosom. “So Italian. So masculine! And the way one must roll one’s Rs when saying it…Alberrrrrrto. Alberrrrrrto.”

  “Nonsense.” Melly broke in, Victoria noticed, only when the other two ladies seemed to have run out of raptures. “He was merely being kind. If he truly had developed a tendre for me, he would have come calling. At least Jellington knew enough to do that, although he certainly didn’t send flowers the first day after we’d met.”

  Victoria had listened to enough of their prattle; her mother was always in raptures over some beau or another, it seemed. The obsidian chip felt heavy in her pocket, and curiosity about Max’s health weighed on her mind. And she wished to speak with Wayren about all that had transpired last night as well. “I must excuse myself,” she said, standing. “I have an appointment with my…my Latin tutor,” she added, thinking that Wayren wouldn’t mind being called thus.

  “Latin tutor?” her mother replied in astonishment. “But Victoria, why on earth would you wish to read Latin?”

  “So that I can better study the histories of Rome as they are written,” she replied primly, and, having made a quick curtsy, glided toward the door as rapidly as possible. “You ladies have a lovely day today. I do not know if I shall see you this evening for supper, Mama, for my tutor has invited me to dine with her.”

  Victoria arrived at the Consilium late in the day, and the main chamber where the holy-water fountain glistened was empty and silent but for the sound of rushing water.

  This was not unusual, for rarely were Venators at the Consilium unless there was a meeting or gathering of some kind. Most often there was no need for people to be there, and the fewer times Venators traveled to the Consilium, the less likely it would be discovered. Venators preferred to spend their time hunting vampires on the streets.

  Even Wayren and Ilias were not always about, although they each had private apartments back in the depths of these catacombs. As well, Miro, Ylito, and the physician Hannever all had their own workshops nearby, in other parts of the underground property. But they rarely made an appearance in the main chamber or galleries.

  Victoria was relieved that she was able to go immediately to the secret storage room near Wayren’s library. After all that had happened last night at the villa, combined with her haunting dream, she just wanted to make certain that the shard was still there, and safe. And she wanted to get the other, smaller piece hidden away before anyone else knew about it.

  The fewer who did, the better. The safer.

  Once inside the chamber Victoria closed the door, remembering last time when Max had sneaked up on her. After lighting a lamp on the table, she pulled the leather thong out of her pocket, the pendant dangling, jet black streaked with dark blue.

  The shard she’d found still lay on the long, scarred wooden table where she’d left it. It didn’t appear to have even been moved, and for some reason that knowledge eased the deep-seated worry that had niggled at her since she’d awakened from her dream. The shard was safe, and now its smaller counterpart would be as well.

  When she dropped the leather necklace onto the table, the two pieces of obsidian clinked dully, and a single blue spark between them startled her. A faint aroma like old smoke, blended with something putrid, reached her nose, but faded almost immediately, just as the spark died out.

  Victoria picked up the leather cord and moved the pendant so that it wasn’t touching the shard any longer. Then, gingerly, she reached out to feel the bigger piece of obsidian. A sharp tingle zipped up her arm, blushing over her shoulder.

  The feeling was similar to the sensation she experienced when she’d touched the smaller piece, but this was stronger, strong enough that she yanked her hand away. And she stared at the large splinter, sitting there like a chunk of black glass.

  The shard looked like a weapon she would carry; it was ironic that the obsidian piece that exuded such malevolence was the same shape and size of an ash stake she’d use to destroy evil.<
br />
  Of course, the source of this evil, Akvan, was not a vampire. Despite the fact that all demons—whether they be fallen angels from ages and ages ago, or half-human demons called vampires—came from Lucifer, they lived and died in different ways. Still, it was interesting that this particular piece could easily be carried as a Venator’s weapon.

  What would happen if she did pick it up and use it as a stake? What would be the result of slamming this obsidian pike into a vampire’s chest? Or Akvan’s, for that matter?

  Victoria smoothed her hand over the glasslike weapon, noticing that the tingle had lessened. There were no further sparks, but the shard was warm. Just slightly.

  But perhaps that was from the friction and heat of her fingers.

  She wondered, suddenly whether this was what Akvan had wanted from her. This shard. This piece of his power.

  A piece of the power that had called him back to earth.

  It was possible, likely, even. If he wanted the shard back, what better way than to send his minions after her?

  First he’d sent Sara Regalado and her cohorts to lure her to the graveyard that night. They hadn’t tried to hurt Victoria, only to capture her. Perhaps they’d planned to bring her back to the villa, to Akvan, where he could demand that she produce the shard.

  But how did he know she had it?

  No one but Wayren, Ilias, and Ylito knew she’d found it. Even Max was unaware.

  No one else except—

  Victoria felt cold; then a blast of angry heat shuddered over her.

  Sebastian knew.

  Sebastian had seen her holding the shard when they escaped from the burning opera theater on the night of Aunt Eustacia’s death.

  She stood abruptly, automatically feeling for the stake under her gown.

  The sun would have gone down by now, and she would take herself out onto the street to hunt down someone who could bring a message to Beauregard or Sebastian. Or she would go herself.