Bleeding Dusk gvc-3

by Колин Глисон

  Victoria had started to walk into the brush but at his words she stopped and turned back. Max loomed over her, nearly on her heels. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about Sebastian?”

  He raised one dark eyebrow. “About…Sebastian? He’s not generally my preferred topic of conversation.”

  “He’s a Venator. You never told me.”

  Again that supercilious brow. “What difference does it make? He might have the blood of the Gardellas, might even be called to the duty…but he chooses to ignore it. He’s worth little of my thought or concern.”

  “He saved your life.”

  “For which I am eternally grateful.” The bitterness in his voice belied that statement. “He could have saved many other lives if he’d taken his rightful place in the Consilium.”

  “He still wears the vis bulla,” she said.

  Now both brows rose, and she felt her cheeks warm at the knowing expression there. “Ah. That explains your delay in taking the shards from the Consilium. You were otherwise…engaged.”

  She held her breath to force away the blush. There was no reason for her to play the modest miss with him; he already knew she and Sebastian had been lovers. “And so I was. But I’m here now.”

  Max looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable. Then his lips quirked in a hard smile. “So it is to be Sebastian. Have you left Zavier intact, or are there pieces to pick up there too?”

  Victoria couldn’t feign a cool response to that, remembering the anger and pain on the Scotsman’s face. Nevertheless, she lifted her chin, shoving her hands restlessly into the two side pockets of her coat. She wished suddenly for an undead to appear so she could stake it. Do something other than stand face-to-face with the man who bloody always seemed to be right.

  “I warned you,” Max said, correctly interpreting her silence. “And who will it be next, Victoria? Surely you won’t destroy your entire army of Venators, one after another, because you cannot keep your—”

  He stopped, biting the words off, and seemed to draw himself up and away from her, cloaking what had been sudden ire. “This is a waste of time. We have only a short while until sunset.”

  Brushing past her, he started off on those long legs, moving rapidly through the brush along the stone wall, leaving branches and tall grasses shivering and dripping in his wake. Droplets rained down on Victoria’s hair and arms as she turned to follow, wishing she too had a hat.

  She felt the heavy metal of her pistol and the warm sleekness of the obsidian shard in each of her pockets. The not wholly idle thought of which one would invoke the most long-lasting pain in the back of his broad shoulders entertained her as she strode after him.

  She dropped the pistol back into the depths of her pocket, but did not release the shard. It felt good in her hand, solid. Weighty. She’d never noticed how well it fit, how it seemed to mold into her palm. She’d thought before what a good weapon it would be, but had never held it long enough to really notice its strength.

  The stone warmed under her grip, and she pulled it out to admire its shiny black length. Wicked. Gleaming blue-black even in the low light of a dreary day, even in the shadows of the sprawling, unkempt gardens, it seemed to burn from within.

  Her steps slowed as she examined it, fascinated by the shimmer and shine coming from within the opaque object.

  A great weapon. Something strong sizzled along her arm from where she held it, up and along her shoulder, surprising her so that she almost dropped it.

  Sudden crashing through the brush drew her attention away from the shard. She realized why Max had stomped off as he had, and she looked up as he came back into view. He was missing his hat, and his hair dripped dark and stringy in a face shadowed by a day’s growth of beard. He looked annoyed.

  No more annoyed than she felt.

  “Victoria,” he began, and then saw what she was holding. “What—”

  But she interrupted him, stepping forward. “You’re merely jealous,” she said, stopping a short distance away, looking up into his sharp-planed face.

  “Is that so?” He stared down at her. “You think overmuch of yourself, Victoria.”

  “No woman would allow you—”

  His laugh was short and contemptuous. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve never been one to practice celibacy, forced or otherwise. I’m merely selective in choosing my…companions. You’ve seen evidence of it yourself, so how can you doubt?” Sudden as a snake, his hand shot out and closed around the wrist of her hand that held the shard.

  Victoria laughed, a deep, odd sound to her ears. “You speak of the time I saw you and Sara leaving a room, all in dishabille. I wouldn’t put it past you to have staged such a scene; you were so determined to run me off.”

  “And showing you evidence of the affection I had for my fiancée would have served to chase you away? If only it had been that simple.” He squeezed her wrist, smashing the bones horribly against one another, and pain shot through her hand. “Drop it, Victoria.”

  “Affection for Sara Regalado? You couldn’t have felt anything for her.” Her fingers were weakening under his grip, becoming numb and cold. She tried to jerk her arm away, but he moved too quickly and caught at her wrist with both hands. He was strong, very strong. She had two vis bullae, and she struggled against him.

  “I’ll break your arm if need be. Release it.”

  “You’d do it, too,” she spat, anger blazing through her.

  “I would.” He tightened his grip, his face, his tall body much too close to hers, his eyes dark and intense, his mouth determined. “Let it go, Victoria.”

  With a groan she allowed her screaming fingers to open, and the heavy shard tumbled from her hand. It thunked to the ground, landing next to her foot, and before she could reach down to pick it up, Max kicked it out of her reach.

  Still holding her wrist, he drew her back up to look at him, grasping her other shoulder so he could glare down into her face. He gave her a little shake, his fingers so tight she could feel them through the heavy wool coat as they bit into her skin.

  Though she had dropped the shard, her hand still felt its warmth, and a faint tingle still sputtered along her arm and through her body. She looked up into his eyes, and again she knew just what to say to goad him.

  “Are you going to kiss me now?” she asked boldly. He released her with a little shove that pushed her a step back into the branch of a tree, sending a little scatter of drops down the back of her coat’s collar.

  “I prefer not to be one in a long line.”

  “What are you afraid of, Max?”

  Then he smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile at all, but it matched the same unpleasant feeling that was skittering through her. “So you want me to kiss you, do you, Victoria?”

  His expression made her want to take a step back, but she stood firm. “Why not?”

  The warmth from the shard had eased from her hand, and her fingers felt cold. He moved closer, and she felt the brush of ivy leaves that clung to the wall behind her.

  “Why not…indeed.”

  As he loomed over her, powerful and tall and so close, Victoria’s heart began to pound as if it were trying to burst from her ribs. Her lungs were so tight in her chest it seemed she could barely draw in a breath, but when she did she brought in the smell of Max—his damp wool coat, the faint smell of wine, and whatever it was that made him who he was.

  She felt the brush of the stones behind her, her fingers pushing back into the wall as if to help keep her steady.

  Then, hands planted on either side of her head, far enough away that they didn’t touch her, he bent forward, his dark head filling all of her sight before her eyes closed and his lips covered hers.

  Max kissed like he did everything else: with arrogance, grace, and consummate skill.

  He wasn’t the least bit tentative. There was no light brushing of mouth to mouth as if to test the waters, to sample her taste, or to allow her to twist away if she should have changed her mind.

  Nor
was it a plunder, the staking of a claim, a long-withheld passion released.

  It was…it was Max. Just Max.

  He was strong and sensual and very thorough. If she’d ever thought of his lips as stubborn or harsh, that thought was eliminated as their mouths fit together, drew apart, and parted in a sleek, choreographed motion, again and again, until it was all one smooth, slick spiral, curling down into the pit of her belly and beyond.

  Her fingers were digging into the wet, dirty wall, and she let her trembling knees relax enough so she could sag gently back against it to keep her balance. Even so, there was still space between them; she sensed the warmth of his nearness in the chill afternoon, but touched nothing but his mouth matching and meeting hers.

  When he at last pulled away with a long, gentle nibble at the corner of her lower lip, his nose brushing her cheek, she let her head tip back and felt the wetness of the leaves seep into her hair. Max shifted, his breath warm against her temple as he bent toward her again.

  “Now that your curiosity is assuaged,” he murmured, “can we get on with our task?”

  And with that he pushed away from the wall, away from her, and, presenting her with his back, crouched to pick up the forgotten shard. He had it up and quickly in his pocket before Victoria had quite caught her breath or thought to demand the splinter back.

  Her fingers trembled and her knees were wobbly, but she propelled herself away from the wall before he stood—or turned to see the dazed look on her face.

  But she needn’t have worried; he barely glanced at her before making that sharp Max gesture that told her to follow him. “We’ve wasted enough time. It’s getting close to sunset,” he tossed over his shoulder as he started off again along the stone wall.

  The same stone wall of which there were now little bits of mortar wedged beneath her fingernails.

  Sixteen

  In Which Lady Melly’s Courtship Takes on a New Twist

  The Conte Regalado, or Alberto, as he’d insisted she call him, was the most charming man Lady Melisande Grantworth had had the pleasure to meet. Or be courted by.

  And she was indeed being courted by the bald but dapper Italian count.

  The first time she’d met him, when he had found her and Winnie and Nilly in the depths of that spooky old villa, he’d been gallant and gracious—and even though he hadn’t actually taken them to find the treasure and had disappeared most inexplicably, he’d still been intriguing and kind.

  And well turned. Indeed, perfectly groomed, with his small, trimmed black mustache and the briefest of beards. His clothing was expensive and fashionable, he wasn’t too tall, and best of all, he had a lovely accent.

  Then, of course, there was the day following the treasure hunt at the Villa Palombara, when, instead of calling on her, he’d only sent flowers…that had had her sniffing in disdain. The men in London had done the same; even Jellington had thought to woo her interests by plying her with flowers and jewels and the like.

  But Lady Melly desired much more than cold fripperies and greenery that would die after a day or two in a vase. She wanted companionship, and wit, and above all, a man who worshiped her.

  “He should be here any moment.” Nilly squealed, her pale face flushed with excitement. She was peering out the window of Melly’s dressing room from between lacy curtains, watching the street below for a sign of the conte’s barouche as her friend was putting the final touches on her toilette.

  “I cannot imagine where he is going to take you on such a horrific afternoon. Why, there isn’t a sunbeam to be seen, and the air is positively gray with rain,” Winnie said disdainfully from her chair in the corner. “Your hair will be droopy, and those bonnet feathers! They’ll be plastered to your head before you climb into his carriage.”

  “The Conte Regalado offered to drive me to see the Colosseum, and perhaps to Janiculum Hill. I am certain, though we might be a bit chilly, that we shan’t be wet at all.”

  “The conte? I thought you were to call him Alberrrrto.” Winnie sniffed, but a smile hovered about her lips.

  “Alberto, then.” But Melly smiled at the mirror, admiring her dimples as well as the slight pink to her cheeks.

  “He’s here!”

  Winnie hauled herself to her feet and lumbered to the window. “Indeed, he is, dressed as though he were going to the theater. Well, I hope you shall return before supper tonight so that we can hear all of the details before bedtime.”

  “And I,” said Melly, flouncing toward the door as if she were once again a young debutante, “hope I don’t.” She paused to look back at them. “After all, I am a widow, we aren’t in London, and he is…very handsome. Perhaps we shall take an extended drive.”

  Nilly squealed again, but this time with disappointment. “Don’t frighten him away, Melly!”

  Winnie laughed. “The poor man hasn’t a chance with our Melly on his trail,” she said fondly, watching her oldest and dearest friend sweep down the stairs with more energy than she herself had ever possessed. “I only hope this turns out better than the last matchmaking she did—with Victoria and Rockley.”

  Nilly nodded. “But of course it will.”

  The two ladies were beginning to make their way down the stairs to the parlor when Victoria’s maid—the one with the unfortunate bushy orange hair—appeared.

  “Excuse me, madam. Your Grace,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.

  Startled that she should have spoken to them, the two women swiveled their heads in unison.

  “Yes?” asked Winnie in her duchess voice, pausing on the stairs, one hand clutching the handrail.

  “I don’ mean to interrupt,” said the maid with a bit less deference than Winnie would have expected. “But…did ye say that Lady Melly was going with a conte?” Regalado’s title came out sounding like “con-tayy,” but Winnie knew what the bold-faced girl meant.

  “Yes.” Again the imperious duchess tone.

  “Oh, dear…the Conte Reg’lado?”

  “Yes!” Winnie was becoming impatient. “If you have something to say, spit it out. I cannot stand here all the day long. It’s nearly time for tea.”

  “Oh…Your Grace…Lady Melly is in grave danger.” The maid’s eyes were sparkling blue, and her round cheeks were flushed pink.

  “Why, what do you mean?” Nilly spoke at last in a soft little sort of gasp.

  “The Contay Reg’lado…why, we must help my lady!” As if suddenly galvanized into action, she whirled, starting down the hall in the opposite direction.

  Lady Winnie’s imperative voice stopped her. “Young miss, I daresay you’d best not run off without telling us exactly of what you’re speaking!”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Your Grace, but milady’s in great danger, an’ we have to help her,” she said over her shoulder, then opened the door to Victoria’s bedchamber and dressing room. She disappeared inside, disregarding the other women.

  “Danger? From what?” Winnie didn’t want to believe the little maid, but when she came back out of Victoria’s bedchamber holding something that looked like a wooden stake, her heart nearly stopped.

  “What are you doing with that?” asked Nilly faintly.

  The maid was slipping on a large silver cross. “I’m goin’ vampire huntin’.”

  Zavier waited in the heavy afternoon drizzle, a hat he would normally disdain tipped low over his face to keep the rain from getting in his eyes. The chankin and wet didn’t bother him at all; growing up in the Highlands, he’d had enough of it so that he’d become immune. The hat, something with a curling brim a London numpty would wear to protect his sensitive skin, served another purpose altogether: to keep his face from being seen.

  He wasn’t certain how long he’d have to wait. Despite the miserable weather, his worst discomfort came from the memories that plagued him, since he had nothing to do but think about things as he stood there, tucked into a nook between two narrow plastered buildings.

  The carnage was bad enough…the image of Mansur sprawled on the
brown grass, drenched in his dark blood, made Zavier’s own blood churn and his stomach swish as though he were drunk from too much whiskey.

  A waste. A fagging bloody waste.

  And a betrayal.

  Victoria wasn’t seeing clearly. She couldn’t be. She wasn’t weak like that, and Zavier wasn’t about to watch her tumble further. Aye, she’d hurt him; he could accept that, though it still burned his gut. But he couldn’t accept that it had been with the arse-dicht Vioget. The boughin’ bastard who couldn’t dirty his hands enough to fight with his kin. Unbelievably, apparently, he was a Gardella too, from somewhere back in the ages of his family. They all were.

  How could he have turned his back on them?

  The arse-dicht and Victoria had been locked away for too long in the same small chamber where Vioget had been held during the battle outside Santo Quirinus. They’d been in there so long it made Zavier’s fingers tighten into one another, his short, blunt nails creasing his leathery palms.

  He didn’t want to think about the boseying that was going on in there. But he couldn’t help it.

  It made his head spin as if he were rubbered.

  So he took himself outside and waited in the rain, and hoped for it to help make him a bit steadier.

  But the anger built inside, simmered, sometimes roaring into his ears as he remembered the deaths last night, the intimacy and the expression he saw on her face when she was with Vioget. The Venator betrayer.

  He didn’t believe Wayren when she said he wasn’t the cause of the attack. How else could it have happened?

  It was well nigh onto noon when Zavier sighted his quarry. He waited until he walked past, head foolishly bent against the rain so that he didn’t notice when Zavier slipped from the corner of a building to follow.

  Fool.

  Perhaps it was best that he’d stayed away from the Venators if he was that careless.

  Zavier stayed in the distance behind him, considering his options. He knew little about Vioget, but what he did know was enough to identify the influence behind the bastard and his defection: the legendary Beauregard.