Bleeding Dusk gvc-3

by Колин Глисон

  “Well, then, if that is the case, let us get to business. I trust you’re aware that I’ve returned your possession, and thus you’ve come to return that which is mine.”

  “I have your copper armband, if that’s what you mean,” she replied. “But you’ve yet to return that which you took from me.”

  “Did he not make his way back? I do hope Gardriel and Hugh weren’t too rough with him.”

  He? Then, with a cool rush of understanding, she realized that Beauregard didn’t have the splinter necklace she’d lost, but that he’d been referring to Zavier all along. Or what was left of him. What had happened to Zavier had been purposeful and malevolent violence meant to send her a message.

  Her head pounded as anger surged anew, setting her fingers to trembling in her effort to keep from attacking now.

  Victoria drew in a steady breath and glanced at Sebastian, who was watching them sharply. She had no illusions about which side he would take…and she was glad she had a gun.

  “He must have been in no condition to tell you how to find us then,” Beauregard was saying. He’d stepped from behind the table and moved casually toward her, the piece of paper they’d been examining curling in his hand. “So you came upon us quite by accident.”

  Victoria’s attention was caught, no doubt as he’d intended, by the piece of parchment he gently wafted against his leg. It reminded her of the journal Max had taken from the laboratory at Villa Palombara.

  The journal that had been taken back to the Consilium.

  Her attention flew to Sebastian, and their eyes met.

  “Let me see that paper.”

  The alacrity with which Beauregard proffered it to her confirmed her suspicions before she even glanced at it, but she did take a moment to examine the single page. Then she looked back at Sebastian. “A coward and a thief.”

  He met her gaze boldly, and for that she had to give him credit. But that was all.

  “It was a necessity, Victoria. A matter of life and death.”

  “Damn you, and your excuses,” she said, the darkness of anger closing in on the edges of her vision. She’d actually begun to trust him, to believe in him. To let him close. “Damn you, and your grandfather too, Sebastian Vioget.” She turned to Beauregard. “And you nearly killed Zavier—merely to turn my attention away, so you could send your grandson to do your dirty work.”

  Beauregard smiled at her. “By the devil, you’re quick, my dear. Quick to understand, quick to judge, quick to blame. And quite appetizing when you’re angry.”

  She raised her stake, flying across the room at him, no longer willing to restrain herself.

  “Victoria, no!” Sebastian leaped between them, and her stake slammed into his shoulder. It was much more difficult driving it into mortal flesh than a vampire’s heart; she felt the unpleasant give as it pierced skin and muscle. “Don’t do it,” he said, gasping in surprise, his fingers closing over her arm to propel her away. “He wants—”

  “Get away,” she said. He grunted as she pulled out the stake. Blood colored its tip and seeped quickly through his shirt, an unfamiliar sight. There wasn’t supposed to be blood.

  But she couldn’t let that stop her now. She pushed at Sebastian with all of her strength, sending him stumbling backward as he reached again for her.

  “Victoria, don’t,” he said again, coming toward her, the bloodstain blossoming on his shirt. “He wants to fight you. He wants to come between us.”

  She turned to look at him, empty and angry and determined. “Either get out of my sight or you’ll go with him. I’m through with your games and lies.”

  She turned back to Beauregard, who was watching them with a half smile and a glint in his gaze. “Do you really want him gone?” he asked.

  “What I want is you dead.”

  “But you forget, I am already dead these last six hundred years.” He lifted his hand in a nonchalant gesture, his eyes turning pink. “Begone, Sebastian.”

  “No.” He moved like a large cat. He carried no weapon, nothing but himself, and stood solidly between them.

  Victoria looked at him, scanning his pale face, the determined look in his eyes, the dark patch spreading beneath his left collarbone, seeing that his breathing was faster than it should be. Still handsome as sin, still appealing, still able to tug at her because of all they’d shared. Thank God he wasn’t a vampire with the strength of the thrall behind him too. “You stole from us. You betrayed us, Sebastian. I don’t…want…to…see…you.”

  Beauregard had moved away toward the wall behind his desk as Victoria and Sebastian faced each other. She heard a faint, low sound in the distance.

  “You’ve chosen, Sebastian,” she told him. “You made your final choice when you did this—sneaking in while we worried over Zavier, while Max was—” She stopped herself. “It was your choice. Now get out of my way so I can finish this.”

  The large door burst open and four massive vampires—three men and a woman—surged in. Victoria spun to face them, her heart knocking suddenly harder and faster. The stake was in her hand, but it would be a tough battle. She crouched, ready.

  Sebastian had turned too, also taking a defensive stance, but he kept talking to her. “Victoria, the armban—”

  His words gasped away as the first of the undead slammed a fist into his gut, and a second came from the other side and threw him to the floor as he spun to defend himself. Instinctively Victoria raised her stake, but a strong hand grasped it from behind, holding her wrist aloft, sliding an arm around her waist, and squeezing her so that her breath was caught. She struggled, kicking backward, watching Sebastian rise to his feet, only to be knocked back down by a boot to the jaw. On a normal man the blow would have cracked the bone. Another vampire dragged him back to his feet, and Sebastian managed a well-placed punch, but he had no weapon with which to stop them.

  “You said you wanted him out of the way,” Beauregard said in her ear.

  Victoria slammed her head back and felt it crash into Beauregard’s nose, at the same time trying to twist away from his strong grip. But he held on tightly and slipped his other hand around the front of her throat, pulling her back against him.

  The hand tightened, cutting off her air, sending her struggling in his arms, stomping her foot down, slamming back with her free hand to jab her elbow into him, kicking, trying to breathe….

  And then suddenly she was released with such force that she stumbled against a chair; then her hand clashed onto the keys of the harpsichord. She turned in time to see the door close, leaving the room silent but for the last echoes of discordant notes.

  Silent, but not empty.

  Her neck was cold; her fingers were trembling. “After all he’s done for you?” she said in a shaking voice that she abhorred.

  Beauregard, who bent to pick up the paper she’d dropped, placed it on the table and looked at her. “Is it not what you expected from me? No loyalty? Manipulation? Where do you think Sebastian learned it?”

  “You wouldn’t kill him. He’s worth too much to you.”

  Beauregard looked horrified. “Kill him? Of course not. I merely assisted him in complying with your wishes. You should be grateful, for now we can converse without his interference. Now, shall we get to business? You were going to kill me. Or attempt to.” He looked pointedly at the stake that had fallen from her hand and rolled across the floor. “But I think that will have to wait. You have something of mine.”

  “And you have something of mine.” She would play his game for the moment. Until she had the chance to cut the bastard’s head off.

  “It was only one page,” he said, lifting the paper from the desk. “And you mustn’t blame Sebastian. The man would do anything for me—loyalty is his great flaw, much as I’ve tried to teach him otherwise. But I’m all he has, and he just cannot abide the thought of me burning in the fires of Hell for all eternity.” Beauregard gave a genteel shudder. “It’s not a particularly pleasant thought to me either. And so when at last the d
oor to Palombara’s laboratory was reopened, I was understandably interested in obtaining not only my missing armband, but also this particular page.”

  “So, will you tell me what is so important about that page?” Victoria kept her tone easy, unconcerned, even as she divided her attention between the details of the room, any potential weapons, and the undead himself.

  His eyes were pink when they looked at her, and she turned her gaze firmly away.

  “I think you can guess, if you put your mind to it.” His voice was soft and seductive, and she felt the tendrils of his thrall reach out gently and brush over her skin as if he’d actually touched her.

  “It’s a plant. It must have something to do with your immortality…or your destroyed soul, if Sebastian was willing to help,” Victoria replied. She heard her voice as though it were in a tunnel, far away and hollow, and she blinked and took a step. Her fogged ears cleared, and she felt steadier.

  She couldn’t forget the image of blood soaking Sebastian’s shirt. Blood she’d drawn.

  “It’s a very useful flower,” Beauregard told her, “to the undead, in particular, and, if one believes the work of the alchemist pilgrim who came to Palombara, to mortals as well. But it grows rarely only once or twice per century. I needed the page to identify it, for this year is a year it’s expected to bloom. And with your aunt’s death, I knew the key to the workshop would be more readily available.”

  He smiled. “You must appreciate my brilliance. It was my intent all the while to divert your attention to Akvan as he and his worthless followers tried to find the keys. I made sure he knew about the journals and about the keys, and I even made certain the key Palombara had kept—which I, of course, had stolen from him that last night—was found by one of Akvan’s servants. I knew once the door was opened I could retrieve my armband—one way or the other.”

  Victoria kept her gaze far away from him and his pink eyes. She moved so that the desk remained between them and she was a good distance away. She wasn’t frightened; she’d been in worse situations before, much more overmatched. But if he called for help again, as he’d obviously done when he moved behind his desk earlier, she would find herself in the same situation as Sebastian.

  Or worse.

  “You wanted Sebastian to steal the key, didn’t you?”

  He inclined his head. “He didn’t realize he’d actually had the key in his possession until much later, when you described it to him.”

  “But you allowed me to use it.”

  “He refused to steal it, if that is what you’re asking. But it didn’t matter to me—once you got the door open I could get what I needed. Except that you and that bloody Pesaro were too quick and he went off with it.”

  “And you actually thought that by mutilating and nearly killing one of my men that you would get what you wanted from me?”

  “You’re here, are you not?”

  She didn’t like his smile. Didn’t like the way she suddenly remembered his mouth covering hers, sucking the warm flow of blood from her lip.

  “Of course you would come to avenge your friend. Your fellow warrior. What else would you do?” he said, his voice alluring and coaxing, as if he were trying to lull her. “You are a Venator.”

  What else would you do?

  It was as if he’d read her mind and her private thoughts earlier. She was a Venator—only, wholly, and without reservation. Of course she would come to avenge the death—or near death—of one of her own.

  What else would she do?

  Nothing.

  “I want my armband.” He’d moved closer to her, and she tensed.

  “I don’t have it with me.”

  He smiled. His fangs were long and sharp and brushed his lower lip. His silvery-blond hair curled becomingly about his handsome face, and his pink eyes gleamed. “Of course you do. I can sense it.”

  She dodged and spun away, scooping her lost stake off the floor. “Come and get it.” She bared her teeth and crouched, waiting. She’d finish him now.

  He looked at her, then turned back to the desk, his back toward her.

  And that challenge, that careless dismissal, was her ultimate undoing.

  Victoria, bold and angry, ready to end the standoff, launched herself at him, stake outthrust in her hand, poised to drive it into his chest. He turned, caught her wrist, and with a snapping movement used her momentum to jerk it behind her, slamming her body full-force into his.

  He looked down at her with burning eyes, and she closed hers, turning her face away, tilting her head back, and then bashing her forehead into his chin before trying to spin away.

  He was strong, and she barely pulled free of his grip, but he was after her in an instant, grabbing at the hem of her man’s coat and hauling her back. She pulled, twisting, and its three buttons burst off, scattering to the floor. For a moment she was trapped, the sleeves capturing her hands behind her as Beauregard pulled the coat off. But she shrugged quickly out, spinning away, leaving the length of coat in his hands, and managing to keep the stake in hers.

  The sudden release sent her stumbling, but she righted herself quickly and turned back around, stake ready, pulling the crucifix she wore from beneath her bodice so that it hung in plain sight.

  He flinched when he saw her pendant, cowering back, and she jumped toward him, the blood racing through her body with the thrill of the fight. But he managed to dodge at the last minute and avoid the stake. It slammed into his shoulder in the same place she’d struck Sebastian, easily and harmlessly. Pain jarred her arm as the stake went through and into the stone floor, but Victoria recovered, finding comfort in the weight of the cross thumping freely on her bosom.

  As they faced each other, the desk between them again, she realized with a start that he still held her coat…that he was turned away from her and her necklace, fumbling with the fabric, feeling for the pockets.

  Before she could lunge toward him to rip it away, he removed his hand from the folds, holding the copper armband he sought. “Ah,” he said, still holding back, but satisfaction rang in his voice.

  Victoria somersaulted across the table, kicking him aside as she landed on the opposite end, and he pulled her to the floor with him. The cross bumped up against him, and he gasped, recoiling in pain, but held on to her nevertheless as they rolled on the floor. Then the cross slipped up and over her shoulder so that it fell behind her, out of sight.

  With a quick jerk he snapped the chain and the necklace broke at the back of her neck, leaving the cross under her as they shifted over the floor, grappling furiously with each other. His fingers closed over the wrist with the stake, squeezing, while she fought to reach the armband he held in the other hand. She didn’t know why he wanted it, but it was for nothing good.

  Their legs were tangled like lovers’, and he rose over her, hips pressing into hips, suddenly releasing the wrist and letting her plunge the stake down. Beauregard rolled away and the stake whistled past him, grazing his arm, jarring Victoria as she smashed it into the floor. Her arm was still reverberating from the blow, and she tried to flip herself away when she felt hands closing around her other wrist, pulling her back. She kicked out, but it was too late—something smooth and cool latched into place on her left wrist.

  And then a soft clink and her arm felt sluggish. She felt stopped, slowed, heavy.

  She raised the stake again, rolling toward him where he held her arm, but he caught her blow in midair and they were locked, straining, face-to-face.

  “And so it is,” he said with great satisfaction.

  Panting there next to him on the floor, she looked over at her right wrist.

  The copper armband clasped her flesh.

  “At last I have you where I want you,” he said, looking at her with glowing pink eyes.

  “No…you…don’t!” she cried, fighting to look away, whipping her stake arm about with all of her strength, struggling to snap his hold.

  They were at an impasse for a moment, hand to hand, he squeezing, sh
e fighting to drive the stake down, lying on the floor next to each other with her braceleted arm, extended by his grip, above them.

  She felt her heartbeat begin to slow to match his. Their breath mingled, and everything seemed to ebb into a fog, or an underwater, slow-moving world. The copper on her arm felt warm, as if its weight burned into her flesh, and she couldn’t move it without dragging his hand with it. The relentless pressure on her other wrist had numbed her fingers as he fought to loose the deadly weapon.

  With a last scream of exertion she bucked her whole body and pulled her arm free, the stake slipping from her numb fingers as her hand slammed harmlessly onto his chest. She heard the stake rattle to the floor, the dull sound as it rolled away, somehow so loud in her ears that it drowned out everything.

  “Now…at last…” Beauregard said, yanking her closer. His pink eyes captured her, and she couldn’t breathe. His face moved closer, blocking out her view as she struggled to break free of the thrall…of his hold…of the sluggish, wanton feeling that moved through her.

  He bent toward her, his mouth closer, darkening her vision as she lost her own breath and her heartbeat became one with his.

  Twenty-One

  In Which Max Befuddles a Contrary Demon

  Akvan was just as Wayren had described him: ungainly, horned, and tailed. His body was a solid trunk with thick arms and legs, both of which ended in curved claws. His face was jowled and porcine, with tiny eyes, puffy cheeks, and a large pug nose. Fangs protruded from his mouth like small tusks, and his skin had a bluish cast.

  The stench of rank evil hung in the air as Max was ushered fully into the room where the demon was holding court. The room was large and simply furnished. Perhaps ten people were standing about, clustered loosely in front of a low dais on which the demon sat. Max couldn’t identify exactly which ones were vampires any longer, but he recognized some of those present as members of the Tutela, and knew that there had to be at least a few undead among them.