by Колин Глисон
"And I have never truly forgotten the young man who rode with such carefree abandon in a manner that I only dreamed of doing. I envied you that. And I can hardly comprehend that you are the same boy that I knew for a few weeks! The marquess's son—I would never have known it."
He smiled down at her, and warmth returned to her face. "Someday, perhaps we will ride together, Miss Grantworth. And you can try your hand at leaping over fences and bounding across fields. I promise, I will tell no one."
"And that is a promise on which I will hold you to your gentlemanly word."
When they finished dancing, Lord Rockley returned her to her mother and Lady Winnie. "I am rather thirsty; perhaps you are as well. May I provide you with some lemonade, Miss Grantworth? And, of course, Lady Melisande and Your Grace?"
"Oh, do not trouble yourself, Lord Rockley," Victoria's mother warbled. "But I am sure Victoria would love something to drink."
Victoria gave Lord Rockley a surreptitious wink, but slipped her hand from his grasp. "I'm sorry, my lord, but I see my next dancing partner approaching. Perhaps you will be thirsty later?"
"Of course, my lady. I'm certain I'll have a thirst for the remainder of the evening." His eyelids swept to half-mast and he gave her a meaningful smile as he captured her gloved hand and lifted it to his lips.
Lord Stackley was Victoria's partner for the quadrille, and he led her through the paces with alacrity, if not with skill. Despite the fact that he stepped squarely on her feet twice during the first set with all of his solid weight, Victoria barely noticed. The vis bulla was not only good for fighting vampires… it was protection against clumsy gentlemen!
After Lord Stackley, she danced with Baron Ledbetter. Another quadrille. And then with Lady Gwendolyn's eldest brother, Lord Starcasset, Viscount Claythorne.
But it was during another waltz, with the tall and gangly Baron Truscott, that Victoria felt a familiar chill lift the hair at the back of her neck. Until that moment she had almost forgotten the fact that there were things to worry about other than whether her toes would be mangled before the night was over.
As Truscott spun her around, not nearly as elegantly as had Rockley, but with some efficiency, Victoria scanned the dancers and the others in the room. She would not make the same mistake as before, assuming the predator was the one who looked most like she'd expected a vampire to look: tall, dark, and arrogant.
After a moment she was fairly certain that a man with brown hair and a rather hooked nose, who stood with a young woman she didn't recognize, was the vampire whose presence she'd felt. She kept one eye focused on the couple as Truscott managed their way betwixt and between the other dancers. As long as they remained in the room, the young woman was safe. It would give Victoria time to extricate herself from Truscott and figure out a way to get the vampire alone.
She couldn't exactly stake him in the middle of the ball.
It was a curious thing: Vampires were not allowed to enter the home of someone who hadn't invited them, or someone acting for the owner of the home. Gatherings such as this ball at the Dunstead home were by invitation, and only to the members of the ton, of course. So how did a vampire manage to get himself or herself into the ball?
She supposed it was due to the comings and goings of servants and staff, and the masses of people invited to events such as this. There were many ways to be "invited" into a home… for something as simple as delivering a bouquet of flowers or the side of beef to be served for dinner. And once the invitation was extended, it was permanent as long as the homeowner did not change.
Victoria was thankful when the dance ended, but dismayed when Truscott manipulated their exit from the dance floor to be near the tables filled with drinks and cakes… completely across the room from where the vampire stood, watching.
Watching her.
Victoria realized with a start that his cold eyes had focused on her. Unblinking. Tugging at her from across the room.
He curled one side of his mouth in a half smile, still staring at her. A little nod. And then he slipped his arm around the woman next to him and began to lead her away.
A challenge.
If the chill on the back of her neck had merely raised her nape hair, it was now standing straight up. And ice was forming.
"Lord Truscott, I must excuse myself," Victoria said quickly, pulling her arm from his grasp and ignoring the glass of lemonade he was offering her. "I… I believe my gown has a loose ribbon, and I must… see to it."
"But Miss Grantworth—"
"Please excuse me." She slipped away, hurrying as quickly as she could without drawing attention to herself as she pushed through people edging the dance floor. It would be faster to move through the dancing couples, but that would only cause a stir. Pray God her mother or her two cronies didn't see her!
She kept her eye on the vampire's dark head, which was more difficult than when she'd been stalking Maximilian, for this man was only average height, and got lost among some of the other partygoers. The couple walked through an alcove, strolling at a comfortable pace, and turned down what appeared to be a hallway.
Victoria's skirts wrapped around her ankles, and would have been flapping if they'd been made of something heavier than light chiffon. Bending quickly, she slipped her hand under the hem of her skirt and pulled the narrow wooden pike from its garter on her calf.
The stake felt solid and comfortable in her hand. This one was more slender than the one she'd used to stake the vampire at her own coming-out party, but according to Aunt Eustacia, was just as potent as the thicker one. The trick was, she had told her, to find a stake that was light enough to carry and hide easily, but strong enough that it wouldn't break when being stabbed into the vampire's breastbone.
Victoria hurried along the hallway, listening with her ears and her instincts. She wasn't sure which room they had disappeared into… but when the ice at the back of her neck became almost painful in its intensity, she paused outside an ajar door.
He would be expecting her; but stealth wasn't as imperative as skill and cunning. Could he sense her in the same way she could sense him? He must, or how else would he have known her?
She toed the door open and waited. From her vantage point in the hallway, near the wall, she could see into the chamber. It appeared to be a den. A fire burned across the way, and several large sofas flanked a red-and-orange Persian rug. A glimmer of movement caught her eye, and she watched as the faint shadow shifted.
Was the shadow the vampire… or his victim, acting as a lure?
The vampire could be hiding behind the door, waiting for Victoria.
She knew how to solve that. She kicked the door hard, and it swung open, slamming into the wall behind it and leaving the entire expanse of the room to her view.
"Ah. I see you have found us."
The woman sat on one of the settees, and the vampire stood menacingly behind her. Victoria's heart thumped. Here she was, face-to-face with an undead. No advantage of surprise—and the additional problem of a victim.
Then she heard footsteps hurrying down the long hallway. And her name, called low, with urgency. "Miss Grantworth?"
Good gad. Rockley!
She leaped into the room and slammed the door shut, keeping her attention on the vampire, and her fingers wrapped around her stake. Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath as Kritanu had taught her, she froze in an offensive stance and looked at the vampire.
"Release her," she said, gesturing with her head toward the woman, who'd not moved one whit. Scared stiff, she was.
"I think not," the man purred. He stepped from around the settee and Victoria suddenly, fully understood what Aunt Eustacia meant when she spoke of the allure of the vampire. It crackled in the room, this awareness she felt, an inexorable drawing toward him. As if he held her strings in his hands and was tugging ever so gently.
Without conscious thought, she dropped her hand to her belly and touched the vis bulla through the froth of her skirts. The headiness lessened. Her f
ingers gripped the stake. He stepped closer.
His eyes, still normal, but gleaming with a fierceness she'd seen only once—in the gaze of a mad dog that had had to be shot—never left hers. A smile curled his mouth.
"So you are the one. A woman Venator."
"You seem to have the advantage of me," she replied coolly. "But that's no matter, as you won't be around long enough to enjoy it."
A low laugh issued from his mouth, and she saw the gleam of fangs. His eyes narrowed, the pupils pinpointing and the irises burning pale pink, then delicate ruby red.
"I've never had the taste of a Venator before. I'm sure it will be most fulfilling. Quite delectable."
Without warning he launched himself toward her, moving with such lightning speed that it seemed as if he'd flown on a breath. His hands closed over her shoulders, taking her by surprise. She dropped the stake, and he laughed when it fell onto his boots. His grip was painful, his sharp nails digging into the soft parts of her shoulders as she struggled against the agony and the fear.
Before you, there have been only three other female Venators in the last century of battle against Lilith. Two of them died hideous deaths shortly after they were inducted into the Legacy and received their vis bullae.
She was damned if she was going to give Max the satisfaction of being the third.
Victoria tipped her head back, then slammed her forehead into the face of the vampire, thanking Kritanu for making her practice this move so many times. She felt the squash of his hooked nose giving way beneath the onslaught, and his reaction to the pain allowed her to jerk from his grip. She lunged to the ground and closed her fingers around the smooth ash stick, but before she could rise, he recovered and sent her sprawling.
Frothy pink skirts wrapped around her legs as she rolled onto her back; then they slid back like skates on ice as she drew her knees to her chest and kicked out with both feet. She caught him in the chest as he rounded on her, and propelled him away into a small table. The table fell over, scattering its contents over the rug. The vampire landed on the floor and she followed him, rolling after him on the rough Persian rug, stake at the ready.
She was just about to plunge it into his chest when something wrapped around her neck from behind: a strong, slender arm, ending in a white glove. Skirts of blue—a color that did not match Victoria's dress—tangled around her feet.
As the arm pulled on her, Victoria slammed her head back, cracking into the woman's face. But the male vampire was reaching for her shoulders again, yanking her down toward his bared teeth.
She kicked out with her feet, blindly, not in the measured way Kritanu had taught her, and felt panic begin to clamp her chest. Two of them! She'd been fooled again!
She felt his hot breath on her neck, felt the tug of his calling, the promise that if she would just relax… just let go… there would be no pain, only pleasure. Ecstasy. Release.
His breath hypnotized her; his burning eyes scored into her, promising.
She vaguely felt a movement behind her, and then the jolt as he pushed someone away, growling in anger. The woman, she thought in the back of her mind. He wants me for himself.
The smooth wood slipped from her fingers. He breathed again, drawing in her strength. Her head swam.
She closed her eyes.
Chapter Four
The Marquess's Thirst Remains Unquenched
Maximilian brushed past the butler, who would have announced him if given the chance, and hurried down the wide, sweeping staircase at the Dunstead home.
Two Guardian vampires on the loose and here he was, chasing down a novice Venator who was more concerned with filling her dance card and juggling beaux than wielding a stake. Only the slight chance that the vampires might find her first had convinced him that he must notify Miss Grantworth by tracking her down at a bloody dance.
A quick scan around the crushed ballroom told him she was not attempting that ridiculous waltz. The back of his neck remained neutral: no vampires in the vicinity. Frowning, Max pushed around a cluster of tittering debutantes who gawked at him from behind fans in every shade of pink. He flung them a glower meant to send them cowering, but more than one of them looked at him with promise in her eyes and a pout on her lips.
Blasted English twits. Nary a thought in their minds but what was in a man's purse or his pants. Or both. No wonder so many of them were targets of vampires. Easy marks.
Max pushed through the room. He had the urge to leave, to get back on the street and track down the Guardians, but he also had to report to Eustacia that he'd first done his best to locate Victoria. He'd make his way through the entire perimeter of the room, perhaps stick his head out onto the terrace, as it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the virginal Miss Grantworth had found an excuse to walk in the moonlight… and then he'd leave.
He'd made his circuit and seen nothing of his quarry, and was just about to slip out onto the terrace when he felt the barest coolness on the back of his neck. Max stopped. The chill was faint, just barely there; but since there was no draft and his nape was thoroughly covered with a healthy mass of hair, there was no mistaking it. He looked around, scanning the room again, and then down the hallway that stretched away up five steps. There.
He bounded up the steps and started down the hall that made an ell turn after only three doors. The hair on the back of his neck was standing now, and at least he knew he was on the trail. The fact that Victoria was missing from the ballroom intensified his urgency; she was either with the vampire—or vampires—or outside kissing one of her beaux. Either way, Max would have to handle the problem.
A novice Venator was no match for a Guardian vampire; God help her if she was battling both of them.
As he hurried down the hall, he saw one of the English fops Victoria had been swooning over at her ball.
"Miss Grantworth?" the man called, tentatively opening one of the doors.
Either he had an assignation with the girl or he was chasing her on her assignation. Regardless, Max had to get rid of him, for it was now obvious that Victoria was in this proximity.
"Are you perchance looking for Miss Victoria Grantworth?" asked Max pleasantly, belying his urgency. His nape was positively icy.
The man—the Marquess of Rockford or something of that nature—straightened as if caught with his hand down a lady's bodice. "Indeed I am." He looked at Max with a hint of challenge in his deep-set eyes.
"I believe I just saw her walking that way… She appeared to be returning to the dance," Max told him. The last thing they needed was an interfering hero type, which was exactly what the Marquess of Wherever appeared to be. "She looked to be making much haste."
The marquess measured him, then gave a brief nod. "My thanks to you, sir."
Max barely waited until the man had passed him before hurrying off down the hall. His instincts pushed him on and he knew when he found the right door.
Flinging it open, he rushed in, pulling a stake from his pocket.
He was just in time to see a vampire poof into dust across the room; but he had no chance to take in the details, for a second Guardian had turned as he burst in and flew toward him with instantaneous speed. He stopped her in midleap with a stake to the chest, and she was gone.
Shutting the door behind him, for it had all happened so quickly he'd left it wide-open, he stepped in and surveyed the scene.
Victoria was in a tumble of skirts on the floor; but she was pulling herself to her feet by the time he took two steps. Her curling black hair was still anchored high at the back of her head, intertwined with some fripperies that appeared to glint when she moved. One thick corkscrew had escaped and fell over a white shoulder. The delicate fabric of her skirts was crinkled beyond repair, and her fair English skin cast a paler glow than usual.
"Maximilian," she said, standing straight, holding on to the back of a settee. He noticed that her hand trembled ever so slightly as she pushed away a loose black wave that dipped over her eye. "How fortuitous that
you should arrive just in time to see my great escape. Or"—she lowered her chin and looked at him from under her lashes—"was it that you came to rescue me? Sir Stakes-a-Lot saving the helpless damsel?"
She was white. And the faint quaver in her voice gave away her strain. And… "Bloody hell!" Max was at her side, roughly pushing away the errant black curl that hid… "You've been bitten!"
"Ouch!" She jerked away, still clutching the settee. "I'm well aware of that… and it hurts, so don't touch it!"
Maximilian ignored her and pulled her toward one of the gas lamps so he could get a better look. "He didn't feed much." He smoothed his fingers gently over her warm skin, feeling the steady pumping of her vein under his rough fingerpads. When he brought his hand away, a smudge of crimson colored his fingers. "Damnation!"
He jammed his hand in his pocket and scrabbled his fingers around until they pulled out the vial. "Do be still, Victoria," he snapped, twisting the cork from the small bottle. He pushed her head none too gently aside so he could see the wound. Before she could react, he had sprinkled the four small red circles of the bite with the water.
Victoria shrieked in pain and jumped away, clapping her hand over the wound. "What are you doing?"
"Washing the bite with holy water and salt, of course. And yes, it does sting, but it's the only recourse at this time. You'll be all right, but we've got to get you to Eustacia immediately. She has a salve—"
"Of course. I know that." The look she gave him was dark. She let go of the settee and shook out her skirts. "My gown is ruined! I cannot walk out of here and through the party in this condition! Everyone will think… Well, they'll think the worst!"
Max closed his mouth. When he spoke, his jaw was tight. "I will fetch your cloak—"
