The Rest Falls Away gvc-1

by Колин Глисон

  She laughed, and he was pleased that she'd read the humor in his speech and remembered that she had not even thought to apologize for flaying a layer from his back. Good. That was part of what made her so interesting to him. She was not a shrinking violet, this Miss Grantworth whom he remembered… or whom she had become. He was more than pleased.

  "As it was, I did not need to hunt you down, nor to apologize, as I recall, Lord Rockley, for you met me in that field, and you were the apologetic one." She looked him fully in the eyes. "That was the first time I'd ever been given flowers by a man… and I still have the pink ribbon you tied them with." As if to prove her point, she lifted her hand and tugged away the cuff of her glove, displaying a bit of her wrist and a pale pink swatch of satin tied around it.

  "Your confession, such as it is, delights me, Victoria." Propriety be damned; he'd called her by her Christian name for those weeks that summer. It felt foolish to be formal when they were reliving those moments.

  He'd navigated them from the main drag of Regents Park and turned off into a more private area. Stopping the cabriolet next to a small thicket of lilac and forsythia, he gently wrapped the reins around the small post there for just that purpose.

  Reaching for her gloved hand, he said, "Miss Grantworth, I would be most appreciative if you would call me Phillip, as you did before." He was aware of his voice deepening, as it did when he became serious, and he forced himself to look at her with a nonchalant expression. Perhaps it was too familiar too soon, but, devil take it, he must have fallen in love with her years ago, for he'd never forgotten her. Couldn't get her out of his mind. Had practically made a fool of himself tracking her down at the Straithwaite musicale the other night. Thank God he'd arrived late enough to miss the damned thing.

  And it appeared, once her faulty memory was jogged, that she had not forgotten him.

  "Phillip is such a strong name," Victoria replied, looking not at him, but at the way his fingers traced each of her own gloved ones one by one. "It suits you. And you may continue to call me Victoria, as you did when we were younger."

  And then, as if her words were some offstage signal, the clouds opened and the rain blasted down in sudden, loud torrents. The startled squeak from Victoria's maid at the back of the cabriolet drew her attention, but Phillip stopped Victoria from turning back to see to her with a gentle hand at her cheek. Any excuse to touch that flawless white skin.

  "My tiger will take care of her," he said. "And their moment of distraction will allow me to do this."

  He leaned into her sphere and touched his mouth to hers. She smelled like flowers and some kind of spice, and though he barely got a taste, her lips were warm and moist with surprise.

  She did not start or move back, but instead pressed closer, angling her head to one side so their mouths fit better. Much better.

  The rain streamed down around them, spraying fine mist onto the edges of the seat and onto their shoes. The tip of her nose, cool from the damp air, brushed against his warm cheek as their lips moved together. He released her hand and closed his fingers gently around her upper arms, bringing her closer to him so that her lovely breasts brushed against his jacket. Not close enough, but he was patient.

  Or perhaps he wasn't.

  She tasted as delicious as he'd imagined, and he wanted to sample more. He deepened the kiss deliberately, testing her… and she did not fail. She opened her mouth to him, and he felt the rush of want as their lips and tongues tangled. The brocade of her cloak crumpled under his fingers, and he closed his eyes when she reached up to touch his jaw.

  When he released her and moved back, he looked down into green-and-brown-flecked eyes, hazy and heavy-lidded, and he felt rush of satisfaction. She bore the stamp of his possession there in her face and wet on her swollen lips, not to mention in the faded ribbon around her wrist. He was going to marry this woman, by God.

  The freedom of wearing trousers!

  Victoria had attained the age of twenty never experiencing the full range of movement, the loss of the fear of tripping over one's skirt, and the pure naughtiness of having one's nether limbs encased and defined in such an improper way.

  She felt incredibly scandalous and powerful as she climbed into Barth's hackney without any assistance other than what appeared to be a heavy walking stick that had been sharpened to a point at the end. Verbena followed after her, looking like a moonfaced, wide-eyed boy, clutching a thick stake in one hand and a large silver cross in the other. With her hands otherwise engaged, it made her activity a flurry of useless motions until Barth lost patience and shoved her inside.

  Scrambling into a seat across from Victoria, Verbena tried to adjust her cap while still holding the stake and cross. One peach braid stuck out, doing little to support her disguise.

  "What makes 'em afraid of silver?" she asked as the hackney jolted into motion.

  "Because Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver," Victoria replied. She was not nervous, but her senses were on edge. She hadn't told Aunt Eustacia of her plan to visit St. Giles tonight, afraid that she would either forbid her to go or, worse, send Max along too.

  "And garlic?"

  "I do not know that, but I suspect it is because of the odor. A vampire's smell is much keener than a mortal human's. Perhaps it is acutely displeasing to them in their undead state."

  "Can you recognize one? When we're there… will you know if there's one before they try 'n' bite us?"

  "I can always sense if there is one nearby," Victoria told her maid, realizing that the girl was plying her with questions to steady her nerves. "Most of the time I can tell who the vampire is, and I am getting better at doing so. Don't worry, Verbena: I do not think they will attack without provocation, especially if we are seeking them in a public place."

  After a brief, difficult discussion with Barth, Victoria had convinced him to take them not only to St. Giles, the vilest and most dangerous neighborhood in London, but specifically to a place where he'd encountered vampires in a social rather than a predatory setting. Since Barth had seen and in fact transported vampires many times without being attacked, Victoria realized that he must know where they gathered.

  It was only because she was a Venator that Barth agreed to take them to the Silver Chalice.

  "If'n anyone can pr'tect himself, it's gonna be a Ven'tor," he said by way of acquiescence.

  When the hackney jerked to a halt (if Barth hadn't been Verbena's cousin, and guaranteed trustworthy for that reason, Victoria would have hired a driver with more finesse), she opened the door.

  It was after midnight, but the street was as busy as Drury Lane would be after the theater let out. The smells were much worse, however, and Victoria wondered how the vampires could stand it. The back of her neck had been cooling, but once she opened the door it became so cold she felt as though icy picks were thrumming on her nape. Turning up the collar of her man's jacket, as if that would help, she adjusted her hat to make sure none of her telltale curls were escaping.

  Although it was a cloudy night, the street wasn't dark, due to random gas lamps swaying outside some of the establishments. Victoria used her lethal walking stick as leverage as she stepped down from the hackney, then moved to talk with Barth and instruct him, "Stay, regardless of what happens.

  "Where is the Silver Chalice?" she asked, noting that it seemed an odd name for a place that attracted vampires.

  "Down there." Barth pointed a shaking finger, whilst the other hand clutched his cross.

  Victoria turned to look as Verbena stumbled out of the hackney, jostling her as she landed on the ground. "I see nothing but a burned out building."

  "Down there, behind it."

  Victoria stepped closer and saw what he meant: an opening two doors wide, barely noticeable near the foundation of the burned-out building. As she moved toward it, something bumped into her from behind, nearly sending her sprawling. Her walking stick raised, she pivoted to see Verbena shrinking away from three menacing creatures. Her mai
d's mouth was open wide in a silent scream, and Victoria had to swallow her own automatic reaction and remind herself that she was not helpless. She was a Venator.

  "Wot brings two such dand'fied young men to this part of town, do ye think?" asked one of the three men. Something gold flashed in his mouth along with a grin that looked decidedly lascivious. Then something else gleamed silver in his hand.

  The three men had circled around them and stood close enough that Victoria could smell the fumes of alcohol and other unpleasant odors. All three were dressed in dark clothing that appeared to be, whilst not so very clean, at least in fairly good condition. They weren't vampires; vampires didn't need knives. A stake might not stop them, but Victoria knew she was stronger than three mortal men. Still… her gloves dampened under her palms. She hadn't thought to bring a nonvampire type of weapon.

  "I b'lieve I heard the young men say they be looking fer the Silver Chalice," replied his companion, as if Victoria and Verbena were no more than a disinterested audience to their conversation.

  "We've found it," she said, deepening her voice. "We'll be on our way now." Verbena bumped into her again, and Victoria resisted the urge to bump her back. She didn't need a clinging maid knocking her off balance if she had to shift into a fighting stance.

  "Ye cannot enter without a token," said the third of the men. He'd needed a shave at least three weeks ago, and his forehead and cheeks shone grimy and sweaty in the low light. "If ye two lovely men wish to come with us, we'd be pleased to 'elp ye pr'cure one."

  "For a fee, I presume," Victoria replied. Verbena bumped her again, and she nearly turned to shout at her… then she realized why the girl was standing so close when she felt something cold and heavy next to her hand. She wrapped her fingers around it. A pistol.

  Victoria shifted and suddenly had the weapon pointing at the closest of the three men. She was calm, her breathing steady, but her fingers trembled. "I don't believe we'll be paying you gentlemen any fees this evening. Now, disperse yourselves, sirs, before my finger becomes impatient."

  Although Aunt Eustacia had never taught her to use a pistol in her training, Victoria knew how to handle one. She'd seen it done. Pull the trigger and the thing would spit out a bullet whilst kicking back in her hand. Whether she would actually hit anyone was another matter; but the three men were so close, she was not concerned.

  Of course, that was assuming Verbena had loaded it.

  The men apparently believed her threat, and although they didn't disappear, they did melt into the darkest shadows of the stubby building next to the burned-out ruins above the Silver Chalice.

  Victoria slipped the pistol into the deep pocket of her cloak and, gripping the walking stick, started toward the double doors that led, she hoped, to the Silver Chalice.

  The doors were closed, but when she and Verbena each pulled on one, they opened easily to reveal a steep staircase leading down into the earth. At the bottom was, fortunately, a dim glow of light, but certainly not enough to easily light their way.

  But vampires had excellent night vision, so it likely wasn't a hardship for them to make their way down a stairway so dark and straight one couldn't see two steps below. Victoria's neck was painfully cold, and the chill was beginning to creep up into the back of her skull. She reached back automatically to touch it, rubbing her fingers over her nape in hopes of easing the frigidness, but it made no difference. With a last look at Verbena, she started down the steps, thankful again that she wasn't wearing dragging skirts.

  As she descended the twenty stairs, sounds from below became louder and more distinct. People talking, laughing, shouting… the clinks of metal tankards clattering together… the thuds and thumps of hands slamming onto tables or walls… and a wistful sort of music coming from a perfectly tuned piano.

  When she reached the bottom, she had to turn a corner, and then she found herself in the Silver Chalice.

  Although Victoria's experience with inns and pubs wasn't extensive, she had dined in two during her travels, and this one didn't look all that different from what she'd experienced in the mortal world.

  Tables crowded the stone-walled room, which had a lingering dampness from being below the ground. Lanterns hung from ropes and chains from the planked ceiling, and the floor beneath was hard-packed dirt. Along one side, to the left and around the corner from the entrance, was another doorway that likely led into another room; although it was possibly another exit. Next to that door was a long bar, behind which two women hurried back and forth, filling tankards and slamming them onto the counter.

  No, if it weren't for the frozen feeling on her neck, Victoria would think she'd merely stepped into a travelers' inn that was just a bit darker and danker than she was used to.

  No one seemed to have noticed her and Verbena, and for that she was thankful. Wanting to get a feel for the establishment and its clients, she hoped to remain incognito for a bit longer. She scanned the room, identifying which people were vampires and which were not. To her surprise, a good portion of the clientele weren't undead blood drinkers, perhaps as many as half was her guess. That portended well, for Victoria had been wondering what they might serve to drink at this establishment. Though she'd had more than one sip of brandy—the most notable time was after her father's funeral—she wasn't the least bit interested in partaking of anything vampires might drink.

  At last she saw a small table stuffed in the corner a short distance from the piano. Grabbing Verbena's cold fingers, she tugged her to follow, and began weaving her way to it. As they passed the piano she noticed the musician, who hadn't stopped playing since she and Verbena had walked in: a female vampire with a long fall of silvery hair and an unhappy face, alternately bending over the keys, then turning her face up to the ceiling as if completely enraptured in the music. The song was sad and longing and beautiful in a haunting way.

  When they sat, Victoria chose a chair so that she could see the rest of the room. It was rather a letdown that they had walked into this pub and found a seat with nary a glance or flare of interest from anyone in the room.

  That, then, answered a question Victoria had been meaning to ask Aunt Eustacia: Could vampires sense the presence of a Venator? The answer, apparently, was no.

  Now that they were in the Silver Chalice, surrounded by vampires who might possibly know about the Book of Antwartha, Victoria realized she had planned no further than this. Perhaps she'd never quite believed she would actually get to this position. But she was… and she needed to act before Verbena fainted with fright.

  Apparently they hadn't arrived completely unnoticed, for they'd barely settled in their chairs—it was much easier to flip up the tails of her coat while sitting, rather than gently lay out the skirts of a gown—when a serving wench elbowed her way to their side.

  "Wot'll it be." It was decidedly not a question—a bored, impatient statement, more like. Victoria looked at Verbena, at a loss for how to respond. Since she'd left her reticule at home, she had no coin with her.

  "Two house ales," Verbena responded smartly. She slapped two coins onto the sticky table, a proud grin ticking the corner of her mouth.

  Victoria looked at her. That was twice tonight Verbena had come to the rescue of the Venator. Perhaps Victoria had been a little hasty in deciding to come on her own.

  But now… now that the niceties had been handled, Victoria could decide the next step. She was going to prove herself to Aunt Eustacia and the sullen Max and the waiflike Wayren, who looked at Max with such big blue eyes it made Victoria's mouth curl. It was abominable that he should lecture Victoria about being distracted from her mission.

  As it turned out, Victoria didn't need to decide any next steps, for just as she finished patrolling the room with her eyes, a movement came into her peripheral vision, and a man sat down at the table with her and Verbena.

  At first she'd thought it was Max.

  But no. Not Max. No, this gentleman was most definitely not Max.

  "Good evening, gentlemen."
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  The dulcet voice, flavored with a Parisian accent, belonged to a handsome man who immediately struck her as being an intriguing mixture of gold and bronze—from his tanned skin and amber eyes to his blond-tipped auburn hair and the chocolate-colored waistcoat and fawn breeches that were clearly stitched by a tailor of immense talent.

  He sat next to Victoria, very close; she wondered if men normally sat this close to each other at their private clubs. His leg touched hers under the table and it felt uncomfortable. Yet she didn't move hers away.

  She made certain her voice matched his tenor when she replied, "Good evening, sir." When men were alone, did they require to be introduced before they conversed? Or did they simply have the freedom to talk without such formalities?

  "You appear to be newcomers to the Silver Chalice. Since it is so difficult to find, we don't often have the pleasure of new faces. Have you come for any… particular reason?"

  Was he warning them off or merely attempting to be friendly? Victoria did not know the appropriate way to respond, so she decided to be direct. The sooner she learned whether the inn would be helpful to her, the sooner she could get Verbena back to Grantworth House. "We are looking for information."

  At that moment the server reappeared and slammed two metal tankards down in front of them. The ale sloshed out onto the table, slapping onto the man's wrist and the edge of his sleeve. "Damn, Berthy, can you not have a little care? This is alençon lace!"

  "Ye shouldn't wear such fine things in a place like this," Berthy snapped, swishing away with a twitch and a twaddle.

  The man whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed at the lace edging of his cuff. "If she weren't so damn good at her job, I'd toss her into the streets."

  Good at her job?

  Toss her into the streets?

  Victoria wasn't sure which statement surprised her more, but she chose to focus on the latter. "Do you own this place?"

  "Indeed I do, though I'm not always proud to admit it. Among other establishments, might I add. Sebastian Vioget… sir. At your service." He extended a hand, his attention focused on her so heavily Victoria nearly forgot to offer her own.