The Rest Falls Away gvc-1

by Колин Глисон

  That, at least, had been his plan until he walked down the stairs into this hellhole of a pub that smelled like rusting iron and must. The cousin had drawn him to a table in the most shadowy corner and ordered him a drink. It wasn't until he saw, from the corner of his eye, Pesaro's hand shift over Phillip's own drink, ever so quickly, so slightly—but enough that he recognized the movement—that Phillip realized Pesaro had his own agenda. And when Phillip took a sip of the whiskey and felt Pesaro watching him, he knew it for certain.

  So when the other man turned to speak to the massively well-endowed serving woman, Phillip exchanged their glasses.

  And when Pesaro turned back, Phillip offered a toast, watching as the other man drank of the same drug he'd attempted to foist upon him, all the while wondering why Pesaro would do such a thing. Was he trying to kill him, or merely drug him?

  He supposed if Victoria's cousin wanted him dead, he wouldn't have advised him to put his pistol away, or drawn him away from the center of attention in the room.

  No matter. He would either ask him or, if he died, it would be a moot issue.

  Unsurprisingly, Pesaro appeared eager for Phillip to drink his whiskey; so he obliged, but only if the cousin drank with him. It was when their glasses were nearly empty that he began to see signs of the other man's edges wearing down. His eyes drooped; his words came slower. Whether he was being poisoned or merely drugged, Phillip did not know… but whatever it was, the other man had attempted to foist it upon Phillip, so he felt very little remorse.

  "You switched glasses," Pesaro said, his voice slurred and his eyes glistening with anger. "Damn fool."

  "It is only what you deserve. Why have you tried to poison me?"

  "You do… not know… danger… Keep you… safe… Fool."

  He waited until Max gave up, his head slumping to the table. "Now I will find Victoria." Phillip dropped a few coins on the sticky wooden planks and they clattered to a stop next to the man's half-curled fingers. Then he stood and walked away without looking back.

  It was clear that his fiancee was not here, if she ever had been. He crossed the room, hurrying toward the stairs, lingering the pistol under his cloak.

  Phillip couldn't wait to get out of this cloying, depressing place; he rushed up the steps, needing to breathe the clean night air. He had to clear his mind, which now had many more questions than when he'd arrived—including the reason Victoria's cousin would try to drug him.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, Phillip heard heavy steps behind him. He turned and saw one of the patrons, large and pale-faced, stalking up the stairs.

  Slipping through the door, Phillip was back in the night. He closed the door and turned to hurry away; but the man came through more quickly than he could have imagined. Suddenly he was right behind him, and Phillip felt hot breath on his neck… even though it was covered by his cloak, and the man was not touching him.

  He turned, pulling the pistol from his pocket and pointing it at his stalker. They were standing in the middle of a narrow alley, and there was nowhere for him to run but back down the stairs to the Silver Chalice… or past the man who blocked the street entrance of the alley.

  "Stay back, or I will shoot," Phillip warned, his finger tightening on the trigger. His aim was steady, his senses alive and singing even as a confident calmness flowed through him. He did not wish to hurt the man, but he would do what he must to protect himself… and find Victoria.

  The man took another step forward and Phillip pulled the trigger, aiming for his shoulder. His aim must have been off; the man kept coming. His vision swam, and he felt an odd tightening in his chest, as if his lungs were not his own… as if someone else inflated and deflated them.

  He could not look away, could not move away from the man coming toward him.

  Something glinted red, but Phillip could not see it… it curled at the edges of his blackening vision. Phillip could not focus; he aimed blindly ahead, hoping for the man's chest, and pulled the trigger.

  His attacker's eyes were burning an odd color… like glowing wine. He reached for Phillip, who tried to pull away, but the man had inhuman strength; Phillip could not shake him, could not dislodge his grip even slightly. And then something white gleamed in the dim light as one hand closed over Phillip's head, pulling it to one side.

  Sharp white teeth, descending toward his neck.

  "Why did you not tell Max about the protection on the Book of Antwartha?" asked Victoria. She stood fully across the room from Sebastian, in the same denlike chamber they had been in before—the one with a single entrance.

  He looked up from where he was pouring two small glasses of something pale pink. The settee on which she'd sat before, and where he'd touched her vis bulla, bisected the space between them like the low stone fence that kept the sheep in their fields at Prewitt Shore. Victoria wasn't certain who was the fenced-in lamb and who was not.

  "I wanted to see if you had kept our bargain," replied Sebastian, stepping toward her. Victoria moved so that the sofa remained between them, and reached across to take the glass he offered. She was careful not to allow their fingers to touch. "If he knew about it, it was because you had told him."

  "I kept our bargain, but he could have died without the knowledge."

  "But he did not, for he did not touch it. He knew."

  "I told him only to save his life. He didn't believe me."

  "His life is of such value to you?"

  "Any life is of value to me. What is this?" She looked at the glass. The liquid pooled into a ruby color at the bottom of the tiny tulip-shaped vessel, but as the glass widened up, it became the palest of pink.

  "Only a bit of sherry. Try it; I believe you will find it to your taste." He raised his glass in a mock toast and tipped its entire contents down his throat. When he looked back at her, he nodded to the settee. "Have a seat, Victoria."

  "No, thank you." She set the glass down and stepped farther away; now she was standing behind the settee and he in front.

  "Are you frightened of me, Victoria?"

  "What have I to be frightened of? I am a Venator."

  "Indeed. I wondered the same thing myself. In fact, perhaps it is I who should be wary of you." He looked at her and held her gaze for a long moment. "Perhaps I should." He broke away and swiveled to the table to pour another glass of sherry.

  When he came back around, his face was shuttered, closed. He offered another sardonic toast, but instead of downing the whole glass, he merely took a sip and sat on the settee. Half turned, he arranged himself in its corner so that he could see Victoria, standing behind the protective fencing of the sofa's back, her hand resting on its chintz covering.

  "Why did you come here tonight?" he asked.

  "You were expecting me. I was a bit surprised."

  "I told you the last time you were here that I would see you again. I knew you would come back. But I am curious as to why."

  "Perhaps to thank you for the information that helped us to get the Book of Antwartha. If I had not had your information, Max and I might have died in the effort."

  "So you come bearing tokens of gratitude?" He shifted himself onto one knee on the sofa cushion and covered her hand with his fingers, holding it gently in place on the top of the back. "I am pleased to hear that. And particularly thankful that Eustacia sent you rather than Maximilian for that task."

  Victoria wanted to pull her hand away, but she controlled the urge. "I get the impression that you and Max aren't the best of friends."

  "I wonder why that is," Sebastian murmured, but he sounded as if he couldn't care less. "I'm more interested in finding out how you planned to express your gratitude for my assistance than what thorn sticks in Maximilian's craw." With his free hand, he reached up and began to tug her long glove down past her elbow. "Did I mention how much better you look when dressed as a woman than a man?"

  He released the wrist he'd held on the top of the settee, but not her glove, and when she pulled away the glove came off,
turning inside out from her fingers. Her hand and arm were bare.

  She stepped back, out of his reach. Sebastian was not the type of man to climb over the settee after her.

  But he wasn't looking at her; he was holding her forlorn white glove between his hands, stroking his fingers down over its length as if smoothing his touch over her arm. Then he wrapped it gently around one of his hands and looked up at her.

  "Where is your ring?"

  At first she thought he was speaking of her vis bulla,

  the ring in her navel… but then she realized he was looking at her bare hand. Her left hand.

  "I don't have one… yet. Did you know I was there in the room at Redfield Manor?"

  "Of course. I also knew the moment you went out the window; Maximilian was too busy staking vampires to notice. But I saw the twitch of the drapes and knew you were gone. I understand you killed seven vampires that night."

  "It was eight. And Max defeated three Imperials on his own."

  "Bravo, Max." Sebastian rose and she stepped farther away. "Victoria, you are annoying me. I am not going to leap across the room and ravage you." He did indeed look angry, an unusual expression in a face that was normally bent on wooing or charming.

  He tucked her glove into his pocket and walked with rather harsh footsteps back over to the table where he'd poured their drinks. Turning to face her, he leaned back against it, crossing his legs at the ankles and his arms over his middle. He looked all bronze and golden and utterly dangerous. His hair gleamed dark near the crown, but tawny and blond and even silvery at the curling tips, and his mouth was set in a harsh line, the upper lip shadowing his lower one to a dark toffee color.

  There was silence for a long moment. Victoria had expected him to demand some sort of additional recompense for the information that led to their obtaining the Book of Antwartha, but he did not. His enticing, engaging manner had evaporated and now he merely looked displeased.

  "I am sure it is safe for me to leave," Victoria said at last. "I'm certain Max has managed to get Phillip away by now." She looked at him, expecting an argument.

  But instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out her glove, offering it to her.

  It lay draped over his open palm, but when she reached for it his fingers closed over her bare hand. And tugged.

  Perhaps it was surprise at his sudden movement; perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps she was just tired of fighting it. But Victoria allowed herself to continue forward until she was standing as close to Sebastian as she had been in the hallway.

  Transferring her hand to his other, as if unwilling to chance her escaping, he tucked the glove back in his pocket and looked down at her. Humor glinted in his golden eyes. "That was easier than I expected."

  "Sebastian—"

  He turned her bare hand palm up, lifted it, lowered his face… and touched his lips to the inside of her wrist. They were soft but firm, gently damp, and featherlight. They almost tickled. Then they moved, opening, tracing the texture of the veins and tendons in this demure region. He nibbled on the narrow edge of her wrist, gently bit the full pad of her palm at the base of her thumb.

  Victoria couldn't pull her arm away. No, that wasn't true—she could; she knew she could break his grip easily—but she could not force her muscles to move. Her eyes closed; her other hand reached out blindly, to catch herself, and flattened against a solid, warm, breathing chest.

  "I have always wanted to taste a Venator," murmured Sebastian, moving up to look at her. His lips were no longer thin and harsh; they would never look thin and harsh to her again after this. After feeling them.

  He still held her fingers, which curled helplessly around his, and he traced his thumb over the top of her hand, looking at her.

  And then they both heard it, and just as the noise registered in her mind, the door slammed open.

  In the doorway stood Max, leaning heavily against its side. "Rockley's been attacked," he said, then slid to the floor.

  Chapter Seventeen

  In Which Miss Grantworth's Bedchamber Sees Much Activity

  The next thirty minutes were a blur of activity. Max, although confused and weak, was still coherent enough to explain that he'd managed to stop a vampire in the midst of an attack on Phillip.

  "Was he bitten?" asked Victoria, wrapping one of his heavy arms around her shoulders so that he leaned against her and one hand dangled free just below her left breast. She was helping him out to his unmarked carriage—not as difficult a task as it would have been if she didn't wear a vis bulla.

  "No… got there in time. Staked the bastard."

  Victoria assumed he meant the vampire, not Phillip. Although she wasn't completely positive.

  Max had saved Phillip, hustled him into Barth's hackney, and given the driver explicit instructions on how to get him home and what to do once there. Phillip was unhurt, but confused and nearly unconscious from the ensuing scuffle.

  "What will he remember?" asked Victoria as she helped Max climb into his carriage.

  "Nothing. Used the… pendant."

  She pushed him into his seat, then climbed back out of the carriage to say good-bye to Sebastian, who, although he hadn't been much help getting Max outside, had not hindered her effort either. He'd come along, showed her another way out from the back area, and helped to call Max's carriage around.

  "Thank you," she told him, although she wasn't sure what she was thanking him for.

  "Until we meet again," he said simply. He made no move to offer her glove, and she didn't ask. Victoria turned and climbed into the vehicle. Sebastian closed the door behind her.

  The carriage lurched as they started off, and she tipped onto the seat across from Max.

  He was slumped in the corner, a rumpled lump of black and gray. As the street lamps flashed into the interior, she saw that his eyes were closed.

  Had he been bitten? She hadn't even thought to ask… she'd been so worried about Phillip since Max's dire announcement.

  Victoria stood carefully, coming over to his side of the carriage, and nearly fell in his lap when they went around an unexpected corner.

  She was just reaching for his collar when he opened his eyes. "What are you doing?" he asked, pushing himself upright.

  "I thought you might have been bitten."

  "Sit down." He glowered at her. "I haven't been bitten in… years."

  "Then why do you carry salted holy water? And why does that bite look like it's new?"

  "So that if I am with anyone who's bitten, I can pour it on their bite." He seemed to be suddenly more alert.

  "What happened to you, then, if you weren't bitten?"

  He drew in a deep breath, folding his arms over his middle. "I was drugged. By your marquess."

  Victoria's eyebrows rose. "Really. So a mere slip of a marquess got the best of you, when a nasty vampire couldn't? And you freely admit this?"

  Max opened his mouth as if to speak, but appeared to change his mind. He turned to look out the window, his profile flashing every time a street lamp illuminated the carriage interior. She looked at the haughty slope of his nose, the set ridges of his mouth, the unruly mess of dark hair. He looked beat.

  "What happened, Max?"

  "I did what you asked, Victoria. We needn't discuss it further." He did not look away from the window. "Your marquess is safe and will suffer no ill effects—and very little memory of what happened, because I took care of that too. He was trying to shoot a vampire with a pistol." Scorn laced his voice. Then, "Where is your glove?"

  Victoria looked down; both of her arms were hidden under her cloak, the bare one and the gloved one. "I… Sebastian took it."

  Max turned to look at her. "And what else did he take?"

  Victoria's heart thumped faster. She shook her head.

  "He expected payment for his information; what else did he take?"

  Liberties. Liberties her fiance hadn't taken. And in a way, he'd taken yet another piece of her naivete. Shown her exactly why women wore
gloves. All the time.

  "Victoria."

  "Nothing. He has my glove, and has taken nothing else. I am a Venator, Max. He is no match for me."

  It might have been a laugh that issued from his lips; Victoria wasn't sure. But he said nothing, just turned and looked back out the window.

  They rode in silence for a time; then she spoke. "Thank you. For what you did tonight."

  That drew his attention from the passing scenery. He looked at her, dark and angry, from his corner across the narrow space. "Rockley had no idea what he'd walked into tonight. This is exactly the reason you cannot marry, Victoria. Your two worlds simply cannot intersect as they did tonight. Continuing on this path will only cause more destruction."

  And with that, he turned back to the window and said nothing more.

  Victoria did not sleep well that night. Her dreams were filled with a storm of images melding together: Phillip and Sebastian, Aunt Eustacia and Max, and words and voices running together: I've always wanted to taste a Venator… You cannot marry… That is something I would pay dearly to see… Does he know you walk the streets at night?… What else did he take?

  She woke to find sun streaming through the window, nothing at all like the dark dinginess of her clash of memories. It was nearly eleven o'clock. Madame LeClaire would be arriving in two hours for her gown fitting.

  Her wedding gown fitting.

  Victoria passed a hand over her eyes. Was Max right? If she married Phillip, was she attracting more destruction?

  Emptiness clawed her belly, and it was not because she'd had nothing to eat. How could she not marry Phillip? Charming, funny, handsome Phillip? The man who made her laugh, who jested with her, who helped her to see the humor in the society she was forced to live in. Who'd brought her flowers after she lectured him. The man who did the right thing, what was expected. A man she could understand.

  He had followed her last night. Followed her into a den of vampires with little thought for his safety and no understanding of the world he was entering. If she married him, would she be able to keep her secret? Would she have to? If he knew she was a Venator, and safer than anyone on earth, would he understand?