The Bleeding Dusk (12 page)

“The right decision isn't always easy or evident. You'll find yourself making more and more of those choices as time goes on.”

“I know it.”

Max drew in his breath, and there in the silent, dark night let it out slowly. “I miss her too, Victoria. She was…incredible.”

“I know.”

Again they were quiet for a time. At last, Victoria saw the faint lightening of the sky in the east and realized dawn was near.

How odd to have spent a night in Max's company without once wielding a stake, and with very few razorlike comments. She began to pull to her feet, her legs stiff, and he reached his hand to offer her assistance.

Strong fingers and an impossibly warm, square palm closed over her small hands, easily bringing her to her feet. He released her hand immediately and started toward the exit, the vomitory, and she followed. All without speaking.

As they walked, she realized something that had been glossed over: He was wearing a
vis bulla.

“Max.” Her voice stopped him ahead of her in the dark passageway. Victoria looked at him, studying him closely. “How did you get a
vis bulla
?”

“It's of no consequence. The sun is rising, and it's time for me to find my bed. Good night, Victoria.” He turned away, walking with his confident, long-loped stride.

“Max.” Her quiet voice stopped him, and once again he turned to look at her. “Does this mean you're back?”

His arms hung from his sides in an uncharacteristically useless way. “I don't know.”

+ Seven +

In Which a Small Red Jar Becomes the Topic of Conversation

“You went to Lilith? Alone?”

Max looked at Wayren, who'd straightened in her chair. Unsure how the other Venators would react toward him after Eustacia's death, he hadn't wanted to go to the Consilium to see her. He had invited Wayren to the small room he'd rented.

“That's what I said. I had nothing to lose, Wayren.”

“I know, Max. I know how much you want to be rid of her. But to take such a chance!”

“It's not as if I haven't been alone with her in the past.” He knew his words came out harshly, but bloody hell, the memories weren't pleasant ones. Blast it that he had to remind Wayren of them.

For all her calmness, all of her knowledge and wisdom, she was a bit absentminded at times. Now, realizing what she'd said, Wayren softened and merely looked at him. Behind the perfectly square spectacles she wore, her wise eyes filled with understanding. “Of course. I'm sorry.”

“She gave me a salve she claims will release me from her thrall…but at a price.” He pulled the small garnet jar from his coat pocket and set it on the table between them. Though his fingers itched to open it, he'd not done so yet. During the last few months, he'd kept it with him at all times, but had never opened the shiny pot, which was made from a walnut-size jewel.

It had weighted his coat. Burned his hand when he brushed it. Called to him when he emptied his pockets at night. One morning he'd awakened with it clutched in his hand.

That was when he knew it was time to return to Roma, to speak to Wayren.

Wayren looked at it, but made no move to pick it up. Then she shifted her attention back to Max, and contemplated him as if she knew what he was going to say next.

“If I use the salve I'll lose my Venatorial powers, and because her bites have tainted my blood, I cannot regain them, even if I attempt the Trial again. I'll forget everything I know of that world. It will be as if I never had the knowledge in the first place.”

“Like a Gardella who has been called and refuses the call—as Victoria's mother did. You'll be ignorant and simply a man.”

Simply a man.

He couldn't even imagine what that would be like.

“You wish to be free of Lilith, but you haven't yet used it,” Wayren commented.

“I've decided not to.”

There were times, as now, when he was convinced Wayren could read minds, perhaps even see the future. God knew she'd been around long enough to have learned the skill, if indeed it could be learned. She looked at him, her blue-gray eyes calm and penetrating. “You've done enough, Max. You've given seventeen years of your life in penance for what happened to your father and sister. You can be free.”

Dear God, Lilith had said nearly the same thing. The vampire queen had tempted him. Now Wayren was giving him permission.

He knew it was true. He'd meditated on it, prayed on it, agonized over it…all these weeks since leaving Lilith's stronghold he'd thought of little else. But… “Free? But what would I leave behind? More deaths? More destruction and evil?”

And what would he lose in the process?

“You'd no longer have the memories. It would all be gone. You could truly be free.”

“Don't you think I know that? How tempting is the thought of not having this bloody nagging on my neck all the time? The pain that comes at her every damned whim?”

Wayren gave a gentle shrug. “Max, to live with guilt for one's entire life, to use it as a shield against truly living, an excuse for feeling…is that so much better? It's not something anyone is required to do for all his days.”

He looked at her and realized she didn't really understand. “The guilt doesn't burden me any longer, Wayren. It's Lilith's thrall that burdens me. I don't flay myself for what I did, for the choices I made. Those decisions are in the past and cannot be undone, and I've done everything I can think of to atone for them.

“But as easy as it might be to contemplate the freedom of ignorance, I can't do it. I
know
I'm needed. I have the skills…the God-given abilities. How can I live in ignorance when I'm needed? How many deaths can I prevent by staying? I have no right to turn my back when I am one of the few who can prevent them.”

Wayren had folded her slender fingers in her lap and was watching him during this impassioned speech. “You were not called to be a Venator. You made the choice. You aren't obligated as those Gardellas who are called.”

“Do you not understand? I became obligated the moment I turned Father and Giulia over to the Tutela.” His jaw made a cracking sound as he ground his teeth.

“You were barely more than a child. You thought you were giving your family a gift—immortality—which is precisely what the Tutela led you to believe. That's how they draw in strong, smart young men like yourself.”

“You dare to excuse what I did? Feeding my father and sister to the vampires? At sixteen, I knew what was wrong and what was right. Yet I was blinded by the chance for power and wealth and immortality.”

“And for the next seventeen years, at the risk of your life, you've worn the
vis bulla.
You've paid your penance, and then some.”

Max stopped suddenly and glared at Wayren. Wayren, who had been as close to him as Eustacia. Wayren, who, with her wisdom and calm, gentle ways, had been more of a mother figure to him than even Eustacia had. Eustacia had mentored and challenged him as a fighter; Wayren had touched and taught him as a young man.

She had been the one to help him through the life-threatening Trial of attaining the
vis bulla.
She'd been there when he reached the point where he would either live and wear the amulet of the Venators, or die when it was pierced into his flesh.

“Why do you want me to use the salve?” he asked abruptly. “Do you think I'm no longer fit to be a Venator? After what happened with Eustacia?” His throat was dry, his hand tightly fisted into itself.

“No, Max.
No.”
She stood, coming to him, resting her slender hand on his arm. Some of his tension eased at her touch, as it always did. “I fear only that one day Lilith's hold on you will become too strong for even you to fight. Already she has caused you to do her work of destroying Akvan's Obelisk, bringing about the death of her rival and son. You could just as easily have failed as succeeded. What will she require of you the next time? And the next?”

The anger and annoyance that had whipped up inside him settled as he listened to her reasoning. “I do not know. But she has yet to control me as she would like.” Max stepped away and walked across the small room. On a small table next to the narrow bed was his favorite black-painted stake. It was sleek and heavy and it fit his hand perfectly. A cross was carved into the blunt end and inlaid with silver. “Victoria told me about the Door of Alchemy. You'll need me if they get the keys.”

“You spoke to Victoria?”

“Last night. Briefly.”

“I'm certain she was glad you've returned. It's not been an easy few months for her—losing her husband, and then Eustacia, and you as well. Just as you disappeared after Phillip died, you disappeared after Eustacia's death. This inconstancy is becoming a habit of yours.” Her head tilted to the side like a little wren's, her bright eyes watching him closely.

Max put the stake back with a soft clatter and glowered at Wayren. “I was not fit to be here, to wear the
vis
.”

“It was very difficult for her to lose you, someone she knows and trusts, during a time of such pain and upheaval.”

“Trusts? I hardly think she's foolish enough to trust me any longer. And she was not alone. You were there, and Ilias, and others.”

Wayren stood abruptly. “That is true, Max. You're right. She has taken over her role as
Summa
Gardella with little trouble. A bit of grief, perhaps, some sorrowful moments…but overall, she is an amazing Venator. It's become her life. She's made some difficult decisions. In fact, she insisted that no one know that Eustacia died by your hand—in order to protect you and your legacy. She carries on with her life as though unburdened with grief. It's rather astonishing how well she has adapted to the sacrifices and changes this life has brought her.”

Wayren looked down at the little jar on the table, reaching to touch it with her slender finger. “I would like to take this, if you do not plan to use it, Max. Perhaps I—or Hannever—can learn what it is that would sap your Venator powers while severing your ties to Lilith.”

“Take the damned thing.”

She picked it up and slipped it into a small pouch that dangled from her silver-link girdle. “I presume you will join us at the Consilium tonight, now that you have returned. And are wearing a
vis bulla
again.” Behind her square spectacles, she looked at him shrewdly.

Max picked up his favorite stake and traced the silver cross.

Victoria had protected him. Bloody hell.

“Of course I'll be there. I am ever the dutiful soldier.”

 

+ + +

Victoria was in a quandary by the time she reached Santo Quirinus late the next day.

Having been awake until dawn, she'd slept well past noon and met up with the ladies Melly, Winnie, and Nilly over a lunch filled with raptures about the hospitality of the Tarruscellis, the lovely view of the extinguishing ceremony from their balcony, and regret that there would be very little society during the next forty days of Lent.

Oh—and sympathy for poor, dear Victoria, who'd been in bed the night through with the megrims and had thus missed the most riotous, beautiful, exciting night of all. How could she bear it?

Victoria explained she'd borne the annoying headache rather well, comforted by the fact that the ladies weren't inconvenienced by her illness. “And it's very unfortunate I cannot remain here with you ladies this afternoon to hear all of your adventures,” she said, rising from the table, “but I promised to meet with a portrait artist about doing a new painting of Aunt Eustacia.”

“You poor dear,” Lady Winnie said, her pudgy fingers flashing rubies and emeralds as she patted Victoria's smaller hand. “After being ill so often this last week, I should think you'd be able to rest instead of gallivanting off.”

“You still look a bit pale,” Lady Nilly added. “Perhaps a brighter color gown would serve better to pinken your complexion. I shall have my Rudgers have a word with your maid.”

Despite her hurry to get to the Consilium and tell Wayren about meeting Sebastian and Max last evening, Victoria's smile was genuine. The ladies could be dithering and overbearing, but they had only her best interests—and those of her mother, of course—at heart.

“Perhaps we shall be gone before you return, if you are very late into the evening,” Lady Melly said. “The party…er…meeting begins at eight o'clock.”

“Party? But it's Lent,” Victoria replied, trying to keep her lips from twitching. Yet she was relieved to hear of their plans. Anything to keep the ladies occupied, and from worrying over Aunt Eustacia's personal effects, was fine in her book.

“It's
not
a
party
,”
Lady Nilly squeaked, her bright blue eyes wide with innocence and sparse lashes. “No, we wouldn't go if it were a
party.
Of
course
not.”

“It's a meeting,” the duchess added, nodding vigorously. “Definitely a meeting. With dinner. But no music or dancing.”

“How unfortunate that I couldn't join you at your meeting,” Victoria replied, dropping her grip from the chair and taking that all-important first step away from the table. “But it's probably best if I rest again tonight. You ladies have a wonderful time.”

“I'm certain we will,” Lady Melly said, smoothing the napkin in her lap. “I haven't any idea why the Palombaras chose to have their par—
meeting
on Ash Wednesday, but—What is it, darling? Your head again? Benedicto, some tea for the young madam, please.”

“Palombara?” Victoria had swiveled from the door so quickly it was, indeed, partly her head that spun. Her mind was the other part. “Tell me about this party, Mama.”

“It isn't a party at all,” Lady Winnie remonstrated. “Dear me, Victoria, have you not heard what we've been saying?”