The Bleeding Dusk (32 page)

“Victoria!” Her mother's voice was understandably shrill and horrified. “What is the meaning of all this?”

Victoria had no choice but to ignore her, although she knew she would pay for it later. Her ears began to ring in preparation. Unless she could get Wayren to use Aunt Eustacia's golden disk, what she was about to say and do would shock her mother far more than her unexpected—and unladylike—appearance.

But brevity was necessary, for she had neither the wish nor the patience to spend several minutes churning through an explanation and its unavoidable discussion. “Regalado, because you've managed to keep your fangs off my mother thus far, and obviously she's had a lovely evening in your company, I'll allow you a choice: Release her, or I'll turn you into a pile of dust.”

Regalado nearly leaped from Melly's side in his haste to comply. “Of course, my dear. Of course. I meant no harm. Your mother is a charming and handsome woman, I must say. I meant no harm a'tall.”

Victoria's eyes narrowed. That was a little too easy. But…her neck was still only slightly chilled—just enough to account for Regalado's presence—and she didn't smell the horrible, dank death-smell of any demons. Perhaps the man was just the same repulsive, superficial coward he'd been before being turned into a vampire.

Apparently, though the soul became mutated and malevolent in its undead form, the personality attached to it didn't undergo any great change.

“Victoria, how
dare
you,” said Lady Melly, grabbing at Regalado's arm as if to pull it back into her possession. “I do not know what has befallen you, but since you arrived here in Rome, you have been not at all yourself. I cannot begin to imagine what you think you are going to accomplish by interfering—”

As her mother continued to lecture, Victoria wished desperately for Aunt Eustacia's golden disk.

The irony of the situation was that many years ago, Lady Melly herself had been called to be a Venator. She had declined the task, opting instead to marry Victoria's father, and thus not only had her mind been wiped clean of information about vampires and Venators, but all of her innate skills and Venatorial powers had been passed on to her daughter.

Regalado himself, as creepy and slimy as he seemed, also appeared to be quite disconcerted by Lady Melly's leech-like propensity. He tried to extricate himself from the woman, all the while watching Victoria with trepidation.

It was, in the end, a blessing that two more vampires arrived at that very moment; for if things had continued as they'd begun, Victoria wasn't at all certain how she would have pried her mother away from the most inappropriate of all candidates for a second husband.

But the appearance of two more undead—apparently the coachman from Regalado's barouche and a female acting, ironically, as a chaperone, perhaps?—set the next events in motion.

Unaware of the situation into which they'd entered, the newcomers bared their fangs, let their eyes light up with a red glow, and dove into the melee. Moments later, after a flurry of lace and silk and damp feathers (from Lady Melly's bonnet, after she was shoved face-first into a bush), stakes of all sizes and efficacy, along with much
poofing
and grunting and thunking of bulky silver crosses, there were two piles of vampire dust, three would-be victims still cowering against the wall, an indignant widow being ushered off to Oliver and his carriage, and the flapping coattails of the Conte Regalado as he dashed up the front steps of the villa.

Victoria wasn't even breathing hard, but she was flush with satisfaction and a feeling of well-being. Verbena wore a smug smile, and somehow her mistress had a feeling that poor Oliver was never going to hear the end of the adventure, even though he'd been relegated to stay in the carriage.

“Excuse me for one moment,” Victoria said to no one in particular, eyeing the door through which the
conte
had disappeared. If he thought she was going to let him live another day to court her mother, he was severely mistaken. “Keep the carriage waiting.”

She slipped away as the rest of them burrowed into the carriage, Lady Melly still screeching her outrage with her daughter and the world in general. She hadn't seen the dispatching of the vampires, for by the time she'd extricated herself from that fortuitous bush, they were nothing but piles of dust.

Victoria intended to feed her mother's ignorance by utilizing the gold disk as soon as possible.

However, she had this one last thing to take care of.

It wasn't hard for her to find the
conte.
He was under the impression she'd allowed him to walk away a free undead, so he hadn't gone far into the villa and was peering through a side window at the ladies being helped into the carriage by Oliver.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she said as he whirled. She slammed the stake into his chest and added, “and the vampire too.” His
poof
wasn't even especially large.

To ensure they all returned home safely, Victoria crowded into the carriage with Lady Winnie, a pouting Lady Melly, and the dreamy-eyed Lady Nilly.

Two of the other near victims—a Miss Anne Malloren and a Mrs. Stefania Faygan, both Americans—clambered into the carriage as well. Their male companion elected to ride above with Verbena and Oliver, leaving Victoria crushed in the midst of skirts and the target of her mother's death-gaze.

There was nothing for it, however, and Victoria resigned herself to an uncomfortable—yet, oh so relieved!—ride back to the Gardella villa. Oliver had agreed to take the three others to their quarters, and until they left the carriage, at least, Victoria would be spared the lecture that was sure to come.

Instead she allowed herself to relax, now that her neck was feeling normal and the carriage was moving at a rapid pace away from the horrible villa. As if unwilling to acknowledge the events of the evening, the ladies about her were chatting as if they were returning from a night at the theater. Victoria thought she heard the dark-haired Miss Malloren mention something about swimming with a shark…but that must have been a moment when her mind wandered and she'd misunderstood. Surely no one would be so foolish!

Although…when one considered Victoria's own vocation, perhaps it wasn't so crazy.

The other woman, Mrs. Faygan, who was dressed in a lovely gown of rose, decorated with matching pink pearls, seemed to be quite enamored with the Italian pasta noodles she'd become familiar with during their visit to Rome.

This launched the conversation into a direction quite distant from vampires and stakes and eerie villas…and the women began a heated discourse about the merits of cannoli versus English lemon biscuits.

Victoria faded in and out of the conversation, but it wasn't until they had delivered their three guests to their quarters that she realized what she'd forgotten.

The leather cord, with the splinter, was still lying somewhere in the gardens at Villa Palombara.

+ Eighteen +

Wherein the Ruby Box is Opened

Max stripped off his soaking
clothes and slapped them over a wood-backed chair. His hair was still wet enough to plaster to his face and neck, but at least it wasn't dripping anymore, and at least it wasn't long enough to get in his eyes and mouth. He combed his fingers through the wet locks and slicked it back from his forehead and temples and over his ears.

Returning to the Consilium had taken longer than he planned. He had initially hoped to make the trip, then return to the villa in the event that Victoria needed his assistance to find her mother. But because he was carrying the alchemist's papers—or whatever it was they were—he'd decided to take no chance of being followed or spied upon and took a much more circuitous route than he would have liked. By the time he'd come dripping onto the marble floors of the Consilium, it was nearly midnight, and Wayren asked him not to go back out.

As always, it was a request, not an order. But one he could not deny.

The time had come.

He avoided looking at the small ruby box that sat on a little table next to a small lamp. It was so small, yet it beckoned. Here in this sparse room in one of the far reaches of the catacombs that attached to the Consilium—so distant and secret that no one but Wayren and Ilias, and perhaps Ylito, knew of its existence—the small ruby box was the only bit of color.

It mocked him. The life-altering box that he could no longer avoid.

The decision that was no longer his to make.

Had it ever been?

He pulled on the dry clothes Wayren had found for him, irritated by the way they clung to his still-damp legs, hurrying because the subterranean room was chilly, and so was his skin. As he pulled on his shirt he looked down at the little silver
vis bulla.
The one that didn't really belong to him. Brushing his fingers over it, he touched the filigree cross, the impossibly dainty fingernail-sized thing that hung there and gave him the power, the purpose, the exoneration he needed.

And then, with quick, nimble fingers, he slipped it out of the areola it pierced.

Immediately the strength ebbed from him. It slipped away like a quilt whipped from over a sleeping body, so suddenly that at first his fingers trembled with the loss. The bullet wounds he'd received only two nights ago, which had nearly healed, now pounded and throbbed deeply in his muscles, reminding him of what was to come. What his future would be.

Of course, he would remember none of this when he woke up.

He placed the
vis
on the little table next to a small lamp…and the mocking ruby box. And then, as if to counteract the blasphemous presence of Lilith's box, Max took his small leather satchel and pulled out the few items he'd stored in it.

In the morning, or whenever it was he awakened, the box, the
vis bulla,
none of it would mean anything to him. The charred satin rose, the black stake with the inlaid silver cross on the blunt end, the small glass vial of holy water, the pearl earbobs, the gold watchcase…the items he placed on the table. None of them.

Max looked away, annoyed that he was feeling sorry for himself. He did what he had to do. There was no question. The day he'd awakened after the tragedy into which he'd brought his family was the day he promised himself in service. For the rest of his life.

And his life was not yet over.

What would he do after this?

Max shrugged. The path would become clear. He had only to watch, and to follow it.

A knock on the door drew his attention, gratefully, from his self-pity. “Yes. Come.”

Wayren entered, her gaze moving quickly over him, the items on the small table, the untouched bed. “You're ready?” she asked, still standing in the doorway.

“Have you heard from Victoria?”

Her eyes moved sharply over him, and she nodded. “Yes. She sent word by messenger bird, and asked whether you'd returned as well.”

“Melisande?”

Wayren nodded again. “All are safe. Did you drink Ylito's decoction?”

Max nodded.

“Good. He claims it will ease your way—although we don't know exactly what will happen, do we? He did study the salve, Max, to determine if there was a way to use it, or alter it somehow, so that you could sever your bond with Lilith but keep your Venator powers.”

“But then I would be no help in the destruction of Akvan, would I? No Venator or demon shall destroy him. And someone must.”

Wayren chose to ignore his comment, replying, “I'll be here when you awaken, so I can remind you of your task “ She came into the room, closing the door behind her.

He resisted a disgusted snort and instead settled himself on the bed. She would remind him of the task he must set out to do—to somehow annihilate Akvan, and to do it as a mortal man, a non-Venator. But what he might or might not remember and know of himself when he awakened was terrifying to consider.

Wayren pulled the chair next to him and opened the small cachet box. The pomade's scent—at once intriguing and disgusting—wafted into the room. His stomach lurched when he realized an undercurrent of the aroma was the same rose smell that always accompanied Lilith's presence.

He closed his eyes briefly, wishing there was another way. That he didn't have to make this choice, go through with this task, drink this cup…give up the life he'd built for himself, the one he'd managed to construct from the ashes of guilt and self-loathing.

She knew it, damn her. She knew this was the last thing he'd ever want to do. Ever be willing to do.

By God, she knew him too well. And he, her.

He hoped Victoria would remember his advice about Lilith. That she would learn her enemy and find a way to keep herself distant from the malevolence, the conniving, so she could remain untrapped.

A glint of brightness caught his attention, and he willingly trod out of the depths of anger and regret and back to the present, where Wayren was holding something in front of him.

He recognized the small golden disk that spun on a web-thin chain in front of him, the lamp having been placed at such an angle that the pendant appeared to glow and glitter. The memory of Eustacia was bittersweet…and appropriate.

Yet it was soothing to stare at it as Wayren murmured something in the back of her throat that was just as relaxing. He tried to force himself into ease, to let it go…and it wasn't as difficult as he'd expected.

Cool, sure fingers smoothed over his neck and at the angle into his shoulder; the smell of roses became stronger, sickeningly stronger. He tried not to breathe too deeply, watching the golden disk, letting himself feel light.

Lighter than he'd ever felt.

But then it came to him: the ugly, evil tug, the insistent snakelike tendrils pulling at him, forcing, smothering….

She was there…her blue eyes rimmed with glowing bloodred…her hair a copper nimbus around her pale, blue-veined face. He could see the delicate markings on her cheek…the five marks that formed a crescent shape from temple to jaw…the pale lips…one warm, one chilled like death….