The Bleeding Dusk (5 page)

Victoria and Michalas finished
the night by patrolling the rest of the
rione
near Villa Palombara. They staked a measly three more vampires before returning to the Consilium at sunrise to share their findings with Ilias. They found him on his way to speak with Wayren.

After their brief discussion, Ilias suggested Victoria join him with Wayren in her private library. Michalas appeared relieved to be dismissed, saying with a crooked grin that he was ready to return home to his own bed.

Victoria would have been pleased to do so herself, but of course she did not. She followed Ilias to the library. It smelled of old books—of paper and papyrus, of ink and leather. She had been there only once before, very briefly, so as she came into the dome-shaped room that was accessed by a locked door with hidden bolts, she took the opportunity to reexamine the chamber.

The ceiling of the round room was high above her head, and rows of books sat on shelves that appeared to be carved into the circular walls. On closer look, however, she saw the shelves were stone ledges, and carved with letters or symbols in a language Victoria didn't recognize. She presumed the symbols were some sort of code by which the books, scrolls, and laced-together parchments were organized.

Victoria stepped onto a thick white rug that covered half of the chamber floor and selected a straight-backed chair for her seat. In the center of the room was a large piece of glass situated like a tabletop. Wayren sat behind the desk, her square spectacles resting neatly on a wooden tray next to a spread-eagled book. Ilias, who'd followed Victoria into the room, closed the door behind him and sank into the final seat.

The room wasn't as large as she would have imagined, knowing how many tomes Wayren had access to. A bevy of candles burned from sconces on the walls and some of the lower shelves, and from stands with multiple tiers and holders placed throughout the room. Despite being a deep flight of stairs underground, the room was lit as if it were noon in July.

Ilias glanced at Wayren. “Where is Ylito? Is he not joining us?”

She bowed her head easily. “He is in the midst of a procedure. I have already spoken with him, and he urges us to continue without him.”

“Ylito?” Victoria was surprised at the unfamiliar name. She knew of all of the Venators by name, even if she hadn't met them all, and the Comitators, their martial-arts trainers, but this was one she'd never heard mentioned.

“He is not a Venator, but an herbalist and alchemist who studies the properties of plants and metals and is very talented with his work.”

Victoria looked at Wayren. “Do you mean to say he's a wizard?”

The older woman looked pained for a moment, then smiled slightly. “He prefers to be called a hermetist, a sort of spiritual alchemist. The term is more palatable to him than that of wizard or sorcerer.” When Victoria continued to look at her with clear question in her eyes, she continued, “As powerful and daunting as our Venators may be, we've found over the years that someone like Ylito often provides skills beyond what a Venator can do: casting protections, creating infusions or distillations, and even drawing forth the energies and inherent powers of gold and silver—all for the purpose of annihilating the malevolence brought on this earth by Lilith and her kind.”

“It's not surprising that you haven't met Ylito, or perhaps even heard his name spoken,” added Ilias. “He prefers to remain cloistered in his workshop unless needed. Which is why he's chosen not to grace us with his presence at this time.” He shifted in his seat and raised a hand to scratch his chin. “So let us get to the matter at hand, Victoria. We have vampires who are cutting the heads off small animals, and now, apparently, humans.” He looked at Wayren. “That would be behavior more like that of a demon, so I am at a loss as to why the undead would do such a thing, particularly since they abhor demons.”

“I shall have to study it,” Wayren told them when they described in more detail the headless corpses. “But I believe a visit to the Door of Alchemy—
la Porta Alchemica
—during the daylight would be in order. Perhaps we will find some evidence that you could not see in the dark.”

Ilias turned to Victoria. “There are three keys that open the Magic Door, as it is also called. Each one must be inserted in its proper slot and, once inserted, cannot be retrieved until the door is open. Palombara had one of the keys, he secreted a second one somewhere in the villa, and the third one was given to Augmentin Gardella shortly before the
marchese
disappeared.”

“A Venator?” Victoria's skin began to prickle.

“Indeed. Unfortunately Augmentin wasn't able to save Palombara from whatever befell him before he completed his quest. But he did keep the key. And passed it down through the family. Your aunt Eustacia was the last person to have it.”

“It's not here, and we'd best find it before the vampires do,” Wayren said, looking at Victoria. “I believe your aunt wore it on her person. Do you recall a silver armband? It was made specifically to hold the key, which is quite small—not much larger than the first knuckle of your finger.”

“She wore it high on her arm, and never took it off. That and her
vis bulla.
”
Victoria chewed on her lip, not liking where her thoughts were leading her. Not at all. Best to change the subject. “What's behind the door that's so important to the vampires? They already have immortality.”

“The papers and journals of the alchemist must contain something of value to them. After Palombara disappeared, there was much activity about the door, as the undead—and some of the mortal alchemists—tried to force their way in. But the only way in is with the three keys, and they were in possession of none of them, even, presumably, the one kept by the
Marchese
Palombara.” Ilias was rubbing his nose again, pinching it between a thumb and forefinger.

“They gave up after a time, and the Door of Alchemy has remained untouched and unbothered for a hundred and forty years. But now, with this undead activity in the area—as well as the death of your aunt and the possibility that the key might fall into the wrong hands—it's imperative we keep our attention on the door. In fact, the very great possibility is that somehow the key was removed from her person after the events last autumn, and that it has already been put to use.” Wayren's face, unlined and ageless, was a pale moon of seriousness. “The fact that the undead want what's behind the door is more than enough reason for us to be concerned.”

“Yet another reason to visit the door, to see if any of the keys have been turned,” Ilias said.

“Yes. Ylito will want to accompany you,” Wayren said, to Victoria's surprise. “Perhaps you will be able to ascertain what is so important behind that door, or at least whether there is indeed anyone trying to get inside it.”

Late that afternoon Oliver, Victoria's driver and the bane of her maid's existence, stopped the little barouche in front of the Gardella villa. As Victoria stepped out, she realized she hadn't been home or slept since leaving yesterday morning for the portrait unveiling at the Consilium. She was bone-tired, yet energized with purpose in a way she hadn't been for months. Her mind was racing down a myriad of avenues, and she felt as though she could barely keep up with it. At the same time she was still dirty and mussed from her evening of moving headless corpses with Michalas.

But she had a task, and felt for the first time since Aunt Eustacia's death that she was back in full form.

Still, she wanted nothing more than to get into the quiet of her room and practice some of the meditation and breathing that Kritanu had taught her. Tomorrow she would meet the mysterious Ylito and they would go to examine
la Porta Alchemica.

The front door opened just as she reached it, Aunt Eustacia's Italian butler looking slightly more harried than usual.

“Grazie,
Giorgio,” Victoria said, walking in and directly toward the stairs as she pulled off her gloves and began to unhook the fastenings of her spencer. “Please ring for Verbena and ask that she wait upon me in my chamber.”

“
Si
, milady,” Giorgio said. “But perhaps you might wish to take a moment to visit the parlor?”

“The parlor?” Victoria, her hand on the newel post at the bottom of the steps, halted reluctantly—only a flight of stairs from the haven she sought. She glanced toward the parlor and saw the door was closed.

But before Giorgio could reply, the door in question opened. “Victoria!” came a familiar shrill greeting. “Victoria, we have arrived!”

Victoria couldn't move. Her fingers froze like a cap over the stairwell post as she looked at her mother, Lady Melisande Gardella Grantworth, rushing toward her from the sitting room, skirts and ruffles and lace bouncing and flouncing in all directions.

“We?” Victoria managed to ask, all thoughts of a quiet rest disintegrating along with the peacefulness of her home. No wonder Giorgio had looked out of sorts.

“Indeed! Lady Nilly and Duchess Winnie and myself, we're all here. Just in time for the week of Carnivale. And for you, you poor dear, of course. Poor darling, to have to handle all of this on your own. I am only sorry I couldn't have arrived sooner.” Lady Melly gathered Victoria into her maternal embrace even as her daughter desperately clutched the stairwell post.

And as her mother's two bosom friends spilled into the hall behind her, arms outstretched in greeting, high-pitched voices exclaiming over everything from Victoria's simple hairstyle to her sunken cheeks to the mild Italian weather and how it was so warm for February, so why were her hands so cold and her gown—was that even a gown?—so dirty and mussed? My goodness!—had she been hurt?…she could do nothing but let them fuss and hug and pat and croon as they'd done since she was a little girl.

With a weary glance over her shoulder, she told Giorgio, “Please tell Verbena I shall be a while.” A long while.

Two hours later Victoria sank onto the stool in front of her dressing mirror. Two hours.

All that time listening to her mother and the ladies Winnie and Nilly prattle on about the circles under her eyes, the gauntness of her cheeks (although Lady Nilly thought it wasn't so terrible, she of the hollow cheeks herself), and the paleness of her skin. Not to mention the droopiness of her plain hairstyle and unfashionable clothing.

And that wasn't all. There were unveiled hints about her returning to London to find another husband. And how her dear friend Gwendolyn Starcasset was now the toast of the
ton
, with her new betrothal to an earl with more than fifty thousand a year, and how her brother, George, would be a perfect match for Victoria. (Victoria had had to bite her tongue particularly hard on that topic, for the last time she'd seen George Starcasset he'd been here in Rome with Nedas, as a member of the Tutela, and had been intent on ravishing her.)

There had been Lady Melly's grievances about the erstwhile Lord Jellington, who had, apparently, failed to meet her expectations of what a beau should do and be, and was thus the impetus for her visit to Italy.

Then followed opinions on Italian biscuits (too dry and crusty), Italian streets (crowded and confusing and filled with pilgrims), and the beauty of the little fountain in front of the villa.

She'd had to keep the ugly red calluses on her left hand—her tea-pouring and stake-wielding hand—hidden while playing hostess, for, of course, she wasn't wearing the gloves she would have been wearing had she been home in London. Nor was she garbed in a proper gown, the lapse of which still had her mother in horrified raptures.

The entire event had culminated in one big problem that led somewhere she wasn't sure she wanted to go. She rested her head on the dressing table in her chamber.

“Now, milady, no sense in lettin' em make it any worse'n it already is. Ye have important things to attend to.”

Victoria lifted her head to look in the mirror. All she saw at first were two puffs of orange-colored hair on either side of her own dark head, and then her maid, Verbena, looked up from where she'd been unfastening the buttons of Victoria's tunic. Her face bore pity, but also a glow of interest.

“Did ye see that massive cross the duchess was wearing? I swear, even m'cousin Barth wouldn't be wearin' one that size, though he's been known to drive vampires around himself. Pardon me for sayin' so, but the duchess's cross looks bigger than the pope's.”

As she spoke, Verbena drew the tunic up and over Victoria's head, leaving her droopy-eyed mistress to sit at the table in merely her split-skirt and chemise.

Victoria sighed. “I cannot believe they're here,” she said wearily. “Without a word of warning Mother has arrived with them, and now I haven't any idea how I'm going to get out at night without their knowing.” Sundown—vampire-hunting time—was in a matter of hours, and Melly expected her to join them for dinner, and likely more conversation. Surely she would also require Victoria to join them in other activities, both during the day and in the evening.

In fact, the dearth of calling cards on the front table of the villa had sent Lady Melly into yet another soliloquy about how cloistered Victoria had allowed herself to become since Aunt Eustacia died, and how terrible it was that her social life had gone to null. And how glad Melly was to be here to set things right.

But that was the least of Victoria's worries.

Verbena loosened Victoria's hair from its casual mooring at the back of her head. “An' ye'll have to give more attention to your hairdressing and gowns, now that your mama is here. She won't tolerate ye lookin' less than a marchy-ness, now that ye finally got the title.” She sounded magnificently pleased with this new development, which was no surprise, as Verbena lived for the opportunity to get creative with Victoria's coiffure and toilette whilst finding ways to incorporate the tools her mistress Venator might need.