The Rest Falls Away (17 page)

The door to the room opened, and someone came in. The back of Max's neck remained unchanged, so he kept his hand on the pocket where his pistol was. He couldn't see the person, couldn't look at his shoes to tell if it was a servant or the houseguest, but when he or she strode across the room and then back out, Max exhaled slowly. Likely the valet bringing some laundered clothing to the room, or even the houseguest coming up to retrieve something he'd forgotten.

Good.
He hadn't relished the thought of an altercation with a mortal. Vampires he could stake without a second thought, but fighting with or injuring a mortal was something he generally tried to avoid. For obvious reasons.

Aside from that, he'd seen too much violence, and preferred staking vampires to fisticuffs because it was much neater. No blood, no cracking of bones, no mess. Just a small pile of putrid-smelling ashes.

Yet…to get the Book of Antwartha, Max would do whatever was necessary, because if he did not, an infinite number of mortals would be in danger.

He waited until the quiet footsteps disappeared before he slid from under the bed and pulled to his feet. Brushing the dust from his dark pants, Max hurried toward the door. He had two more rooms to search on this level, and then he could move on to the third floor. It was a less likely location for something like the Book of Antwartha, but at least he could eliminate it before having to slink around on the main area, where he was more likely to be found out.

He poked his head out of the room and looked up and down the hall. Once again satisfied he was alone, he stepped out and turned the knob of the room across the hall—and found himself in a library.

Ah.
He smiled in satisfaction. Crates and boxes stood against the wall, and next to a great armchair was a haphazard stack of books that certainly hadn't been sitting there for the years Caulfield had been in India.

On one of the tables, he saw a box the size of a large book, open, like a treasure chest. Red silk wrappings spilled from its interior, and with a complacency borne of certainty, he started toward the table.

The Book of Antwartha. It had to be.

He approached the table eagerly, even as he kept one ear turned toward the hall, listening for unwelcome footsteps. Fingering his pistol in one pocket and a stake in the other, he bent toward the box to look in. Empty.

He turned and then he saw it. By a tall window gray with twilight, in front of the wingback chair, it had been hidden from his view when he walked in. But this was certainly it: a large, dusty brown book with an embossed
A
on the cover, sitting on the table by the chair as if the person reading it had set it down in front of him. He moved closer, his ear still cocked toward the door, eyes on the book.

He was just reaching for it when something flew from behind the long draperies and knocked him aside. He tumbled into the wingback chair, and the force followed in a tangle of skirts.

“Don't touch it!” hissed a female voice that he suddenly, shockingly recognized.

“Victoria? What in the bloody hell are you doing here?” He forgot to keep his voice down, and she slapped a hand over his mouth, jamming an elbow into his chest as she struggled to pull herself upright.
Damn.
She might not weigh much, but her elbows and hips were sharp as her tongue.

“Be quiet!” she hissed, her mouth much too close to his ear. “I just saved your worthless life, you blasted fool. We don't need to be heard.”

Max disentangled himself from Victoria, slipping out from under her and letting her sag into the chair by herself. He stood, glaring down at her, and adjusted his coat.

“I repeat,” he said from between clenched teeth, albeit at a lower tone than previously, “what in the blazes are you doing here?”

“I repeat,” she whispered, standing upright and shaking out dull, dark skirts, “I was saving your life. You cannot touch the Book of Antwartha,” she cried as he reached for it. Her fingers closed over his wrist, barely wrapping around its circumference, and she gave him pause with her surprising strength.

Ah, but yes…she wore a
vis bulla.
How could he forget?

Max curled his lips into a smile that he knew wasn't pleasant in the least. “We have the chance to get it out of here now. Or is it that you want to be the one to bring it back? If that's your game, then I won't stand in the way—grab it and let's go!”

“If I wanted to do that,” Victoria replied pertly, “I would have let you touch it, then stepped over your dead body to take it to my aunt.”

He would have replied, but they both heard it at the same time: low voices and dull footsteps making their way down the corridor. Before he could react, Victoria snatched at his sleeve and pulled him with her toward the long draperies from which she'd come bursting forth.

She shoved him toward one, and she ducked behind the other, and they stood like sentinels on either side of the window. If he turned his head he could see her profile, as she was backed against the wall. He wanted to shake his head to clear it.

Max peered down and over his shoulder, trying to look through the window, and realized it was cracked open. He could feel the faint brush of air on the fingertips he curled up behind him, on the sill. Slipping his fingers under the bottom rung of the sash, he pressed up gently, and felt the window move. If he could get it open, perhaps they could snatch the book and make their escape.

He felt the window give more easily, and turned to see Victoria looking at him. She was pushing up with her fingertips as well, and with their combined efforts and strength they were able to lift the window…silently, slowly, surely.

The back of his neck had chilled. The voices were closer now. They would be coming through the door at any moment if this chamber was their destination.

He looked at the large bound manuscript, then back at Victoria, measuring his chance…but her hand whipped from behind the drapes and slammed into his chest. “No!” she hissed, drapes roiling about her. “I'll not say it again, you arrogant fool!” Then, just as the door opened, she snatched her arm back behind her covering curtain, pulling it straight and still.

Max inched the drapes away from the shadowed side of the window where the sliver of his face peeking out would be less likely to be noticed. They filed in one after another. There were three of them: two Guardian vampires and one mortal.

Sebastian Vioget.

He should have known.

The man always seemed to be where he should not be.

His fingers had closed around the drapes in a fierce movement, and Max released the heavy brocade slowly so as not to draw attention. So far, he had escaped detection. This was not the first time he was grateful vampires couldn't sense the presence of a Venator.

But then…Vioget looked directly toward him. Max did not move, merely watching as Vioget transferred his attention to the other side of the window, where Victoria stood, then continued his conversation with the vampires.

“I believe this is the item you seek,” Vioget was saying, and he gestured to the table only inches away from Victoria.

One of the vampires grunted and stepped forward to touch the aged tome, and Max felt Vioget look toward him again. He groped in his pocket for the pistol. He'd use it if he had to. He couldn't let those vampires take the book.

While the three were bent over the table, one of the vampires thumbed carelessly through the ancient pages as though confirming it was the real thing. Max chanced a glance over at Victoria. She was not looking from behind the curtain, but stood rigidly against the wall, as far away from the draperies as possible.

Was she frightened? She damn well ought to be! If she hadn't stopped him, they would have had the book and been out the window by now.

Max considered his options. He could burst from behind the curtains and attempt to take them by surprise. Vioget's hands were both in view; he at least did not have a weapon at hand, although he might have one on his person. That would be like him.

The vampires were bound to be two of Lilith's strongest and smartest Guardians. She wouldn't send any but the best for this task. He'd get one for certain, the second one just as easily if Vioget did not interfere.

Or Victoria. He frowned. Why could he not touch the book? Blasted woman.

And then suddenly Max's options evaporated with a swish of the curtains as Vioget flung them aside, exposing him.

“Pesaro. I did not expect to see you here this evening,” he said with a condescending smile.

But Max had his pistol out and was pointing it at the French fop before he could finish his thought. “I highly doubt that,” he responded, stepping fully from behind the curtain, pistol in one hand and stake in the other. He didn't look back, but his peripheral vision told him Victoria had not moved. Perhaps she would be smart enough to come to his aid.

Not that he needed her assistance, but it was better to be safe than to lose the book.

“Now,” Max said pleasantly, “if you will step aside I promise not to hurt you, Vioget, as I know that the continued safety of your person is your greatest concern. But these other two…gentlemen…well, they may not be so lucky.”

He barely had the words from his mouth when the two vampires, ruby-eyed and with fangs gleaming, were on him. The pistol was of no use. He allowed it to drop to the floor as the force of the launching vampires knocked him to the rug.

One of them pinned the wrist holding the stake to the floor above his head, using two hands, whilst the other straddled him at the waist, fighting to capture his other hand. Max grunted, drawing his knees and feet toward his body, and with one quick, strong movement, hooked his feet around the front of the vampire's neck and whipped him into a backward somersault. The vampire crashed into a table behind him.

Max rolled to the side, slipped a second stake from the sleeve of his shirt, and slammed it into the chest of the vampire still holding his wrist down before the Guardian knew what had happened.

Before the foul ashes hit the floor Max was on his feet, facing the other vampire, who was coming at him with a gleaming sword and a feral smile that sported two fangs digging into his bottom lip. With a quick glance at the rest of the room—Vioget was watching in amusement, his arms folded over his middle, and Victoria was nowhere to be seen—Max returned his attention to the vampire as the blade sliced in the air in front of him.

He leaped aside, vaulting over the wingback chair, then, standing behind it, hefted it by the arms and shoved it at his adversary. Max followed the momentum of the chair and came after the vampire, slamming him into the floor only inches from Victoria's draperies. He didn't need her assistance. She was probably cowering behind, too frightened to move.

She should have stayed home with her bloody marquess.

Anger surged through him, and he used it to drive the stake into the second vampire's heart.

“
Et voila!
”
Vioget murmured as Max rose to his feet, breathing deeply, but by no means winded.

Keeping a steady eye on the other man, Max started toward the table where the book had been jolted to the edge during the fracas. He wished briefly for his pistol, but as Vioget stood there with no indication he would attempt to stop him, Max thrust the concern from his mind.

He reached the table and stretched out his hands to lift the heavy book…and stopped.

Two things occurred to him at that moment. First, Victoria's warning had been vehement. Second, Vioget had not touched the book himself, even when the vampires were looking through it. But the vampires had touched it.

Then a third realization: Victoria had been in the room before he had…she could easily have taken it if it had been her intent to one-up him. She, at least, believed there was a reason he shouldn't touch the book.

He made a show of adjusting his sleeves, taking the opportunity to shift slightly to one side so he could better see Vioget from the corner of his eye, and reached for the book again…and again paused. Yes, it was there: the almost imperceptible change in Vioget's stance. Oh, he hid it well, but not well enough.

Yes, there was something about the book. Victoria, it appeared, had been right. And, Max realized with a suddenly bitter taste, quite possibly had saved his…what had she called it? His worthless life.

“You did come for the Book of Antwartha, did you not?” asked Vioget in that falsely pleasant tone.

Max stepped away from the table. What was Victoria waiting for? “You seem particularly interested in its fate,” he replied. Perhaps giving it to Vioget would draw her out. “Did you not come for it as well?”

“What would I do with such a book? I won't stop you from taking it, Pesaro,” Vioget told him. “I don't wish Lilith to have it any more than you do.”

Before Max could reply, or make sense of that comment, he heard something that drew his attention from the matter at hand. From outside of the open window…a shout, a low scream.

Victoria?

He dashed to the window, yanking back the curtains. She was gone.

He looked down and in the darkness, broken only by a partial moon, he heard rather than saw an altercation below.

She'd gone out the window and gotten herself into a fight. She'd probably been gone the whole time he was fighting the Guardians.

Max cast a quick glance at Vioget, who'd turned but made no move toward the window. Instead, he gestured languidly. “Go. The book will be safe here.”

Max trusted Sebastian Vioget like he trusted a beggar in a room with a case of gems, but he had no choice. If he couldn't touch it, neither could Vioget.

Max looked out the window. If Victoria could go out this way, so could he.

+ 12 +

Our Heroes Commence with Much Poofing and Slicing

Victoria counted ten
of them.

And that was after she had staked two—so an even dozen to begin with, plus the two that were in the house. With Sebastian.