The Rest Falls Away (35 page)

Max started toward them. No matter how cunning Lilith was, this could not be part of her plan.

“Good evening, Rockley,” Max said as he approached the table.

“Pesaro. Why am I not surprised to see you here.” True to his words, there was no inflection in his voice.

“Perhaps, but it is I who am at a disadvantage. I would have believed that after your last visit, you would have learned something. Namely that there are places where you are not welcome…and not safe.”

“Vioget here has assured me that is not the case, that I have nothing to fear while I am in his establishment. Victoria has told me everything.”

“Indeed? Clearly you did not believe her, so you came here to find out for yourself. Foolish man. If I had not arrived, you would be at the mercy of this man's whim.”

So she had told him. Max's eyes slitted as they scored over the marquess: his sleepy eyes, perfect hair, tailored and pressed clothing. The man had walked into this den of the undead, disbelieving and wholly unprepared to face the results of his actions.

He was as good as dead unless Max intervened. Again.

“If you had not arrived, we would have continued our conversation most pleasantly,” Vioget returned coolly. “Now, if you please, Pesaro—”

But before he could finish, a bad sound behind Max grabbed the attention of both of them. He whirled as Sebastian bolted to his feet.

Imperials. Five of them—more than Max had ever seen together at one time—standing at the bottom of the stairs, swords drawn, red-violet eyes glowing. Only one of them smiled, and his fangs gleamed.

Max heard Rockley's intake of breath. Too late, poor bastard.

The room had quieted, and the tension pulsed like a dying heartbeat.

“Good evening and welcome to the Silver Chalice.”

Max had to give Vioget credit, for his voice was as smooth and unruffled as if he'd been greeting a lady for tea. But Max knew five Imperials were not here for tea, or for libation of any kind. Even the fresh sort.

Lilith had sent them.

The leader of the Imperials took three steps. The undead at the tables near him shrank away. Imperials, when angered, had been known to cannibalize their own.

“Sebastian Vioget, we have been sent to escort you to the presence of our mistress.”

“Please give her my apologies. As you can see, I am otherwise engaged this evening.”

Max noticed Vioget had shifted himself back toward the brick wall behind Rockley. Under the guise of adjusting his coat, Max moved to the left of the marquess, placing him between Sebastian and himself and only a few inches from the hidden doorway. Max wasn't about to let Vioget get through there without the two of them.

Not for the first time, he wondered how he had been saddled with babysitting a marquess…yet again.

“You are amusing, Vioget. Now, you can make this simple…or you can make it difficult.” The way the Imperial leader caressed his lower lip with his left fang indicated that he much preferred difficulties.

Max touched Rockley and felt the rigidity of his shoulder. “Be ready,” he said softly, without moving his lips. “Behind you.”

But they never had a chance.

Suddenly the room was a flurry of movement—a table went flying, swords flashed, chairs splintered. There were shouts, screams, and the thuds of flesh on flesh.

Max grabbed Rockley and threw him under the table, then followed. Forget the hidden door; they would try to slink out by edging along the walls.

Phillip, who had found himself unable to move, suddenly knew his only chance to escape was to follow Victoria's cousin on the floor under the tables. He let go of the gun in his pocket, realizing, at last, what Pesaro and Victoria had been trying to tell him. Too late.

It hadn't been enough—the hypnotic tug and pull of the eyes of the customers in the inn, the way they seemed to bore into him and soften him…no, it wasn't until those five men, with burning eyes and lethal weapons, had exploded into the place that he realized he was going to die.

He was going to die with accusations and anger toward his wife hanging between them.

Knowing instinctively that the crucifix in his pocket would be little protection against the five creatures, Phillip scrambled across the floor after Max, pinning his only hope of survival on the man who seemed to know what to do. Shards of glass and splinters of wood cut into his fine breeches, sliced into his hands. Something dark and sticky spilled onto his head and shoulders from the tables above. A rusty stench filled his nose. There was a loud crash behind them, and he smelled the spill of lantern oil and, closely thereafter, the clogging scent of raging fire.

He and Pesaro miraculously reached the curve of wall that ended at the bottom of the stairs to this place he would forever think of as hell. Shouts and the sounds of fighting followed them as they inched along the wall under the cover of a sudden thick smoke, and Phillip wanted to shout in triumph when they touched the bottom stair.

Stumbling up the steps, Phillip saw his guide look back, pausing on the stairs. He pushed past Max, onward, recognizing there was no hope of helping Vioget. Or anyone else in the way of those five monsters.

But when he reached the top—freedom—he found himself facing two more of the creatures. Their eyes were red, and they did not carry swords. One was a woman. But, as unfamiliar with these demons as he was, Phillip recognized that they were vampires by the way he slogged into futile motions when he was caught by her gaze.

“How lovely,” she said in a throaty voice. “Just what I needed. And I thought I would miss all the fun, being stationed up here.”

He couldn't fight it…her eyes trapped him. He was picked up and carried effortlessly away…away somewhere. He struggled but he couldn't break free…she held him close, and he felt her heart beating in him, through him, as if wrapped in some kind of tendril that tightened with each struggle.

She shoved him somewhere. He fell onto something upholstered and struggled to get away. He was in a carriage—he could see out the door. They had Pesaro. They were dragging him toward the carriage, but she pulled Rockley back, away from the opening.

“Now, my lovely,” she said, and he looked into her eyes. He couldn't help it. They compelled him like nothing ever had. He was vaguely aware of a heavy burden tossed in next to him, for it broke the connection for the barest of moments.

“My lovely,” she said again, and her strong fingers filtered through his hair like a lover's. Like Victoria's. Then she tightened them, pulled his head back hard, and he cried out at the shock. She bent to him. Her lips were warm and cool at the same time. They touched the curve of his neck, the soft part now open and bare.

He struggled, but she pulled away and looked at him, settling him with her eyes. “It won't hurt, my lovely…my lovely.” She licked his face, closed her mouth over his, and thrust her tongue into it. Choking him…yet pleasing him. When she pulled away, he tasted blood…and she was licking her lips. He wanted to lick them too.

Someone was struggling next to him in the carriage. It jolted him, and the female vampire hissed, “Subdue the Venator. But control yourself. The mistress will have your heart if you feed on him.”

Then she returned to Phillip, smiling, calling him with her eyes. “And what is your name, my lovely? You are too pretty to remain nameless. Perhaps I will keep you.”

He wanted to answer; he didn't want to answer…He had no choice. Her red eyes, circled with black, pinpointed with black too, compelled him to respond. “Phillip…” he managed. “Rockley…”

Her eyes widened in shock. Her control slipped. Sharp nails dug into his scalp and into the upper arm she held. “You are Rockley? Married to Victoria?”

Faintly, above the rushing in his ears, he heard a desperate “
Nooo
!” but Pesaro's groan could not stop him from responding, “Yes.”

The woman vampire smiled, looking at him. Her fangs were long and pretty. He wanted them on him, in him. His cock throbbed in anticipation. He drew in a deep breath when she bent to his flesh. She teased him for a moment, her lips, her tongue, her fangs nicking, nibbling. “That changes things,” she murmured, and sank her fangs into his ear.

He groaned as pleasure and pain stormed through him like nothing he'd felt before. Warm liquid dripped on his neck. He could smell it—smell it on her breath when she came back to his mouth. He wanted to breathe it too.

“I won't have to kill you now.” She drew in a long breath and exhaled, slowly, delicately…breathing warm into his flesh and blood as she sank her teeth into his shoulder.

+ 25 +

The Marquess, the Venator, and the Innkeeper Go Missing

Victoria had just returned
to St. Heath's Row after a dinner party at Grantworth House when the message arrived.

She'd been hard-pressed to explain to her mother why her new husband hadn't attended with her, and it was even more difficult to extricate herself from the after-dinner socializing…but she had pleaded exhaustion. Apparently the blue-black circles under her eyes were enough to convince her mother she was unfit for a late night. And if Lady Melly believed the reason was due to an impending happy event, well, Victoria was too heartsick to fight with her on it.

Thus, she had just begun to unpin her hair when the messenger arrived to deliver a note.

She didn't recognize the handwriting, but the seal was gold and bore the imprint of a bold V surrounded by trellises and cups. It could be from only one person…she tore it open.

I am in possession of something of apparent value to you, although your actions in my coach led me to
believe otherwise. He will be safe until you arrive. You have my word.
—S.

His word?

She threw the note on her dresser and called for Verbena to help her change. A visit to the Silver Chalice required some preparation.

But when Victoria arrived at the Chalice, or what had been the Chalice, it became clear that no preparation could have readied her for the scene that faced her.

It was three o'clock in the morning, and where the bar should have been overflowing with customers coming and going on the steps, it was silent. The acrid smell of burned wood, spilled blood, and fear assailed her as she hurried down the steps.

The place was in shambles. Tables, cups, chairs, bottles…even bodies, the piano…everything was strewn all over the floor. Half of it was burned and the place stank of ash and oil.

Victoria walked into the room, hoping to find something…anything to tell her what had happened.

Max was supposed to be here, she remembered suddenly.

Had he been caught in this? Was he dead?

And Phillip? Sebastian had promised to keep him safe

Cold settled over her, a deep, penetrating, final iciness.

Max. Phillip. Sebastian.

They had all been there.

 

+ + +

Max opened his eyes.

The room was hot and shadowed, its only illumination from flames licking one long wall. At first he thought he was in hell…but then he realized he wasn't so lucky.

“Maximilian.” He tried to block her voice…but he was too weary. His strength was sapped away and he had little resistance. Especially to her.

“Look at me, Maximilian,” she crooned, her words bumping over him like a gentle hand.

He closed his eyes.

“Why do you turn away? You know you cannot deny yourself.”

He pulled himself up from his sprawled position on the floor. His hands were not restrained, but she would have no need to do that. He was powerless in many ways in her presence.

“It has been so long since you have come to me, Maximilian.”

The way she said his name made him feel as though a thousand centipedes scuttled over his skin…yet…it lingered on the air, his name from her lips. A chain that bound them together.

“I did not come to you, Lilith.” It took all he had to make those words easy, smooth. To say her name to her face.

Her laugh, low like barely a breath, curled around him. “You always did need a bit of persuasion. Come here, Maximilian. Come to me.”

He stood, then forced his limbs to do his bidding and not hers…and leaned against the wall, settling one of his hands over his left nipple, touching his
vis bulla.
Thank God even she could not touch that.

A wave of strength flowed through him and he concentrated on it, pulled the force from the holy silver he wore.

And he turned, then, rolling against the wall to look at her.

She lounged on a long white chaise. Her eyes—he could meet them for only a moment—were almond-shaped, beautifully lashed, deep-set…and blue ringed with red.

“Ah, you are more yourself now, aren't you, Maximilian? I much prefer you in your alpha state than that mass of weakness my servants dumped here last night.”

“Last night?”

She nodded once, regally.

“Is Rockley dead?”

“Rockley? Oh, no…no, my dear, I have other uses for him.”

Max closed his eyes. If the man had kept his mouth shut, and never told the vampire his name, he would be dead. And safe.

The connection to Victoria wouldn't have been made.

“Now, Max, my dear, it has been too long. You must come to me.” The liquid summons in her voice pulled at him. His hands and feet began to tremble with the effort of keeping them motionless, under his control.

Sweat gathered at his frozen nape, dripped down beneath his shirt. The scars on his neck burned and throbbed, responding to her call.

Still he resisted. He rolled along the wall, away from her.

He sensed her move. Though his eyes were closed in concentration, he felt her come toward him. He steeled himself, pressed against the wall under his hands and cheek and tried to grip it. It was too smooth.

Tall as a man, she breathed on him from behind. Her presence cloaked him, smothering and stifling…and she was not yet touching him. One of her hands reached up—he felt the air move—and she touched his hair, smoothed it, stroked it, while she drew in her breath in a long, languorous caress…then exhaled.