The Rest Falls Away (7 page)

“Ah. I see you have found us.”

The woman sat on one of the settees, and the vampire stood menacingly behind her. Victoria's heart thumped. Here she was, face-to-face with an undead. No advantage of surprise—and the additional problem of a victim.

Then she heard footsteps hurrying down the long hallway. And her name, called low, with urgency. “Miss Grantworth?”

Good gad. Lord Rockley!

She leaped into the room and slammed the door shut, keeping her attention on the vampire, and her fingers wrapped around her stake. Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath as Kritanu had taught her, she settled into an offensive stance and looked at the vampire.

“Release her.” Victoria nodded toward the woman, who'd not moved one whit. Scared stiff, she was.

“I think not,” the man purred. He stepped from around the settee and Victoria suddenly, fully understood what Aunt Eustacia meant when she spoke of the allure of the vampire. It crackled in the room, this awareness she felt…an inexorable drawing toward him. As if he held her strings in his hands and was tugging ever so gently.

Without conscious thought, she dropped a hand to her belly and touched the
vis bulla
through the froth of her skirts. The headiness lessened. Her fingers gripped the stake. He stepped closer.

His eyes, still normal but gleaming with a fierceness she'd seen only once—in the gaze of a mad dog that had had to be shot—never left hers. A smile curled his mouth.

“So you are the one. A woman Venator.”

“You seem to have the advantage of me,” she replied coolly. “But that's no matter, as you won't be around long enough to enjoy it.”

A low laugh issued from his mouth, and she saw the gleam of fangs. His eyes narrowed, the pupils pinpointing and the irises burning pale pink, then delicate ruby red.

“I've never had the taste of a Venator before. I'm sure it will be most fulfilling. Quite delectable.”

Without warning he launched himself toward her, moving with such lightning speed it seemed as if he'd flown on a breath. His hands closed over her shoulders, taking her by surprise. She dropped the stake, and he laughed when it clattered onto his boots. His grip was painful, his sharp nails digging into the soft parts of her shoulders as she struggled to free herself.

Before you, there have been only three other female Venators in the last decades of battle against Lilith. Two of them died hideous deaths shortly after they were inducted into the Legacy and received their
vis bullae.

She was damned if she was going to give Max the satisfaction of being the third.

Victoria tipped her head back, then slammed her forehead into the face of the vampire, thanking Kritanu for making her practice this move so many times. She felt the squash of his hooked nose give way beneath the onslaught, and his reaction to the pain allowed her to jerk from his grip. She lunged to the ground and closed her fingers around the smooth ash stick, but before she could rise, he recovered and sent her sprawling.

Frothy pink skirts wrapped around her legs as she rolled onto her back, then the fabric slid back like skates on ice as she drew her knees to her chest. When she kicked out with both feet, Victoria caught him in the chest just as he rounded on her. The blow propelled him into a small table, which toppled, scattering its contents over the rug. He landed on the floor, and she followed, rolling after him on the rough Persian rug, stake at the ready.

She was just about to plunge it into his chest when something wrapped around her neck from behind: a strong, slender arm, ending in a white glove. Skirts of blue—a color that did not match Victoria's dress—tangled around her feet.

As the arm pulled on her, Victoria slammed her head back, cracking into the woman's face. But the male vampire was reaching for her shoulders again, yanking her down toward his bared teeth.

She kicked out with her feet, blindly, not in the measured way Kritanu had taught her, and felt panic begin to clamp her chest.
Two of them!
She'd been fooled again.

She felt his hot breath on her neck, felt the tug of his gaze, the promise that if she would just relax…just let go…there would be no pain. Only pleasure. Ecstasy. Release.

His breath hypnotized her. His burning eyes scored into her, promising.

She vaguely felt a movement behind her, and then the jolt as he pushed someone away, growling in anger. The woman, she thought in the back of her mind.
He wants me for himself.

The smooth wood slipped from her fingers. He breathed again, drawing in her strength. Her head swam.

She closed her eyes.

+ 4 +

The Marquess's Thirst Remains Unquenched

Max brushed past
the butler—who would have announced him if given the chance—and hurried down the wide, sweeping staircase at the Dunstead home.

Two Guardian vampires on the loose and here he was, chasing down a novice Venator who was more concerned with filling her dance card and juggling beaux than wielding a stake. Only the slight chance that the vampires might find her first had convinced him he must notify Miss Grantworth by tracking her down at a bloody dance.

A quick scan around the crushed ballroom told him she wasn't attempting the waltz. The back of his neck remained neutral: no vampires in the vicinity.

Frowning, Max pushed around a cluster of tittering debutantes who gawked at him from behind fans in every shade of pink. He flung them a glower meant to send them cowering, but more than one of them looked at him with promise in her eyes and a pout on her lips.

Blasted English twits. Nary a thought in their minds but what was in a man's purse or his pants. Or both. No wonder so many of them were targets of vampires. Easy marks.

Max pushed through the room. He had the urge to leave, to get back on the street and track down the Guardians—but he also had to report to Eustacia that he'd first done his best to locate Victoria. He'd make his way through the entire perimeter of the room, perhaps stick his head out onto the terrace, as it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the virginal Miss Grantworth had found an excuse to walk in the moonlight…and then he'd leave.

He'd made his circuit and seen nothing of his quarry, and was just about to slip out onto the terrace when he felt the barest coolness on the back of his neck. Max stopped. The chill was faint, just barely there, but since there was no draft and his nape was thoroughly covered by his too-long hair, there was no mistaking it. He looked around, scanning the room again, and then down the hallway that stretched up five steps and away.

There.

He bounded up the steps and started down the hall that made an ell turn after only three doors. The hair on the back of his neck was standing now, and at least he knew he was on the trail. The fact that Victoria was missing from the ballroom intensified his urgency; she was either with the vampire—or vampires—or outside kissing one of her beaux. Either way, Max would have to handle the problem.

A novice Venator was no match for a Guardian vampire. God help her if she was battling both of them.

As he hurried down the hall, he saw one of the English fops Victoria had been swooning over at her ball.

“Miss Grantworth?” the man called, tentatively opening one of the doors.

Either he had an assignation with the girl or he was chasing her on
her
assignation. Regardless, Max had to get rid of him, for it was now obvious that Victoria was in this proximity.

“Are you perchance looking for Miss Victoria Grantworth?” asked Max pleasantly, belying his urgency. His nape was positively icy.

The man—the Marquess of Rockford or something of that nature—straightened as if caught with his hand down a lady's bodice. “Indeed I am.” He looked at Max with a hint of challenge in his deep-set eyes.

“I believe I just saw her walking that way…She appeared to be returning to the dance,” Max told him. The last thing they needed was an interfering hero type, which was exactly what the Marquess of Wherever appeared to be. “She looked to be making much haste.”

The marquess measured him, then gave a brief nod. “My thanks to you, sir.”

Max barely waited until the man had passed him before continuing down the hall. His instincts pushed him on, and he knew when he found the right door.

Flinging it open, he slipped in, pulling a stake from his pocket.

He was just in time to see a vampire poof into dust across the room; but he had no chance to take in the details, for a second Guardian flew toward him with breathtaking speed. He stopped her in midleap with a stake to the chest, and she was gone.

Shutting the door behind him, for it had all happened so quickly he'd left it wide open, he stepped in and surveyed the scene.

Victoria was in a tumble of skirts on the floor, but she was pulling herself to her feet by the time he took two steps. Her curling black hair was still anchored high at the back of her head, intertwined with some fripperies that appeared to glint when she moved. One thick corkscrew had escaped and fell over a white shoulder. The delicate fabric of her skirts was crinkled beyond repair, and her peachy skin cast a paler glow than usual.

“Maximilian,” she said, standing straight, holding on to the back of a settee. He noticed that her hand trembled ever so slightly as she pushed away a loose black wave that dipped over her eye. “How fortuitous that you should arrive just in time to see my great escape. Or”—she lowered her chin and looked at him from under her lashes— “was it that you came to rescue me? Sir Stakes-a-Lot saving the helpless damsel?”

She was white. And the faint quaver in her voice gave away her strain. And… “Bloody
hell!”
Max was at her side, roughly pushing away the errant black curl. “You've been bitten!”

“Ouch!” She jerked away, still clutching the settee. “I'm well aware of that…and it hurts, so don't touch it!”

Maximilian ignored her and pulled her toward one of the gas lamps so he could get a better look. “He didn't feed much.” He smoothed his fingers gently over her warm skin, feeling the steady pumping of her vein under his rough fingerpads. When he brought his hand away, a smudge of crimson colored his fingers. “Damnation.”

He jammed his hand in his pocket and scrabbled his fingers around until they pulled out the vial. “Do be still, Victoria,” he snapped, twisting the cork from the small bottle. He pushed her head none too gently aside so he could see the wound. Before she could react, he had sprinkled the four small red circles of the bite with the water.

Victoria shrieked and jumped away, clapping her hand over the wound. “What are you doing?”

“Washing the bite with salted holy water of course. And yes, it does sting, but it's the only recourse at this time. You'll be all right, but we've got to get you to Eustacia immediately. She has a salve—”

“Of course. I know that.” The look she gave him was dark. She let go of the settee and shook out her skirts. “My gown is ruined. I cannot walk out of here and through the party in this condition. Everyone will think…Well, they'll think the worst!”

Max closed his mouth. When he spoke, his jaw was tight. “I will fetch your cloak—”

“No, you'll never be able to find it. I'll go with you and we can cover up my gown. But my mother—”

“Eustacia will send her a note explaining,” Max replied, ushering her toward the door. “Come, we have time, but not that much time. The holy salt water will only slow the Guardian's poison for a short time.” He fairly pushed her out the door and followed her directions down the hall, back toward the party.

When she'd found her wrap and arranged it to cover her gown, he took a moment to adjust the fallen piece of hair, tucking it firmly into the collar of her cloak so that it would hide the bite.

Moments later he was propelling her around the ballroom's perimeter, dodging anyone who appeared eager to stop and talk, when the Marquess of Rock-something materialized. Victoria froze; Max could feel it all the way along the arm he'd been using to steer her through the crowd.

“Miss Grantworth. And…er…” He looked pointedly at Max. “I was looking for you.”

“Lord Rockley,” Victoria said, with a gentle note in her voice that Max had yet to notice in any of his conversations with her, “I apologize for disappearing, and I regret even more that I am being called away to my great-aunt's bedside. She is ill again.”

Rockley—so that was his name—looked at Max again, then back at Victoria. “I see. Well, my lady, I regret that I was not able to quench your thirst this evening. Good night.”

“My lord, wait.” Victoria pulled from Max and reached for the marquess's arm. He stopped and looked down at her, and even from Max's view, he appeared cool and untouched despite the fact that one of the most beautiful women in the room was pulling him toward her. “May I present to you my aunt's personal guard, and my
cousin—
” Max heard her stress that last word “—Maximilian Pesaro. He came to fetch me to her side. Urgently.”

Rockley gave Max another of his measuring looks, then the barest trace of a bow. “Phillip de Lacy, Marquess of Rockley, at your service—er—sir.”

Max's patience was gone. The niceties of society and the flirtation between a debutante and a titled fop meant nothing in the grand scheme of things—namely that the beloved niece of Eustacia Gardella was currently carrying a vampire bite on her neck. “Yes, indeed. Victoria, I must insist we be on our way. Your aunt is in desperate straits.”

To his surprise, Victoria allowed him to practically tow her off in his wake. She had to take quick steps in order to keep up with him, but she did so with a minimum of fuss.

“You appear to have no concept of how little time we have to address the situation in which you've so foolishly placed yourself,” he snapped, shoving her into the coach that had been waiting for his return.