When Twilight Burns (4 page)

She ducked and rammed her shoulder into the abdomen of the male in one smooth move, causing him to tumble over her spine and land with a thud on the floor. But his hand snaked out and grasped her ankle, tripping her as she slammed her stake at the female's chest. The stake drove into the vampire's shoulder instead of sliding easily into her heart, sending a shock along Victoria's arm.

Just as she began scrambling to her feet, a soft
poof
sent the bald vampire into an explosion of ash. She glanced over at Sebastian in surprise—until now, she hadn't been sure he'd really do it. She'd never actually seen him stake a vampire; when he killed Beauregard, she'd been too far gone to notice anything.

That left the female, and she began to back away, fear in her pale, gaunt face. But Victoria was too quick for her. Upright now, she started after her, following when the undead began to run. She had the extra moment when the creature needed to pause to open the massive door leading to the small antechamber, and Victoria used it, leaping toward her.

They tumbled to the dirty floor, the vampire's long, blonde hair tangling about them like a greasy net. Victoria rolled on top and raised her stake, but the undead grasped her wrist in midstrike and flipped them both over so she had the upper position. Her fangs were extended, digging into the full flesh of her lower lip as she struggled to force Victoria's hands to the ground behind her.

The odd rosy haze was beginning to feed into the corners of her vision when a shadow loomed above. The vampire jerked, and then the pressure on her wrists was released. A cloud of ash showered over Victoria, sprinkling her mouth and nose with the dusty, decayed smell.

Victoria jumped to her feet, shooting a glance at Sebastian. “Now that you've decided to slay vampires, you've really committed to it,” she said, not quite successful in keeping all of the irritation from her voice. “I didn't need your assistance.” She spit out a mouthful of dust as she brushed the rest of it from her face and shoulders.

“Oho, so that's how it is. Shall I never please you? For months, you disparage my disinclination to slay vampires…and now that I'm doing so, you rebuff me.
Tsk
,
tsk
, Victoria. I thought that you of all women would not be fickle.” He turned and walked back toward the comfortable room.

Victoria resisted the urge to tell him that it wasn't that he was staking the vampires; it was that he'd interfered when she hadn't needed him to. Max would have stood and watched, criticizing her technique all the while, but only stepping in if completely necessary.

And she wasn't quite sure, as she stood there looking after Sebastian, which she preferred.

The temperature at the back of her neck had returned to normal, indicating that there weren't any other undead in the vicinity, so Victoria decided she ought to examine the parlor-like chamber more closely.

The oldest vampire lair in England, he'd said. Clearly, Beauregard had been busy educating his great-great-great-(some number of greats)-grandson about his demonic heritage.

Victoria pursed her lips as she looked over at Sebastian, who'd opened a small door that had been revealed with the movement of the throne. It would be best if she tried to find out what he was after, even though he was obviously not inclined to tell her.

She started toward him, but her attention was caught by what she had originally thought were bundles of clothing or blankets. But from this angle…

“Dear God.”

She was at the side of the bodies in an instant, Sebastian and his cubbyhole forgotten for the moment.

He looked over. “What—oh. Damnation.”

There were three of them in heaps on the floor, tossed near the wall like trash. Blood—dried, congealed, pooled—was on their ravaged faces and hands, on the floor, spattered low on the wall. The stench filled her nose, filled her body and consciousness. Her fingers closed into each of her palms as she fought to stay steady, keep her breathing even.

“Victoria.” Sebastian was there, his face suddenly close to hers.

She grabbed in a deep breath and shook her head. “I'm fine.”

He knelt beside the bodies, heaped on top of each other haphazardly, and gently moved them so that their faces were revealed—or what was left of them. They were all men, and their clothing was in shreds. The vampires hadn't merely fed on them, they'd mauled and destroyed them. Even tortured them, if the rawness of the wrists was any sign.

“This is what you allowed to walk free when you turned your back on the Venators,” Victoria said, her voice cold. “How many innocents have suffered like this when they could have been saved?”

The fury burned through her, and her fingers were shaking. The haze colored her vision and she felt rage surging through her like a team of horses gone wild.

And then she turned over the last body, and saw the familiar face.

+ Three +

Wherein Our Heroine Succumbs to a Maternal Threat

There was nothing
to wrap the corpse in but her coat, and Sebastian's too, which Victoria immediately demanded. Although the body was cold, he couldn't have been dead for long, as the pools of blood around him had not yet completely dried. Oddly enough, neither bugs nor other vermin had yet discovered the destroyed flesh.

“Who is it?” Sebastian asked. His sensual voice was clipped, no doubt by anger at her sharp accusation. It wouldn't be guilt. Not Sebastian.

Victoria cared little for his sensitivities. She had said what needed to be said, even though it angered him.

“It's Briyani, Max's Comitator,” she told him. “Kritanu's nephew.”

Victoria carefully wrapped up the young man, who'd been perhaps only five years older than her own two decades. He'd been a smart, sharp fighter, brave and skilled. It had been he, along with his uncle, who had helped her and Max escape from Lilith during a terrible fire.

Not a Venator, no, but Briyani had been just as important in the fight against the undead. He had been Max's Comitator—his assistant, valet, and an expert who trained him in the Indian martial art of
kalaripayattu.

Truth be told, both Max and Briyani had learned their skills at the hands of Kritanu, who had been Eustacia's companion and trainer for fifty years. But Briyani, who had been training since he was ten, had been working with Max to keep his skills honed for more than eight years.

And now he was gone.

She hoisted Briyani's body over her shoulder, frowning when Sebastian made a move to assist, and said, “I'll do it. Heaven forbid you should get blood on your shirt.”

“I'm exceedingly appreciative of your consideration,” he replied. But the usual self-deprecating tone was missing. “I'll just be a moment.” He loped back over to the throne and began to put it all back the way it had been.

The burden heavy on her shoulder, Victoria walked slowly toward the exit as thoughts tumbled through her mind. She could learn later from Sebastian what he'd found behind the throne—if anything. But for now she had other worries.

The last time she'd seen Briyani, he'd been in Rome. How had he come to be in London? Was he with Max? Did that mean Max was here? Why would he come to London when he hated England?

Did Max know Briyani was missing?

How was she to let him know about his trusted friend and companion if he was in hiding from Lilith? And she had to tell Kritanu, as well.

Tears welled at the corner of her eyes. She used her free hand to swipe angrily at them. This was part of her life, part of her choice. It would never get easier.

While the London
ton
danced and ate and copulated and gossiped, this evil happened. All the time, beneath their silken slippers and buffed boots.

Sebastian returned to her side, silent and grave.

“Did you get what you came for?” she asked, unable to keep a fringe of disgust from her voice.

He gave a brief nod and, to her surprise, held up a ring between his thumb and forefinger. She caught his gaze, one of those rich topaz eyes framed almost perfectly by the ring, which was thick and made of copper. She'd seen one exactly like it, braided with twisted copper strands, hidden away at the Consilium.

“One of Lilith's rings,” Victoria breathed. There were only five in existence, and the Venators were in possession of one of them—now, two.

“I shall accept your gratitude later, once we're quit of this place.” Head high, shoulders straight, he led the way from the underground chamber, back out into the foul sewers.

 

+ + +

“I daresay, Victoria, I've asked thrice for your opinion on this lace.” Gwendolyn Starcasset's voice at last penetrated Victoria's reverie. “You look exhausted, dearest. Are you certain you're feeling well?”

What could have been a petulant tone was as gentle and concerned as that of a young mother, drawing Victoria back to the gilded, laced, and overstuffed private sitting room of the Starcasset residence like a remonstrated child. An untouched tea service sat on the small walnut piecrust table next to the rose-upholstered divan on which she sat. Lemon biscuits and poppyseed scones, along with chestnut cakes, decorated a small, delicate platter. Despite her particular fondness for lemons and chestnuts, Victoria was unmoved.

Gwendolyn, one of the few young women Victoria had befriended during the Season during which she'd met and married Phillip, sat across from her in a wide-armed chair. Her spring green day dress and cornflower ribbons made her appear young and fresh in contrast to the maturity and weariness that seemed to weigh upon Victoria. Gwen's pale blonde hair was twisted high at the back of her head, with two generous locks rolled into sagging curls on either side of her face.

Victoria never had to worry about sagging curls, for her mane was composed of thick, spiral ones, yet she knew that her coiffure wasn't nearly as elegant as her friend's. At one time, long ago, it would have been a task labored over with great care. But now, she barely allowed her maid to pin it into a chignon.

“I'm so sorry, Gwen,” she said. “I must confess, I am a bit tired and still recovering from the headache that kept me away from the Bridgerton soiree last night.”

Not to mention the task of taking care of the corpse she'd brought home. She couldn't exactly walk across the front threshold of St. Heath's Row carrying Briyani's mauled body. With Sebastian's help, she'd managed to get it into the small chapel on the grounds, unseen. This morning she'd sent word to Kritanu, who was living at the town house Aunt Eustacia had bequeathed to Victoria. She didn't know when she'd have the chance to talk with Kritanu, but at least he could be with his nephew.

The only thing that had been simple about last evening's events was bidding Sebastian good night; she'd expected him to attempt to make his case for why—and how—she should thank him for finding the ring.

He must still have been angry with her for her cutting comments when she found Briyani's body, for he hadn't even tried to steal a kiss when he let her off. She couldn't remember the last time they were together that he hadn't attempted to tease or coax her into some sort of intimacy, even when she was angry or annoyed with him. Even earlier that evening, in the sewers, he'd made an attempt.

“We missed you, and of course everyone was asking everyone else if they'd called on you, or had seen you.”

Victoria discarded all thought of Sebastian and smiled. “I hope you told them a great tale.”

Gwen smiled back, showing deep, delicious dimples. She looked a bit weary too, or perhaps it was merely the stress of her upcoming nuptials. “Of course—I told them that you were remaining in seclusion until my wedding. Now, everyone will be even more eager to attend.”

“As if marrying the Earl of Brodebaugh isn't enough of a reason to entice the entire
ton
and half the king's court to attend. His style and flair is superb, and his family is certain to spend hugely on the wedding.”

Victoria may have been in Italy for nearly a year, but her mother had made certain she'd not fallen behind in Society gossip. And now that the Prince Regent would be crowned George IV in a matter of weeks, there was even more to gossip about—such as his wife, Queen Caroline, who'd recently returned from years of self-exile in Italy. Despite the scandal that had surrounded her over the affair she'd conducted with her Italian servant, Bartolomo Pergami, the queen had been welcomed back to England by the masses—purely because George was so unpopular, and he hated her.

Victoria dutifully pushed away her grief and weariness, and her potent dislike for nearly everything related to her old life of balls and fetes and musicales, and leaned closer to Gwen. “The lace is very fine, and I think it will be lovely on a wedding gown.”

She wished she really did give more than a fig about these things, but it was difficult to worry over tatting and trims when Briyani lay dead and she hadn't been able to see Kritanu yet. He was staying at the home he'd shared with Aunt Eustacia here in London; the place where Victoria would move upon leaving St. Heath's Row—which was yet another thing she needed to attend to.

“Oh, dear, Victoria,” her friend sighed in mock annoyance. “But you haven't been listening to a word I've said, have you? This lace, this beautiful Brussels lace, isn't meant for my wedding gown…but for my wedding
night.
That is why I invited you
here,
to the
private
parlor. Why, see, I've even had the drapes drawn!” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Ahh!” Victoria picked up the lace again. It was quite lovely—an eggshell white, shot through with shiny, glittering silver thread, tatted into the most intricate miniatures of loops and knots and scallops. “The earl will no doubt find himself speechless with delight.”

“I do hope so.” Gwen beamed, and for a moment, in the glare of her happiness, Victoria was shocked by pure, unadulterated
envy.