The Bleeding Dusk (15 page)

She said nothing more, but turned and trotted off after him, beyond annoyed with herself for getting her directions confused now that she was inside the building. Of course the servants' quarters were toward the back side of the villa.

The passageway was deserted, and there were cobwebs and dust everywhere. Victoria had to press her fingers over the top of her nose to keep from sneezing when Max brushed past an old drape that must have sent up a cloud of dust. There were voices in the distance, and as they moved along the servants' hallway the sounds grew louder.

Max stopped when they came to one of the back doors that obviously led from the servants' area to the main part of the house. He cracked the door and peered inside, deliberately, Victoria was sure, positioning himself so she couldn't see around him.

Or maybe she was just falling back into that old habit of being perturbed by everything he did or said.

Certainly he'd intentionally tried to irritate her when she'd first become a Venator and they'd had to work together. And last fall, when he'd been pretending to be part of the Tutela, he'd had to be even ruder and more snide than usual in order to keep her from asking too many questions.

But perhaps he really had come to respect her as a Venator, now that Aunt Eustacia was gone and he'd had a chance to think about things. In any case, despite his blunt ways, she was glad he was back.

Victoria realized he'd stepped away from the doorway and was looking at her. “They've gathered there in what must be the ballroom,” he said in a quiet voice. “I'll sneak in and listen to what's being said. I saw a flight of stairs that might lead above for a better look.”

“I'll go up and see what there is to see,” she said, and started toward the door, but his hand on her upper arm stopped her.

“Go to the left, stay in the shadows, and you'll find the stairs.”

She nodded once, then turned back to add, “Meet at the servants' door if we're separated.”

Without waiting for a response, she did as he'd suggested, opening the door that, by virtue of the fact that it was designed to be an unobtrusive servants' entrance, was set in the darkest corner of the room beyond it. She found it no difficult feat to move quickly and rapidly along the wall to a flight of stairs that led to a balcony-like alcove above.

As she scurried along the wall, she saw that the main room was not the ballroom, but an anteroom that offered three wide arches that led to the ballroom.

The people Victoria saw gathered barely constituted a crowd at all. Perhaps twenty or thirty people stood about. They had sparkling goblets that looked out of place in a gloomy room lit not with lamps or sconces, but with only candles—although there were nearly as many candles tonight as there had been last night on the Corso. And since there was no music to act as a backdrop, and their voices were low murmurs, the occasion had a rather eerie feel. The furnishings were spare. A small table presumably held the drinks the guests had received, and another long table across the room was covered with what appeared to be scrolls of paper.

Victoria reached the stairs without incident, but as she rested her hand on the filthy balustrade she bumped into a small metal vase that had been hidden in the darkness. It tumbled off the bottom step and clanged to the floor. She caught it before it bounced again and, still holding it, dashed up the steps, seeking obscurity in the darkness above.

At the top she paused, looking back down the steps, privately berating herself for not being more careful. She held her breath, waiting to see if she'd be discovered.

After a long moment she saw two figures down below her moving purposefully toward the spot where the vase had banged on the floor. One of them pointed up the steps, into the darkness that concealed Victoria, but the other shook his head. Easing back even more, Victoria watched the two men converse while looking around nervously. Since she'd taken the vase with her, there wasn't anything to indicate the source of the noise they'd heard, and at last they walked back toward the main room.

She set the vase on the floor well out of the way and looked around, finding herself on a curtained balcony that overlooked what would have been the dance floor if, indeed, there had been dancing. The space was all shadows, for the only light came from the half-drawn curtains at the balcony's rail, hiding her presence from the room below. Very convenient.

So convenient that it made her wonder what the area had been used for when the villa was fully inhabited.

After a quick look around to ascertain that she was indeed alone, and that there didn't seem to be any other entrance or exit from the small alcove, she moved to the drapes and peered down through the large gap between them. Carefully pulling them closer together, so as not to draw attention to the movement of the velvet, she took advantage of her bird's-eye view and watched.

Although the group was small, the gathering looked no different from any other party Victoria had witnessed. It was certainly nothing like the Tutela meeting she'd had the misfortune to attend last autumn. There was no hypnotically scented incense burning, no chanting, no dais with a Tutela leader urging the attendees to support and save the vampires.

It was merely a party. People talked, and although their voices seemed to echo loudly and eerily in a relatively empty room, and there was a sense of unease creeping over Victoria's shoulders, nothing else seemed amiss. She still sensed no vampires.

There was Lady Melly…and Lady Nilly, too, hands flapping like spiraling birds as she made some urgent point. And Lady Winnie approached just then, holding a small plate of the dry Italian biscuits she claimed to disdain.

At that moment someone stepped behind Victoria, silent, sending her hair prickling.

Max.

Victoria didn't turn, didn't acknowledge his presence as she looked down from her hidden view, watching the people mingling below. The edges of the velvet curtain crinkled under her fingers as she pulled it taut from its moorings, positioning it in front of her face so she could look through the narrow opening. Max moved closer, brushing her shoulder as he peered through the same slit.

Now she saw Zavier in the center of the room below, talking with two men, and she focused her attention on him rather than on the man behind her, crowding her against the drapes.

Somehow Max must have known her thoughts, for he said in a low, amused voice, “A nice lad, Zavier. A good Venator.” He was standing so close behind her his words whispered over her temple. If she drew in her breath, Victoria was certain her shoulders would brush against his chest.

She continued to watch Zavier, watch the way he gestured grandly, his large arms and broad shoulders setting him apart from the willowy dandies with whom he spoke: men who could be expected to parry a few fancy steps with an epée, and perhaps throw a punch or so if caught in an unpleasant situation…but who hadn't one iota of the power and strength in comparison to the more casually dressed Scot before them.

She looked down, turning her attention to count the people below, to give her something to focus on, willing her heart to slow its jagged pounding, and wishing Max would step away before she had to.

But he didn't move. His voice rumbled again. “Take care with him.” There was an edge to his words, a warning that hadn't been there a moment before.

“Take care?”

He nodded—she felt the movement of his head against the top of hers.

“You'll break his heart.”

Victoria started in surprise, but her grip on the curtains—which had suddenly become deathly—kept her from spinning around or even turning her head. Still looking down, she tipped her face slightly to the side so he could hear her cool words. “Break his heart? What on earth do you mean? Never say you are attempting to advise me on my intimate affairs, Max. The closest you've come to any matter of the heart was an engagement to a lover of vampires.”

“Zavier is a good man.” Max's voice was calm and even in her ear. “You're too strong for him. You'll merely tread upon him with your silk slippers and trounce his heart, which he wears much too openly on his sleeve.”

“You never cease to amaze me—”

“Victoria,” he interrupted, still smooth but very firm. “The man is in love with the idea of a woman Venator. Any woman Venator. Had Eustacia been a few decades younger, he would have courted her.”

“You're crude, Max.”

A short, sharp laugh rumbled. “Perhaps. But at least I speak honestly.”

“Disgustingly so.”

“You would be better off with the likes of Vioget than that milksop Zavier.”

“I begin to wonder why you continue to push me toward Sebastian. Is it some form of punishment?”

“Push you toward Sebastian? I wouldn't go so far as to say that.”

“It was you, after all, who ordered him to kidnap me last autumn to keep me out of your way.”

“A task he accepted with embarrassing alacrity—but, of course, he had his own motives for cooperating. I'm certain he found the rewards worth the risk. That carriage must have been quite comfortable.”

Victoria's face burned. How could he know she'd allowed Sebastian to seduce her in a carriage? Thank God he couldn't see her cheeks; they must be red with fury and embarrassment. And how
dared
he say such a thing?

Did he think since she'd seen and experienced so much more than other women her sensibilities weren't as delicate?

“At least Vioget can recognize your faults,” Max continued in that steady voice, as though he hadn't just insulted her. “And, aside from that, I wouldn't bloody care if you were to tear out Vioget's innards and screw your heels into them. In fact, I'd applaud it. Zavier, on the other hand, the blasted fool, wouldn't see your faults if you engraved them on his stake. He's already anointed you and ensconced you on a pedestal.”

“I still fail to see why you should be concerned about my affairs.”

“You misunderstand. It isn't your affairs that concern me. It's Zavier's. I should hate to see a Venator incapacitated due to a broken heart. And you will destroy his if you continue on this path.”

“You're so certain of this?”

“He's not strong enough, Victoria. He's an exceptional Venator, but he's not equipped to manage his heart. He cannot see your faults; he will let you run roughshod over him…and, finally, he will bore you with his easy ways, his pathetic doggedness of wanting to make you happy—all the time knowing he could lose you to this dangerous world we inhabit. And that's what I do not wish to see. For his sake. For ours, as Venators.”

Tears had begun to sting the corners of her eyes, blurring her view of the party below. Burning tears of anger and grief. She blinked and took a long, slow breath, resisting the desire to spin a slap onto his aristocratic cheek like the Society miss she no longer was. “You would have said the same about Phillip had I listened.”

“No.” His voice became raw and serious. “Phillip was strong enough. He just didn't understand the world you live in. If he had…”

Max didn't need to finish, and Victoria didn't want him to. She released the curtains and slipped to the side, away from him. She knew very well that if Phillip had understood her life even a little, things would have been so very different. Her eyes stung and her throat felt as though she'd swallowed a ball.

“Victoria, you of all people know what it is like to suffer a broken heart. Take care not to bring the same onto one of your men. You have the power to do it.”

“You forget that this Venator wasn't incapacitated with a broken heart.”

“Weren't you?”

She drew herself up to reply…and then deflated.

Oh, God, yes, she had been.

For nearly a year after Phillip's death she'd been afraid to raise her stake for fear she'd turn berserker and annihilate anything in her path. The gifts she had, the powers, the strengths, the instincts: they could all be wielded for bad as well as for good. And the rage that had simmered beneath her calm exterior—the rage and hatred and loss—could have brought her down the wrong path.

The tears, silent and thus hidden in the darkness, were streaming down her cheeks now. Victoria had moved away from the gap in the curtains, away from Max and his insistent opinions, his ruthless words.

She drew in a long, deep breath, struggling to keep it from hitching and giving away the fact that he had brought her to this, and moved farther away. She wanted to get away from him, away from his damned truths.

Max turned, and the small slit in the curtains closed, leaving them in total darkness. The only relief was a dark gray essence that came from the direction of the stairs up which she'd come.

“Victoria?” His voice was quiet.

“There's nothing more to see here,” she replied, relieved at how steady she sounded. “And I've seen no members of the Tutela.” She was moving quickly and silently toward the exit and the stairs, focusing on the barest sense of light and her outstretched hands to find her way. “I'll go down to see what I can find.”

“Victoria.” Max moved close behind her; she could hear him. But she kept going toward the stairs, walking as quickly as she could in the dim light, her eyes now able to make out the faintest of shapes.

She came to the top of the stairs, her hand on the balustrade helping her to feel her way around the corner at the top of the landing. Suddenly something came out of the darkness in front of her.

It was strong and metal, and someone was poking it into the front of her shoulder. “How serendipitous,” came a familiar male voice. “What an unexpected prize our little trap has sprung.”

A candle flared to life in front of her, revealing Mr. George Starcasset…and Lady Sarafina Regalado.

+ Nine +

Wherein Three Ladies Are Loosed Upon an Unsuspecting Villa

 

Max heard the soft click
of a pistol being cocked, and he froze just as he realized the back of his neck had begun to prickle and chill.