Rises The Night

Page 48

"Feel better?" he asked, not solicitously, not as if he cared, but as if he couldn't wait to be away from her.
"Strong enough to fight you now." She pulled her hand away and immediately felt the loss of the energy.
He raised an eyebrow, looking at her as he fastened his shirt. "Stand up."
She stood; she managed that. Even without the power from his vis bulla, she still felt much better. The room didn't spin, and her vision was clear. Her injuries began to hurt again, but not so bad as before.
"When you leave this room, go to the right. Three doors down the long passage you will find stairs leading back to the main floor of what's left of the theater." He produced a stake and a gun and tossed them on the cot. "Take these and get out of here. I have to get back before I'm missed, and I trust, God knows why, that you will go now that I've given you the chance. Again."
"I hate you, Max. You must know that." Victoria picked up the gun, cocked it, and pointed it at his chest. She'd become much more familiar with firearms since she'd been forced to use one in her escape from Lilith last year. "I would do nothing to benefit you." The gun was heavy, but she didn't allow it to shake in her grip. Moments ago she would have fired without hesitation.
"It no longer matters what you think of me," he replied. Weariness and impatience laced his voice. "Go, now, Victoria. Killing me now will benefit no one. And if you pull that trigger, they'll all be down here faster than you would imagine." A mocking grin flashed. "Why do you think I gave you a gun and not a knife?"
"Why did you do it?" To her horror, her eyes began to sting.
"It was either her, or you." Max turned and strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft thunk.
Brushing away the surprised tears, she snatched up the stake and started after him, hearing his footsteps above her once more, but the door wouldn't open. She pulled again, and it came loose, opening into a dark hallway. Max had left the lantern, so Victoria grabbed it up from the floor and started out.
She didn't go right, as he'd directed. She went up the stairs in his wake, shadowing the lantern as much as she could, listening for his footsteps to follow them. She would remain out of sight, safe… but she had to see what was happening. She had to find out if what Max said was true. And… there might be something she could do.
She couldn't leave.
A soft creak in the distance sent her along a passage at the top of the stairs. She didn't need the lantern any longer; it was not the pitch-black of the room she'd left, but shadowy, and her eyes were becoming accustomed to the shapes and shades of gray, so she blew out the lantern and left it. She passed a door that hung ajar, and a quick peek as she went by showed racks of clothing, probably costumes, hanging inside. The scent of smoke permeated the area as she rushed along on silent feet, trying to catch up to Max.
After a time, she realized she'd lost him. Everything was silent and still.
Frustrated and feeling weak again, Victoria retraced her steps, taking more time to explore the area. She was definitely in the lower level of the theater, obviously used for storage. Costumes, props, chairs, instruments, music… the rooms were neatly ordered with all of these items.
Victoria found another staircase, a wider one, that seemed designed for heavier traffic, and took the steps up slowly, listening. The back of her neck had never ceased being chilled, but now it was becoming colder, and so she took greater care with her explorations. She gripped the stake in one hand and had tucked the gun in the waist of her trousers. It was heavy and dragged on them as she walked, but she wanted to keep her other hand free.
At the top of the stairs she found herself in a hallway, and beyond it she could see behind the stage. This was not the stage on which Aunt Eustacia had been executed hours before; this was the larger, taller performance stage, where she'd watched the opera only two nights ago. Scorched backdrops hung, one in front of the other, and tables sat in the wings, holding smoke-laden props and costumes. And she heard voices.
Someone was on the stage. She hoped it was Nedas.
Victoria crept forward, straining her ears, and nearly bumped into a wooden ladder. She looked up, her skin prickling with an idea. It seemed to lead up into infinite darkness, to the same place where the ropes that held the backdrops and curtains went.
She climbed up the ladder, taking care that the gun didn't slip from her waistband and tumble to the floor below. She resorted to sticking her stake in the other side of her trousers in order to free both of her hands, and wished she still had her bow and wooden bolts.
Thirty feet above the stage the steps continued on, but she found a catwalk that led into the shadows beyond the wings, where she was, and presumably over the stage. The smell of smoke was stronger up here, and she saw patches of black at the tops of the backdrops, and even on the catwalk and the ropes that acted as railings. It was amazing that the theater hadn't burned to the ground. There was illumination coming from the stage, and it helped her find her way more easily.
As she crept silently along the narrow wooden bridge that had a tendency to shimmy, the voices grew louder and more distinct. The back of her neck became colder, and she felt that same repulsive, oozing feeling she'd had earlier, when Nedas had come into view.
At last she moved beyond the black curtains that blocked the backstage wings from the audience, and found herself above the main part of the stage.
The first thing she saw was Akvan's Obelisk.
It sat on a waist-high round table in the center of the stage and looked exactly as she'd pictured it: an obsidian object, glinting blue and black in the light of five lanterns that were arranged in a circle around it. Narrow, with a pointed top, it was approximately the thickness of a man's arm, and perhaps as tall as his leg. It speared up at a slight angle, long and shiny and evil.
The stage itself was a bit worse for wear from the fire. One side near the audience was charred and burned and had fallen away, leaving a jagged black pit below. A swath of burned-out chairs cut through the same side of the theater, and the boxes above them—the one in which Victoria had seen the Imperial—were scorched. Yet, the other two-thirds of the arena was merely covered with ash and smoke stains and showed no other damage. Half of those seats were filled with vampires and members of the Tutela.
At five stations around the stage, with the obelisk and its table in the center, sat some kind of bowllike containers. Smoke wafted up from the small fires in them, bringing the sweet smell that reminded Victoria unpleasantly of the Tutela meeting. The theater was so large that the incense would not engulf the room as it had then; but she could still smell the essence; and along with it came the memory of being nearly helpless under the hands and fangs of the vampires.
Victoria closed her eyes and shook her head, clearing away the reminder that she was even more helpless now, tonight. Bringing her attention back to the stage, she examined the people there.
Standing next to the table with the obelisk were five men. Nedas she recognized because of his lesser height and darker skin, and because of the way her entire body felt ill when she focused her attention on him. Max was the tallest, with his too-long hair clubbed back, and his white shirt standing out among the sea of black clothing and dark hair. Regalado's bald head shone like a flesh-colored skull, and his thick beard bushed out so far that Victoria could see it even when he stood directly below her. The other two men, whom she thought were vampires, she did not recognize.
It appeared that Max had indeed become one of the trusted inner circle of Nedas, so that he was directly involved in what was about to occur. Victoria's stomach pitched at the thought of what price had been paid for him to align himself with Nedas. Aunt Eustacia.
And why was he so determined she not be there? Why did he even care?
It was either her, or you.
But why either of them? Why would he forsake the Venators?
Tutela to Venator to Tutela.
Had his years of being a Venator been a ploy for only one thing, to this one end? To gain her aunt's trust and bring her to her death?
But why?
Had they had possession of Akvan's Obelisk that long ago?
The thoughts swirled in Victoria's head; she was feeling weak again, and it seemed as though the incense from the pots was going straight to her nose, weaving through her senses and making them as murky as London fog. Perhaps without her vis bulla she was more susceptible to the essence. Or perhaps it was because her injuries simply made her weaker and more easily confused.
She became aware of some sort of chanting below. It came from the vampires who sat in the audience, far enough away that they could see what was to happen, but could not be involved or interfere.
A thought came to mind, and Victoria spent a few long moments scanning the viewers in the seats, looking for Sebastian. She should be as angry with him as she was with Max, but she wasn't.
Yes, he had kidnapped her and taken the opportunity to make love to her. It was fortunate that she hadn't expected more from him, for she was bound to be disappointed if she had.
Yes, he had disappeared at a most fortuitous moment—for him. And yes, he had left her to battle the vampires on her own. But at least he had been truthful with her. He was not a man of violence, and would not strike and kill. Not even a vampire. And he certainly didn't have the powers of a Venator to protect himself.
Of course, that meant it was necessary for him to make himself scarce at such dangerous moments; but if he had not, he likely would have been captured too.
But they wouldn't have hurt him, if all he'd told her about Beauregard was true. Would they?
Or perhaps they would have, if Beauregard and Nedas were rivals.
Victoria's head was swimming and her body was pounding with pain again. She couldn't stop the thoughts swirling around her mind, clogging it, softening it from any clear judgment.
The chanting had grown louder and deeper, and the incense did not disperse, but seemed to continue to swirl straight up.
Its smoke was colored, she noticed vaguely. Black and blue curls and coils, braiding together as they wove up into the catwalk, insinuating themselves into her nostrils and into her lungs. Stifling a cough, she held the sleeve of her tunic over her nose and mouth and tried to breathe the filtered air; perhaps she had waited too long to do so, but it might help to keep the scent at bay.