When Twilight Burns
Page 18
She did, and the yellow glow illuminated the faint bluish cast over the plump parts of her palm, up along the inside of her thumb.
Their eyes met and she felt warmth billow through her, from her chest out into each of her limbs. The room pressed in around them.
“It won’t wash off.” Her voice was soft.
“I told you it would not.”
The blue tinge was from a shard of Akvan’s Obelisk, the demonic stone that had been shattered by Max the previous November when they battled Nedas. Victoria had retrieved one of the pieces and brought it back to the Consilium, where, unbeknownst to her, the power of the obelisk had called Akvan back to earth—and the power of the splinter directed his minions to the secret location of the Consilium.
When she’d removed the shard from the hideaway, returning it to a safe place behind the Door of Alchemy, Max had been there as well.
That was when Victoria, influenced by the malevolent power of the piece of obelisk that she’d held, had goaded him into kissing her.
The blue on her hand was indelibly connected to the memory of her fingers curling into the rough stone wall as Max fit his mouth to hers.
She closed her hand into a fist. It was a good thing she had to wear gloves in polite society.
“I’ve often wondered if that also contributed to the failure of Beauregard’s blood to take root in you.” He nodded brusquely at her hand as he released it, then moved slightly away.
She breathed a bit easier now, and stopped her leg against the edge of the bed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s possible. Vampires and demons are immortal enemies. I obviously had been somewhat influenced by Akvan’s power when I was holding the shard. Perhaps some essence of it remained.”
He nodded. “That and your two vis bullae.” His eyes focused on her, and even in the shadowy light, she could sense the sharpness of his gaze.
Her two strength amulets were not a topic on which she cared to speak. She didn’t want to discuss or acknowledge the fact that one of them was his. It was simply too uncomfortable. Strange, to think about the intimacy of wearing an amulet pierced through her own skin that had once hung from his.
The silence snapped when he shifted away with spare, smooth movements. His hand closed over the doorknob, answering at least one of her questions: how he’d entered the room. “Perhaps you’d best get some sleep now, Victoria,” he said. “I’m certain Vioget will return soon enough.”
“He hasn’t open access to my bedchamber,” she said sharply. “Much as he might wish to.”
“Do I detect upheaval in paradise? A bit of a tension between two lovers?”
“Sebastian isn’t my lover.”
His brows rose. “Indeed.” He turned the knob, but refrained from opening the door. “Another word of advice, Victoria. For all of the enmity between Vioget and myself, I know that he means well by you. His greatest weakness is blind loyalty. He is a worthy match for you.” His words were short and clipped. “It’s . . . important that you think of the future.”
“You begin to sound like my mother,” Victoria replied, feeling bewildered. Why was Max encouraging her toward a man he loathed?
“Whereas your mother is concerned only with titles and wealth and grandchildren, my interest relates to the well-being of the Venators. You are the last of the direct line, and should consider what will happen if you die without issue. Or prematurely.”
Victoria slid down from the edge of the bed, her feet landing on the soft woolen rug. The brush of silk from her nightgown shifted sleekly against her calves, swishing down from her thighs. “This from a man who, two years ago, was furious that I chose to wed? Make up your mind, Max.” As she stood in front of him, she saw him draw back . . . subtly, almost imperceptibly putting distance between them.
“My mind has been made up. Don’t be a fool, Victoria. Remember your duty.” He pulled the door open, then paused halfway out of the room. “I do hope you’ll be considerate and keep any—er—activities in here from being too strident.”
She looked at him, enlightenment dawning as the urge to tamper with him disappeared. “You’re staying here?”
“Kritanu suggested it.” His sardonic smile flashed again. “But you needn’t worry that I’ll disrupt things . . . I’m staying in the servants’ quarters.” The door closed behind him with a firm click as he made his escape.
Nine
In Which Our Heroine Is Interrogated Yet Again
Victoria did not go back to sleep after Max left.
Instead, she found herself staring at the ceiling of the bedchamber that used to belong to Aunt Eustacia. As ceilings went, it was patently uninteresting—there was nary a mural nor a small plafond to relieve its eggshell color. It was flat, unmarked, and without flaw.
Thus Victoria had nothing to distract her from her churning thoughts.
Max was somewhere in the house, a fact which alone made her feel odd. He was suggesting that she marry—or at least have a long-term, child-bearing affair with—a man he loathed. The man who’d killed his sister, in fact, sending her, as an undead, to an eternal damnation that Max had caused. A man that Max had disparaged for his cowardice on more than one occasion, who had declined to accept the role of Venator, yet who had kept the knowledge and power of one for more than a decade.
A man that Victoria had been intimate with on more than one occasion, although, as she’d informed Max, she didn’t consider Sebastian her lover. Not really. Not in an ongoing or permanent way. Not as if she was ready to wed the man.
Since she’d first met Sebastian, he’d projected an aura of mystery and untrustworthiness. Yet, from their initial conversation at the Silver Chalice, there’d been a connection between them, a flare of attraction on which he never wasted an opportunity to act. Or attempt to act.
And she’d been willing. A few times.
She shivered, smiled, remembering.
In truth, he had made her feel when she’d otherwise been numb. When she grieved, he soothed and awakened her. When she raged, he enraged her further, drawing forth that energy and massaging it into passion. His sense of the absurd, his ability to turn every situation into a prospect for seduction, his fit, golden body . . . the one, she remembered now, with a tinge of bitterness, that he’d kept fairly hidden from her until two months ago, when she’d discovered that he wore the vis bulla.
Nothing could change the fact that he’d turned his back on the Venators. He’d lived with a powerful vampire for years, protecting and serving him while watching the vampire hunters from a distance.
He’d ignored his duty.
Yes, he’d had to slay the woman he loved. Giulia had no longer been the girl he’d known, just as Phillip had no longer been the man Victoria had wed. It had been the hardest thing she’d ever done . . . but it had not drawn her from her responsibilities.
If anything, it had made her stronger and more determined to eradicate the undead.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Victoria sat up, surprised that Verbena would bother her so early. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock. “Yes?”
Verbena’s puff of wiry orange hair poked around the door. “Oh, thank’od my lady, ye’r awake. I’m so sorry to bother ye, but there’s a man on the front stoop who’s demandin’ to speak t’ye.”
“Who is it?” Victoria swung her legs out of the bed and slid to the floor.
“I dunno, but says ye’d want t’talk to him. He says as he’ll stay there all th’day if’n ye don’ come down.” Verbena came in the room, carrying a fine white chemise and Victoria’s corset. “The nerve o’ him an’ his sharp-edged beak. I d’clare, th’ man looks like a ferret.”
Frowning, Victoria pulled her nightgown over her head as her maid ruffled quickly through the wardrobe for a frock that could easily be slipped over her corset and fastened quickly, without having to be pressed. Whoever it was, it must be important for him to call on her so early.
Many possibilities shot through her mind as Verbena helped her to dress quickly, then looped her thick, heavy hair into a loose knot at the back of her neck. Within minutes, Victoria hurried down the stairs.
To be sure, there wasn’t another lady of the ton who could have been dressed so quickly, so early in the morning—let alone already be awake when the summons came. And yet, when Victoria opened the front door to the stoop, she found her guest pacing the small space with an air of deep impatience.
She recognized the familiar, sharp-faced man right away, even as, without a bow or even the pretense of one, he said, “Lady Rockley. I understand you had another harrowing experience last evening. How dreadful for you.” His tone, his countenance, and even his posture exposed his words as sarcastic. Instead, Mr. Bemis Goodwin’s pale gray eyes appeared cold. “And I’m certain you’d want this conversation to take place inside, rather than here on your front stoop.”
Annoyance buffeted her, but she tasted a bit of apprehension as well. The look in his eyes held suspicion along with unfriendliness. She stepped away to allow him entrance, and gestured to the tiny parlor. “What do you want, Mr. Goodwin?” she asked, following him in and closing the door.
“I have some questions to ask in regards to your discovery last evening, at the home of Baron Hungreath.” He looked pointedly toward one of the chairs. Victoria ignored him. “Of course, the magistrate is quite concerned.”
Victoria, having been the one to suggest contacting the magistrate, felt like kicking herself. But she refrained, and instead replied, “As well he should be. Someone is attacking innocent women and leaving their mauled bodies for dead.”
“Someone? Or something?” Mr. Goodwin’s slender nose gleamed like the mother-of-pearl handle on a spoon.
“If you continue to make such vague statements, my butler will show you the door.”
“The magistrate has sent me to ask you some questions, Lady Rockley. It will be best for you if you cooperate. I should hate for you to end up in Newgate, waiting for the noose, due to some . . . misunderstanding . . . in regards to your involvement. I understand it’s quite a loathsome place, even for a prison.”
Their eyes met and she felt warmth billow through her, from her chest out into each of her limbs. The room pressed in around them.
“It won’t wash off.” Her voice was soft.
“I told you it would not.”
The blue tinge was from a shard of Akvan’s Obelisk, the demonic stone that had been shattered by Max the previous November when they battled Nedas. Victoria had retrieved one of the pieces and brought it back to the Consilium, where, unbeknownst to her, the power of the obelisk had called Akvan back to earth—and the power of the splinter directed his minions to the secret location of the Consilium.
When she’d removed the shard from the hideaway, returning it to a safe place behind the Door of Alchemy, Max had been there as well.
That was when Victoria, influenced by the malevolent power of the piece of obelisk that she’d held, had goaded him into kissing her.
The blue on her hand was indelibly connected to the memory of her fingers curling into the rough stone wall as Max fit his mouth to hers.
She closed her hand into a fist. It was a good thing she had to wear gloves in polite society.
“I’ve often wondered if that also contributed to the failure of Beauregard’s blood to take root in you.” He nodded brusquely at her hand as he released it, then moved slightly away.
She breathed a bit easier now, and stopped her leg against the edge of the bed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s possible. Vampires and demons are immortal enemies. I obviously had been somewhat influenced by Akvan’s power when I was holding the shard. Perhaps some essence of it remained.”
He nodded. “That and your two vis bullae.” His eyes focused on her, and even in the shadowy light, she could sense the sharpness of his gaze.
Her two strength amulets were not a topic on which she cared to speak. She didn’t want to discuss or acknowledge the fact that one of them was his. It was simply too uncomfortable. Strange, to think about the intimacy of wearing an amulet pierced through her own skin that had once hung from his.
The silence snapped when he shifted away with spare, smooth movements. His hand closed over the doorknob, answering at least one of her questions: how he’d entered the room. “Perhaps you’d best get some sleep now, Victoria,” he said. “I’m certain Vioget will return soon enough.”
“He hasn’t open access to my bedchamber,” she said sharply. “Much as he might wish to.”
“Do I detect upheaval in paradise? A bit of a tension between two lovers?”
“Sebastian isn’t my lover.”
His brows rose. “Indeed.” He turned the knob, but refrained from opening the door. “Another word of advice, Victoria. For all of the enmity between Vioget and myself, I know that he means well by you. His greatest weakness is blind loyalty. He is a worthy match for you.” His words were short and clipped. “It’s . . . important that you think of the future.”
“You begin to sound like my mother,” Victoria replied, feeling bewildered. Why was Max encouraging her toward a man he loathed?
“Whereas your mother is concerned only with titles and wealth and grandchildren, my interest relates to the well-being of the Venators. You are the last of the direct line, and should consider what will happen if you die without issue. Or prematurely.”
Victoria slid down from the edge of the bed, her feet landing on the soft woolen rug. The brush of silk from her nightgown shifted sleekly against her calves, swishing down from her thighs. “This from a man who, two years ago, was furious that I chose to wed? Make up your mind, Max.” As she stood in front of him, she saw him draw back . . . subtly, almost imperceptibly putting distance between them.
“My mind has been made up. Don’t be a fool, Victoria. Remember your duty.” He pulled the door open, then paused halfway out of the room. “I do hope you’ll be considerate and keep any—er—activities in here from being too strident.”
She looked at him, enlightenment dawning as the urge to tamper with him disappeared. “You’re staying here?”
“Kritanu suggested it.” His sardonic smile flashed again. “But you needn’t worry that I’ll disrupt things . . . I’m staying in the servants’ quarters.” The door closed behind him with a firm click as he made his escape.
Nine
In Which Our Heroine Is Interrogated Yet Again
Victoria did not go back to sleep after Max left.
Instead, she found herself staring at the ceiling of the bedchamber that used to belong to Aunt Eustacia. As ceilings went, it was patently uninteresting—there was nary a mural nor a small plafond to relieve its eggshell color. It was flat, unmarked, and without flaw.
Thus Victoria had nothing to distract her from her churning thoughts.
Max was somewhere in the house, a fact which alone made her feel odd. He was suggesting that she marry—or at least have a long-term, child-bearing affair with—a man he loathed. The man who’d killed his sister, in fact, sending her, as an undead, to an eternal damnation that Max had caused. A man that Max had disparaged for his cowardice on more than one occasion, who had declined to accept the role of Venator, yet who had kept the knowledge and power of one for more than a decade.
A man that Victoria had been intimate with on more than one occasion, although, as she’d informed Max, she didn’t consider Sebastian her lover. Not really. Not in an ongoing or permanent way. Not as if she was ready to wed the man.
Since she’d first met Sebastian, he’d projected an aura of mystery and untrustworthiness. Yet, from their initial conversation at the Silver Chalice, there’d been a connection between them, a flare of attraction on which he never wasted an opportunity to act. Or attempt to act.
And she’d been willing. A few times.
She shivered, smiled, remembering.
In truth, he had made her feel when she’d otherwise been numb. When she grieved, he soothed and awakened her. When she raged, he enraged her further, drawing forth that energy and massaging it into passion. His sense of the absurd, his ability to turn every situation into a prospect for seduction, his fit, golden body . . . the one, she remembered now, with a tinge of bitterness, that he’d kept fairly hidden from her until two months ago, when she’d discovered that he wore the vis bulla.
Nothing could change the fact that he’d turned his back on the Venators. He’d lived with a powerful vampire for years, protecting and serving him while watching the vampire hunters from a distance.
He’d ignored his duty.
Yes, he’d had to slay the woman he loved. Giulia had no longer been the girl he’d known, just as Phillip had no longer been the man Victoria had wed. It had been the hardest thing she’d ever done . . . but it had not drawn her from her responsibilities.
If anything, it had made her stronger and more determined to eradicate the undead.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Victoria sat up, surprised that Verbena would bother her so early. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock. “Yes?”
Verbena’s puff of wiry orange hair poked around the door. “Oh, thank’od my lady, ye’r awake. I’m so sorry to bother ye, but there’s a man on the front stoop who’s demandin’ to speak t’ye.”
“Who is it?” Victoria swung her legs out of the bed and slid to the floor.
“I dunno, but says ye’d want t’talk to him. He says as he’ll stay there all th’day if’n ye don’ come down.” Verbena came in the room, carrying a fine white chemise and Victoria’s corset. “The nerve o’ him an’ his sharp-edged beak. I d’clare, th’ man looks like a ferret.”
Frowning, Victoria pulled her nightgown over her head as her maid ruffled quickly through the wardrobe for a frock that could easily be slipped over her corset and fastened quickly, without having to be pressed. Whoever it was, it must be important for him to call on her so early.
Many possibilities shot through her mind as Verbena helped her to dress quickly, then looped her thick, heavy hair into a loose knot at the back of her neck. Within minutes, Victoria hurried down the stairs.
To be sure, there wasn’t another lady of the ton who could have been dressed so quickly, so early in the morning—let alone already be awake when the summons came. And yet, when Victoria opened the front door to the stoop, she found her guest pacing the small space with an air of deep impatience.
She recognized the familiar, sharp-faced man right away, even as, without a bow or even the pretense of one, he said, “Lady Rockley. I understand you had another harrowing experience last evening. How dreadful for you.” His tone, his countenance, and even his posture exposed his words as sarcastic. Instead, Mr. Bemis Goodwin’s pale gray eyes appeared cold. “And I’m certain you’d want this conversation to take place inside, rather than here on your front stoop.”
Annoyance buffeted her, but she tasted a bit of apprehension as well. The look in his eyes held suspicion along with unfriendliness. She stepped away to allow him entrance, and gestured to the tiny parlor. “What do you want, Mr. Goodwin?” she asked, following him in and closing the door.
“I have some questions to ask in regards to your discovery last evening, at the home of Baron Hungreath.” He looked pointedly toward one of the chairs. Victoria ignored him. “Of course, the magistrate is quite concerned.”
Victoria, having been the one to suggest contacting the magistrate, felt like kicking herself. But she refrained, and instead replied, “As well he should be. Someone is attacking innocent women and leaving their mauled bodies for dead.”
“Someone? Or something?” Mr. Goodwin’s slender nose gleamed like the mother-of-pearl handle on a spoon.
“If you continue to make such vague statements, my butler will show you the door.”
“The magistrate has sent me to ask you some questions, Lady Rockley. It will be best for you if you cooperate. I should hate for you to end up in Newgate, waiting for the noose, due to some . . . misunderstanding . . . in regards to your involvement. I understand it’s quite a loathsome place, even for a prison.”
