When Twilight Burns

Page 29

“Perhaps you’d best don some protection,” she returned, slicing the blade experimentally in front of her, from shoulder to floor. She adjusted the angle of her wrist and felt the weapon balance more comfortably.
Max snorted. He riposted back at her with a deep swipe that stirred the air. “I look forward to fighting unfettered—for I have no reason to hold myself in check matched against you.” He moved neatly to the side when she brought her blade up again, and the metal weapons smashed together. “And . . . to answer your question . . . it does mean something that they wished to hang you.”
The hem of her chemise would limit her from taking great steps, but it was full enough for her to lunge forward. He skimmed easily aside, his feet leaving the ground in a low glide, and she watched in chagrin. Max landed on the floor, and she saw that he was grinning.
Max grinning was a sight that riled her to the core.
Victoria met his blade and forced him back several steps. “Does it?”
“Yes,” he replied, surprising her by pressing forward into her space. Their blades slid and then he neatly stepped to the side. “But you cannot forget—you are bound to protect mortals from the undead, Victoria. You cannot walk away just because one of them angered you.”
“Angered me?” She sliced more viciously than she’d intended, and he leaped back under her onslaught. “He would have shot me on the street. Or hung me at Newgate.”
“An unpleasant occurrence, to be sure. I don’t fault you for wanting to save your skin. But . . . it was the manner in which you did.” He slashed and she felt the gust of air next to her face. “Venators have superhuman powers. If we—you—begin to use those abilities to pass judgment on mortals . . . that is wrong. It is nothing more than abuse of the gifts given.”
“I’ve never abused my gift,” she replied, knowing that it was untrue. “I wouldn’t.”
Max lunged. “But you did. Last night.”
“And what about your own foolish actions?” she replied, whipping her blade viciously through the air so that he was forced to leap back. His smile flashed, as if pleased that she’d caught him off guard, and he moved forward.
“What foolish actions do you speak of?” he asked, dipping to the side and bringing his blade up sharply. She reacted and the metal clanged and rang in the room.
“Max, Lilith is here in London. Clearly, she would love nothing more than to get her hands on you again.”
She saw his mouth tighten, the glimmer of humor gone. “And of course, I cannot protect myself.” He lunged sharply and Victoria dodged, hearing the blade whistle next to her ear.
“You must admit,” she said, starting back toward him, “that it might be a bit more difficult now.” He met her blade without backing up, and their arms strained against each other before the force of her blade caused his to slide away.
“I have the means to take care of myself.” He came at her again, this time gliding on the air, and she was forced to raise her blade higher to stop his onslaught.
“But if she caught you again . . . and bit you, put you back under her thrall—”
“I won’t give her the opportunity. She cannot do it with a single bite . . . and it required some participation on my part.”
“What?” Victoria stopped, and he caught her unawares, slicing down the side of her arm. The blade brushed along her sleeve, but did nothing more than scrape the fabric. “Participation?”
“Christ, Victoria, it wasn’t willing participation,” he snarled. “If I’d known the salve she was putting on the bites would cause them to never heal, and to bind me to her, don’t you think I would have stopped her?” He slashed violently.
They fought in silence for a moment, Max’s feet back on the ground, and Victoria aware of the trickle of perspiration down her spine.
“Incidentally, I don’t believe he’s dead,” Max commented, easing back after a particularly feisty tip-to-tip dance of their swords.
“Who?”
“The Runner.”
“What?”
“I told you . . . I found nothing and could locate no one who’d seen or heard any disturbances. And,” he said, shifting to the side, and then suddenly around her, dragging the tip of her blade with him, “I have a recollection that might interest you and may clear up the matter even more.”
Victoria pivoted after him, striking out with her weapon as he brought his down. Their blades smashed, caught, and with a great jerk, she gave a powerful twist.
Both blades tangled, their guards twisted, and flew through the air, landing a few feet away with a dull clatter.
“A draw,” he said, looking down at her, barely breathing hard. He’d pulled his hair back in a short, thick stub at the back of his head, but one strand fell over his face. He pushed it back and planted his hands on his hips. His brown feet spread wide, making him look more like a pirate than ever. All he needed was a gold hoop in his ear— although Max would probably opt for silver, if he was thus inclined.
“Your recollection?” she asked, noticing how the vee of his tunic revealed dark hair brushing the curve at the base of his throat. He’d drawn her hand there once, beneath the warm cotton of another shirt, over flesh and muscle, to touch the vis bulla for strength. She stepped back.
“Goodwin, yes? Frederick Goodwin was the Runner’s brother?”
“Yes, Lord Truscott.”
“There was a Goodwin in the Tutela. It may have been him. If so, then I doubt he met his end—he or his cohort—at the hands of the undead.”
Victoria understood, and a flare of anger sparked. “But if not, I’m nevertheless absolved from my sin of passivity if Goodwin was a member of the Tutela? Mortal or no?”
“If he was a member of the Tutela, Goodwin would have been safe with the vampires,” Max reminded her. “You wouldn’t have been leaving him to his death. If he wasn’t Tutela, it wasn’t your place to determine whether he lived or died.”
“So I should have let him—”
“And,” Max continued smoothly, “if he was Tutela, it would explain his animosity toward you. The Venator who took his brother’s life.”
She didn’t like the train of this conversation, for the condemnation from Max still weighed heavily on her. Perhaps she shouldn’t have left Goodwin at the hands of the vampires . . . but at that time, it was the only thing she could do . . . wanted to do.
It was as if all concepts but self-preservation had evaporated from her mind. Leaving only a single-minded need for survival. Red-tinged anger, blind wrath. Conscience-less fury.
Then she remembered. “He did say something . . . something about protecting his brother. ‘After all I did to protect him.’ ”
“He could have helped him turn undead to protect him. It’s been done before.” Bitterness.
Victoria looked at him sharply and recognized that he was speaking of himself. “As you did with your father and sister.”
“But Vioget has told you all of the sordid details, has he not.” Max’s voice was staccato and hard, and he turned to pick up the tangle of blades.
“I know enough from Wayren to be aware that you were young and had been tricked into believing in the promise of the Tutela. You did it to save your father’s life, and your sister’s too. They were both weak and ill.”
“Immortality. Protection from illness. Power.” He stood, holding the weapons. “Only a naive boy would believe there was no cost for such a prize.” Max turned, walking toward the cabinet where the weapons were stored.
Victoria realized that Kritanu had gone, and they were alone. “The way I understand it, the Tutela is more than a match for a naive boy. Mature and learned people like John Polidori have succumbed to their machinations.”
“Never fear, Victoria. I’ve come to terms with what I did. Why do you think I’ve dedicated my life to hunting the undead? I see no reason to wallow in self-pity or flagellate myself. There’s too much work to be done.” Max lifted one of the swords, fitting it onto its pegs inside the cabinet. He didn’t look at her as he latched it into place. “And I certainly don’t need your sympathy or pity.”
Victoria opened her mouth to reply, but Max was already out of the room.
Fifteen
Wherein Victoria Breaks a Trust
“We called yesterday,” Lady Melly sniffed, “after we’d heard about that terrible fire. But that Verbena insisted that you were indisposed.” She glowered at Victoria. “She made us wait here in this room for an hour. Without tea.”
Victoria thought it was more likely that Lady Melly and her two cronies had refused to budge for that hour, rather than being forced to sit there . . . but then again, Verbena was just as strong-willed. Perhaps it had been a game of who would blink first.
Apparently, the ladies had blinked—or perhaps hunger had won out.
“I wasn’t feeling at all up to visitors yesterday, Mama,” she told her with a placating pat on her hand. In reality, Victoria felt a bit guilty for her mother’s worry— for the lines on her face seemed deeper, and the way she’d gasped upon seeing the scrapes and bruises on her cheeks and chin bespoke her concern. “But Verbena told me that you’d come, and it made me feel much better.”
“You do look rather worse for the wear,” Lady Melly said, her tone and her face softening. “Fires are terrible things.”
Victoria nodded and squeezed her fingers around her mother’s wrist. Lady Melly’s father had died in a stable fire when she was a young girl, and she’d often described the terror of the furious blaze and the screams of the horses trapped inside. “But I survived with only a few scars, and all is well.”
Lady Melly sniffed again, the tip of her nose tinged suspiciously pink. “When your maid wouldn’t allow us to see you—and I must say that I am quite offended that she should disallow your own flesh and blood to visit— we called on Rockley.” She looked at Victoria, the calculation back in her blue eyes. “It seemed the right thing to do.”