The Bleeding Dusk

“She hasn’t told me either,” she replied, glancing at him.

“Well, soon enough. Tell me, when will ye be having your vis bulla replaced, and be able to go out on the hunt?”

“I have already done so, Zavier. Whilst you were gone back to Scotland.”

“Och! And I meant to be there for it,” he said, a gleam of humor in his cornflower eyes. “I would have offered to hold your hand.”

Victoria couldn’t stay the blush—and, truly, it was mortifying for her, a Venator, to blush over something like this!—and she looked away.

Despite the fact that every Venator wore his vis bulla somewhere on his body, pierced through the skin so that it became one with the being of the person, Victoria had not relished the thought of being surrounded by a group of men whilst her belly was bared and her navel poked. And along with that resolution, she’d also made it a point not to consider where Zavier—or any other Venator—wore his. She felt it was a private thing.

“Well, you were not, and Kritanu and Wayren were the only ones there. Just as I preferred.”

Zavier chuckled. “Ye canna blame a man for tryin’ his best.”

Victoria changed the subject as they wandered past the fountain and through the alcove that led to the Gallery where portraits of all of the Venators through the years were hung. “Did you dispatch the vampires in Aberdeen?”

“Indeed I did. Five of the demmed leeches were living beneath the construction of the new Music Hall, coming out at night to feed on the locals. I never heard of any undead that far north before; I thought Scotland was too cold and rough for them.”

Victoria smiled. “I’m certain it was pleasant to have a reason to visit home, after living here for several years. I’ve been in Italy for only six months, but already I do miss London. Have you had any more thought on the paintings? Perhaps the months away from them have given you a different theory.”

“No matter how I look at it, and study the portraits in the Gallery, I can only come to the conclusion that they have all been painted by the same artist.”

“Even though some of the paintings of the Venators are centuries old?” Victoria let the humor into her voice. “It must be a family of painters, perhaps a father-to-son-to-grandson sort of talent…not so unlike that of the Venators.”

“Ye are most likely correct, but I still canna get beyond the fact that they are so similar. And Wayren persists in being mysterious about it all. Ah, well, ’tis nothing more than a legitimate opportunity for me to study our artifacts.”

“Which is no hardship for you.”

“Indeed not.” He looked at her, his eyes suddenly warm enough to cause her face to heat. “Perhaps now that I am back we can hunt together some night. Carnivale begins in three days, and we will all need to be watchful during the festivities.”

“So I hear,” she replied. “I am looking forward to experiencing the great Roman Carnivale.”

“Since I have been here these last five years, I have learned to greatly enjoy it. Most especially the roasted chestnuts and brunetti, which they sell on every street corner.”

With that, they entered the long, narrow portrait gallery, which was lined on each side with the pictures of every Venator from Gardeleus on. Most of them were men, but there were a few women in the ranks. Zavier, who was particularly interested in the female slayers, had told her that each of the women Venators were direct descendants of Gardeleus—as Victoria herself was, and her aunt before her, and unlike himself and Michalas, who were from other branches of the family. One of her favorite portraits depicted Catherine Gardella, whose laughing green eyes and brilliant red hair gave her a mischievous look that made Victoria wish she’d known her.

Other Venators, like Zavier, were also from the Gardella family tree, but had sprung randomly from far-flung branches that often went for three or more generations without producing a potential Venator.

Ilias gathered their attention with three sharp claps of his large-knuckled hands. “Since I believe that Zavier is about to expire on the spot with curiosity, it is time to unveil and honor our beloved Eustacia Gardella, mistress of the Venators, gracious lady of the Gardellas.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, he whipped the lush white covering from the large portrait, revealing a life-size painting.

Victoria felt the sting of tears in her eyes as she looked on the beautiful, wise face of the woman who had mentored her through her first year as a Venator. The artist, who in keeping with his mystery did not sign a name to any of the portraits, had captured the liveliness in her eyes, the gentle crinkles at their corners, and the gleam of her black hair. Aunt Eustacia’s white forehead showed nary a wrinkle, despite the fact that the painting depicted her just as she had been before she died—eighty-one years old, and still beautiful and strong.

Zavier bumped a handkerchief in front of Victoria’s hands and she took the wadded cotton, dabbing at her eyes—hardly remembering the last time she’d wept. Her hand moved down over the front of the loose tunic and split skirt she’d taken to wearing now that her mother wasn’t nearby to insist upon more conventional garb, pressing through the material to the pair of vis bullae that hung from her navel. Aunt Eustacia’s was on the right, and Victoria closed her fingers around it for a moment…and missed her aunt.

Two

Wherein Our Heroine Is Privy to a Repulsive Discovery

“I do believe Zavier is smitten with the new Illa Gardella,” Michalas said to Victoria. He cast her a sly grin from under his hat brim as they walked quickly along the Via Merulana. “Perhaps I should have invited him to join us.”

Victoria was glad it was dark, for she would have been mortified for him to see the warm flush on her cheeks. Although perhaps he would have written off the slight color to the bite in the February air, for the tip of her nose was cold and likely just as red. “Perhaps you should have, although we’d likely be treated to a history lesson if you had.”Michalas chuckled softly, then gestured ahead. Fortunately the air wasn’t cold enough to show the puff of air from his laugh. “You’re likely quite correct.”

Victoria was, of course, well aware of the interest the Scot had shown toward her, but she was a bit mortified that others had noticed as well. But why should it matter? Zavier was kind and gentle, and so very different from the easy propriety of her husband, Phillip…and the golden, overbearing charm of Sebastian.

The thought of Sebastian, and how she’d let him seduce her last autumn in the carriage, made Victoria’s stomach squiggle, and so she picked up her pace as she walked along with Michalas.

Sebastian was the great-great-great-(she didn’t know how many generations)-grandson of the legendary vampire Beauregard. Because Beauregard had been turned undead after he’d had his own son, there had been no vampire blood passed down through the generations. Sebastian was just as mortal as Victoria herself, but despite their intimacies, she didn’t and couldn’t fully trust him, for he seemed to come and go on a whim—usually when there were vampires or other danger about—and it was obvious his loyalties were divided.

As such, Sebastian had spent the past year, since meeting Victoria, trying to balance his loyalty to his grandfather with his…how would he describe his relationship with Victoria? A fascination? Attraction? Game of cat and mouse?

She suppressed a snort that would have sent her mother into spasms, if she’d been there to hear it. But she was safely back in London, undoubtedly being squired about by the smitten Lord Jellington and exchanging gossip with her two cronies, fondly known as Lady Nilly and Duchess Winnie.

But what would Victoria call it—her relationship with Sebastian? A tryst gone bad? Or good…depending on how one looked at it. An affaire?

She’d tried to give as little thought to him as he likely gave to her these days, now that his great-grandfather was stalking the streets of Rome, attacking and feeding where he would and taking great care not to get caught. Regardless of whatever her feelings were toward Sebastian, Victoria had a duty and a responsibility to hunt down Beauregard and slam a stake into his centuries-old chest.

But Sebastian had apparently thought of her at least once since last autumn, for somehow he had obtained her Aunt Eustacia’s vis bulla after the horrific events of that long, bloody night and sent it to Victoria. How he’d obtained it she couldn’t guess, but the fact that he had sent it on to her was a miracle.

And then there was Max, from whom she’d heard nothing since he handed her his own vis bulla and walked away. Almost four months ago.

That vis, in combination with her aunt’s strength amulet, had given Victoria even greater strength and speed than her own single amulet. Instead of canceling each other out or even maintaining her level of expertise, the dual vis bullae had made her faster, stronger, and healthier—if the training she’d been doing with Kritanu was any indication.

Michalas stopped, drawing Victoria abruptly from her maze of thoughts. It was a good thing a vampire hadn’t leaped out in front of her, as she’d been distracted more than was prudent.

“Eh, now, look here,” he said. “This great stone wall encloses the Palombara estate. It reaches all along this block and then around in a sort of elongated pentagonal shape. We’re at the very rear, at the farthest point from the villa, which sits near the front, at the fifth corner of the wall. It’s just a bit up this street that I came upon the pile of animal carcasses.”

The sun had just set, and the graying light in the sky allowed her to see the crumbling rock of the barrier. Along the top of the enclosure—which was half again as tall as she was—high, sharp stones had been set in the mortar so that their edges discouraged anyone from climbing over. But there were cracks, and one large one where an oak branch had grown against the wall and caused it to buckle, then split halfway down so it would be possible to climb through.

Via Merulana was lined by narrow residences that appeared to be more well-kept than the Palombara estate, yet it wasn’t a busy thoroughfare. A few carriages drove by, and several pedestrians moved quickly along—heads bent against the chill, or in an effort to remain unseen and unnoticed. It was a bit eerie, made more so by the fact that she and Michalas didn’t carry a lantern as if in fear of attracting attention. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">