The Bleeding Dusk

Wayren wasn’t given to sensitivity, but the recollection of Victoria’s face when she’d seen Zavier, the shock, anger, and fear that had passed over her beatific countenance, would long be in her memory.

Such anger.

It worried her.

Max groaned softly, drawing her attention again. The golden disk lay on the table next to him, its chain coiled around it in serpentine fashion. He shifted again, becoming restless, his large hand rising as though to ward off something, then falling heavily onto the table, sending the lamp and the earbobs that had belonged to his sister jiggling.

Hoping to calm him, Wayren took his warm hand in her smaller ones, noticing scraped fingertips and cracked nails that looked as if he’d tried to climb a stone wall.

She knew many things of past and future, of possibility and truth, of good and evil…but she did not know whether Ylito’s plan would succeed. She wouldn’t know until Max awakened, and she used the golden disk into which she had collected his memories.

As if she’d called him to waken, his eyes fluttered open, suddenly clear and dark. He looked around. She released his hand, watching as he curled his fingers closed.

“Max.”

He looked at her, half sitting, the blankets falling to his hips. “Yes. Where am I?”

The bites were gone, she saw. His neck was smooth and clean, sweeping gracefully into powerful, broad shoulders. But he recognized his own name, seemed comfortable with his body.

“You’re safe, Max. I’m Wayren.” She waited.

He nodded, but she knew he didn’t remember. “Wayren. What am I doing here? Have I been ill?”

“In a fashion, yes. Please. Drink this and let me talk to you.” She handed him a metal cup filled with another of Ylito’s concoctions.

He hesitated, sniffed at it. Hesitated more.

She smiled. “If I wanted you dead, I had ample opportunity while you were sleeping.”

He nodded and drank.

When he looked back at her, she had the golden disk spinning eerily in her hand. She began to murmur again, calling down the power of the Spirit, asking for help, and watched as his eyes were drawn irrevocably to the flat pendant.

Wayren knew the moment he remembered it all…a tightening of the face, a tension in the shoulders, a return of the sharpness to his eyes. He reached for the tiny, delicate vis bulla. Closing his fingers around it, he picked it up, shuttering his eyes, and drew in a slow breath.

And then opened his eyes. They were bleak. “Nothing. I feel nothing.”

Wayren nodded. “But you remember.”

“Yes.” He swung his feet off the bed. “What time is it? I must go.”

“It’s midday. But you cannot go hurrying off, Max.”

He’d half risen, but at her words he sat back heavily. “Of course not. I’m the shell of a Venator now. I have the knowledge and the skills, but not the strength or the powers. A shell.”

“You’ll not go alone.”

His beautiful lips snarled. “I may not be a Venator any longer, but I’m not helpless. I killed vampires and at least one demon before I earned the vis bulla, Wayren. You know that.”

“Do you remember what you told me to tell Victoria, just before you went to sleep?”

He stilled, his face blank. “You didn’t bring her here.”

Wayren shook her head. He’d made her promise not to let anyone see him—anyone, especially Victoria. “Only Ylito.”

“What did I say? Did you tell her?”

She felt his tension; it was as if it hung in the air over them like a heavy blanket. She knew much, but now she knew even more. “You wanted me to tell her you were sorry.”

Because they were bare, she could see the slight shift in his square shoulders, the bit of ease that came over him. “I can only imagine how she received that bit of information.”

Wayren couldn’t hold back a smile. It wasn’t amusing, not at all, not in these moments, not ever. But the look on his face…it was the Max she knew. Thank God. “She had a few choice words.”

He stood again, energy simmering below his muscles so that she could feel his need to move, to do, to get out of there—almost as if she were inside his skin. “One person to go with me,” he said, reaching for the clothing that lay folded on a chair. “White? It’s too easily seen at night,” he said, frowning at the shirt. “It glows. Zavier. I’ll take Zavier with me.”

“Briyani and Michalas will go with you.”

He must have read the expression on her face, for he didn’t pursue it. There would be time to tell him about it all later. But for now…“When you’ve finished dressing we will make our final plans—not to worry, Max. You’ll leave soon enough.”

“This afternoon. I want this done and over with.”

So that he could get on with his life. Get away and get on with life.

He didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. She understood.

Max hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the companionship of Briyani, who was not only the nephew of Kritanu, but also Max’s own Comitator. Kritanu had trained both of them together, enhancing his nephew’s fighting skills as he taught Max, eventually turning over the training to Briyani when he himself became older and less flexible.He’d certainly not stinted in his training of Victoria, despite his age and proclaimed lack of flexibility, but Max didn’t begrudge her that. It made sense that he should personally teach Eustacia’s niece and the future Illa Gardella.

Having Briyani back with him reminded Max of those early years, when he’d been much more of a loner and kept away from the Consilium while fighting his battles with the undead—and within himself. Not quite thirty, Kritanu’s nephew was a bit younger than Max, and had the same wiry build and wide-jawed, tea-colored face as his uncle. He wore his straight black hair in a single braid that reached to the middle of his back, and he was wickedly talented with a kadhara sword. Now, as the two of them crept along through the back of Villa Palombara’s grounds, for Max’s third time in the last four days, they needed no words to communicate.

Michalas brought up the rear. He was as silent as fog, and thin and tall and quick. Wayren had chosen well for the team, but it was all up to Max. He led the way through the brush and between the unpruned trees, hurrying with nary a glance past the wall against which he’d kissed Victoria.

They reached the Door of Alchemy without incident, and with much dryer clothing and boots than last night. Max had the door open quickly and easily. When he was here with Victoria he’d found the traces of an opening that led to the cell in which they’d been imprisoned. Although he hadn’t opened it, he decided it was the best way to gain unnoticed access to the place where Akvan lived.

Akvan. Thanks to Wayren’s studies, and assistance from Ylito and Miro, Max felt as prepared as he could be.

“The trick with Akvan,” Wayren had told him, “is to remember his great weakness: He will always do the exact opposite of what he thinks you want him to do. Use this against him, and you will outsmart him.”

Ylito had added, “But you must make certain that there are no remnants of the obelisk left. They must be destroyed in order for Akvan to be destroyed. Remember the prophecy.”

The prophecy. “…’tis only a mortal man shall send him permanently to the bowels of Hell, using his own strength against him.”

A mortal man.

Closing the Door of Alchemy behind them, Max and his companions worked quickly to locate the mechanism that opened the door to the cell. Either the marchese hadn’t known about it—which was absurd, since it was his laboratory—or he hadn’t had the opportunity to use it that night he’d disappeared.

Briyani had excellent hearing and nimble fingers, and he was the one who located the lever behind one of the stones. Max was at his side in an instant, and they peered through the narrow opening and saw only darkness.

Michalas brought one of the sconces over, which illuminated the cell in which he, Victoria, and Sebastian had been imprisoned. And when he looked at the floor, he saw the same telltale splotches of melted gold spattered on the stones beneath his feet.

This had been the simplest part; now he had to move forward.

But before he did, Max slipped quickly back into the laboratory and retrieved the long shard from Akvan’s Obelisk that Victoria had found. His hands were gloved for protection from its power, and he slid it into a hidden pocket Miro had sewn inside the leg of his trousers. When he lifted it, he saw the leather thong with a small splinter of the obelisk he’d seen fall from Victoria’s coat yesterday. He’d placed it in there for safekeeping as well, but now he snatched it up and stuffed it in his pocket.

Max had had two reasons for accompanying Victoria when she came yesterday afternoon to open the Door of Alchemy. First, to confirm that there was a way into the villa, and second, to ensure that she left the shard there, for it was crucial to his plan for destroying Akvan.

“Come,” he said, and led the way into the cell.

After testing to make certain they could reopen the door back into the laboratory—the process of which wasn’t at all instinctive—they closed it behind them and made their way across the small cell.

Max had explained the first part of his plan to Briyani and Michalas, and so when they stepped out of the unlocked chamber into the corridor they paused for a moment. Max looked at Michalas, who shook his head that he didn’t sense the nearby presence of any undead.

But as he took a few steps, Michalas tilted his head, closed his eyes, and pointed. Silent, they moved along the passageway in the direction he’d indicated, Max taking the lead. As they approached a corner, he felt Michalas touch his sleeve. When he looked back, the Venator gave him a nod.

Max continued around the corner, filled with sudden anger. His neck felt the same—no prickling or tingling to announce the presence of the undead that Michalas could sense as easily as taking a breath. It was true: His abilities were gone.

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