When Twilight Burns

“It doesn’t matter now,” she told Gwen soothingly. “How did it come about that you left the party early, though?”

“Well, George espied me and he told me that Brodebaugh had come to the house looking for me . . . and of course, I left immediately.” She twisted her hands together, looking altogether miserable. “I do love him, Victoria. And I never meant to do anything to harm him. It really was for innocent fun.”

Innocent fun that nearly got her killed . . . or fed on by a vampire. At least George had had the conscience to send her home before executing his Tutela plan.

But that answered one question. A vampire would just as soon walk away from their dying lover or mother as feed on them, should the urge arise. It would be hard to believe that George was the daytime vampire . . . for the one thing the undead didn’t have was a conscience.

Thirteen

Wherein Our Heroine Makes a Telling Decision

Victoria left Gwendolyn’s house relieved that her friend was unhurt, but deep in thought.

She’d realized that there could be more than one daytime vampire, as she’d begun to think of the creature. After all, if an undead merely had to drink the special elixir, what was to stop more than one of them from doing it?

Or many of them?

She sat in the hackney, her shoulder slamming against the side every time Barth made a right turn, and her head bobbing every time he urged the horse forward. His vulgar language peppered the air as he navigated them down Fleet Street—a mistake in itself, for the road was clogged with other carriages and conveyances, as well as shoppers, shopkeepers, and street urchins.

But it gave Victoria a bit of time to consider the situation.

From what she knew about the elixir, it could only be made from the stamen of a special plant that bloomed rarely—perhaps once per century, or no more than twice. Since little could be made, more vampires must want it than could have it. That didn’t preclude more than one undead from using it, but the supply couldn’t last forever. And there couldn’t be an entire army of undead drinking it, which gave her some measure of comfort.

Still, both Sara and George could be daytime vampires.

Of course, as Max had suggested, James could be the daytime undead. She hadn’t missed the fact that the incidents had begun to occur the day he arrived at St. Heath’s Row.

Sara and George, as well as James, had been at the Hungreath dinner party, and also at the masquerade ball. And while she’d seen none of them in Regent’s Park when Victoria found the first victim, that didn’t mean they hadn’t been around. She had, after all, spoken with Gwen and Brodebaugh, who could have told them Victoria was in the vicinity.

Or, it could simply be that the daytime vampire was someone she didn’t know or hadn’t noticed. After all, it didn’t have to be someone she’d seen. It could be any minion of Lilith.

And, yes indeed, it could also be Mr. Bemis Goodwin.

Oh, how she wanted it to be him.

Even now, thinking about how his sharp, angry eyes examined her, searching for something that wasn’t there, she felt tension rise. Her fingers itched for a stake, ready to plunge it into his chest. He had made it clear he wanted nothing more than to see her hang.

But why?

Victoria turned the ugly thought over in her mind. It wasn’t easy; the fury tinged her vision, and her mind rebelled at the very thought . . . but she had to consider it.

Why would a man she didn’t know want to harm her?

Several deep breaths later—ones she’d had to focus on, draw in deeply, hold, and then release—Victoria had pared her scattered, berserker thoughts down.

He either truly thought she was a murderess and wanted to see justice done—in which case, she was innocent and should have nothing to worry about. But that wouldn’t explain his pointed comments about the undead.

A woman like you.

No, he knew something about her. He could be a vampire himself and be drinking the elixir. Obviously a vampire would want her, Illa Gardella, to die. But that didn’t follow—for he’d said he’d been watching her for over a year. Since she nearly killed the man in the Dials. The elixir hadn’t been in existence for that long, and he appeared to have been living a normal life as a Bow Street Runner for longer than that.

She concluded he couldn’t be undead himself.

He could believe she was a vampire herself, and want to destroy her. If Barth and Verbena had known about vampires before Victoria did, before she became a Venator . . . it was possible that he did too. But . . . if he knew anything about vampires, he would know that hanging her would do no good. So why focus on getting her to the magistrate?

If that were the case, if he believed she was a vampire, that should be easy to address—after all, then they were fighting on the same side.

Or . . . this was the most interesting, and worrisome thought: perhaps he wanted revenge. Perhaps he knew someone she’d killed—a vampire she’d staked, who’d once been someone he loved. A wife or a brother, or anyone.

So that would mean he knew that she was a Venator, and knew that the undead had tried many times to destroy her without luck. And he would try another way.

After all, bullets, blades, nooses—they would all work equally well to slay a Venator.

Victoria felt an unpleasant shiver ripple over her shoulders. Whatever the reason, Bemis Goodwin loathed her, and he was essentially an unknown opponent.

These thoughts settled in her mind, leaving Victoria uncomfortable, but not panicked. After all, she knew she was a formidable adversary herself.

But when the hackney dropped her off a block from Aunt Eustacia’s house, and Victoria slipped into the mews that led into the small yard behind the house, she found herself confronted by Bemis Goodwin and four burly men. On seeing them, her first thought was that he clearly knew her strength.

She’d already stepped out of sight of Barth, who’d rattled off in the carriage as soon as her slippers touched the ground. And the thick hedge of the mews, which ran along behind the row of houses, obscured the view from any of the residences—should anyone happen to be watching, which was in itself unlikely.

Any further considerations evaporated as she braced herself, ready for battle. “What do you want?” she asked, aware that her heart was racing.

“Come now, Lady Rockley,” Goodwin said with a supercilious gesture. “It should be no surprise to you that the magistrate awaits your presence. I’m merely here to see that he gets it.”

“For what reason?” She inched to the side, eyeing the thug closest to her as a feeling of urgency began to build, and her heart to pound. He couldn’t be as strong as a vampire. Or a Venator. None of them could be. Confidence surged through her. She was also smaller and could slip through the hedge more easily. . . .

“It will do you no good to run, Lady Rockley. You may be quick and strong, but you cannot outrun this.” He pulled a gun from his pocket.

No, she couldn’t. But the bullet would have to find her first.

Red glazing her vision, she ducked and rushed at the first of the burly men, knocking him into Goodwin. The sharp retort of a pistol shot sounded, and something whistled through the air much too close to her.

Victoria spun and began a mad dash through the hedge—if she made it through, she’d be in sight of the rear windows of the house and there was a chance someone would see her.

Something yanked hard at her cloak, and she flew backward, landing with the jolt of her skull on the ground. Head spinning, heart pounding, veins pumping, she rolled and leaped to her feet. Rage blasted through her, and she kicked out, tearing into the man closest to her. She felt her nails pare the skin from his face and her foot connect with something soft.

Her red-hued world became a cyclone of movement and ferocity in that narrow, dark walkway until suddenly something wafted down over her. It was clingy and heavy and she realized a net had been thrown over her. It wrapped around her legs, restricted her arms, and before she could fight her way out of it, the net tightened and Victoria felt herself falling.

She crashed to the ground, her head slamming onto a rock. Someone shoved her into a spin. She rolled, tangling further in the net, shouting now—hoping that someone—Max, Verbena, Kritanu, someone would hear.

Something dark went over her head, muffling her voice and smothering her gasps for air, and, like a bundle, she was lifted. The heavy cloth tightened over her face, cloistering her nose and mouth, making her struggle for every bit of air. She struggled, bucking and kicking . . . the red of her vision faded, consciousness ebbed, and she knew no more.

When Victoria became aware again, she found herself sitting in a hard wooden chair. Her hands were bound behind her and she slumped forward. The only things preventing her from tumbling off the chair were her arms bent over the top of it. They ached, and her fingers were cold and numb. Her feet were in a similar condition, tied to the rung of the chair.

She wasn’t alone. She kept her eyes closed and listened. It took her only a moment to realize that she’d awakened in the middle of Goodwin’s meeting with the magistrate. Her hearing, such as it were.

Her mind was fuzzy, and she knew little about the workings of the Bow Street Runners and their responsibility to the magistrate. But she did know that there were few honest magistrates. And fewer honest Runners. Which did not ease her anxiety in the least.

“I find your evidence against Lady Rockley compelling, Mr. Goodwin,” intoned a voice, presumably that of the magistrate.

“The woman is exceedingly strong,” now spoke Goodwin himself. “She will have to be transported in chains, and in secrecy. She has some fairly able friends.”

Victoria’s mouth went dry. Chains? Good God. But surely they would have to bring her to public trial. And by that time, Max, and Sebastian, and Lady Melly—

But did any of them know where she was?

Barth and Oliver would know. They’d still be watching Goodwin. Or they would be able to figure it out.

She lifted her head. Its throbbing was so harsh it had to be audible. “Who brings the charges against me?” she said. Her voice . . . it was not one she recognized. It was . . . dark, heavy, rough. A shiver rattled down her arms and she pulled on her bonds as rage shuddered through her. “Someone must charge me.” 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">