Feigning a weakened state and staggering heavily, she made her way toward the forgotten stake, tumbling to the ground on top of it. The slender wood in her hand made her feel powerful again, and she waited, breathing long and deep like Kritanu had taught her . . . long and deep . . . long . . . deep.
She felt for the vis bullae that, so far, had brought her greater strength than anyone could expect. The cool silver, warmed on one side by her flesh, sent a wave of power radiating through her and Victoria knew she was ready. Keeping the stake hidden in the folds of her gown, she put her plan into action.
Pulling slowly to her feet again, as if in great pain, she staggered more, slowly, randomly, but deliberately toward the Guardian vampire. She saw through her lashes that he watched her, but with amusement rather than wariness.
All the more fool he.
When she drew near enough and nearly fell at his feet, sliding against the cold, rough wall next to him, he gave a short chuckle. He’d barely wheezed his breath back in when she surged to her feet, stake in hand.
He had enough time to raise his arm and open his mouth in surprise before the lethal weapon drove into his chest. The stake was a slender thing, but powerful enough to force through the heavy shirt he wore.
His ruby eyes froze wide before he shattered into ash and dust.
Victoria stealthily tried the door—who knew what or who was on the other side—but it didn’t move. She dared not try to force it, for there could be too many to fight on the other side—Lilith included.
Besides, she had another plan.
She rushed toward the throne, moving quickly for fear that someone would return before she was able to hide away. Quickly, she unbolted it from the floor and moved it out of the way to reveal the hidden door behind it—a door that she was certain Lilith knew nothing about . . . for she would have retrieved her copper ring if she had.
Unsure what lay behind the door, Victoria hoped she could at least hide there, giving the impression of an escape . . . and, perhaps if she were lucky, there would be another way out.
As she worked, Lilith’s taunts echoed in her mind . . . almost as if they were attempting to slow her movements and distract her mind.
You already feel the tug of consciencelessness. The seed of everything evil begins with self.
When one places oneself before every and all, evil spreads.
Already, you’ve done so, even when you knew it was wrong . . . have you not?
Involuntarily, as she climbed through the hidden door, Victoria thought of leaving Bemis Goodwin to the vampires —so that she could be free of the disruption he caused; of drugging Max—so that she didn’t need to worry over him or protect him; of early on in her visit to London, speaking with Gwendolyn in her private parlor, and the fury that bubbled deep inside . . . and how she didn’t care to listen or hear about her friend’s plans.
But . . . those events didn’t mean that she was turning evil. Did they?
Leaving Bemis Goodwin and his companion to die . . . perhaps. Incapacitating Max? Not evil, no . . . how could it be evil to protect someone else?
Even when she knew it would destroy him.
Because it would be easier for her.
Forcing those dark thoughts away, she huddled in the small space and looked out at the dislodged chair. She had to pull it back into place or her hideaway would be revealed immediately. Then her eyes fell on a metal rod near the door. It had a hook on the end, like a shepherd’s crook. In the narrow slit of light from the room, she also saw a piece of marble; it looked just like the top of the ornate bolt that fastened the throne to the floor. Only, there was no bolt. It would easily sit atop the claw-foot of the chair so that once she pulled it back into position, it would look as though it were bolted down.
Apparently this door had been used as a hiding place more than once, and the tools were there to assist. The fake bolt in its spot, Victoria squeezed back into the small doorway and used the metal rod to tug the chair back into place. As it moved, the door was forced closed until only a narrow opening was left—just enough to draw the hook back into the room.
Satisfied that the room would appear untouched, she closed the door and turned to feel her way around the pitch-black area. Working her way along the wall, she was forced to duck to keep from banging her head—a tactic she discovered after having scraped against rough stone above. She quickly discovered that the chamber was not a chamber, but a passageway.
And one that, from the faint brush of cool air, she believed would lead to freedom.
Nineteen
Wherein the Marquess Receives a Visitor
The passage did indeed lead to freedom, and Victoria was able to find her way out of the sewers without confronting any other undead . . . but for one, whom she surprised when he (or she; she didn’t even have the chance to see) came around a bend in the underground tunnel. She staked the vampire and continued on, realizing, to her consternation, that she was able to see better than she should be able to in the darkness.
A chill that had nothing to do with the portent of an undead crept over her shoulders and trailed down her spine. Vampires could see very well in the dark.She slogged through the stream of waste as quickly and silently as possible, and soon found her way to the surface. The dawn was just breaking, which would explain why she’d met a vampire on his way back to the place they obviously gathered. It was a miracle she hadn’t met any others.
Once out of the sewers, she hurried through the streets, looking for a familiar landmark. As she wandered, she realizedthat she had no idea how long she’d been gone. Was this the dawn that had come after the carriage ride in the park . . . or the next one? Or the next?
Victoria arrived at her town house when the bottom edge of the sun rested on the horizon. She raised her fist to knock on the door, but it was drawn wide before she had the chance.
“Kritanu,” she said in relief. He was alive and well.
“Victoria!” He was as pleased to see her, if the wide spread of white teeth was any indication. But his delight faded almost immediately.
“Before I tell you my story,” she said, moving into the house and closing the door behind her, “is Max well? Is he still . . . here? How long have I been gone? Did anyone— George and Sara—anyone try to attack?”
“This is the second morning after you left. There were no attacks here,” Kritanu replied. His face had sobered when she mentioned Max, and she felt a thrill of apprehension. “Max is . . . the same.”
“The same?” Victoria went cold. “He is unconscious? For two days?” She started to dash off, but the older man grabbed her arm.
“No, no, he is awake. Has been. I meant to say that he is where you left him.” The accusation in his face was unmistakable. “As you ordered. Victoria,” he said, his voice turning harder than she’d ever heard it, “you are Illa Gardella . . . but never ask me to do such a thing again.”
“You didn’t release him.” She wasn’t certain if she was relieved or terrified that Max was still safely where she’d put him.
“I was prepared to do so if you had not returned today.” His eyes carried concern and admonishment. “You should never have done that.”
“I’ll release him now,” she said, turning away. It had been for the best. She didn’t expect Kritanu to understand; he didn’t carry the same burdens she did.
For all of her hurry to get to the sturdy wooden door surrounded by silver crosses and blessed with holy water, Victoria found herself frozen when it came time to lift the bar that had blocked Max in. What would he say? What would she say?
She took a deep breath. The heavy slab of wood had been wedged tightly in its brackets; a sign that someone had violently shoved at the door, and its moorings creaked as she forced it from its place. Automatically, she stepped back, half expecting Max to come blasting out.
Nothing happened, so with clammy hands she opened the door.
He was sitting on the bed, his long legs spread out in front of him.
“Max.”
At the sound of her voice, he moved. With the grace of a jungle feline, he swung his feet onto the floor and stood, then strode toward her. Not particularly quickly, nor casually. But with general purpose.
Victoria braced herself for the onslaught—the railing, the anger, the accusation.
He walked past her and out into the hallway without a word, without an acknowledgment.
“Max,” she said again, turning after him.
He didn’t pause, but continued on his way down the hall.
She would have thought him deaf or blind if it had not been for the expression in his eyes: dark and angry.
The hackney lurched to a violent halt, and Victoria heard the clatter and subsequent roll of a wooden stake by her foot. She looked across the dark interior, catching Sebastian’s eye. “Shall we?” she asked.
“Most definitely,” he replied, bending to retrieve his weapon. There was relish in his voice and amusement in his eyes, and she knew that the carriage ride home would be far more interesting than the one they’d just completed. Perhaps, at least then, he would keep his stake well in hand.
The pair slipped silently from Barth’s vehicle, well hidden by convenient shrubbery that lined the wall of St. Heath’s Row most distant from the house. Shadows, in concert with the sliver of a waning moon and dark clothing, made them invisible.
Victoria led the way along the wall to a particularly dark corner. A robust oak spread its shadow over the area, and blocked any view from the rear of the house. Sebastian stood flush against the tall stone relief and she climbed up to stand on his shoulders; then, once atop the wall, she reached down to pull him up.
Once over the cross-studded wall, she led the way to the second servants’ entrance, where she knew the door would be unlocked. Verbena had been playing match-maker with the lower footman at Grantworth House and the belowstairs maid at St. Heath’s Row, both of whom were taking a postmidnight stroll through the gardens at this very moment.
Verbena had assured her mistress that the footman and the maid would be much too busy examining the night-blooming pink primroses to notice any trespassers. She had also ascertained, when arranging the assignation, that the Marquess of Rockley was expected to dine at home that evening and intended to remain in residence that night.