When Twilight Burns

Her fingers touched the one at her navel that had belonged to him; she was able to identify the difference between the two by feel. “And this is yours.”

Without another word, he gave a little twist, then a pull, and slipped the dainty vis bulla from his skin. “Wear it now. It might help.”

Her attention flashed to him. Had Wayren told him about the internal battle for her soul? Or was this merely a way to rid himself of any attachment to her and the Venators? “Only if you wear yours again.” She looked up. “Lilith is aware of our . . . exchange. She was not pleased.”

His mouth settled into a thin line again, drawing deep grooves. “Shall I help you?” he said when he saw that she fumbled with the little silver hoop. His fingers were quick and skillful, warm on her bare skin—but they were impersonal, and didn’t linger—as he removed the simple cross. Then he pulled taut the little lip of skin at the top of her navel and slipped her own vis bulla into place.

It was an oddly intimate gesture—odd considering what had passed between them last night. Victoria felt a twinge of remembrance and her stomach did the silly little flip it tended to do when she was surprised . . . or discomfited. But then the feeling ebbed, and she realized that having her own vis bulla back in place was . . . cleaner. More pure and solid.

Max moved away, holding his vis, hesitant. Then, with ease she’d not shown, he replaced it in his areola and breathed deeply. Perhaps he wondered if his Venator powers would be restored once he wore his own amulet. He turned back to the neat table on which his personal items were gathered, and Victoria watched as he slipped the heavy silver ring onto the middle finger of his left hand. As if girding himself for battle.

“Tell me how the ring will protect you.”

“I’m certain you’ve already figured it out, but . . . there is a catch which, when moved correctly, opens to reveal a sharp blade dripping with venom. A simple prick will do the trick.”

“To you . . . or to Lilith?”

“To me. Now, why are you still here? Should we not be planning how to save your lover?”

She’d suspected it . . . but now she knew for certain. Max was withdrawing again. He meant to foist her upon Sebastian again so that he could walk away. And use that bloody silver ring whenever he chose.

What about me?

She bit her tongue, holding back the questions, the demands, the comparisons. After all, hadn’t he despised Sebastian for turning his back on the Venators? There would be time for that later, time to force him into a conversation he wished to avoid. She wasn’t about to let anything happen to Sebastian and Kritanu.

The rest of Max’s comment brought to mind something he’d said earlier. “What do you mean, you aren’t certain who they are trying to lure? It’s you, of course. Lilith wants you back and Sara nearly delivered you to her. Two in exchange for one. Which is why there can be no ‘we’ about this.”

Max raised a brow. “Indeed? I happen to disagree. I believe Lilith wants you more than she does me. After all, you’re still a threat to her, unlike me—as you’ve made quite clear so recently. And you’ve escaped her for a second time, only days ago. I can only imagine how much ash exploded after that—and after last night, when we foiled her plans to kidnap the king. And if she believesyou are some sort of rival for my . . . affections . . .” His expression and tone indicated how absurd that thought was.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Is this some kind of twisted way for you to try and take control?” She realized she was still standing there with the shirt in front of her. She yanked it over her head. It smelled of him. Her knees weakened.

“No.” He gestured to the packet, which lay on the mussed bed, open to show the glint of two shades of hair. “Apparently you didn’t notice that the message was unaddressed. It’s not clear for whom it was intended.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. “It doesn’t matter, Max. You’re not as well equipped to face her as . . . as you used to be.”

If she expected anger from him at her statement, she was disappointed. “There’s one thing you’re forgetting.” His lips stretched in a humorless smile. “No one would ever think that I’d be moved to save Vioget’s life. It’s a game. And you’re meant to be the prize.”

Victoria would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so horrible. In fact, she did give a snort of disbelief. “That’s just it, Max. You would be moved to save his life. The life of anyone, even someone you hate—”

“I don’t hate him.”

“Even someone for whom you have a great amount of antipathy. Because it’s the noble thing to do,” she added sharply, remembering her own poor choices. Leaving Bemis Goodwin and his companion to die. Drugging Max. Hating Gwen for her happiness. “Ever the hero, aren’t you, Max? Always selfless. Do you never do anything just for you?”

She realized suddenly that the red haze was nudging the frame of her vision. Her heart was racing, and she felt a surge of ugly anger bubbling inside her. Automatically, she took a deep breath, touched her vis bullae, and shook her head as if to clear it. Yet that nobility, that steadiness, was what she loved most about Max. The strong, impassable line drawn between right and wrong, black and white.

Loved.

Her knees trembled anew.

It was the reason she’d been able to forgive him for Aunt Eustacia’s death. The reason she’d never stopped trusting him. Had known he wouldn’t forsake the Venators, even once stripped of his own abilities.

In her own mind, that stark black-and-white line had always leaked a bit into charcoal, or to fog . . . but that had recently begun to bloom into a wide stretch of gray. . . . Was that why he retreated from her? Because she wasn’t as good?

By now the rosiness had faded, her pulse had slowed. The surge of malevolence had gone. Was it getting easier to fight it back? Or was it her imagination, wishing and hoping?

It also hadn’t escaped her that last night, when she and Max were fighting . . . that vulgar evil hadn’t attempted to take her over. That reddish haze and surge of wickedness hadn’t teased and fought to control her. Why?

Was it because she hadn’t been fighting for self-preservation, as she had other times? Her self hadn’t been in jeopardy; she’d not been battling for her life? She’d not needed to be selfish to win.

The seed of everything evil begins with self.

When she felt steady, Victoria looked up and saw that Max was watching her. His attention scored her, as though trying to decipher what it was that had sent her off into the whirlwind of her mind.

Before he could speak, there was another knock at the door.

It was Verbena again, and she held a small white box.

A red ribbon tied it closed, and when Victoria accepted the container, an awful feeling of foreboding rushed through her. Max took one look at the brownish streaks on the outside and swore. It bore the same seal of Brodebaugh.

Victoria couldn’t get it open fast enough, and when she did, she nearly dropped it. “My God.”

Inside were two fingers, their bloody stumps sticky and oozing into the sides of the container. One had skin the color of coffee, and the other a few shades lighter. This second one bore a small golden ring that Victoria recognized. She didn’t need to say anything; the look of revulsion on Max’s face mirrored her own.

The message was perfectly clear. Time was running out.

Victoria arrived at the Brodebaugh residence as though making an early social call. The house wasn’t as large as St. Heath’s Row, but grander than Grantworth House. Situated near Hyde Park, the grounds of the home were walled but the rear was adjacent to a small finger of the park. Neighboring houses were far enough away to give privacy, due to the unusually wide side gardens.

The moment the door opened, she smelled blood.

“Victoria!” It was Gwendolyn, her eyes wild and her face tinged gray and streaked with tears. Her hair fell in ungainly clumps, and she was still dressed in the gown she’d worn to the coronation yesterday. “You’ve come! I was afraid . . . I’m so afraid!” She clutched desperately at her, pulling her into the house. “You have to help us!”

Victoria’s heart was pounding. She’d suspected, but now she knew for certain.

As Gwendolyn closed the door, Victoria fought to ignore the heavy iron scent in the air, and to keep her mind steady. Instead, she focused on the comforting stake deep in her pocket, her own vis bulla beneath her clothing, and her surroundings. The foyer of Brodebaugh Hall was empty, fairly ringing with its silence. The whole building was silent.

“Where are they?” she asked, battling the smell of blood, the horror that now gripped her, the edge of pink at her vision.

“Did you . . . you came alone?” Gwendolyn sniffled, looking around wildly. “How could you . . . how . . .”

“I can handle it myself,” Victoria told her firmly. “Where are the servants?”

“They’re all gone,” Gwendolyn said fearfully. “They— she—took them all away.” She looked again, over Victoria’s shoulder, out the door, as if expecting to see an army there. “There’s no one but you? But, Victoria—”

She’d had enough with the hysterics. The stake was out of her pocket and Victoria had slammed Gwendolyn up against the wall before the girl took another breath. Or made another fake sob. Her hand closed in a tight vee under Gwen’s throat, and she poised the stake against her chest. “Tell me where they are, or you’re dust.”

Gwen dropped all pretense. Her pretty face, which had turned gray and tired from the overuse of the elixir, curdled into a malignant expression. Her eyes bulged, and turned from blue to red in an instant. “How did you know?”

“I’d suspected for awhile,” Victoria told her, realizing that the back of her neck had cooled. Gwen wasn’t the only vampire in the house. “You were always there when a daytime attack occurred. I could see the elixir taking its toll on you, in your face, but I just thought it was exhaustionfrom your wedding plans.” She tightened her fingers around Gwen’s throat, causing the girl to cough and to scratch at her hand, trying to tear it away. “But when I saw the queen yesterday, I realized there’s a certain shadow in the eyes of a daytime undead. They all had it: James, Caroline, her guards. And you.” 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">