As Shadows Fade

Five In Which Max Takes the Long Road Home

Being outside did not wholly protect them from the heavy black shadows and the swooping, swirling mass of fog, but it tempered the ferocity of the storm contained by the small building. Brim and Michalas must have been waiting nearby, for as soon as Victoria and the others spilled out of the door, they helped pull them to their feet.

Yet, out here, the shadowy creatures with claws and burning eyes had more room to dive, with gouging fangs and grasping talons. One grabbed Victoria by the shoulders, lifting her feet from the ground. She relinquished her hold on Wayren, groping for her sword.

She sliced up and through the demon, feeling that nauseating cold again, but also finding her mark. As she fell back to the trampled grass, she looked up and saw the moon glinting through the roiling fog.

If they got out of the graveyard, they’d be safe. Or at least safer.

She hoped.

Max alone was holding Wayren now, bent over her, presenting his back to the threat above as Brim and Victoria battled back the demons.

If they could fight their way toward the gate… would the walls of the cemetery confine the demonic fog?

Sebastian and Michalas had the presence of mind to close the door of the mausoleum, and together they battled it shut. The wind eased, and the spill of shadows stopped, though a faint tendril of blue smoke curled stubbornly through a crack. The fog ebbed and quieted a bit so that they could at least see one another. Blood streamed down Brim’s cheek, and Sebastian had a long red welt over the side of his face.

“This way,” Victoria shouted, pushing at the hair caught in her mouth, and started toward the gate before the door could burst open. It shuddered and trembled.

The wind whipped up again as they reached the gate, and a billow of black engulfed them. Victoria heard the shriek and scream of its fury, and she turned to Brim. “Holy water!” she shouted.

As he ran, Brim dug deep into his coat and pulled out a bottle, and a large silver cross. The wind buffeted and whipped, sending another tree branch crashing onto the ground. The missile, which was as thick around as a man, barely missed slamming into Brim and just grazed his shoulder. He offered her the bottle, but she turned to Max, who still huddled over Wayren.

Victoria’s hair thrashed around her face like a weapon, and the gust of blackness nearly sent her into the wall. Something wet trickled down her cheek, and warmed her neck. She had to get Wayren out of here, and there was only one way to ensure her escape. She grabbed Max’s face and lifted it to look into his eyes. “Take her. Take Brim. Go. We’ll distract.”

She shoved him toward a sprawling bush, and he slid under it with his burden, but not before she saw the look he gave her. Be safe.

Brim joined him, armed with holy water, and Victoria, Sebastian, and Michalas began to inch away from the bush and the gate, battling at the evil forces.

Victoria didn’t know what sort of perception the malevolence had, but the swooping shadows, at least, seemed to be able to tell where to dive and strike. If they could at least draw their attention away, perhaps Brim and Max could slip out of the gate safely with Wayren.

Max watched Victoria slip away, her face streaked with blood, dark hair plastered in the sticky mess. The back of her shirt was dark with more blood and torn to shreds.

He forced his attention to Wayren, who’d stirred more than once in his arms, and looked over at Brim, who crouched next to him and for once didn’t appear to be enjoying the battle.

Wayren had to be taken away from the demons that drained her of her strength and power before it was too late. It was possible yet to save her, for she was already showing signs of life now that she’d been removed from captivity.

If Victoria’s plan to distract the demons by battling them worked, they’d have only a few moments to make a dash for the waiting horses, on the other side of the bent gate.

Max’s lips flattened. He knew why she’d chosen him to take Wayren. He was the weakest of the group, no longer protected by the vis bulla.

Victoria would never have tried to protect him before.

And she’d chosen Brim… who could not only sense vampires, but demons as well.

What a warrior-and a leader-she’d become.

Something pinched deep inside him. Anger, frustration. Self-pity.

Then he realized it was time. With one last glance toward her, with her lethal blade and impractical mass of long, dark hair, Max slid out from under the bush, carrying Wayren against his chest. Ignoring the painful gouges in his back, he ran, hunching head and shoulders over his burden as the creatures swooped and dove.

Brim was behind him, and though Max didn’t dare glance over his shoulder as he stumbled toward the gate, he knew the big black man was slicing with sword and splashing holy water in their wake.

The iron gate shone under the moon and stars, clearer now as they were away from the foggy black smoke. He leapt and glided over it without pause, using the half-flying qinggong skills Kritanu had taught him.

Once over the broken gate, Max didn’t hesitate but lifted Wayren over his horse and untied the reins looped over a tree branch. A quick glance told him that Brim had made it to the gate, but just as Max leapt into the saddle, he saw with horror that Brim, who had put one foot onto the curved metal, was suddenly engulfed by the black shadows. They pelted down on him, talons shiny and red eyes bright, and the man crumpled to his knees, devoured by the shadows.

Christ. Max looked back, knowing he couldn’t return, knowing he had to get Wayren to safety. Every bit of his being needed to return, begged to go back and help… to save Brim… and Victoria. Victoria.

She would be next.

Yet he knew what had to be done; he’d lectured Victoria about it often enough.

You can no longer think only of yourself, of your needs and desires. You must recognize the far-reaching consequences of your actions.

And that was why he had to wheel the horse around and slam his heels into its flanks and ride pell-mell back to town, back to the house where Kritanu waited… back to where Wayren would be safe.

And it was also why he must leave London.

He shoved Wayren forward so she sagged, propped against the horse’s neck, then leapt off. He couldn’t do it, by God.

Twenty jarring, running steps took him back toward the cemetery gate, where the black shadows pitched, and dove against Brim. Sword in his hand, Max noticed how his arm screamed in pain and realized he was streaming blood. Ears ringing, he reached the damaged gate in time to see Brim’s arm rise from beneath the writhing black. The gleam of his sword sliced through the air as Max joined the fray, sending one of the attackers into swirls of dark fog.

Raising his own weapon at one of the swooping birdlike creatures, he lunged at the amorphous neck area. The blade arced through the evil black shadow as though through a fog, and a streak of cold paralyzed him.

Max staggered, his arms trembling with the sudden overwhelming chill, and he fought the dip of his belly as he staggered against the stone wall. But he raised that sword again, feeling the scream of pain along his arm as another demonic shadow dove into him. Claws dug into the back of his shoulders, gouging in the same wound, drawing forth a deep, guttural cry of pain as he turned again. The sword was heavy, but Max aimed well… He whirled around and whipped the blade through the being. Stumbling back, he saw it burst into dark, fizzing curls.

Breathless with exertion, nearly blind with pain, Max lunged forward again. Unable to rise from the ground, Brim nevertheless fought to beat back the never-ending crowd of shadows, slashing up and out with his sword. Despite the blood streaming from him, winging through the air with every movement, Max fought hard… but not as quickly and powerfully as Vioget, whose blade suddenly appeared, slashing and gleaming like stars winking in the night.

The blond man had arrived like the cavalry, leaping into the fray, moving with speed and assurance despite the continuing attack of the shadows. Max’s movements, though lethal and strong, came slower and with less power, and when he and Vioget came face-to-face, the other man said, “Go! Take her and go.”

Blood streaked his handsome face, but determination-and a bit of satisfaction-twisted his lips. After so many years away from it, he’d come to love the battle again.

Max made one last vicious slash, marking a shadowy target, and said, “Bring her back. This time.”

Vioget’s eyes met his, and a flash of anger dissolved the satisfaction there. He knew Max was referring to when Vioget’s grandfather, the vampire Beauregard, had nearly turned Victoria-and Max had been the one to bring her back. Sebastian alone couldn’t have done it.

Then Max whirled away, ducking under another darting shadow. He slashed above him with the sword, missed his mark again, dammit. He was growing weary… and he felt that blast of nauseating, paralyzing cold stagger him. He nearly fell, saw the red eyes and bared teeth of the demon as he tried to regain control of his sword-but Sebastian was there, with his gleaming silver blade, saving his bloody life yet again.

As the creature disintegrated into a foul-smelling tangle of coils, Max ran unsteadily toward the horse, where Wayren still slumped. A foglike tendril teased after him, cold and musty.

Dammit. Dammit. Had his delay, his coming back, given the demons a chance to find Wayren?

Max used the qinggong he had mastered to fly forward and leap onto the horse. Gathering up the reins, he slipped an arm around Wayren, huddling her back against him, and slammed his heels into the flanks below. His mount surged forward with a great leap, and Max bent low, closing his eyes for a moment to banish the agony that coursed through his body.

After no more than a pace or two, he looked behind him.

He saw the roiling black cloud that was still somehow contained by the walls of the cemetery, except for a few slender tendrils. He pulled back on the reins, ignoring the agonizing pain in his back and arms. The frantic horse fought the bit, needing to charge ahead… but Max forced him around, turning on the road to look back again.

The black cloud pitched and rolled, clear below the night sky lightened by moon and stars. It crept beyond the boundaries of the cemetery, slowly, as if searching. Max could hear the rising of the wind as it crooned eerily… It sought something. It knew Wayren was gone.

Bloody hell. He’d never seen anything like this. Ice settled over him as he stared back.

Something unaccountably evil burned here. Something that, he feared, would change everything.

At that moment, Wayren moved. She shifted, groaned, and Max’s attention came back to her.

“Wayren,” he said as she lifted her head as though trying to waken from a dream.

Her eyes fluttered, but they didn’t open, and she seemed to sag further in his arms. Bone white in the silvery light, her face stretched taut and still like porcelain. She was ill, gravely weakened by this permeating malevolence. If she was to survive, he had to get her away.

Max looked back toward the cemetery one last time, then kicked the horse again. And they were off.

Dawn reached up from behind the line of London rooftops by the time Max returned to the town house. Wayren had moved, awakening enough to sag back against him and grasp the horse’s mane with weak fingers. His body, shaky from loss of blood, ached with every movement. Black dots and long, slender shadows danced before his eyes. The memory of every sword slash, every swipe of the blade replayed in his mind. Every stumble, every missed arc, every time he’d been too slow… too weak.

He tired more easily, hurt too strongly, bled too damn much.

She’d been right to send him away.

He rode directly into the small stable, pounding on the wall to awaken the groom as he slid to the ground. No one was there to see his knees buckle and him stagger before catching himself, still holding Wayren.

The groom, a bulky, redheaded young man named Oliver, appeared, and Max tossed the reins to him. No explanation was needed.

Inside the house, Kritanu waited. Lights shining in the windows told Max that the elderly man hadn’t left his vigil since sending Brim and Michalas after them.

Words weren’t necessary; the grave condition of Wayren, who attempted to stand but needed to lean against Max, spoke for itself.

“I’ve sent word to Ylito,” Kritanu said quietly, helping Max settle Wayren into a large chair. “The birds fly fast; perhaps we will hear by tomorrow if he has any wisdom.”

The birds did indeed fly quickly, helped, Max knew, by the same holy power that protected and strengthened the Venators through their vis bullae. Ylito, the hermetic who dabbled in herbalry, alchemy, and other spiritual elements, was likely still in Rome. But with the assistance of the message pigeons, he could share any knowledge that might help Wayren.

“Max.” She spoke at that moment, her voice low and weak. “Sit.” Her hand shifted in her lap as if too weak to make the full gesture.

He didn’t want to sit. He wanted to go back out, get a fresh horse from somewhere, and fly back through town, over the Thames, to that demonic cemetery so that he could drag Victoria to safety.

Damn. What a bloody mess he’d become.

Weak. Indecisive. Battered.

“Sit,” Wayren said again, more strongly now. “Before you fall.”

Kritanu, who’d stepped away to give the butler, Charley, some murmured orders, turned to the large cabinet that sat in this small parlor. As he fumbled with its latch, using his one hand, he asked, “What happened? Victoria? The others?”

Max shrugged and felt a renewed twinge in his shoulder. His knees trembled. If he didn’t sit soon, they’d leave him no choice. If he did succumb and sit, he’d not stand again. “Fighting the demons that took Wayren. The others held them back so we could get away.”

Kritanu turned from the cabinet, and Max saw that he held the Gardella family Bible. An ancient tome, made up of hand-bound pages yellow and brittle with age, this book held the names of those called to the Gardella Legacy-both Venators born, as Victoria was, and Venators chosen, as Max was.

Had been.

Damn Lilith.

She’d taken everything from him.

Max gave in. His knees bent, and he slid into one of the chairs, using his grip on its arm to give his acquiescence an appearance of grace.

He watched as Kritanu brought the Bible to Wayren and rested it, open, on her lap. It dwarfed her, hanging over the edges of her slender legs and dirty, torn gown. She placed her hands on it, closed her weary eyes, and Max watched as color began to seep back into her face.

Her pale lips moved silently, flushing slowly with pink. Her fingers stopped trembling and the tension in her face eased.

Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked at him with clear gray-blue orbs. “Thank you, Max. I know how difficult it was for you to leave.”

“I was ordered to go.”

She opened her mouth as if to say something else, then paused, tilting her head to the side like Myza. Her eyes glittered brightly and she exchanged a quick look with Kritanu, who’d received a bowl of water from Charley and curled his maimed arm around it. In his other hand, he held a soft cloth. It dripped, and some pungent smell wafted from it.

Wordlessly, Max took the cloth and buried his face in it, inhaling whatever herbal decoction it had been steeped in, scrubbing away the blood and grime. Every muscle in his body ached, yet they gathered beneath his skin, demanding to be put to use, taut and ready.

He couldn’t sit here. And wait.

And wait.

He rubbed his face harder.

“Thrush has returned.”

Wayren’s quiet words brought Max’s hands down and his face from the damp cloth, which had cooled in the interim. Then he heard a soft clinking tap at the window, but Kritanu was already there, unlatching it and pushing it open.

If Thrush had returned…

Max felt jittery and cold.

“I cannot find a message.” With only one hand, Kritanu couldn’t easily remove the small tube from the bird’s leg; but instead of bringing it to Max, he offered the bird to Wayren.

Hell. Did he look that bad?

Wayren looked up from the pigeon. “There is no message.”

No message.

Max started to rise, but Wayren glared at him, raising a hand. It was surprisingly steady. “Be still. Thrush would not have left Myza alone. They had nothing with which to send a message.”

Was he that damned transparent?

He remained in his seat and tried not to look toward the window, tried not to appear as though every bloody creaking board in the house snapped him to attention.

“Max, it’s time that you returned to the Venators.”

Despite the hollow of pain and pounding anxiety in which he sat, Max heard and understood Wayren’s words. “It’s impossible,” he said, taking no care to hide the bitterness. Lilith had made certain that when he broke her hold over him, he would be unable to become a Venator again. Her bite, enhanced by a special salve that bound him to her, had tainted his blood. “You know it. And without a vis, I am nothing but a liability.”

“Indeed. You were quite the liability tonight,” Wayren said drily.

Max lifted his eyes to meet hers, and his sharp retort remained unspoken. Nevertheless. “My blood is tainted by Lilith. I cannot pass the Trial again, even if I should wish to try.”

“You don’t wish it?”

To become whole again? With all of his being.

And yet… never again.

“I won’t go back… to that.”

Wayren looked steadily at him. “Ylito has been studying your blood,” she said as though he hadn’t spoken.

“My blood?” Then he remembered. He’d sliced his arm open during that black ordeal in Roma. Victoria had needed blood in order to help fight back Beauregard’s blood as it attempted to turn her undead. Because his blood was not of the Gardellas, it was useless, but… “Ylito kept it?”

Wayren nodded. “That was why I asked for you to give some, even though we did not believe it could be used for Victoria. I asked Ylito to study it, to see if Lilith’s taint was real. Or if she lied.”

He didn’t ask. Max closed his mouth.

The Trial to become a Venator for one not called by the Gardella Legacy, one without the blood of the family in his veins, was a life-or-death proposition. Max had not cared about dying the first time he’d undergone the test.

In fact, he’d fairly wished for death. Yearned for it, for years.

But now.

He wasn’t afraid of it.

He just… didn’t want it. Yet.

He looked at Wayren and read the answer to the unspoken question. “Ylito believes there is no taint,” she said, reaffirming his thoughts.

Just then, his keen ears recognized a new sound from the front of the house. Max surged to his feet, ignoring the rush of light-headedness and the renewed flow of warmth down his arm, moving toward the foyer.

Flinging the door open, he saw the shadowy figures sliding from their horses. The big, burly Brim, moving slowly, but on his own, thank God. The tight strawberry blond curls of Michalas as he dismounted his horse.

There was another person turned away, pulling a limp body down from a horse.

Max hurried down the steps… without appearing to hurry. Hiding his fear.

The figure turned, steadying the inert bundle, and Max saw that it was Victoria, bloody and wild-faced, helping Sebastian stagger toward the house.