Rises the Night

Chapter 17 In Which Maximilian Considers Gardening

"It has happened before, Eustacia," Wayren told her. "Much to my dismay, I will confirm it. We have lost Venators to the lure of the vampire. As there have been in every battle throughout history, there have been traitors to us as well."

"That may be, but Max? After what he's done? No. There is some other explanation."

Wayren looked as remote as Eustacia felt numb. "I wouldn't believe it either… but recall his history. And that he still fights Lilith's thrall; that her bites still burn on him. It is a horrible battle for him that can arise and weaken him unexpectedly."

"He has learned to distance himself from it. At times."

"I know it. He is a fiercely strong man. But I fear that if any Venator could be turned to the Tutela, he would be a likely candidate, if only because of his ties to Lilith, as horrific and unwelcome as they are. Since she bit him the first time years ago, those bites have not healed, and she tries to exert her control over him. Last year when she fed on him again, it just strengthened those ties. So far he has been able to resist, but anything can happen. There are no absolutes." Despite her grave pronouncements, she looked serene and ethereal, as she always did—as she had from the day Eustacia had met her nearly sixty years ago.

She had no idea how old Wayren was; nor was it important to know. She just knew that somehow, Wayren was always there when she needed her. She was the wisest person she'd ever met, and she never lied. In spite of what she'd just said, that was an absolute.

Wayren had seen so much over the years; perhaps nothing was shocking to her.

"It is possible he will seek you out now that he knows Victoria is in Rome. There may be a reason he won't speak with her." Her pale blond hair, which framed her face with four braids as narrow as a child's finger, fell down over her shoulders and into her lap. The braids were tied with delicate gold chains, and from each one hung a pearl the size of a pea.

Eustacia nodded, feeling old and inelegant. "That is possible. Have you found anything else that might be of help to us? And do you know where Lilith is?"

Wayren fumbled in her ever-present leather satchel and pulled out a sheaf of curling papers. Placing in their position the square spectacles she always wore when reading, she began to flip through the pages.

Eustacia couldn't help a smile. If she thought age had warped her memory, she had nothing on Wayren, who'd been around much longer and who relied heavily on her notes and journals and memoranda written to herself during research sessions.

"I do not believe Lilith is directly involved in this plot with Nedas; at least, if she is, she is not here in Italy. She is still hidden away deep in the mountains of Romania, with an entire city of vampires. I am certain she must be aware that Nedas has found Akvan's Obelisk and intends to activate it. He is her son, after all. They have ways of communicating, just as we do." Her rueful smile revealed three little creases near her chin. "From what I have gleaned since I arrived, Beauregard and his vampires were prepared to overthrow Nedas here in Italy, but once it became known that Lilith's son had the obelisk, Beauregard was forced to back down. I can only imagine he is waiting to see what occurs before declaring his loyalty—or attempting to usurp him."

"Beauregard is smarter and has more experience, but Nedas is Lilith's son. Dio mio, we cannot let either of them have it. Wayren, if we do not stop it, it could be another scene like Praga."

"I pray it is not. Twenty thousand people massacred by the vampires and Tutela… here in Rome. They will surely target the Papal states, as well as our Consilium and as many mortals as possible. It would be devastating." Wayren looked at her, and Eustacia saw understanding in her eyes. "You are thinking of Rosamund's prophecy, aren't you? The… hmph." She bent to dig in her satchel again, drawing out five large books of various sizes, shapes, and conditions that could not possibly have fit in the bag but somehow had.

" 'The golden age of the Venator shall end at the foot of Roma.'" Eustacia quoted the words she'd never forgotten. A short phrase, one of many she'd read over the years, studied, perused… but none had stayed with her, resonated with her, as this one had.

Colorless blue-gray eyes, framed by square lenses, met sharp black ones. "It could mean anything, Eustacia."

"It could. But I fear this could be our last battle. Rosamund was graced with many gifts, the least of which was her mystical writings." She clasped her hands together in the ravenlike gown she favored for her age. "Our only hope is to stop Nedas from activating Akvan's Obelisk, or, barring that, to somehow steal it."

"The only thing we know for certain is that he has not completely harnessed its power yet. He is waiting for something—for the right time, or for some other thing he needs—or else he would have done it by now."

"I shall have to join Victoria; she cannot do it alone."

Wayren fixed her with eyes that had changed from pale moonstone to brilliant, stirring sapphire in a blink. "The moment the connection is made between you and Victoria, any chance we have will be over. The precise second you step into any gathering of the Tutela, or the presence of Nedas, it will be done. You are a legend."

"You think I am too old to fight?" It stung, hearing it come from Wayren. Even though she knew it was true.

"A Venator is never too old to fight. But there are better uses for you and your experience than to have your presence announce our intentions. Eustacia, I love you. But this is something that Victoria will have to do alone."

"Alone? How on earth… No, I'll call together the Consilium. And perhaps Vioget can be persuaded to assist. He will have to choose sides at one point or another."

"Perhaps he will. Perhaps he won't. I do not place much faith in him."

Neither of them mentioned Max.

The opera house was no different from the theaters Victoria had visited in London: opulent and ornate and crowded with members of high society dressed in their finest, more interested in seeing and being seen than actually watching the opera.

A carriage with the Tarruscelli twins and Barone Galliani had called for her, and she had been seated next to the barone, much to his obvious pleasure. He'd greeted her immediately with apologies for not calling on her before now, and said that he understood she'd been ill.

During the ride, Victoria allowed him to be as attentive as he liked, and more than once caught the speculative glances from Portiera and Placidia. She smiled demurely as he made a great show of taking her arm and the arm of one of the twins—she didn't see which one—and led them through the opera's hall to the Regalado box.

Inside the small, shadowy room, which hung just to the left of the stage at approximately the height of two men, and close enough that Sara would be able to see the detail of every costume's button, Conte Regalado and his daughter were waiting.

"How kind of you to join us," Conte Regalado said with a smile that reminded Victoria of molasses. He bowed, took each of the twins' gloved hands in turn, and kissed them. Then he turned to her and bowed again, took her hand in the same manner, but did not release it after the kiss. "Mrs. Withers, I am particularly pleased that you accepted my daughter's invitation tonight. We did not have enough of a chance to speak at my art showing, to my dismay."

"Conte Regalado." Victoria made a curtsy even as he held her hand as though he were not about to allow her to have it back. "I cannot tell you how lovely it has been to be so welcomed here in Rome by you and your family and friends. And I did not have the opportunity to tell you how fascinating I found your painting." Fascinating was definitely one way to describe a man who painted his daughter's nipples.

"I am hoping that I might persuade you to sit for me someday. I believe you would make a lovely Diana."

The huntress. How appropriate. "I would be most flattered to oblige at your request," Victoria replied, wondering if his image of Diana included the same filmy gowns as did his Fates.

"Emmaline!" Sara had greeted the twins and now pushed her way between her father and Victoria in order to greet her. "You must sit near me so that we can talk. Padre, excuse us, please."

"Good evening… Mrs. Twitters, is it?" Max's deep voice startled Victoria. He'd been standing to the side, in the shadows, where he wasn't easily noticed. She was sure he'd done it purposely just for the effect.

"Max, do stop teasing. You are stupido. Of course you remember her name. This is Mrs. Withers; surely you recall meeting her at Papa's showing?"

"Of course I do." But he sounded baldly uncertain and Victoria wanted to slap that indolent smile off his face. But then, when she looked up at him and their gazes met, she was so shocked by the animosity in his eyes that she nearly stepped back.

Victoria turned to Sara and asked brightly, "Did you ask your fiance about a rose?"

"Oh, no, I had forgotten." Sara turned to Max, gripping his arm, and looked up at him with an ingenuous smile. "Silvio, il malfattore"—she giggled at this point, taking any sting out of the insult for her cousin—"has decided to change the name of my rose to call it after Emmaline, and so she suggested that you might be willing to grow one of your own for me. And I told her I was certain that you would concur." Victoria watched in fascination as she actually batted her eyelashes.

Max raised his eyebrows and looked at Victoria. "Is that so?"

"Well, actually, that was not exactly how it occurred, but"—she tipped her head to one side as though considering his fitness—"I do see that being surrounded by flowers and digging in the dirt might suit you very well."

It was so quick Victoria wasn't certain she'd seen it, but she would have sworn there was a flash of humor or admiration, or something that relieved the harshness there, something of the old Max… but then it was so brief that she might have been mistaken, for that awful arrogant and cold look was back. "I see. Well, adorate mio, for you, I shall consider it."

At that moment the box door opened again and in walked Sebastian. "I am terribly sorry for being late," he said, his gaze scanning the small room.

He looked delicious—his thick lion's-mane hair combed neatly off his forehead and curling about the nape of his neck and his ears. His jacket was rich topaz and his breeches were dark rust, his cravat a masculine design of carrot, persimmon, and gold; and the entire ensemble, as always, was cut and tailored to perfection. And his smile, the way his upper lip shadowed his lower one and the hint of a quirk at one corner…

Victoria felt the heat rush from her bosom up over her throat and to her cheeks in one great wave. She hadn't seen him, nor heard from him, since their erotic interlude the night of the party. And all she could think of was where his hands had been and what his fingers had done.

And what still remained unfinished between them.

"Mrs. Withers, are you feeling quite the thing? You appear to be rather… red." Somehow Max had come up behind her, and when he spoke in her ear she nearly jumped. Again. "It is rather disconcerting when people show up where they shouldn't be, and are not welcome, is it not?"

Victoria swallowed and turned her head enough to see how close his silky blue-and-gray neck cloth was. It was nearly brushing her shoulder. "I have no idea what you mean," was all she could think of to say.

Just at that moment she turned back and found the man in question in front of her. "Mrs. Withers, how delightful to see you again." There were so many nuances in Sebastian's tone, Victoria was not sure whether to blush or to slap him.

"It is indeed," she replied with a curtsy, and allowed him to kiss her gloved hand. But when he released it and pulled his hand away, her glove came with it, dangling like an unstarched cravat.

"Oh, dear," Sebastian said, looking at it. "You do have a penchant for losing your gloves, do you not?"

Of course, he was reminding her of the time he'd taken another of her gloves, in nearly the same manner. The one she'd never gotten back. "I already have one pair of unmatched gloves," she replied lightly. "I do hope you won't cause me to have another."

"But then you can put your single glove together with this one, and you will have a complete pair. And then… well, perhaps I will find a mate for this one too." And he stuffed it in his pocket. "Good evening to you, Maximilian."

"Sebastian." Max's nod was cool and sparse, and he drifted away.

Victoria could say nothing else about her glove without drawing attention, so she had to be content with directing a glare at Sebastian and removing her other glove, which, fortunately, wasn't as much of a crime as it would have been in London. Italians were a bit less rigid about such proprieties than the English.

Sebastian looked at her with a mild expression, then turned to speak to the Tarruscelli twins, who had been thrilled, as evidenced by their clapping hands and genteel squeals, with his arrival.

It did occur to her to wonder, just for a moment, if Sebastian had followed through on his threat to call upon Portiera and Placidia after their unsatisfactory tête-à-tête in the parlor.

As Victoria cast a covert look at him, flanked by the two dark-haired beauties and their beside-the-mouth moles, she realized she didn't like that idea at all. In fact, it made her rather queasy.

And annoyed.

In fact, she was annoyed enough to consider the age-old female retaliation of using her nails to scratch their pretty eyes out. Of course, being a Venator, she would probably gouge more than scratch, and it would be a bit messier than normal…

"Mrs. Withers, are you quite certain you are feeling all right? Perhaps you ought to return home; you've not recovered from your illness, I see. That sort of discomfort often happens to people when they thrust themselves into a situation they should not." Max had returned. He was looking down at her with that bland expression, and she realized that the others were preparing to take their seats.

She was saved from the indignity of having no quick retort—things had just been going so upside down that her wit had disappeared—by Conte Regalado's approach. "Mrs. Withers, may I seat you?" he asked, slipping her arm into the fold of his elbow.

"I would be delighted," she cast over her shoulder as they walked away. Not her best rejoinder, but at least she'd had the last word.

But when Conte Regalado seated her in the front row of the box and took a seat beside her, she felt Max and Sara sit down behind them, and she heard Max's innocent question: "And when is your friend returning to London, my dear? I am sure it cannot be too soon."

Galliani took a seat next to Victoria with a little bow, and had one of the Tarruscelli twins on his arm—Portiera, she could tell by the cornflower blue gown. She always wore the darker colors. And behind them sat Sebastian with Placidia, in sky blue.

Thus Victoria was, in effect, surrounded by an array of men: an insufferably rude one, a father who painted his daughter's breasts in detail and who cultivated the company of vampires, a barone who grew roses, and a man who'd made her shiver and tremble with passion only days before and now sat flirting with another woman.

Conte Regalado claimed her attention, reminding her of her plan to flirt with him in hopes of learning more about the Tutela. "The opera is ready to start," he said. He smelled like wine and lavender. "I hope you enjoy it."

The opera was long. The box became warm. And Victoria became squirmy. She wondered why she had decided to come after all. It had mainly been so that she would see Max again, and hope to have an opportunity to speak with him, but that was obviously not going to come to pass.

At the end of the first act she heard movement behind her, and glanced back to see Sebastian leading Placidia from the box, his head bent solicitously to her face as they left the stifling room. Unfortunately it wasn't a formal intermission, or Victoria would have been able to go with them. As it was, it would seem odd for her to insist on joining them.

If she'd known Sebastian would be there, she might have stayed home, just to avoid the awkwardness.

No, on the other hand, she would have come regardless, for she hadn't stopped thinking about him and his sensual mouth and talented fingers, and the fact that it really was a shame that he'd gone all cold and proper on her. And had chosen to sit beside one of the twins. And escort her out.

Then, suddenly, her mind sharpened, pinpointed, and she realized that the back of her neck was cool. The hairs were rising as though a chill breeze was brushing over them. Vampires. Somewhere nearby. One, perhaps two.

Victoria held her breath, keeping her attention focused on the stage. Thinking. She had to do something.

Despite the fact that Aunt Eustacia had impressed upon her the importance of not giving away the fact that she was a Venator, Victoria had not been allowed—by Verbena—to leave the villa without one stake, slipped into a garter under her gown.

It was the beginning of the second act; the curtain had just risen. The single intermission wouldn't be until the end of this act, which could be an hour away. She couldn't wait that long.

The sensation grew stronger.

Max would feel it too.

She shifted in her seat, trying to figure out a way to make eye contact with him where he sat directly behind her, and bumped Galliani's arm.

"Are you uncomfortable?" he murmured, leaning toward her. "Would you like to get some air?"

Thank you. She nodded and replied, "That would be wonderful." She could somehow slip away from Galliani once out of the box and see what was happening.

Victoria started to rise and could not. Something was holding her gown in place. From behind. Low on the seat.

Conte Regalado was looking at her now. "Is something the matter, Mrs. Withers?" he asked, placing a heavy hand on her arm.

"I just… felt the need for some air. It is so stifling in here. Lord Galliani has been so good as to agree to escort me." She tried to rise again and found that she could not.

Galliani was waiting, looking at her expectantly.

Her neck was colder; the prickles had begun to rise along the back of her shoulders, telling her that the vampire was drawing nearer.

The diva onstage below sang on, her voice clear and true, her pudgy hands glittering with rings and bracelets.

Victoria had to resist the very strong urge to turn to Max and command him to release her gown. She wanted to, but something held her back—besides his grip.

He was stopping her for a reason.

Aunt Eustacia had warned her she could not reveal that she was a Venator, even if danger approached. She would have to let the threat pass by, let it play itself out.

But how could she?

Galliani nudged her gently. "Mrs. Withers? Have you changed your mind?"

"I am feeling better now," she replied reluctantly, making the decision to follow Aunt Eustacia's direction. Her stomach felt odd, as though some thick and heavy liquid sloshed inside it.

What if the vampires attacked and killed some of the patrons, and she did nothing? Could she sit here and let it happen? Did she have that kind of resolve?

The chill deepened, and Victoria fisted her fingers into her skirts, crinkling the light silk and staring straight down at the stage, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, aware of nothing but the growing cold at the back of her neck.

And then the door of the box opened.

Two men came in.

Their eyes were not red, their fangs were not extended, but Victoria knew they were vampires.