Rises the Night

Chapter 24 In Which Lady Rockley Attempts to Draw Blood

When she awoke, Victoria found herself alone in the dark.

She drew in a deep breath, surprised at how much she hurt everywhere; she was not used to such intense, debilitating pain. Her arms were too weak to prop herself up, so she remained prone for a long moment, measuring her breaths, trying to discern shadows in the darkness.

The memory waited before it came upon her; then it flashed in, overwhelming her mind with all its blood and death. The whistling arc of the blade. The hands groping and pulling and punching at her. The red-rimmed blue eyes of inhumanity. The tearing pain at her navel.

It was no surprise she was weak and hurting. Without her vis bulla, she was as helpless as a woman.

It had been a bit more than a year, and already she'd forgotten how much she relied on the strength amulet, how much it ruled her life, and what freedom it gave her. Yes, she had removed it herself, but that had been voluntary, and temporary, and she'd been sequestered and safe.

This was terrifying.

She breathed and tried again to move her arms, and was surprised to find that she could. She was not restrained. Her legs, too, were free to shift and allow her feet to move around enough that she determined she had been deposited on the floor in some kind of room.

But why would they restrain her? She was no threat to them now.

No threat.

According to Max, she hadn't been even before they took her vis bulla.

The renewal of her rage set her breathing off balance and her stomach feeling like a cannonball rested on it. Victoria had to stop and make herself consciously push away the venom.

She would deal with Max in time.

The first thing she must do was find a way out of here.

What time was it? Were they even now with Akvan's Obelisk, releasing the full impact of its evil? The event that would, as Nedas had said, make Venators inconsequential?

Gingerly getting to her feet, using the wall for balance, Victoria tried to stand, but her knees and head would not cooperate. She sagged back to the floor, scraping her hand down the rough wall. It was as dark as it could get, and once she felt the stone wall and the cement beneath, she presumed she was in a cellar beneath the opera theater.

She crawled around the perimeter, bumping into something that she recognized belatedly as a cot or large chair, and determined that two of the walls were stone and the other two wood, one of them with a door.

No sooner had she reached up to blindly locate the door handle and jiggle it in vain, than she heard what sounded like descending footsteps over her head, and she realized she was in a cubby under a staircase.

She didn't have time to wonder whether the steps portended someone coming for her, for moments after they reached the bottom of the stairs, a cast of light glowed from underneath the door; then something jolted it, making a soft thump. And then the door opened.

Max slipped in and shut it behind him.

"You!" Weak though she was, Victoria launched herself at his feet, pulling up using his body and the wall for balance, the fury she'd held in check at his audacity in seeking her out bursting forth, giving her a wave of strength.

He held the lantern well away from himself, as though expecting her attack, and he let her land a few ineffective blows to his chest and face before snatching one of her arms in midair. "That's enough, and for God's sake, keep quiet," he said, and bent to put the lantern down. "You're wasting time and energy." He grabbed her other wrist when she would have flailed it at him, knocking one of her kicking feet out from under her so that she lost her balance and remained upright only because he had her wrists in hand.

"How long have you been Tutela?" she hissed. "You are a traitor and a murderer."

His face was expressionless. "You heard Nedas. I was Tutela before I was a Venator."

"Will you murder me now?" she asked, ignoring the black spots that danced before her eyes and the way her body throbbed in pain. Weakness and fear shivered through her, but she would not allow him to see it. Her muscles trembled and she had to work to form the words. "What reward will Nedas give you for killing another Venator?"

He gave her a little shake that bobbled her head; then as if to collect himself, thrust her from him and stood away, looking down at her as she stumbled back onto the cot. "I have exactly ten minutes to get you the hell out of here, or you will find yourself in a much less appetizing situation than your aunt. For Christ's sake, you can't even stand, can you?"

This last comment was provoked by her attempt to do just that, pulling herself off the thin cot and using her hand to hold herself upright. He reached for her, and she twisted away, tipping back onto the floor in an ignominious heap. "Don't touch me."

He ignored her and unceremoniously yanked her to her feet, pushing her toward the cot. "Victoria, you have to get out of here. There is no time to play the woman scorned."

"After I kill you, and Nedas too, I'll be happy to leave this place."

"Despite the fact that you can't even stand, let alone kill anyone, you can't slay Nedas. Not now," he told her sharply. "There will be another time, but not now." Long fingers were unbuttoning his white shirt, and Victoria gawked, trying to focus around the black dots that obscured her vision.

"What are you doing?"

"He's already begun to activate the obelisk; he cannot be stopped. You will be needed afterward, Victoria. Think about that and not your need for vengeance, for it will soon be moot." He moved toward her, and she shrank back from his tall, looming figure. She'd never been afraid of Max, but something in his expression, the determined, settled line of his mouth and the angry black eyes, made her want to scoot away.

But she was a Venator. Damn it, even without her vis bulla, she was a Venator.

She didn't know what she'd expected when he sat next to her on the cot, but it wasn't for him to take her wrist and force her hand toward him. He moved her reluctant fingers under his unbuttoned shirt, palm open, sliding over warm skin, soft hair, and then brushing against his nipple, and something hard. Metal. He pushed her hand flush against it.

An instant before she realized it was his vu bulla, hanging from the areola on his muscular chest, Victoria felt a wave of strength course through her. Light filled her vision, chasing away the black spots. The pain melted into puddles of annoyance. Even the injury at her navel, where her own strength amulet had been torn away, ceased to throb. Her head felt clearer.

And as her pain and confusion disappeared, Victoria became aware of the fact that her hand was splayed over Max's bare skin. She felt the brush of his linen shirt over the back of her wrist with the rhythm of his breathing, felt the steady, strong pounding of his heart under her palm and the strength of his fingers around her hand. He was warm and solid, and a brief peek at the opening of his shirt told her there was a lot of black hair on his chest.

Another glance at his face told her he was unmoved: His eyes were closed, his mouth still settled and firm. She wondered if the flow of energy she felt weakened him at all. She looked up again and his jaw shifted, once, twice, and as if he knew she was watching, he opened his eyes. She looked away, suddenly conscious of their positions on the cot, him half turned toward her, his knee brushing hers, his strong fingers wrapped around her wrist. Her hand on his flesh suddenly felt as if it were burning. Her throat was dry.

"Feel better?" he asked, not solicitously, not as if he cared, but as if he couldn't wait to be away from her.

"Strong enough to fight you now." She pulled her hand away and immediately felt the loss of the energy.

He raised an eyebrow, looking at her as he fastened his shirt. "Stand up."

She stood; she managed that. Even without the power from his vis bulla, she still felt much better. The room didn't spin, and her vision was clear. Her injuries began to hurt again, but not so bad as before.

"When you leave this room, go to the right. Three doors down the long passage you will find stairs leading back to the main floor of what's left of the theater." He produced a stake and a gun and tossed them on the cot. "Take these and get out of here. I have to get back before I'm missed, and I trust, God knows why, that you will go now that I've given you the chance. Again."

"I hate you, Max. You must know that." Victoria picked up the gun, cocked it, and pointed it at his chest. She'd become much more familiar with firearms since she'd been forced to use one in her escape from Lilith last year. "I would do nothing to benefit you." The gun was heavy, but she didn't allow it to shake in her grip. Moments ago she would have fired without hesitation.

"It no longer matters what you think of me," he replied. Weariness and impatience laced his voice. "Go, now, Victoria. Killing me now will benefit no one. And if you pull that trigger, they'll all be down here faster than you would imagine." A mocking grin flashed. "Why do you think I gave you a gun and not a knife?"

"Why did you do it?" To her horror, her eyes began to sting.

"It was either her, or you." Max turned and strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft thunk.

Brushing away the surprised tears, she snatched up the stake and started after him, hearing his footsteps above her once more, but the door wouldn't open. She pulled again, and it came loose, opening into a dark hallway. Max had left the lantern, so Victoria grabbed it up from the floor and started out.

She didn't go right, as he'd directed. She went up the stairs in his wake, shadowing the lantern as much as she could, listening for his footsteps to follow them. She would remain out of sight, safe… but she had to see what was happening. She had to find out if what Max said was true. And… there might be something she could do.

She couldn't leave.

A soft creak in the distance sent her along a passage at the top of the stairs. She didn't need the lantern any longer; it was not the pitch-black of the room she'd left, but shadowy, and her eyes were becoming accustomed to the shapes and shades of gray, so she blew out the lantern and left it. She passed a door that hung ajar, and a quick peek as she went by showed racks of clothing, probably costumes, hanging inside. The scent of smoke permeated the area as she rushed along on silent feet, trying to catch up to Max.

After a time, she realized she'd lost him. Everything was silent and still.

Frustrated and feeling weak again, Victoria retraced her steps, taking more time to explore the area. She was definitely in the lower level of the theater, obviously used for storage. Costumes, props, chairs, instruments, music… the rooms were neatly ordered with all of these items.

Victoria found another staircase, a wider one, that seemed designed for heavier traffic, and took the steps up slowly, listening. The back of her neck had never ceased being chilled, but now it was becoming colder, and so she took greater care with her explorations. She gripped the stake in one hand and had tucked the gun in the waist of her trousers. It was heavy and dragged on them as she walked, but she wanted to keep her other hand free.

At the top of the stairs she found herself in a hallway, and beyond it she could see behind the stage. This was not the stage on which Aunt Eustacia had been executed hours before; this was the larger, taller performance stage, where she'd watched the opera only two nights ago. Scorched backdrops hung, one in front of the other, and tables sat in the wings, holding smoke-laden props and costumes. And she heard voices.

Someone was on the stage. She hoped it was Nedas.

Victoria crept forward, straining her ears, and nearly bumped into a wooden ladder. She looked up, her skin prickling with an idea. It seemed to lead up into infinite darkness, to the same place where the ropes that held the backdrops and curtains went.

She climbed up the ladder, taking care that the gun didn't slip from her waistband and tumble to the floor below. She resorted to sticking her stake in the other side of her trousers in order to free both of her hands, and wished she still had her bow and wooden bolts.

Thirty feet above the stage the steps continued on, but she found a catwalk that led into the shadows beyond the wings, where she was, and presumably over the stage. The smell of smoke was stronger up here, and she saw patches of black at the tops of the backdrops, and even on the catwalk and the ropes that acted as railings. It was amazing that the theater hadn't burned to the ground. There was illumination coming from the stage, and it helped her find her way more easily.

As she crept silently along the narrow wooden bridge that had a tendency to shimmy, the voices grew louder and more distinct. The back of her neck became colder, and she felt that same repulsive, oozing feeling she'd had earlier, when Nedas had come into view.

At last she moved beyond the black curtains that blocked the backstage wings from the audience, and found herself above the main part of the stage.

The first thing she saw was Akvan's Obelisk.

It sat on a waist-high round table in the center of the stage and looked exactly as she'd pictured it: an obsidian object, glinting blue and black in the light of five lanterns that were arranged in a circle around it. Narrow, with a pointed top, it was approximately the thickness of a man's arm, and perhaps as tall as his leg. It speared up at a slight angle, long and shiny and evil.

The stage itself was a bit worse for wear from the fire. One side near the audience was charred and burned and had fallen away, leaving a jagged black pit below. A swath of burned-out chairs cut through the same side of the theater, and the boxes above them—the one in which Victoria had seen the Imperial—were scorched. Yet, the other two-thirds of the arena was merely covered with ash and smoke stains and showed no other damage. Half of those seats were filled with vampires and members of the Tutela.

At five stations around the stage, with the obelisk and its table in the center, sat some kind of bowllike containers. Smoke wafted up from the small fires in them, bringing the sweet smell that reminded Victoria unpleasantly of the Tutela meeting. The theater was so large that the incense would not engulf the room as it had then; but she could still smell the essence; and along with it came the memory of being nearly helpless under the hands and fangs of the vampires.

Victoria closed her eyes and shook her head, clearing away the reminder that she was even more helpless now, tonight. Bringing her attention back to the stage, she examined the people there.

Standing next to the table with the obelisk were five men. Nedas she recognized because of his lesser height and darker skin, and because of the way her entire body felt ill when she focused her attention on him. Max was the tallest, with his too-long hair clubbed back, and his white shirt standing out among the sea of black clothing and dark hair. Regalado's bald head shone like a flesh-colored skull, and his thick beard bushed out so far that Victoria could see it even when he stood directly below her. The other two men, whom she thought were vampires, she did not recognize.

It appeared that Max had indeed become one of the trusted inner circle of Nedas, so that he was directly involved in what was about to occur. Victoria's stomach pitched at the thought of what price had been paid for him to align himself with Nedas. Aunt Eustacia.

And why was he so determined she not be there? Why did he even care?

It was either her, or you.

But why either of them? Why would he forsake the Venators?

Tutela to Venator to Tutela.

Had his years of being a Venator been a ploy for only one thing, to this one end? To gain her aunt's trust and bring her to her death?

But why?

Had they had possession of Akvan's Obelisk that long ago?

The thoughts swirled in Victoria's head; she was feeling weak again, and it seemed as though the incense from the pots was going straight to her nose, weaving through her senses and making them as murky as London fog. Perhaps without her vis bulla she was more susceptible to the essence. Or perhaps it was because her injuries simply made her weaker and more easily confused.

She became aware of some sort of chanting below. It came from the vampires who sat in the audience, far enough away that they could see what was to happen, but could not be involved or interfere.

A thought came to mind, and Victoria spent a few long moments scanning the viewers in the seats, looking for Sebastian. She should be as angry with him as she was with Max, but she wasn't.

Yes, he had kidnapped her and taken the opportunity to make love to her. It was fortunate that she hadn't expected more from him, for she was bound to be disappointed if she had.

Yes, he had disappeared at a most fortuitous moment—for him. And yes, he had left her to battle the vampires on her own. But at least he had been truthful with her. He was not a man of violence, and would not strike and kill. Not even a vampire. And he certainly didn't have the powers of a Venator to protect himself.

Of course, that meant it was necessary for him to make himself scarce at such dangerous moments; but if he had not, he likely would have been captured too.

But they wouldn't have hurt him, if all he'd told her about Beauregard was true. Would they?

Or perhaps they would have, if Beauregard and Nedas were rivals.

Victoria's head was swimming and her body was pounding with pain again. She couldn't stop the thoughts swirling around her mind, clogging it, softening it from any clear judgment.

The chanting had grown louder and deeper, and the incense did not disperse, but seemed to continue to swirl straight up.

Its smoke was colored, she noticed vaguely. Black and blue curls and coils, braiding together as they wove up into the catwalk, insinuating themselves into her nostrils and into her lungs. Stifling a cough, she held the sleeve of her tunic over her nose and mouth and tried to breathe the filtered air; perhaps she had waited too long to do so, but it might help to keep the scent at bay.

How was she going to stop them?

He cannot be stopped.

There had to be a way. She had to clear her mind.

Victoria took a deep breath and spewed it out, long and slow and silent, from between pursed lips, trying to send the smoke away from her, to send it dissipating far from where she breathed.

The backdrops hung from heavy wooden poles. She could loosen one, cause it to crash down on them. At least that would stop them momentarily. She might be able to take them by surprise and jump down to stake a vampire or two. Nedas would be her first target.

But… there would be little to no chance that she could get the obelisk away, even if Nedas was dead. She didn't know how long it would take, or what would have to occur in order for the obelisk's powers to transfer to another being.

And… she no longer wore the vis. She couldn't jump down without injuring herself; she would be fortunate to have enough strength in her battered body to drive the stake into a normal, red-eyed vampire, not the son of Lilith.

There were ropes looped over the poles from which the canvas backdrops hung.

Blocking out the sound of the incessant chanting, Victoria considered the heavy canvas scenery and, a plan half forming in her mind, moved carefully toward one that hung exactly opposite where Nedas seemed to stand. Perhaps she could swing down on the rope, using the element of surprise. If she aimed correctly, she could land on Nedas and stab him before he knew what happened.

Of course, after that she would be at the mercy of the rest of the vampires and the Tutela members, and, weakened as she was, she would be unable to fight them. And the obelisk would still be available for someone else to use.

The craving to drive the stake through Nedas's heart, to make him poof into ash, was so strong she considered taking the chance. And what about Max? He was the one who'd wielded the sword! The one who'd actually done the deed.

He deserved to die too.

She could have shot him, vampires be damned.

Her mouth twitched as she realized the irony of that thought. Then it straightened, for this was not a time for humor. Not with her aunt dead.

She could shoot Max from here. The realization swept over her, and she pulled the gun from her waistband. She could shoot him and be running through the catwalks before they realized what had happened or where she was.

At least then a part of her vengeance would be satisfied.

The firearm was heavy, so heavy. She sighted Max, trying to line up his tall frame with one eye squinted and the other focused on him. Never still, he moved with the power and confidence that had been so valuable to the Venators.

The best of them.

How could he have fooled them all?

Suddenly flames burst from below, diverting her attention from her target. They were tall black and blue flames, replacing the smoke tendrils from the five small bowls. They shot straight up, high into the air, narrow and hot, one column of eerie flame blazing only feet below where Victoria was perched. This was why Nedas had needed the large theater chamber.

The chanting had continued, melding into the background, as Nedas stood inside the circle made from the bowls of flame and began to speak, gesturing with his arms as though to bring the air toward the obelisk. He pulled his fingers through the air gracefully, drawing little buffets of movement toward the small table and its burden as though urging the heat toward it.

Victoria could not understand his words, but she did not need to know what he was saying. She knew what he was doing.

The sweet smell had ebbed, to be replaced by the heat of the flames and the deafening sound of their crackling. Max, Regalado, and the other two vampires stood outside of the circle, watching.

As Victoria looked down, she saw the flames begin to lean toward the center, above Akvan's Obelisk. Nedas continued to chant, surrounded by the black and blue flames that reflected the same color of the evil object, and the columns of flames drew closer and closer together.

At last they knit together as one, at the tip of the obelisk: five ropes of flame merging into one tall blaze that threatened to reach the highest part of the ceiling arching over the stage.

The flames roared, and Victoria could see, directly in front of her, the black and blue twining and writhing like rabid snakes, and feel the heat blazing on her face from yards away.

Akvan's Obelisk began to glow and sweat. Green and blue sparks radiated from it in a random pattern on all sides. Nedas reached out to touch one, and laughed when the spark snapped his finger. On and on he chanted; on the fire blazed; greener and bluer glowed the obelisk. Little beads glistened on the obsidian, trickling down and plopping on the floor.

The entire theater was lit by the weird blue and black flames, casting odd-colored shadows and plays of light everywhere. The vampires in the seats had ceased their chanting and stared at the flames as though desiring to pull their power into themselves.

Now the flames were changing, and large black drops swam down them faster than rain during a downpour. The drops swarmed down the long blazing tower and melted into Akvan's Obelisk, on and on and on.

Victoria noticed a sudden movement below; something odd. She looked over, down, away from the blaze that had captured her attention, and watched in amazement as Max burst through the flames, something long gleaming in his hand.

He tumbled into the circle, rolled upright, and slashed the blade through the obsidian tower in the same wide arc he'd used earlier.

The obelisk sizzled, then exploded, the flames extinguished, and the scream of fury from Nedas reverberated in the suddenly silent theater.