Rises the Night

Chapter 1 In Which Lady Rockley's Weapon Is Alarmingly Ineffective

Victoria tightened her fingers around the ash stake, more out of habit than necessity, and peered around the rough brick corner. It was dark and damp, as London was wont to. be shortly after midnight, and the streets just past the safety of Drury Lane were strewn with refuse and scattered with the occasional thief, prostitute, and other such dodgy persons.

Unfortunately, none of said dodgy persons were wreaking any havoc, picking any pockets, or biting any necks.

Now a year had passed since Phillip died, and Victoria was back on the streets hunting for vampires for the first time since the night she'd removed her vis bulla. She'd spent the last twelve months practicing her fighting skills, learning to control the rage and grief that had driven her to nearly kill the man in St. Giles. She wanted to be sure she was ready, and able to temper those emotions before reinserting her strength amulet. The silver cross shivered in the hollow of her navel when she walked, and Victoria felt complete again. She was ready.

Which was why she'd been taking to the streets late at night, stake in one hand, pistol in the other. Looking for something to do. Someone to save.

She would never stop looking for someone to save.

Victoria shook her head abruptly to dislodge the memory and chase away the guilt that still crawled along her nerves. Her temple scraped against the brick, sending crumbles of mortar dusting to the ground and a dull pain over her skin. And she returned her thoughts to the matter at hand.

Barth would be along shortly in his hackney to pick her up and take her back to the echoingly empty Rockley estate known as St. Heath's Row, where she would continue to live until the arrival of the new marquess, who was somewhere in America and hadn't yet been located.

No sooner had she had the thought than the hackney in question rumbled around the corner and came to a rather slower stop than usual. It wasn't that Barth's driving had improved; it was that he'd been combing the streets, looking for Victoria.

As she climbed into the carriage, she made the decision she'd been putting off for a week. "Barth, I'm not ready to go home yet… take me to St. Giles. To the Chalice."

And before he could protest, she closed the door.

There was a bit of a wait, as though he were considering arguing, but then she heard Barth cluck to the horses and she lurched as they started off at a smart pace. Victoria settled back in her seat and tried not to think about the last time she'd been to the Silver Chalice. More than a year ago.

It was well past midnight, and the streets of St. Giles were deserted. Only very foolish or very brave people ventured into this area of London during the relative protection of daylight; at night, even fewer would dare to trespass. As they rumbled along St. Martin's Lane and crossed the intersection of the seven roads known as The Dials, Victoria cast her glance down one of them. She had not forgotten Great St. Andrews Street, nor even the block where she'd nearly killed the man. She could find it again in her sleep, for though she did not recall the actual event in all of its terrible detail, the location had imprinted itself on her brain.

Perhaps someday she would return.

Several streets later the hackney jerked to a stop, drawing her from her uncomfortable reverie. Anticipating the jolt, Victoria had already put out a hand to brace herself. Lifting the small lantern from the interior wall, she ducked out of the vehicle and slipped away before Barth could speak or follow her.

Her feet were soundless on the cobbled street as they skirted piles of trash and stepped over small puddles left from an early evening rain. The stench no longer bothered her; nor did the weight of eyes peering from the shadows.

Let them come. She was ready for a fight.

Across the street and down she walked, head held high, hand on her pistol, the legs of her men's breeches swishing faintly against each other, the lantern light slicing through her shadow. A welcome summer breeze lifted the smell of rotting carcasses and animal waste back to her consciousness, then brushed on away. The back of her neck cooled slightly under the beaver topper she wore, but it was from the wind, rather than a sign of approaching danger.

Victoria stood in front of what had been the doorway to the Silver Chalice. She had not visited the place since the night she came looking for Phillip, and found instead the smoldering ruins of what had been an establishment that served vampires and mortals alike.

Did she imagine it, or was the oaky smell of ash still in the air? It couldn't be, all these months later—

The chill had returned to the back of her neck.

She froze, stopping her breath to listen. To feel.

Yes, it was there; it was real, raising the hair on her nape in a warning she hadn't felt for a twelvemonth: a vampire was near. Below.

Now, the rush of anticipation fueling her actions, Victoria climbed over the rickety remains of the door frame and started down the steps into the cavernous chamber. She felt along the stones with her left hand whilst her right carried the lantern, shining onto the wood and stone rubble that littered the steps. If she could have approached without the illumination, she would have done so; but seeing in the dark was not one of the gifts bestowed upon Venators. Some of the element of surprise would be diminished, but that was better than trying to make her way through the mess silently, and in the dark.

Miraculously, the ceiling had not completely caved in over the stairs, and she soon found herself at the bottom. Victoria paused, thrusting the lantern behind her to block some of its light, and peered around the corner into the dark, misshapen cellar.

What was left of Sebastian's place.

Although the tingle at the back of her neck still played there, confirming her instinct, she did not feel or hear any sign of movement. She stilled, but for the fingers slipping into the deep pocket of her coat.

The stake felt comfortable in her hand, but she did not withdraw it yet. She let her grip close around the wood, warm from her body, and waited, listening and feeling.

The chill on her neck edged colder, and she breathed the proximity of the vampire and the impending exhilaration of battle. Her heart rate picked up speed; her nostrils flared, as if to smell the presence of an undead.

At last, satisfied that she was alone in the chamber, Victoria drew the lamp forth. Shining it around, she saw the same scene of destruction that had greeted her months ago; but now her mind was not numbed by fear and apprehension. Now she saw the blackened ceiling beams, the splintered tables and broken glasses… perhaps she even smelled the faint tinge of blood in the air.

The lantern bobbed as she climbed over a fractured chair, and glass crunched like gravel beneath her feet. She was making her way toward the innermost, darkest part of the wall, hidden under a lowering ceiling. The growing sensation at the back of her neck told her she was moving in the right direction.

Sebastian Vioget had disappeared the night the Silver Chalice burned. Max had been there too that night, and he told Victoria he didn't know whether or not Sebastian had escaped from the fire; and she knew that he didn't give a whit what had happened either way.

Victoria knew she shouldn't care either… but she had not been able to forget the bronze-haired man who welcomed vampires into his establishment. He'd once told Victoria that it was better to know them and to offer them a place where they might find ease, where their tongues might loosen and information might be gained…

She found the secret door Sebastian had taken her through the very first night she'd met him. Tucked away under a low stone ceiling and set in among the stone walls, it remained fairly unscathed. Marked with black streaks, it was ajar.

And the cold at her nape tingled more sharply.

Victoria pushed through the door, leaving the lantern at the entrance of the passageway. She felt the weight of the pistol in her pocket as it bumped against the edge of stone—the pistol, useless against a vampire, of course, but helpful for other purposes. In the dark, narrow passageway, Victoria couldn't help but remember facing Sebastian, with the damp brick behind her, and him much too close for propriety's sake as he reached to sweep off the hat of her gentleman's disguise.

He hadn't kissed her that time.

Moving down the faintly lit hallway, quickly, as though to leave the thoughts behind her, Victoria made her way to the small room on the left, the one Sebastian had used as an office and sitting room.

He, she, it, or they… were in this room.

Her lips curled in a feral smile, and anticipation kicked up her pulse. She had been ready for this for months.

The door was ajar, giving her the opportunity to peer around into the room. It was lit from within; only a large lantern could illuminate the chamber well enough for her to see the intricate brocade design on the sofa from where she stood. Interesting that a vampire or two would use a lantern.

From what she could see through the open door, the room had been untouched by the fire, with the exception of a lingering smoke smell that had likely been trapped in the couch and chair upholstery. There was no sign of any disturbance… the books were still lining shelves, the pillows perfectly arranged on the furniture… even the silver tray with the brandy and sherry bottles was in place across the room.

The only things out of place were the two figures bent over Sebastian's desk. At least one vampire.

Slipping the stake from her pocket, Victoria let it hang behind the folds of her jacket and stepped into the room.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she said as they turned. "Are you looking for something?"

Her year of grief had made her a bit slow.

One of them was at her before she expected it, his eyes bloodred and his incisors flashing. Victoria stepped back, felt the wall behind her, and twisted away. He followed, and she tripped over the leg of a chair, nearly stumbling to the floor. The error made her more determined, and the skills Kritanu had taught her came flooding back to her muscles like the fit of a well-worn glove.

When Victoria gained her balance, the vampire was reaching for her, inadvertently opening his chest to her driving stake. She slammed it in, felt the familiar pop, and stepped back as he disintegrated into dust.

Barely breathing, she looked up at the other man, who'd not moved. He watched her with a twitch of a smile, but he'd not changed. Instead, he adjusted his jacket and looked at her with glinting black eyes.

"Came prepared, did you?" he asked, walking easily from around the other side of the desk. Coming closer, but easy. Unthreatening and unthreatened.

"What are you doing here?" Victoria wanted some answers before she staked him too. It could be no coincidence that they'd both chosen this night to visit Sebastian's rooms; and by the amount of dust here, and the neatness of the room, she gathered this was the first visit anyone had made.

"Merely curiosity." He stood so that the sofa was between them. "This is what remains of the infamous Silver Chalice; I was interested in seeing the place owned by Sebastian Vioget."

His fangs had not protruded; his eyes remained unexceptionally dark.

"Do you know him?"

The vampire, who was no taller than most other men in London, had nondescript brown hair brushed back from his face. His nose, a bit too large to make his face attractive, rounded on the end like a garlic bulb. And his brows were straight, narrow strips over his eyes. He shook his head in response to her question. "I'm afraid I haven't the pleasure of meeting Monsieur Vioget. From what I have heard, I'm not altogether certain it is any longer possible to do so."

"I haven't seen a vampire here in London for months," Victoria said, watching him. "Since Lilith took herself and her followers off. Did she send you back to ascertain whether it was safe for her to return?"

He looked at her for a moment; then recognition shifted into his black eyes. Not red, not yet. They were normal. He looked like nothing more than an average English gentleman, except for his ill-fitting clothing. "You are the woman Venator."

Victoria bowed her head in acknowledgment.

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "What a coup it would be for me to bring you to Nedas. He would reward me greatly."

A spike of anticipation jolted through her. "You could certainly attempt it. I'm certain that whoever Nedas is, he would appreciate your martyrdom."

"I'm not quite as capricious as my dearly departed companion," he replied. "But I am much stronger and faster."

Then he was there, across the room, next to her, reaching for her throat. Victoria spun back, but he grabbed at her arm, and he was indeed strong.

She tried to wrench away, caught in his suddenly glowing red eyes, and felt the sofa against her legs. She pretended to stumble, dodged, and knocked him off balance. He came after her again, close behind, without giving her a chance to catch her breath, and the next thing she knew, she was whirling back to face him.

Raising her stake at shoulder level, she lifted her face to look at him, ready to slam it home, and faltered. Phillip.

It was Phillip.

It was as if her body had turned to ice, and then raging fire. The stake fell from her limp fingers, and the scream was knocked out of her as he shoved her aside, sending her to the floor.

On the rug, dragging dust and lint into her panicked breaths, Victoria looked up at the figure looming over her. How?

But it wasn't Phillip who bent over her. It was the same nondescript man, now with glowing eyes and a determined line for a mouth.

She scrabbled for her stake… surely it hadn't rolled far on the rug. He lunged for her and she twisted away, suddenly trapped against the edge of the sofa. She felt something under her hip, round and hard and long, and rolled sharply to the right, toward his feet, grabbing the stake.

The force of her motion sent him off balance, and Victoria propelled herself to her feet, stick in hand. She turned, using the momentum of her leg to whip around, then shifted her center of balance as she plunged the stake into the center of his chest. She pulled it away, stepping back to watch him dust to the floor.

Nothing happened.

And he came at her again, his mouth drawn in a frightening, feral smile.

Victoria recoiled in shock, stumbling backward, and tripped over the flipped-up corner of the thick Persian rug. She tumbled to the floor, slamming her head against the wall as she fell, and stared up at the red-eyed man who advanced toward her.

Calm and steady he moved, and Victoria could barely get her mind around the fact that she'd stabbed him, sunk a stake into his chest, and nothing had happened. Neither blood nor dust… he'd just come after her again.

As she gaped up at him sprawled against the tapestried wall, readying the stake for another plunge, his face turned toward her again.

"Phillip?" she cried softly.

"Venator," he said, sweeping down toward her. "Come now… relax… I shan't hurt you."

"No!" she grunted, slamming the stake upward with all of her might.

She stopped him, impaled his body on the wooden pike, but he did not disintegrate. His movements slowed… but he did not die. With a scream of horror and desperation, she used the stake and her hand to shove him away. The stake came free, and she bolted to her feet.

She needed another weapon. The pistol in her pocket… she pulled it out, aimed it at the creature, and squeezed the trigger. The explosion kicked the gun in her hand, and the bullet slammed into the chest of her attacker.

The focused part of her was not surprised when he barely paused… drew himself to his feet, and came at her again.

Victoria launched herself backward over the sofa, frantically looking for something that could be used as a weapon… but what?

He was so fast, so strong… she had no chance.

He was after her, on top of her, and they rolled on the floor, slamming into furniture. The sharp-edged silver tray of brandy and sherry clattered to the rug, spilling the sharp-scented liquors.

Through the fog of panic and shock, Victoria's mind scrambled through a warren of possibilities, of the need to survive, of the anger at being taken by surprise. She felt the heavy tray behind her, and closed her fingers around its sharp edge. Not certain she knew what she was doing, Victoria pulled it up and over her head, slamming it down onto the skull of the man bending toward her.

He staggered, losing his footing, and she shot to her feet, still clutching the tray. Grabbing the sofa, he propelled himself around toward her, his eyes back to burning red, his mouth grim. Victoria said a prayer and swung the tray in a mighty blow, into and through his neck, severing the head in one powerful, ragged stroke.

His eyes rolled back and his head lopped to the floor, and Victoria braced herself, waiting, trembling, panting as though she'd fought ten vampires.

As she watched, the face changed… it shrank and deflated, turning leathery brown with sunken eyes and shriveled lips, and metamorphosed into ribbony black… then sank into the floor and disappeared.