The Bleeding Dusk

Eight In Which Our Heroine Is Forced into a Gown and Its Accoutrements

Victoria slipped her hand through Zavier’s arm after they alighted from the carriage at the entrance to the Villa Palombara.

She was dressed as if she were attending a ball at Almack’s, attired more formally and finely than she’d been in months. Despite the inconvenience of wearing a gown in a situation that could become anything but sedate, deep in the most feminine part of her it had been worth it to see the expression on Zavier’s face when she came into the sitting room, ready to leave. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to dress for an evening out.

That part of her life was so far behind her now, so submerged, it was like a dream.

Lady Winnie had indeed spoken to her maid, Rudgers, who had unfairly taken poor Verbena to task. That had given Verbena at last an excuse to dress her mistress as befitted the marchioness she was. Her gown was a pink pearl hue, made of silk and trimmed with dark pink rosettes in two rows along the flounced hemline. More rosettes clustered at the tops of her sleeves in small red-and-white bouquets with long, grass-green ribbons dangling to brush her arms. The sleeves were short caps, but Victoria had pink gloves that reached from fingertip to past her elbow, so despite the fact that her wrap was little more than a cobweb of white lace, her arms were not chilled.

Rather than the simple plait she’d taken to wearing, Victoria’s coiffure was an intricate gathering of tiny braids, spiraling curls, and pink pearls at the back of her crown. It left her long white neck bare except for pale rubies that dangled from her ears, and the silver cross that sat at the base of her throat.

Into the coiffure, Verbena had slid one of the decorated stakes she and Oliver had taken to creating for their vampire hunter mistress. This particular one was long and slender—but thick enough to be deadly to a vampire—with roses carved on the handle and the whole stake painted pink. Victoria had been able to convince Verbena to leave off the feathers this time, although two pearls had found their way into the centers of the roses.

Beneath all these accoutrements of feminity was Miro’s latest creation in the battle against the undead: a special corset. The idea had come from Verbena initially. Not only did she take her mistress’s fashion seriously, but she was also the only maid in London who fussed over weapons and tools.

Flimsy slippers allowed every little stone to poke through to her soles as she and Zavier, with Lady Nilly on his other arm, walked up to the entrance of the villa. They followed in the wake of the ladies Melly and Winnie.

“It isn’t very festive,” Lady Winnie said, her comment loud enough for Victoria to hear from behind, and obviously forgetting that they weren’t attending a party. “It’s as if there’s hardly anyone here. Not even a footman to help us down from the carriage! I know the family hasn’t lived here for decades, but one would think they would have cleaned up a bit before having us.”

“It’s a treasure hunt,” Lady Nilly trilled, edging closer to Zavier. “It’s the atmosphere! Intriguing, foreboding, haunting…”

“And it isn’t as if it’s to be a crush of a ball,” Lady Melly added, glancing back at her daughter. “It was made very clear that tonight is not a celebration of any kind, and only very few were invited. We were lucky enough to be asked. If it weren’t for Barone Tarruscelli, who gave us their own invitation, we shouldn’t have been included at all.”

It was indeed an eerie, strange atmosphere. The mansion itself was hidden by the same tall wall Victoria and Ylito had climbed through to get to the Door of Alchemy, which was at the opposite end of the vast grounds of the estate, set away from the main building of the villa. Behind the crumbling wall, the manor house was gloomy and dark.

Instead of the great light spilling from numerous windows that would accompany most fetes or dinner parties or soirees, the building had only a small yellow glow from the front entrance. The door opened, giving just a brief glimpse of a butler, and then closed behind a cluster of people, as though loath to waste its illumination on the night.

Indeed, the line of carriages dropping off guests was hardly a line at all, for there weren’t so very many guests. This was a fact that had not escaped Victoria, and as they approached the door and it opened again she paused, edging into the welcome shadows so that no one inside could see her. She wondered not for the first time whether it had been by accident or design that the mother of a Venator had been invited to attend.

Zavier stopped, urging Lady Melly to go on ahead as Victoria pretended to adjust her loose slipper. The older woman, thrilled by the same environment that set her daughter’s instincts on edge, did not hesitate and gladly entered the door, opened by a butler who barely stepped far enough away for them to enter. She was followed by Lady Nilly and Lady Winnie.

The door closed without the butler even looking about, and Victoria and Zavier were alone in the darkness together.

“Ye’ll take care now,” Zavier said, capturing Victoria’s gloved hand as she straightened from pretending to fix her slipper, a task meant to keep her from being recognized by anyone inside the villa.

“Of course. Thank you again for coming, Zavier. I know my mother will be safe in your care, and I’ll be able to slip into the building without being noticed. If you see anything—”

“Aye, I’ll tend to her. And I’ll keep watch for anything odd, though I don’t ken what it is we might find. I canna believe the key is hidden in this house any longer.”

“I begin to wonder myself. It could be a perfectly harmless, foolish little event meant to slip under the notice of the priests during Lent…but I do not believe it. However, I don’t sense any undead nearby. So perhaps all will be well.”

She would have turned away to melt back into the shadows so Zavier could enter the house, but his hand, rough from the calluses on his palm, stopped her, brushing over her cheek. “Your lip’s nearly healed. Best take care not to run into more door corners,” he said, reminding her of the lie she’d given to excuse the nip Beauregard had given her the night before.

“It was very clumsy of me,” she replied, thinking of how she’d bumped her forehead into Max that same evening…and then she realized Zavier’s intention.

He was going to kiss her. She tensed in anticipation.

Zavier moved closer and brushed her mouth with his, leaving a gentle scrape of whiskers and the musty smell of tobacco in the wake of the kiss. When he pulled back to look at her, their eyes were nearly level. Though it was too dark to see his expression, she could feel the faint tremble in his fingers against her chin. “Och, now,” he said, a smile in his voice, “how does that feel?”

“I think it feels much better,” she replied lightly, smiling back, hoping that Max wouldn’t appear from the shadows and ruin the moment. It would be just like him.

“Victoria,” Zavier said so softly his brogue was hardly noticeable, and then leaned forward to kiss her again. This time it was more than a brush of lips, yet there was still gentleness about it—as if he still wasn’t certain she’d allow it, or as if he wasn’t sure it was real.

The kiss was brief, as kisses went—certainly not as long or involved as others she’d experienced. When Victoria realized her hand had somehow made its way to the front of his massive shoulder and felt the slamming pounding of his heart all the way up in his neck, she drew back.

He pulled in a breath as if to speak, but she forestalled anything he might have said. “My mother will be wondering what’s keeping us. Perhaps you’d best make your way inside. Give her the excuse that the strap on my slipper has broken and I’ve returned home to get a new one.”

He nodded, his shaggy hair falling forward. With a sweep of his hand he brushed it back over his brow and stepped away. “Ye have a care,” he said, and turned to walk back toward the main entrance, which had, during this interlude, remained closed and deserted.

Victoria watched him go and waited for Max to emerge from the shadows as she stripped off her gloves. She didn’t like to wear them when there was the possibility of a fight.

The world remained silent, however—silent and empty, filled with shadows and looming walls. Since Zavier had entered the villa there was no further activity. A few more lights had winked on in various windows, accompanied by moving shadows.

Victoria’s neck was warm, but she was beginning to feel a little chilled everywhere else. It was, after all, February, and though milder than it would be in London, it was still cool after sundown. Dressed as she was in flimsy evening clothing, she knew she couldn’t wait much longer, when a tussle in the overgrown bushes caught her attention.

Max emerged, coming from the opposite direction she’d expected—not from the drive, but from behind the villa.

“Another key has been inserted,” he said without preamble, stepping like a long black shadow into the circle of light cast by a lone lantern.

“Do you mean to say you looked at the Door of Alchemy and there are two keys now?” Victoria said, stepping toward him.

“That is what I said, yes. I’ve just come from there. I wanted to see it for myself.” His sharp nod indicated the direction behind the villa, off to the right and toward the back of the estate. “There’s an old servants’ entrance into the building back here.”

“Which keys?” Victoria asked, starting off after him into the darkness along the wall of the house. “Which ones were turned?”

“Eustacia’s wasn’t one of them.”

She felt a wave of relief; then something wet seeped through her slipper as she made her way along. Pursing her lips in annoyance, she continued on, not altogether certain it had been an accident that Max had led her this way.

At last he stopped in front of a door much less grand than the main entrance. A few sharp movements, the sound of splintering, and one powerful angling of his shoulders—and the door opened into a dark room.

“I’ll go first,” Victoria said, stepping past Max into a musty entryway. At least part of the information about the party wasn’t a lie: The villa had obviously not been opened for years. If anyone had inhabited the place, the servants’ entrance, at least, would have been well used.

“Be my guest.”

It was dark, and Victoria paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the unfamiliar environment. Then, without a word to Max, she began to walk quickly, silently, but cautiously down the hallway toward the main part of the house.

She’d taken no more than three steps in her soggy slippers when a strong grip pulled her back. “Where are you going?” he asked.

Shaking off his hand, she looked up at him. “Blast it, Max, where do you think?” She managed to keep her voice low, although it was hard. “To the parlor or ballroom, where they’ve likely all gathered.”

“Then perhaps you might wish to follow me. That direction”—he pointed where she’d been going, his hand boldly in her face—“leads to the servants’ quarters.”

She said nothing more, but turned and trotted off after him, annoyed with herself for getting her directions confused now that she was inside the building. Of course the servants’ quarters were toward the back side of the villa.

The passageway was deserted, and there were cobwebs and dust everywhere. Victoria had to press her fingers over the top of her nose to keep from sneezing when Max brushed past an old drape that must have sent up a cloud of dust. She couldn’t tell for sure, because of the darkness. There were voices in the distance, and as they moved along the servants’ hallway the sounds grew louder.

Max stopped when they came to one of the back doors that obviously led from the servants’ area to the main part of the house. He cracked the door and peered inside, deliberately—Victoria was sure—positioning himself so that she couldn’t see around him.

Or maybe she was just falling back into that old habit of being perturbed by everything he did or said.

Certainly he’d intentionally tried to irritate her when she’d first become a Venator and they’d had to work together. And last fall, when he’d been pretending to be part of the Tutela, he’d had to be even ruder and more snide than usual in order to keep her from asking too many questions.

But perhaps he really had come to respect her as a Venator, now that Aunt Eustacia was gone and he’d had a chance to think about things. In any case, despite his blunt ways, she was glad he was back.

Victoria realized he’d stepped away from the doorway and was looking at her. “They’ve gathered there in what must be the ballroom,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’ll sneak in and listen to what’s being said. I saw a flight of stairs that might lead above for a better look.”

“I’ll go up and see what there is to see,” she said, and started toward the door, but his hand on her upper arm stopped her.

“Go to the left, stay in the shadows, and you’ll find the stairs.”

She nodded once, then turned back to add, “Meet at the servants’ door if we’re separated.”

Without waiting for a response she did as he’d suggested, opening the door that, by virtue of the fact that it was designed to be an unobtrusive servants’ entrance, was set in the darkest corner of the room beyond it. She found it no difficult feat to move quickly and rapidly along the wall to a flight of stairs that led to a balconylike alcove above.

As she scurried along the wall, she saw that the main room was not the ballroom, but an anteroom that offered three wide arches that led to the ballroom.

The people Victoria saw gathered barely constituted a crowd at all; perhaps twenty or thirty people stood about. They had sparkling goblets that looked out of place in a gloomy room lit not with lamps or sconces, but with only candles—although there were nearly as many candles tonight as there had been last night on the Corso. And since there was no music to act as a backdrop, and their voices were low murmurs, the occasion had a rather eerie feel. The furnishings were spare. A small table presumably held the drinks the guests had received, and another long table across the room was covered with what appeared to be scrolls of paper.

Victoria reached the stairs without incident, but as she rested her hand on the filthy balustrade she bumped into a small metal vase that had been hidden in the darkness. It tumbled off the bottom step and clanged to the floor. She caught it before it bounced again and, still holding it, dashed up the steps, seeking obscurity in the darkness above.

At the top she paused, looking back down the steps, privately berating herself for not being more careful. She held her breath, waiting to see if she’d be discovered.

After a long moment she saw two figures down below her moving purposefully toward the spot where the vase had banged on the floor. One of them pointed up the steps, into the darkness that concealed Victoria, but the other shook his head. Easing back even more, Victoria watched the two men converse while looking around nervously. Since she’d taken the vase with her, there wasn’t anything to indicate the source of the noise they’d heard, and at last they walked back toward the main room.

She set the vase on the floor well out of the way and looked around, finding herself on a curtained balcony that overlooked what would have been the dance floor if, indeed, there had been dancing. The space was all shadows, for the only light came from the half-drawn curtains at the balcony’s rail, hiding her presence from the room below. Very convenient.

So convenient that it made her wonder what the area had been used for when the villa was fully inhabited.

After a quick look around to ascertain that she was indeed alone, and that there didn’t seem to be any other entrance or exit from the small alcove, she moved to the drapes and peered down through the large gap between them. Carefully pulling them closer together, so as not to draw attention to the movement of the velvet, she took advantage of her bird’s-eye view and watched.

Although the group was small, the gathering looked no different from any other party Victoria had witnessed. It was certainly nothing like the Tutela meeting she’d had the misfortune to attend last autumn. There was no hypnotically scented incense burning, no chanting, no dais with a Tutela leader urging the attendees to support and save the vampires.

It was merely a party. People talked, and although their voices seemed to echo loudly and eerily in a relatively empty room, and there was a sense of unease creeping over Victoria’s shoulders, nothing else seemed amiss. She still sensed no vampires.

There was Lady Melly…and Lady Nilly, too, hands flapping like spiraling birds as she made some urgent point. And Lady Winnie approached just then, holding a small plate of the dry Italian biscuits she claimed to disdain.

At that moment someone stepped behind Victoria, silent, sending her hair prickling.

Max.

Victoria didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge his presence as she looked down from her hidden view, watching the people mingling below. The edges of the velvet curtain crinkled under her fingers as she pulled it taut from its moorings, positioning it in front of her face so she could look through the narrow opening. Max moved closer, brushing her shoulder as he peered through the same slit.

Now she saw Zavier in the center of the room below, talking with two men, and she focused her attention on him rather than on the man behind her, crowding her against the drapes.

Somehow Max must have known her thoughts, for he said in a low, amused voice, “A nice lad, Zavier. A good Venator.” He was standing so close behind her his words whispered over her temple. If she drew in her breath, Victoria was certain her shoulders would brush against his chest.

She continued to watch Zavier, watch the way he gestured grandly, his large arms and broad shoulders setting him apart from the willowy dandies with whom he spoke: men who could be expected to parry a few fancy steps with an epée, and perhaps throw a punch or so if caught in an unpleasant situation…but who hadn’t one iota of the power and strength in comparison to the more casually dressed Scot before them.

She looked down, turning her attention to count the people below, to give her something to focus on, willing her heart to slow its jagged pounding, and wishing Max would step away before she had to.

But he didn’t move. His voice rumbled again. “Take care with him.” There was an edge to his words, a warning that hadn’t been there a moment before.

“Take care?”

He nodded, and she felt the movement of his head against the top of hers.

“You’ll break his heart.”

Victoria started in surprise, but her grip on the curtains—which had suddenly become deathly—kept her from spinning around or even turning her head. Still looking down, she tipped her face slightly to the side so he could hear her cool words. “Break his heart? What on earth do you mean? Never say you are attempting to advise me on my intimate affairs, Max. The closest you’ve come to any matter of the heart was an engagement to a lover of vampires.”

“Zavier is a good man.” Max’s voice was calm and even in her ear. “You’re too strong for him. You’ll merely tread upon him with your silk slippers and trounce his heart, which he wears much too openly on his sleeve.”

“You never cease to amaze me—”

“Victoria,” he interrupted, still smooth but very firm. “The man is in love with the idea of a woman Venator. Any woman Venator. Had Eustacia been a few decades younger, he would have courted her.”

“You’re crude, Max.”

A short, sharp laugh rumbled. “Perhaps. But at least I speak honestly.”

“Disgustingly so.”

“You would be better off with the likes of Vioget than that milksop Zavier.”

“I begin to wonder why you continue to push me toward Sebastian. Is it some form of punishment?”

“Push you toward Sebastian? I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“It was you, after all, who ordered him to kidnap me last autumn to keep me out of your way.” Max had known well enough that she’d want to be involved in destroying Nedas, but she’d had no idea how tenuous and risky his plans were, and how much her interference could have jeopardized them. So he’d arranged for Sebastian to get her out of the way.

“A task that he accepted with embarrassing alacrity—but, of course, he had his own motives for cooperating. I’m certain he found the rewards worth the risk. That carriage must have been quite comfortable.”

Victoria’s face burned. How could he know she’d allowed Sebastian to seduce her in a carriage? Thank God he couldn’t see her cheeks; they must be red with fury and embarrassment. And how dared he say such a thing?

Did he think that since she’d seen and experienced so much more than other women that her sensibilities weren’t as delicate?

“At least Vioget can recognize your faults,” Max continued in that steady voice, as though he hadn’t just insulted her. “And, aside from that, I wouldn’t bloody care if you were to tear out Vioget’s innards and screw your heels into them. In fact, I’d applaud it. Zavier, on the other hand, the blasted fool, wouldn’t see your faults if you engraved them on his stake. He’s already anointed you and ensconced you on a pedestal.”

“I still fail to see why you should be concerned about my affairs.”

“You misunderstand. It isn’t your affairs that concern me. It’s Zavier’s. I should hate to see a Venator incapacitated due to a broken heart. And you will break his if you continue on this path.”

“You’re so certain of this?”

“He’s not strong enough, Victoria. He’s an exceptional Venator, but he’s not equipped to manage his heart. He cannot see your faults; he will let you run roughshod over him…and, finally, he will bore you with his easy ways, his pathetic doggedness of wanting to make you happy—all the time knowing he could lose you to this dangerous world we inhabit. And that’s what I do not wish to see. For his sake. For ours, as Venators.”

Tears had begun to sting the corners of her eyes, blurring her view of the party below. Burning tears of anger and grief. She blinked and took a long, slow breath, resisting the desire to spin a slap onto his aristocratic cheek like the Society miss she no longer was. “You would have said the same about Phillip had I listened.”

“No.” His voice became sharper and more serious. “Phillip was strong enough. He just didn’t understand the world you live in. If he had…”

Max didn’t need to finish, and Victoria didn’t want him to. She released the curtains and slipped to the side, away from him. She knew very well that if Phillip had understood her life even a little, things would have been so very different. Her eyes stung and her throat felt as though she’d swallowed a ball.

“Victoria, you of all people know what it is like to suffer a broken heart. Take care not to bring the same onto one of your men. You have the power to do it.”

“You forget that this Venator wasn’t incapacitated with a broken heart.”

“Weren’t you?”

She drew herself up to reply…and then deflated. Oh, God, yes, she had been. For nearly a year after Phillip’s death she’d been afraid to raise her stake for fear she’d turn berserker and annihilate anything in her path. The gifts she had, the powers, the strengths, the instincts: They could all be wielded for bad as well as for good. And the rage that had simmered beneath her calm exterior—the rage and hatred and loss—could have brought her down the wrong path.

The tears, silent and thus hidden in the darkness, were streaming down her cheeks now. Victoria had moved away from the gap in the curtains, away from Max and his insistent opinions, his ruthless words.

She drew in a long, deep breath, struggling to keep it from hitching and giving away the fact that he had brought her to this, and moved farther away. She wanted to get away from him, away from his damned truths.

Max turned, and the small slit in the curtains closed, leaving them in total darkness. The only relief was a dark gray essence that came from the direction of the stairs up which she’d come.

“Victoria?” His voice was quiet.

“There’s nothing more to see here,” she replied, relieved at how steady she sounded. “And I’ve seen no members of the Tutela.” She was moving quickly and silently toward the exit and the stairs, focusing on the barest sense of light and her outstretched hands to find her way. “I’ll go down to see what I can find.”

“Victoria.” Max was moving behind her; she could hear him. But she kept going toward the stairs, moving as quickly as she could, her eyes now able to make out the faintest of shapes.

She came to the top of the stairs, her hand on the balustrade helping her to feel her way around the corner at the top of the landing. Suddenly something came out of the darkness in front of her.

It was strong and metal, and someone was poking it into the front of her shoulder. “How serendipitous,” came a familiar male voice. “What an unexpected prize our little trap has sprung.”

A candle flared to life in front of her, revealing Mr. George Starcasset…and Lady Sarafina Regalado.