The Bleeding Dusk

Nineteen Wherein Michalas’s Other Wish Is Granted

Sebastian heard voices just in time to slip into one of the empty rooms—at least, he hoped it was empty. It would be exceedingly difficult to explain why he was lurking in the catacombs of the Consilium, near the workshop of the dark-skinned man the Venators called a hermetist.

He wasn’t quite certain he could satisfactorily excuse his presence even to himself.

A little chill lifted the hair on his arm as he recognized Wayren’s voice. He didn’t want to be found, and he certainly didn’t want to be found by her. Before yesterday’s brief, unsatisfactory meeting, he hadn’t seen her for years…but he remembered that she had a way of looking at him, at anyone, that gave the impression she could see right into their deepest hearts.

Not that Sebastian was ashamed of what was in his deepest heart. No, if nothing else, he had a loyalty to those he loved. Perhaps one that was inconvenient, or too strong at times, but it was all he had.

That and his good looks, which he was, of course, never shy about using to get his way.

As soon as Wayren walked past—on her way out of the workshop, and quite fortuitously accompanied by the owner of said workshop—Sebastian made a speedy, silent beeline to the closed door.

Holding his breath, he tapped the door open slightly, listening in both directions.

Silence greeted him, so he pushed harder, making a large enough gap for him to ease through.

The papers should be here—it was the logical place, and if Wayren was anything, she was logical. The hermetist—Sebastian wished he could remember the man’s name—would be the one studying them, so it made sense.

The workshop was well organized: clean, neat, spare. A small pile of books rested on a slanted table, one of the tomes propped open with a curious metal object in the shape of an elongated S. Where were the journals from the villa’s laboratory? Was he wrong in his assumption?

Then…he saw something that had to be it.

Thick brown papers, shiny, and coated with the thinnest possible layer of protective wax, bound together by a thin leather cord like a book.

Sebastian smoothed his fingers over it, then flipped quickly through the papers. He needed only the one page. Just one page, and it would hardly be missed. Especially since it had been locked away for nearly two hundred and fifty years.

But it could make all the difference to him. And Beauregard.

Ahhh.

This must be it.

He paused, quickly perusing the page. There was a drawing of an odd-looking plant—a flower, really—with a swath of petals that grew up and curled out like the inverted skirt of a woman, and a massive, upright stamen. Amorphophallus pusillum, read the faint script under it. And then a list of other ingredients, or so it appeared. Yes, this was most definitely it.

Carefully he tore the page from its leather moorings, trying to keep the wax cover from cracking, and taking care to make it as unnoticeable as possible. No one would see that a page was missing. Then he returned the journal to its position.

Slipping out of the laboratory as quickly as he’d eased in, he began to hurry along the corridor. This was the trickiest part now, as he traveled back up to the area where he was more likely to come across Wayren or Ilias, or, God forbid, Victoria.

Once he thought he was caught, but he managed to duck into the dark corner of an intersecting corridor in time to keep from being seen. Good thing, too, for Victoria strode by in an angry swish—he could almost feel the fury blasting from her. Fury and something else.

But she didn’t see him, and she was gone in an instant.

With a relieved breath, he slid out of the darkness and followed her. For she was leaving the Consilium, and, now that he’d retrieved what he came for, so was he.

By the time Victoria reached the fresh air of the street above the Consilium, she was out of breath. Her throat was tight. The need to vomit lingered in her belly. But damned if she was going to shed tears again.

There’d been too many.

Her last conversation with Wayren, having begun with an air of desperation and determination, had ended with Victoria stunned speechless with disbelief and grief, and then great fury.

Max too?

She was filled with such blazing anger—at Beauregard, at Zavier, at Sebastian, and Max and even Wayren and Phillip and Aunt Eustacia—such blinding and numbing emotions that she blundered out onto the street several blocks from Santo Quirinus, exiting from the entrance on Tilhin that she’d used only once before. At first she didn’t know where she was.

Only when she tripped over a broken step in front of the empty building she was skirting did Victoria gather herself together. She stopped and hugged herself under the coat she wore, blending into the shadows between two buildings to lean against the plaster wall…and mentally she pulled her thoughts, her scattering emotions, and her wayward instincts into line. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and asked for guidance.

It was a while before she opened them, and she forced herself to focus. These were not the actions of Illa Gardella, this shattering of concentration, of instinct. She was glad no one had been there to see these moments of insecurity and loss.

She already knew what she had to do. And she’d hoped, planned, for Max to come with her.

But Wayren had told her it was likely she’d not see him again.

She explained that his memory of her, of them, along with his Venator powers, were gone. He’d had to do it to free himself from Lilith, and he would slip into the rest of the world to live out the remainder of his life.

He hadn’t wanted to see her.

Perhaps that was the biggest blow of all.

Victoria didn’t understand why…and yet perhaps she did now, as she drew in long, steady breaths and focused her attention on the smattering of stars above her.

He was so proud. So arrogant and proud and confident that he didn’t want her, or anyone—she needn’t take it all on herself—he didn’t want anyone to see him weak or confused.

In spite of her anger with him and his high-handed ways, she understood, after a fashion. For if she had to give up part of herself in that way, she, too would be lost.

Being a Venator had become the largest part of her. Perhaps the only part.

Victoria felt her mouth twist bitterly as she remembered how blithely she’d attended balls and soirees, fending off suitors, flirting with Phillip, alternating her courtship with him and her nighttime adventures of staking vampires. Now being a Venator defined her. Almost wholly.

There was very little left of Victoria Gardella Grantworth, debutante miss, wife—and now widow—of the Marquess of Rockley.

If she had to give that up, who would she be?

So, yes, she understood.

Now, there in the cool evening, she understood and she wept and she grew angry and determined again.

She looked up when a shadow went by, hurrying along the street in front of her.

He didn’t notice her, for she was backed into the shadows in the dark, but she saw him and recognized the smooth movements, the elegant stride. She knew the tousled, curling hair and the sweep of that well-tailored coat.

The nasty feeling swirled again in her belly, making the back of her throat dry and scratchy. He’d come from the same direction as she—from Via Tilhin, on which sat the abandoned building that gave access to the Consilium. So she hadn’t been mistaken when she thought she saw a flash of movement in that deserted corridor.

It couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d been back there again. Not tonight.

Not after what had happened to Zavier and Lady Nilly. Not after what Beauregard had done.

Firming her lips, she followed.

The moment Max stirred Wayren put aside the delicate, curling manuscript she’d been studying. She slipped it into her ancient leather bag, followed by her square spectacles, and waited.

She didn’t know how long it would be until Max woke, but since this was the first time he’d so much as altered his breathing, she knew it wouldn’t be long. She knew she had to be on hand when he became aware. The only thing that had taken her away was when Zavier’s unconscious body had been brought to the Consilium hours ago, and then Victoria’s subsequent arrival.

Wayren wasn’t given to sensitivity, but the recollection of Victoria’s face when she’d seen Zavier, the shock, anger, and fear that had passed over her beatific countenance, would long be in her memory.

Such anger.

It worried her.

Max groaned softly, drawing her attention again. The golden disk lay on the table next to him, its chain coiled around it in serpentine fashion. He shifted again, becoming restless, his large hand rising as though to ward off something, then falling heavily onto the table, sending the lamp and the earbobs that had belonged to his sister jiggling.

Hoping to calm him, Wayren took his warm hand in her smaller ones, noticing scraped fingertips and cracked nails that looked as if he’d tried to climb a stone wall.

She knew many things of past and future, of possibility and truth, of good and evil…but she did not know whether Ylito’s plan would succeed. She wouldn’t know until Max awakened, and she used the golden disk into which she had collected his memories.

As if she’d called him to waken, his eyes fluttered open, suddenly clear and dark. He looked around. She released his hand, watching as he curled his fingers closed.

“Max.”

He looked at her, half sitting, the blankets falling to his hips. “Yes. Where am I?”

The bites were gone, she saw. His neck was smooth and clean, sweeping gracefully into powerful, broad shoulders. But he recognized his own name, seemed comfortable with his body.

“You’re safe, Max. I’m Wayren.” She waited.

He nodded, but she knew he didn’t remember. “Wayren. What am I doing here? Have I been ill?”

“In a fashion, yes. Please. Drink this and let me talk to you.” She handed him a metal cup filled with another of Ylito’s concoctions.

He hesitated, sniffed at it. Hesitated more.

She smiled. “If I wanted you dead, I had ample opportunity while you were sleeping.”

He nodded and drank.

When he looked back at her, she had the golden disk spinning eerily in her hand. She began to murmur again, calling down the power of the Spirit, asking for help, and watched as his eyes were drawn irrevocably to the flat pendant.

Wayren knew the moment he remembered it all…a tightening of the face, a tension in the shoulders, a return of the sharpness to his eyes. He reached for the tiny, delicate vis bulla. Closing his fingers around it, he picked it up, shuttering his eyes, and drew in a slow breath.

And then opened his eyes. They were bleak. “Nothing. I feel nothing.”

Wayren nodded. “But you remember.”

“Yes.” He swung his feet off the bed. “What time is it? I must go.”

“It’s midday. But you cannot go hurrying off, Max.”

He’d half risen, but at her words he sat back heavily. “Of course not. I’m the shell of a Venator now. I have the knowledge and the skills, but not the strength or the powers. A shell.”

“You’ll not go alone.”

His beautiful lips snarled. “I may not be a Venator any longer, but I’m not helpless. I killed vampires and at least one demon before I earned the vis bulla, Wayren. You know that.”

“Do you remember what you told me to tell Victoria, just before you went to sleep?”

He stilled, his face blank. “You didn’t bring her here.”

Wayren shook her head. He’d made her promise not to let anyone see him—anyone, especially Victoria. “Only Ylito.”

“What did I say? Did you tell her?”

She felt his tension; it was as if it hung in the air over them like a heavy blanket. She knew much, but now she knew even more. “You wanted me to tell her you were sorry.”

Because they were bare, she could see the slight shift in his square shoulders, the bit of ease that came over him. “I can only imagine how she received that bit of information.”

Wayren couldn’t hold back a smile. It wasn’t amusing, not at all, not in these moments, not ever. But the look on his face…it was the Max she knew. Thank God. “She had a few choice words.”

He stood again, energy simmering below his muscles so that she could feel his need to move, to do, to get out of there—almost as if she were inside his skin. “One person to go with me,” he said, reaching for the clothing that lay folded on a chair. “White? It’s too easily seen at night,” he said, frowning at the shirt. “It glows. Zavier. I’ll take Zavier with me.”

“Briyani and Michalas will go with you.”

He must have read the expression on her face, for he didn’t pursue it. There would be time to tell him about it all later. But for now…“When you’ve finished dressing we will make our final plans—not to worry, Max. You’ll leave soon enough.”

“This afternoon. I want this done and over with.”

So that he could get on with his life. Get away and get on with life.

He didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. She understood.

Max hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the companionship of Briyani, who was not only the nephew of Kritanu, but also Max’s own Comitator. Kritanu had trained both of them together, enhancing his nephew’s fighting skills as he taught Max, eventually turning over the training to Briyani when he himself became older and less flexible.

He’d certainly not stinted in his training of Victoria, despite his age and proclaimed lack of flexibility, but Max didn’t begrudge her that. It made sense that he should personally teach Eustacia’s niece and the future Illa Gardella.

Having Briyani back with him reminded Max of those early years, when he’d been much more of a loner and kept away from the Consilium while fighting his battles with the undead—and within himself. Not quite thirty, Kritanu’s nephew was a bit younger than Max, and had the same wiry build and wide-jawed, tea-colored face as his uncle. He wore his straight black hair in a single braid that reached to the middle of his back, and he was wickedly talented with a kadhara sword. Now, as the two of them crept along through the back of Villa Palombara’s grounds, for Max’s third time in the last four days, they needed no words to communicate.

Michalas brought up the rear. He was as silent as fog, and thin and tall and quick. Wayren had chosen well for the team, but it was all up to Max. He led the way through the brush and between the unpruned trees, hurrying with nary a glance past the wall against which he’d kissed Victoria.

They reached the Door of Alchemy without incident, and with much dryer clothing and boots than last night. Max had the door open quickly and easily. When he was here with Victoria he’d found the traces of an opening that led to the cell in which they’d been imprisoned. Although he hadn’t opened it, he decided it was the best way to gain unnoticed access to the place where Akvan lived.

Akvan. Thanks to Wayren’s studies, and assistance from Ylito and Miro, Max felt as prepared as he could be.

“The trick with Akvan,” Wayren had told him, “is to remember his great weakness: He will always do the exact opposite of what he thinks you want him to do. Use this against him, and you will outsmart him.”

Ylito had added, “But you must make certain that there are no remnants of the obelisk left. They must be destroyed in order for Akvan to be destroyed. Remember the prophecy.”

The prophecy. “…’tis only a mortal man shall send him permanently to the bowels of Hell, using his own strength against him.”

A mortal man.

Closing the Door of Alchemy behind them, Max and his companions worked quickly to locate the mechanism that opened the door to the cell. Either the marchese hadn’t known about it—which was absurd, since it was his laboratory—or he hadn’t had the opportunity to use it that night he’d disappeared.

Briyani had excellent hearing and nimble fingers, and he was the one who located the lever behind one of the stones. Max was at his side in an instant, and they peered through the narrow opening and saw only darkness.

Michalas brought one of the sconces over, which illuminated the cell in which he, Victoria, and Sebastian had been imprisoned. And when he looked at the floor, he saw the same telltale splotches of melted gold spattered on the stones beneath his feet.

This had been the simplest part; now he had to move forward.

But before he did, Max slipped quickly back into the laboratory and retrieved the long shard from Akvan’s Obelisk that Victoria had found. His hands were gloved for protection from its power, and he slid it into a hidden pocket Miro had sewn inside the leg of his trousers. When he lifted it, he saw the leather thong with a small splinter of the obelisk he’d seen fall from Victoria’s coat yesterday. He’d placed it in there for safekeeping as well, but now he snatched it up and stuffed it in his pocket.

Max had had two reasons for accompanying Victoria when she came yesterday afternoon to open the Door of Alchemy. First, to confirm that there was a way into the villa, and second, to ensure that she left the shard there, for it was crucial to his plan for destroying Akvan.

“Come,” he said, and led the way into the cell.

After testing to make certain they could reopen the door back into the laboratory—the process of which wasn’t at all instinctive—they closed it behind them and made their way across the small cell.

Max had explained the first part of his plan to Briyani and Michalas, and so when they stepped out of the unlocked chamber into the corridor they paused for a moment. Max looked at Michalas, who shook his head that he didn’t sense the nearby presence of any undead.

But as he took a few steps, Michalas tilted his head, closed his eyes, and pointed. Silent, they moved along the passageway in the direction he’d indicated, Max taking the lead. As they approached a corner, he felt Michalas touch his sleeve. When he looked back, the Venator gave him a nod.

Max continued around the corner, filled with sudden anger. His neck felt the same—no prickling or tingling to announce the presence of the undead that Michalas could sense as easily as taking a breath. It was true: His abilities were gone.

Lilith had succeeded in taking everything from him.

The vampire was there, probably meant to be guarding the hallway in which she stood, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. But when Max came into view she straightened, her eyes gleaming red with interest.

He remained relaxed. He’d been bitten both before and after becoming a Venator…and he’d slain undead both before and after as well. Still, it nagged at him that he’d had to bring Briyani and Michalas as support. Doing so was smart and logical—and by God if he hadn’t told Victoria more than once that their duty was to do what was right, not what they wanted.

So, when he faced the vampire, he let her come toward him, let her grab at his shoulders, let her eyes attempt to enthrall him. She wasn’t very powerful, which was not surprising, since Regalado’s followers were young and inexperienced. Her breath was clean—she’d not fed recently—which made it easier for him to entice her to bite his neck by tipping his head and baring it suggestively, pretending to be completely under her power.

Perhaps the vampire guards were supposed to bring any potential victims to Akvan or Regalado, but since she hadn’t fed, and since he’d offered his flesh to her so openly, the female undead didn’t hesitate.

Her fangs ripped into his neck with none of the easy, seductive slide of Lilith’s, and Max jerked a little in surprise. Or perhaps it was because he was weaker now. Weak and lost. He was weak, and the world was dimming.

He fumbled for his stake, feeling the familiar weight in his hand, and pulled it out from under his coat as the blood pulsed from him. She sucked roughly, greedily, and if he didn’t act soon he’d lose consciousness or, worse, need to be saved by the others.

It wasn’t the most powerful thrust, nor the smoothest, but Max felt the echo of satisfaction slam through him as he staked the vampire, driving the ash pike into her back.

The world was spinning, and his neck ached and dripped, but he was still on his feet when he blinked back the darkness and found Briyani there, stake in hand, as if he’d just come around the corner. Michalas was right behind, his stake at the ready as well.

Max bristled at the concern in their faces, and he turned to start off somewhere—in any direction, he didn’t bloody care—but Briyani stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait.”

The gentleness in his voice and touch caused Max to tighten his jaw in annoyance, but Briyani was right.

The flush of salted holy water over the open wounds was a painful but necessary shock, and Max was glad his friend had acted. It would slow the bleeding and, once the initial pain had eased, would help to stop the wound’s incessant throbbing.

“Now,” Max said, ignoring the lingering pain, “you must go back and wait for me. It will do me no good if you are found, so hide as we discussed, and I will return. Or I won’t.”

“I will attend you,” said Briyani, his face determined. “You cannot go alone.”

“I can and I will. That was our agreement.” Max fixed his sharpest glare on him, willing him to understand.

Briyani’s brilliant white teeth flashed in a humorless smile. “You agreed; I did not. Michalas and I have discussed it, and he will wait. I will come with you. Either with you or behind you—but you can be certain I will be there.”

“I am no child in leading strings.”

“And I am no dog to be ordered about.”

As Max glowered at him, once again damning Lilith for driving him to this, and cursing Wayren for giving him back his bloody memories but nothing else, Michalas stepped forward. “They’re coming. Now is not the time for arguments. I will be in the chamber as planned, and if you do not return in two hours I will search for you.” He fixed bright blue eyes on Max and said, “I fully intend to walk out of here alive, so you’d best return, Pesaro.”

He pointed to the left, and then took off on silent feet in the opposite direction.

With a murderous glance at Briyani, Max stalked off down the hall Michalas had indicated. His fingers closed tightly into his palms, the stake still clutched in one hand, and he felt the tension all the way up his arms.

And then he forced himself to relax. There was a time when he would have easily accepted Briyani’s presence, and now was an instance when he might need it more than ever. As much as it made him furious to admit that he was weak, the truth was that he was.

He was no longer the man he’d been.

Yet, when they came face-to-face with the cluster of four vampires, Max greeted them with great boldness and confidence, Briyani at his side.

“I am Maximilian Pesaro,” he announced, looking at the undead with all the haughtiness of the Venator he no longer was. “Take me to Akvan.”