The Bleeding Dusk

Twenty-Three In Which There Occurs a Bedside Vigil

“There’s nothing we can do.” Wayren looked around the room. The Consilium’s fountain rumbled behind her, all of its sparkling, blessed water of no help in this instance. “Do you not feel it? You can sense her, even here.”

She knew they recognized the presence of an undead—a destroyed one of their own, brought into the sacred and secret halls of the Consilium; she knew because of the stark hopelessness on Sebastian’s handsome face, the self-loathing and guilt that certainly churned inside him.

And the murmurs and exchanged glances of Michalas and Brim, who, though injured and knocked unconscious during their battle with the undead, still stood strong at the back of the room.

And Max, whose face was devoid of expression. Who couldn’t sense it any longer himself, but who knew. Who kept in the dark alcove as if he would separate himself from them all.

Perhaps it was best if he did, now that Victoria was gone.

“I’ll wait with her until she awakens. Ylito, too. The rest of you”—Wayren glanced at Sebastian, and then Max—“can do as you wish. It won’t be sundown for hours.”

She turned from them, from the dark, hopeless faces and the simmering undercurrent of rage. She hoped, prayed that it wouldn’t be directed at Sebastian—for as much as Max wanted to place the blame there, and as much as Sebastian himself did, Wayren knew it was not that simple.

Sighing, she passed by the portrait gallery. There would be the need for more paintings, for Zavier would expire soon. And Stanislaus’s had not yet been completed. And Victoria…

Footfalls drew her attention, and she turned to see Sebastian in her wake. “I want to be there when she wakes,” he said. Gone was the charm, the light, flirtatious manner. There was deep sorrow and angry regret, but determination as well.

He would be a good Venator. His time had come at last.

“Do you intend to fully join us now?” she asked, making way for him to walk abreast with her.

“I have no reason not to. If I had…I’ve been foolish and irresponsible.”

He had been, but she understood, as she was wont to do. He, as Max had done, would find his place here, and learn to grow beyond his faults and mistakes.

“You dispatched your grandfather. Don’t think I don’t know how difficult that was for you. You will grieve.”

Sebastian looked at her, his face set and haggard. Despite the weariness and pain there, he reminded her, as he always did, of the great Uriel—but with an extraordinary sensuality she didn’t think Uriel would appreciate. “Is there truly no hope? Nothing that can be done?” he asked.

“There’s nothing.” Max’s voice was flat and sharp behind them, startling Wayren. “She drank from him.”

She paused so that Max could join them, then replied, “He drained much of her blood—she was very weak, and by drinking from him she replaced hers with his. She’ll awaken and be an undead.”

“Then why not stake her now and relieve us of the waiting?”

“Because you must see her as she’s become so that you can say your farewells,” she told Sebastian. “And know that it is so, and irreversible.”

They had reached the room where Victoria lay. No one had been allowed in since Max burst into the Consilium carrying her unconscious, blood-streaked body. He’d then relinquished it to Ylito and Ilias.

The chamber was small, too small for five people, but Wayren knew it was futile to try to keep Max and Sebastian out. Victoria had been bathed and dressed as though she were a corpse, ready for burial. Her dark hair lay in a thick braid over her breast, and the crisp white lawn of her simple gown served only to show how pale she was. A blue-veined hand rested on her stomach, and another prominent vein lined her face from temple to jaw.

When they came in, Ylito looked up from his examination of Victoria and met Wayren’s eyes.

“She needs more blood,” he said quietly. “I don’t know that it will do any good, but Hannever wishes to try.”

“Will she drink?” Max asked, a flash of metal in his hand. He had a knife at his wrist and would have sliced into it before Wayren grabbed his arm. She sensed a viciousness, a recklessness there that boded no good.

“Wait. It must be Gardella blood,” Ylito said.

Sebastian was already rolling up his sleeve to bare a muscular arm. “Give me the knife, Pesaro.”

Max turned away and went to stand against the wall, watching. His arms hung at his sides, his shoulder against the wall in a deceptively casual stance. His face was expressionless.

The tension in the room was heavy and solid, and even Wayren, who usually wasn’t affected by such energy, felt stifled and on edge.

Hannever came in the door at that moment. “Blood. Now.” He was carrying a tray with a stack of cups on it, two small vials, and other accoutrements, and he put it down on a table. Next to the stake that lay there.

Without another word he moved to Victoria and made a small cut on her arm, squeezing a drop of the dark blood into a small bowl. The room was still and silent and tight, nearly choking in its intensity.

Anger, guilt, terror, madness…all simmered and swelled.

When Hannever turned away from Victoria, Sebastian offered his arm, and Hannever made a small incision, forcing the blood into one of the bowls. Drip, drip, drip…The sound was like little explosions in the tiny room.

“What good will it do?” Max’s voice was sudden and harsh.

“No good, I think. But she needs it. We must try,” Hannever said, busy with one of the vials. He put a tiny drop of a liquid into Sebastian’s blood and used a slender reed to stir. “No. Not this.”

“Try Max,” Wayren said. She met Ylito’s eyes.

Max’s wasn’t right either, according to Hannever.

“We have to get her some blood!” Sebastian said, his teeth tight around the words. He was already moving toward the door, opening it.

“Zavier,” Max said. “Let Zavier try.”

Their eyes met, and then Wayren looked at Ylito. Yes. It was fitting. He’d want to.

“We must have his permission.”

Wayren nodded. “He’ll give it. Let us go and I’ll ask him.”