The Rest Falls Away

Chapter Sixteen The Marquess Wins the Shell Game and Makes a Grave Error

Phillip de Lacy was no fool. Not a bit.

He knew something was amiss; what he did not know was whether Victoria's brooding cousin Maximilian Pesaro was the cause or the cure.

The man seemed capable and intelligent; he did not appear sly or devious. By firmly suggesting that Phillip put away his pistol, he had likely saved him from causing an altercation here in this filthy place—something that Phillip had missed in his concern for Victoria. He had to give him credit for that, if nothing else.

The way some of the patrons here were looking at him, as if he were a young hare ready for the spit, made Phillip more than a bit uneasy. He was no light-footed jackrabbit, skittering off at the slightest hint of danger. But there was something wrong about this place. Something that made his blood run cold.

He'd seen Victoria leave her house; despite Pesaro's arguments, he was certain it was she. The way she walked, her height, even her movement as she closed the door behind her… he would recognize Victoria anywhere, in any disguise. And that garnet-colored cloak was fine wool; surely she would not loan it to her maid.

Thus he'd followed the hackney, at first with a jealous twisting in his heart—was she going to meet someone? A lover? This was not the first time she'd left an evening early or cut short her visit. Uncertainty borne of his need for her, and worry for her safety, drove him to follow her. He did love her; he could not bear it if there were someone else who possessed her heart.

When the hackney took a turn to the worst part of London and finally rolled to a stop in this dark, dingy place, Phillip no longer worried that she was meeting a lover. Instead he realized that whatever called her to this part of town went much deeper than lust or passion.

Whatever she was involved in she could not, should not handle alone. She must be frightened out of her mind to travel to such a place; and it could be only the worst of circumstances for her to be unwilling to confide in him. But he would take her home and convince her to tell him… for they were to be married, and he to be her husband. He would take care of her. He would fix whatever needed to be fixed.

That, at least, had been his plan until he walked down the stairs into this hellhole of a pub that smelled like rusting iron and must. The cousin had drawn him to a table in the most shadowy corner and ordered him a drink. It wasn't until he saw, from the corner of his eye, Pesaro's hand shift over Phillip's own drink, ever so quickly, so slightly—but enough that he recognized the movement—that Phillip realized Pesaro had his own agenda. And when Phillip took a sip of the whiskey and felt Pesaro watching him, he knew it for certain.

So when the other man turned to speak to the massively well-endowed serving woman, Phillip exchanged their glasses.

And when Pesaro turned back, Phillip offered a toast, watching as the other man drank of the same drug he'd attempted to foist upon him, all the while wondering why Pesaro would do such a thing. Was he trying to kill him, or merely drug him?

He supposed if Victoria's cousin wanted him dead, he wouldn't have advised him to put his pistol away, or drawn him away from the center of attention in the room.

No matter. He would either ask him or, if he died, it would be a moot issue.

Unsurprisingly, Pesaro appeared eager for Phillip to drink his whiskey; so he obliged, but only if the cousin drank with him. It was when their glasses were nearly empty that he began to see signs of the other man's edges wearing down. His eyes drooped; his words came slower. Whether he was being poisoned or merely drugged, Phillip did not know… but whatever it was, the other man had attempted to foist it upon Phillip, so he felt very little remorse.

"You switched glasses," Pesaro said, his voice slurred and his eyes glistening with anger. "Damn fool."

"It is only what you deserve. Why have you tried to poison me?"

"You do… not know… danger… Keep you… safe… Fool."

He waited until Max gave up, his head slumping to the table. "Now I will find Victoria." Phillip dropped a few coins on the sticky wooden planks and they clattered to a stop next to the man's half-curled fingers. Then he stood and walked away without looking back.

It was clear that his fiancee was not here, if she ever had been. He crossed the room, hurrying toward the stairs, lingering the pistol under his cloak.

Phillip couldn't wait to get out of this cloying, depressing place; he rushed up the steps, needing to breathe the clean night air. He had to clear his mind, which now had many more questions than when he'd arrived—including the reason Victoria's cousin would try to drug him.

When he reached the top of the stairs, Phillip heard heavy steps behind him. He turned and saw one of the patrons, large and pale-faced, stalking up the stairs.

Slipping through the door, Phillip was back in the night. He closed the door and turned to hurry away; but the man came through more quickly than he could have imagined. Suddenly he was right behind him, and Phillip felt hot breath on his neck… even though it was covered by his cloak, and the man was not touching him.

He turned, pulling the pistol from his pocket and pointing it at his stalker. They were standing in the middle of a narrow alley, and there was nowhere for him to run but back down the stairs to the Silver Chalice… or past the man who blocked the street entrance of the alley.

"Stay back, or I will shoot," Phillip warned, his finger tightening on the trigger. His aim was steady, his senses alive and singing even as a confident calmness flowed through him. He did not wish to hurt the man, but he would do what he must to protect himself… and find Victoria.

The man took another step forward and Phillip pulled the trigger, aiming for his shoulder. His aim must have been off; the man kept coming. His vision swam, and he felt an odd tightening in his chest, as if his lungs were not his own… as if someone else inflated and deflated them.

He could not look away, could not move away from the man coming toward him.

Something glinted red, but Phillip could not see it… it curled at the edges of his blackening vision. Phillip could not focus; he aimed blindly ahead, hoping for the man's chest, and pulled the trigger.

His attacker's eyes were burning an odd color… like glowing wine. He reached for Phillip, who tried to pull away, but the man had inhuman strength; Phillip could not shake him, could not dislodge his grip even slightly. And then something white gleamed in the dim light as one hand closed over Phillip's head, pulling it to one side.

Sharp white teeth, descending toward his neck.

"Why did you not tell Max about the protection on the Book of Antwartha?" asked Victoria. She stood fully across the room from Sebastian, in the same denlike chamber they had been in before—the one with a single entrance.

He looked up from where he was pouring two small glasses of something pale pink. The settee on which she'd sat before, and where he'd touched her vis bulla, bisected the space between them like the low stone fence that kept the sheep in their fields at Prewitt Shore. Victoria wasn't certain who was the fenced-in lamb and who was not.

"I wanted to see if you had kept our bargain," replied Sebastian, stepping toward her. Victoria moved so that the sofa remained between them, and reached across to take the glass he offered. She was careful not to allow their fingers to touch. "If he knew about it, it was because you had told him."

"I kept our bargain, but he could have died without the knowledge."

"But he did not, for he did not touch it. He knew."

"I told him only to save his life. He didn't believe me."

"His life is of such value to you?"

"Any life is of value to me. What is this?" She looked at the glass. The liquid pooled into a ruby color at the bottom of the tiny tulip-shaped vessel, but as the glass widened up, it became the palest of pink.

"Only a bit of sherry. Try it; I believe you will find it to your taste." He raised his glass in a mock toast and tipped its entire contents down his throat. When he looked back at her, he nodded to the settee. "Have a seat, Victoria."

"No, thank you." She set the glass down and stepped farther away; now she was standing behind the settee and he in front.

"Are you frightened of me, Victoria?"

"What have I to be frightened of? I am a Venator."

"Indeed. I wondered the same thing myself. In fact, perhaps it is I who should be wary of you." He looked at her and held her gaze for a long moment. "Perhaps I should." He broke away and swiveled to the table to pour another glass of sherry.

When he came back around, his face was shuttered, closed. He offered another sardonic toast, but instead of downing the whole glass, he merely took a sip and sat on the settee. Half turned, he arranged himself in its corner so that he could see Victoria, standing behind the protective fencing of the sofa's back, her hand resting on its chintz covering.

"Why did you come here tonight?" he asked.

"You were expecting me. I was a bit surprised."

"I told you the last time you were here that I would see you again. I knew you would come back. But I am curious as to why."

"Perhaps to thank you for the information that helped us to get the Book of Antwartha. If I had not had your information, Max and I might have died in the effort."

"So you come bearing tokens of gratitude?" He shifted himself onto one knee on the sofa cushion and covered her hand with his fingers, holding it gently in place on the top of the back. "I am pleased to hear that. And particularly thankful that Eustacia sent you rather than Maximilian for that task."

Victoria wanted to pull her hand away, but she controlled the urge. "I get the impression that you and Max aren't the best of friends."

"I wonder why that is," Sebastian murmured, but he sounded as if he couldn't care less. "I'm more interested in finding out how you planned to express your gratitude for my assistance than what thorn sticks in Maximilian's craw." With his free hand, he reached up and began to tug her long glove down past her elbow. "Did I mention how much better you look when dressed as a woman than a man?"

He released the wrist he'd held on the top of the settee, but not her glove, and when she pulled away the glove came off, turning inside out from her fingers. Her hand and arm were bare.

She stepped back, out of his reach. Sebastian was not the type of man to climb over the settee after her.

But he wasn't looking at her; he was holding her forlorn white glove between his hands, stroking his fingers down over its length as if smoothing his touch over her arm. Then he wrapped it gently around one of his hands and looked up at her.

"Where is your ring?"

At first she thought he was speaking of her vis bulla,

the ring in her navel… but then she realized he was looking at her bare hand. Her left hand.

"I don't have one… yet. Did you know I was there in the room at Redfield Manor?"

"Of course. I also knew the moment you went out the window; Maximilian was too busy staking vampires to notice. But I saw the twitch of the drapes and knew you were gone. I understand you killed seven vampires that night."

"It was eight. And Max defeated three Imperials on his own."

"Bravo, Max." Sebastian rose and she stepped farther away. "Victoria, you are annoying me. I am not going to leap across the room and ravage you." He did indeed look angry, an unusual expression in a face that was normally bent on wooing or charming.

He tucked her glove into his pocket and walked with rather harsh footsteps back over to the table where he'd poured their drinks. Turning to face her, he leaned back against it, crossing his legs at the ankles and his arms over his middle. He looked all bronze and golden and utterly dangerous. His hair gleamed dark near the crown, but tawny and blond and even silvery at the curling tips, and his mouth was set in a harsh line, the upper lip shadowing his lower one to a dark toffee color.

There was silence for a long moment. Victoria had expected him to demand some sort of additional recompense for the information that led to their obtaining the Book of Antwartha, but he did not. His enticing, engaging manner had evaporated and now he merely looked displeased.

"I am sure it is safe for me to leave," Victoria said at last. "I'm certain Max has managed to get Phillip away by now." She looked at him, expecting an argument.

But instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out her glove, offering it to her.

It lay draped over his open palm, but when she reached for it his fingers closed over her bare hand. And tugged.

Perhaps it was surprise at his sudden movement; perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps she was just tired of fighting it. But Victoria allowed herself to continue forward until she was standing as close to Sebastian as she had been in the hallway.

Transferring her hand to his other, as if unwilling to chance her escaping, he tucked the glove back in his pocket and looked down at her. Humor glinted in his golden eyes. "That was easier than I expected."

"Sebastian—"

He turned her bare hand palm up, lifted it, lowered his face… and touched his lips to the inside of her wrist. They were soft but firm, gently damp, and featherlight. They almost tickled. Then they moved, opening, tracing the texture of the veins and tendons in this demure region. He nibbled on the narrow edge of her wrist, gently bit the full pad of her palm at the base of her thumb.

Victoria couldn't pull her arm away. No, that wasn't true—she could; she knew she could break his grip easily—but she could not force her muscles to move. Her eyes closed; her other hand reached out blindly, to catch herself, and flattened against a solid, warm, breathing chest.

"I have always wanted to taste a Venator," murmured Sebastian, moving up to look at her. His lips were no longer thin and harsh; they would never look thin and harsh to her again after this. After feeling them.

He still held her fingers, which curled helplessly around his, and he traced his thumb over the top of her hand, looking at her.

And then they both heard it, and just as the noise registered in her mind, the door slammed open.

In the doorway stood Max, leaning heavily against its side. "Rockley's been attacked," he said, then slid to the floor.