When Twilight Burns

Eleven: Dinner Is Announced

After their waltz, Max deposited Victoria at the edge of the dance floor where Vioget and Rockley waited. It was a bloody relief to let her go and step away. He bowed curtly and took himself off to investigate whatever the hell he could find to investigate.

She’d be too damned busy to do so herself for awhile, if the expectant expressions on the faces of her two panting suitors were any indication. It looked as though Vioget might have a bit of a fight on his hands, although Max had no concerns that Victoria would make the same mistake with this Rockley as she had with the previous one.

Max’s scalp was hot under his hat, and his mask felt stifling. His fingers still remembered the warm, delicate feel of her spine through that scandalously thin gown-if one could call it a gown. Hadn’t she been wearing a damned corset?

Some years ago, he’d been witness to Parisian women dampening their thin muslin gowns so that they clung to the very outline of their entire body-a Madame Gorhomme and her luxurious form sprang immediately to mind, prompting his tight mouth into a smile. But a glance at the dance floor stopped it. Christ, the fabric of Victoria’s long toga was just as thin and revealing as Madame Gorhomme’s-without benefit of water.

Hard to believe, he thought as he sidled his way through the warm crush of guests, that the lithe, light body he’d just handled was the possessor of such power and skill. A man could hardly fathom it… yet he’d experienced it firsthand: the strength and grace of her slender arms, the whirl of a powerful leg slamming into a vampire twice her size, the fire in her eyes and the flush of battle reddening her cheeks… all of which simply made her more fascinating to men like Vioget and Zavier. And even ones who had no idea who she was, and what she was capable of-like her husband and the new American marquess.

Even creatures like Beauregard, whom she was bound to slay.

All thanks to the two vis bullae, hidden somewhere under that gown. And one of them was his.

While he wore only one, even though it was useless to him.

Max had an urge for whiskey to cleanse the bitterness in his mouth. He gestured for a sequined footman to pour him one, and turned back to watch the dancers.

God damn Lilith for taking away his only passion, the single purpose in the life he’d salvaged after Papa and Giulia were gone. When he was done here in London, he was going after the vampire queen. He’d send her to Hell and, God willing, would die himself in the process. And at last he’d find out if he’d paid enough penance for destroying his family.

He took a healthy swallow of whiskey.

“Good evening, Maximilian.”

Damn.

“Sara.” Bloody hell. He’d been so damned distracted he nearly walked into the chit.

“I knew that had to be you,” she said, her full lips curving under her rose-colored mask. She spoke smoothly, in their native Italian. “I haven’t forgotten how beautifully you waltz. Shall we, for old time’s sake?”

“No.”

Sara’s lips formed a generous pout. “Whoever she was, not only did she get you to dance, but you were completely captivated. I shall have to be jealous, Maximilian. Or… perhaps it is Lilith who will be jealous.” The pout had disappeared, along with the manufactured teasing in her voice.

Max’s body drained of heat. Sara and Lilith? Good God. “So you have allied yourself with Lilith the Dark. A dangerous proposition. She’s not known for constancy to her minions.”

“Are you concerned for my well-being, then, Maximilian?” She leaned into him, confident and bold. Her fingers wrapped around his arm and her leg brushed against his.

“Not in the least.” He grasped her wrist and set her away. “Have you turned undead?”

She smiled, looking up at him from under her lashes. “Would you like me to drink from you, Max?”

The whiskey in his belly churned. Lilith’s bites on his neck had finally disappeared, but the memories assailed him: red, hot, pain, pleasure.

His mouth dried; his head suddenly felt light. He was weaker now; he had little power and only mortal strength. To be trapped by her fangs and her thrall would be so much worse. He felt for the silver ring that bulked out his gloved finger, and the feel of it steadied him. He’d die before he would submit to her.

“I see that the idea excites you,” Sara murmured, and he felt her close to him again. “Perhaps I can arrange-”

“You are a foolish young girl,” he said sharply. “If you continue on this path, you’ll end up like your father-a pile of ashes at the other end of a stake.”

And then he noticed Victoria. Something had caused her to stop in the middle of a waltz. She was looking over the crowd of people-

Max realized he smelled smoke. Something was burning.

Victoria was hurrying toward the patio doors, and he saw movement out there, beyond the openings: tiny red lights glowing. Many of them.

Good Lord. Vampire eyes.

He started to move, and someone screamed from behind him. “Fire!”

“It’s in the hall!” someone else shouted, and suddenly there was a wave of panicked people, pushing and shoving onto the dance floor, toward the patio doors.

In an instant he realized what was happening, and he looked down at Sara, who’d grabbed his arm and leaned back into him. She had a pleased smile on her face as she looked up.

“I do believe it’s dinnertime.” And then she moved against him. Something hard and metal poked into his ribs. “But never fear. I’ve other plans for you.”

Tearing off her mask, Victoria burst out into the summer night, stake in hand. Immediately, she saw at least a dozen pairs of vampire eyes swimming in the dark.

As she launched herself at the nearest one, she heard screaming behind her. The first vampire poofed into dust with little fanfare, obviously not having expected an attack. But when she turned, Victoria found herself facing three more undead.

Her loose gown whipped about her legs as she leaped onto a stone bench near the edge of the patio. The smell of smoke filtered through the air. She was aware of the flood of people coming out of the ballroom, running and shouting, but her attention was on the trio of vampires who clustered around her perch.

Kicking out with one foot, she caught a vampire in the chin as he lunged for her, and followed the momentum by jumping onto one of his companions. As they tumbled to the stone paving, she slammed the stake down, missed the creature’s head, and found herself rolling onto her back, tangling in her filmy skirt and the loose length of her hair.

The vampire came with her, his red eyes angry and glowing. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pinning her arms down. His fangs gleamed as he lunged toward her. Victoria gave a great buck and twist and used his own upended weight to set him off balance, then flipped him over on the uneven stones. Her elbow planted against the ground, she made a quick slash. The stake slammed into his chest, blasting a poof of dust and ashes into her face. She took a moment to tear away the long overlayer of her skirt, leaving a shorter, less hampering amount of fabric. Her vision had tinged filmy pink and she was vaguely aware of the harder pounding of her heart, and a sharp, driving anger.

Before she could rise, something landed heavily on her back. The air exploded from her lungs and her face ground into grittiness. Cheek scraping against the rough patio, she levered her feet up behind her, kicking her second assailant in the small of the back as he lunged on top of her. The force of her heels sent the vampire sprawling toward her head, and she used the moment of imbalance to shove him to the side.

Quickly she slipped out from under him as he closed his hand over the loose length of her hair, yanking her back to the ground. Pain shot through her scalp as she twisted toward him, her hair wrapping around his arm as he reeled her closer. His eyes were rose pink, and when her gaze flashed over them, it snagged for a moment. She felt a warm tug, and everything began to slow. The agony in her scalp eased, and the stake felt loose in her fingers.

Victoria drew in a deep breath and jerked her chin in order to strain the thrall. She was able to force her eyes closed even as the vampire’s free hand closed around her throat. She felt his fingers and their sharp nails tighten, clogging her breath. Hers steadied the stake in her hand as she fairly hung there, with him holding her by the throat. She went limp.

His fingers tightened and that was her cue: she slugged him with a foot, just enough to catch him off guard and force him to turn, and then automatically drove the stake into the target of his chest as it pivoted in front of her.

Victoria gulped in a breath as he froze, then billowed into a cloud of musty undead dust. Catching herself before her knees hit the ground, she had that split second to take stock. The burning smell was stronger, and black smoke billowed from the upper windows of the house. Seemingly unaware of the battle between mortal and vampire going on behind them, people stared in shock at the building, where, even from the outside, orange flames could be seen licking at the closed doors from the ballroom to the hall behind it. Still costumed and masked, they were shouting and calling out, and many of them were unaware of the red-eyed danger that lurked behind them. There had to be more than a dozen undead, watching, fighting, and attacking in the small clearing as the gardens became thick and dark.

As Victoria watched, a duo of vampires lunged forward and snatched two spectators away from the rear of the crowd, dragging them toward those dark garden shadows. One of them was still masked, and looked like a medieval Crusader dressed in a dark red tunic. The other was a woman in a cream-and-gold gown in the Grecian style.

She started toward them, only to be yanked backward by a fist at the rear of her gown. Stumbling, she twisted around to meet a red-eyed undead.

She rammed her elbow up under the chin of the vampire that held her gown, and heard the slam and crack as his jaws came together. He tripped back and she helped him with the point of her stake, then turned back as he exploded into dust.

Someone whirled sharply next to her, followed by a soft poof of vampire. Sebastian, with bare legs as beautiful and golden as Adonis himself, leaped onto the bench. He glanced at her with a sharp nod, and, as two undead rushed at them, Victoria spun one way and Sebastian leaped… and they both found their targets.

Victoria glanced around, realizing that the pinkness of her vision had eased a bit. People crowded the area, standing on the damp grass and ringing the patio, unaware that vampires lurked in the shadows, waiting to snatch them to feed. What was holding them back from rushing in en masse and grabbing their victims? Or corralling them and marching them off?

Perhaps it was the realization that she, Max, and Sebastian were there, slinging stakes about. Then Victoria stopped. She was wrong. There was no sign of Max’s tall, dark figure.

The last time she’d seen him was just as James brought her out to the dance floor. He’d been moving toward the tables of food and drink, far from the entrance to the patio.

Then she remembered with a pitch of her stomach that he no longer wore the vis.

Something shoved her from behind and she stumbled deeply. She used her forward motion to roll over in a somersault-a very unladylike technique that Kritanu had just taught her-then sprang to her feet, stake still in hand. The vampire had lunged after her, and when she steadied herself and turned, she went after him. Fool, she thought as he exploded.

As she turned back to the crowd of people, she remembered the two partygoers who’d been taken off by the vampires. With a glance at Sebastian, who seemed to have taken to vampire staking with surprising vigor, Victoria dashed off down the brick pathway where the two vampires had dragged their prey.

Down the dark path she barreled, unfamiliar with the garden. Smoke tinged the air, and large black ashes wafted and swirled like small bats. She tripped over a stone, falling half into a boxwood or some other prickly hedge. Catching her balance, she paused, listening. She’d left Sebastian to handle the group of vampires back there, choosing to go after the ones who were already feeding from their prey, and she wasn’t sure that was the right thing to do.

But she couldn’t leave them to be killed in the shadows of a rosebush.

And Max could take care of himself. Wherever he was.

A soft gurgling cry met her ears, and Victoria spun to plow through a thick bush too dark to identify. She rammed her knee into something sharp and metal, felt it gouge and drag over her thigh. She kept going, heedless of the noise as she shoved the thin, sharp branches out of the way. Then she saw the shift of movement ahead.

With a cry meant more to distract than anything else, she sprang the last few feet forward. The vampire released his victim, who crumpled to the ground in a puddle of white-and-gold fabric. Victoria launched herself at the vampire, and saw the dark drool of blood from the corner of her mouth.

The undead was a tall, corpulent female, her arms as bulky as those of a burly man. She smiled at Victoria, her fangs gleaming, and faced her, ready. “The female Venator,” she grunted.

The smell of blood tickling at her consciousness, Victoria swallowed hard. And focused. She smiled back at the female, feeling the feral curl of her own lips-but she didn’t have time to waste looking ferocious and confident. With a quick snap, she broke off a wrist-sized branch as long as her leg, and swung out powerfully.

The female grabbed at it as Victoria expected she would, and Victoria gave a hard yank, pulling the vampire off balance. As the heavy creature lurched forward, Victoria leaped out of the way and tripped the lumbering undead, then spun to slam the stake deep into the back of her evil heart.

Before the dust had settled, she stumbled over to the victim collapsed on the ground, and turned her over. Her mask was gone and she recognized the shy Miss Melissa Keitherton, who spoke of little but her beloved cat Damian. She was still warm and breathing, and despite the blood oozing from her neck, she wasn’t terribly hurt. It was a small wound, a single bite, with a relatively meager amount of blood. She would live to spoil Damian with catnip another day.

Victoria ripped a piece of silk from her gown and tied it firmly, but not too tightly, around the neck wound, and she then flung Miss Keitherton over her shoulder.

When she reached the patio again, she came upon a scene that could only be described as Hell. The house was in orange and red flames, throwing eerie shadows threaded with a dancing golden glow over the figures standing at the horizon of light and darkness. Smoke poured through the eaves and chimney, through upper windows open to the summer air. The ballroom, which appeared to be the last room on the lower level broached by the fire, was filled with black smoke. Flames ringed the far wall, making their way relatively slowly through a room that was fairly empty of fuel.

Releasing her burden gently to the ground, Victoria turned back and saw that the last pair of vampires, unengaged in battle and seeing that their companions had been vanquished, had turned tail. They bounded into the darkness, slick and dark and fast, and Victoria couldn’t resist. She preferred that there be none to tell the tale to Lilith, or any other creature who might be there.

But as she dashed into the shadows again, heedless of the now-tattered gown and the slipping silver brooch on her shoulder, she heard a loud noise behind her. Faltering in her chase, she turned just in time to see the house’s roof fold in on itself. The sound of screams, dulled by the roar of fire and distance, reached her… and urged Victoria to return.

She let the vampires escape, realizing, suddenly, that she hadn’t seen Gwendolyn. Had she made it out of the house? Were there others trapped inside? Max?

And what about George and Sara? There and at that moment, in the middle of the melee, Victoria realized how this whole tragedy had been executed-and why.

Panting, Victoria sped back to the clearing in time to hear the tolling of the fire bell as the wagon arrived. It was impossible to pump a large volume of water fast enough to keep the fire from destroying the house-it was too hot and too strong of a blaze. But at least the nearby buildings and fences could be dampened to keep it from spreading.

But now that the threat of the undead was gone and the house was evacuated, Victoria knew she needed to find George and Sara. It was obviously no accident that vampires had been waiting in the walled garden when a blaze forced a group of rich-blooded partygoers outside. As invited guests with access to the house, and members of the Tutela, George and Sara had obviously had a hand in this.

She scanned the crowd of people who’d quieted down and were now merely staring with soot-streaked faces- some even unaware they were still wearing their masks. Shadows of light and dark danced over their smoke-tinted costumes and faces. Many of them spoke quietly to each other, shock turning stoic facial expressions into long, drab ones. The household staff clustered off to one side, some of them still in their glittering livery; others, in plain dress, watching their home and livelihood eaten alive by flames.

Victoria didn’t see a Romeo or Juliet anywhere, nor an unmasked George or Sara. Nor, come to think of it, did she see Gwen.

Or Max.

Her heart thumping hard, she hurried forward, realizing she was limping from the gash on her leg. She shoved through the crowd of people to get between them and the house-the only way she could see their faces and recognize anyone. Sebastian came up next to her. A slight sheen of sweat glistened on his face in the flames, and he put his arm around her, pulling her close.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his face in her hair.

“I can’t find Gwendolyn,” she replied, pulling away. “Or Sara or George. Have you seen Max?”

He shook his head. “No, none of them.”

Victoria looked around and left Sebastian. She walked along the inside of the ring of people, looking sharply at the clusters of faces turned to each other. Some were being embraced and others were crying. But there was no sign of Max. Or Gwen.

“Have you seen Gwendolyn Starcasset?” she asked, at last coming upon a matron she vaguely recognized as being an acquaintance. She recalled that she had an odd fascination with science and chemistry, and often spoke endlessly about things that Victoria didn’t understand.

Mrs. Debora Guyette-Foster had tears running down her face, making glistening white lines in gray ash streaks. Her costume appeared to have been that of a gypsy, but her flowing scarves sagged, and her rainbow-colored frock was dark and torn. Glitter sparkled weakly in her straight, dark hair. “She’s not here. She left before-before-” The woman’s sobs obliterated her words, but Victoria had heard enough to feel easier about Gwen.

But Max.

He would tower above most everyone here. She stood on the empty patio, close enough that the heat of the fire from the house blazed against the back of her legs and her one bare shoulder. Looking for the tall dark head.

A deep unease flowered inside her as she searched in vain. He had to have gotten out of the house.

But it would be just like him to be a hero, trying to rescue someone.

Damned man.

Why couldn’t he be a hero by staking vampires?

Then she remembered the vampire that had dragged off the Crusader. Maybe Max had seen him, and gone after him.

Ignoring the people around her, who seemed to be coming out of their daze and once more were talking in full sentences, she ran into the dark garden again. This time she drove to the left, away from where she’d rescued Miss Keitherton, and found herself abruptly against a tall hedge.

She smelled blood. Tasted it in the air.

Victoria could have followed the hedge around, but impatience and need won out and she plowed right through it, heedless of the nasty branches. When she stumbled through to the other side, she landed on her knees next to a sprawled dark figure. The blood-iron essence filled her mouth and nose and she found herself struggling to breathe normally.

Groping frantically at him, for it was a man, she shoved him onto his back and saw vaguely that the dark red tunic of the Crusader merely looked black in the low light, with the dirt and soot and blood.

Her hands were wet with it, the cooling lifeblood of the man who would never wear another costume, ride another horse, eat another meal. Victoria pushed the hair from her face and pulled to her feet. There was nothing she could do for him. And she knew faintly that she had to leave him and get away from here. Her vision clouded darker in the night as saliva pooled in her mouth. The blood’s essence tugged at her.

Her heart pounded, ramrodding through her body so that her fingers trembled and it felt as though her whole chest was moving. Time churned sluggishly.

All at once, she realized she was not alone.

Victoria looked over. Three figures had come around the bushes and stood clustered together as though afraid to move any closer. She felt their shock and fear, and her heart pounded more strongly. She swallowed.

“He’s dead,” she managed to say. Gestured to the Crusading knight. “There’s nothing to be done now.” She thought her words came out normally. But no one replied. They watched her, and she noticed that one had a gun. It wasn’t pointed at her… but he had a gun.

A shout drew her attention. Her name. It was as though her ears were stuffed with cotton. She turned to see Sebastian. Slowly. The blood was so thick, it clogged everything. Even her movements.

“Victoria.” He came toward her, and she recognized the expression on his handsome face: worry, relief. He was soot-streaked and his hair was sticking out in thick waves. Before she could protest, or even think, he pulled her away from the small clearing, back toward the blazing house.

“Victoria,” he said as soon as they were far enough away, almost to the patio. She could breathe now. The blood-smell was gone and her head was a little clearer. The fire had quieted a bit, though the golden light flickered through the trees. The muted sounds from the crowd reached her ears.

Clarity.

She sank into his arms, felt them wrap strong around her, buried her head in his sweaty neck. “So much blood,” she whispered. “I couldn’t think.”

“I know,” he said. He lifted her face. The kiss tasted like smoky Sebastian and sweat and it chased away the lingering essence of iron. He pulled away and looked down at her. “I thought you’d gone back in the house.” His eyes were tigerish, the blaze turning them gold even in the dark. His fingers curled tight on her arms.

“No.”

But she thought of Max. If he wasn’t outside, he had to be in the house.

“Victoria,” said Sebastian. “I… let me take you home.”

She knew what he meant. But she didn’t answer.

Though she didn’t need to be steadied, didn’t need to be held up, she let him put an arm around her. Moments later they were back with the others, but, by now, the crowd had begun to thin out. Some had been able to find their carriages and had left in disheveled, smoky clothing.

Others still stood, talking, describing in loud, important voices, what had happened. How they’d escaped the fire, what they’d been doing prior to the alarm, how they’d helped pull out Mr. or Miss or Lady So-and-So.

She felt clearer now. Stronger.

Victoria turned toward the house, which had crumbled in on itself in some areas and still blazed angry orange and red. An elegant poplar that grew too close to the building had all its leaves burned off. The heat still blasted, but there was little to be done. The fire would burn itself out; keeping it from spreading was the only reasonable objective.

No one could get close enough to the structure to even pour water on it. There could be no survivors inside. How many people had perished?

Who?

Victoria turned, not yet ready to leave with Sebastian, still searching, and she noticed a tall, dark, blade-nosed figure. Her heart leaped, and she lurched toward him- but then he moved from the shadows.

Mr. Bemis Goodwin.

He saw her and she felt the ugly weight of his eyes on her, sweeping over her. She could only imagine what he saw-a torn gown, blood streaks everywhere, her hair in dishabille. His gaze narrowed and although he said nothing, did nothing to acknowledge her beyond an arrogant nod-she felt it.

The animosity.

Sebastian folded her into his arms; she’d told him nothing about Goodwin, so he couldn’t know. But she felt a wave of foreboding sweep over her.

“Let me take you home, Victoria,” Sebastian said. His chin brushed the side of her head and she raised her face to look over his shoulder.

“Not yet,” she said, still scanning the darkness.

At that moment, a dark figure came into view, making a wide skirt from around the front of the house. Appearing not to see her off to the side, he moved quickly, yet unsteadily, disappearing into the crowd of people. There was no mistaking it.

“Max,” Victoria breathed, her whole body going soft with relief. Then she felt jittery and warm. “Thank God.” She stared after him, trying to determine if he was hurt or wounded. Where had he been?

“And so it goes,” Sebastian muttered, so quietly she wasn’t certain he’d really spoken. Then she realized she’d stepped away from him, toward the crowd of people. And Max.

“What?” Victoria looked back up at him.

His face was drawn and hard. His lips formed a humorless smile. “Ah, Victoria… don’t be a fool. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want anyone.”