When Twilight Burns

Twenty: Wherein Lady Melly’s Machinations Meet an Unexpected End

Victoria woke late the next morning with swollen eyes and the remnants of dreams she didn’t care to recall.

There was no word from Wayren, and Max had not made an appearance. Sebastian had reluctantly left her at the town house early that morning to return to wherever it was that he was staying.

Kritanu gave her the impression that he was aware of Max’s whereabouts. But when Victoria broached the subject, she was met with a gentle shake of the head and closed lips.

Well, if Max wouldn’t give her the chance to apologize, to explain why she’d been so certain-and that she’d been right!-that the evening had been a trap meant for her as well as him, so be it. He could sulk and brood and stay away.

Victoria had more important things to concern herself with. Besides, if Max were around, she’d be forced to confess the whole situation to him, including Lilith’s frightening prediction. Which she felt no real need to do. She hadn’t forgotten the fact that he’d been holding a stake, ready to put it to use when she woke up back in the Consilium.

And that was what she kept telling herself, over and over. And over.

Max was out of her life. For good.

He doesn’t want anybody.

Instead, she had to face the facts. Her night vision had become much clearer. If Lilith was right, and the vampire blood was taking over inside her… was it something she could fight? Something she could stop? Or was she destined to become undead?

The possibility was simply too horrific to consider. It just couldn’t happen.

She wouldn’t allow it.

The fact that Wayren hadn’t responded to a message sent by pigeon caused Victoria even greater trepidation. Wayren’s pigeons were trained to find her anywhere, and always seemed to do so, and to provide a response within twenty-four hours regardless of where she was. Thus Victoria began to fear that the wise woman had abandoned her as well.

Late that afternoon she sat grumpy and fidgeting in Lady Melly’s parlor, listening to the three cronies discuss the details of George IV’s coronation ceremony, which was to be held in a matter of days.

It was no surprise that the topic dominated their conversation, for the coronation of the man who’d been known as Prinny, nearly eighteen months after he’d ascended to the throne, was to be the greatest, most expensive and flamboyant crowning of an English king.

“What will you wear, Victoria?” asked Lady Nilly, leaning forward as if in anticipation of some great fashion secret.

“I don’t believe I’ve been invited,” she replied tartly, unconcerned with civility today. “And I do not plan to attend.”

“But of course you have been invited! The only person of Quality in all of the land who is not to attend is the queen herself,” Lady Melly chided her. “And if you stay away, you may be aligned with her in the eyes of the ton. That would not be fitting for the Marchioness of Rockley, Victoria, to take the side of Queen Caroline.”

“It is abominable that the working and trades cheer that disgusting creature whenever she goes about the City, giving her false support,” Lady Nilly said, her nose raised as if she smelled something objectionable. Perhaps it was the bouquet of daisies on the table near her tea. Victoria had always disliked the smell of the sunny flowers.

“It’s only because they despise Prinny-er, His Majesty-that they love her. Or claim they do, which I freely doubt. If any of them got within a king’s yard of that smelly sow, they should run the other direction and reexamine their thoughts,” Lady Melly said primly.

“If the woman would wash or change her undergarments, or even comb her hair, perhaps His Majesty would allow her near him… but she does not.” Duchess Winnie’s multiple chins trembled, but she was not in danger of being accused of living in a glass house. “It’s a simple matter of grooming,” she said, smoothing her perfect skirts pointedly. The duchess, who was also a woman of large proportion, was always supremely clothed and coiffed before she stepped from her chamber. “I vow the queen’s goats are better groomed than she.”

The other ladies laughed, and even Victoria couldn’t hold back a little smile. The gossip about the queen wasn’t completely mean-spirited. The woman had made no friends from the moment she arrived from Germany to wed the man who at the time was the Prince Regent.

Victoria remembered the story of Caroline of Brunswick’s first meeting with Prinny, in which the prince had come face to face with the sloppy, putrid woman and said, quite loudly, to the Baron of Malmesbury, “Harris, I do not feel well. Pray get me a glass of brandy.” He’d not ceased drinking for the three days up to and including the wedding. He’d passed out on his wedding night, and Caroline had left him on the floor.

It was no wonder there was enmity between the two.

A knock came at the parlor door, and Lady Melly straightened expectantly. Victoria tightened her fingers around an innocent teacup, knowing that her mother’s anticipation could bode no good for her.

But then she recalled that it couldn’t be James. He’d been turned into a pile of dust and would no longer be at the mercy of her mother’s machinations.

Thus, Lady Melly was bound to be disappointed-in more ways than one. The Grantworth House butler entered the room on command, carrying a silver tray, on which rested a thick white paper, folded and sealed with a blob of yellow wax and an unidentifiable crest. “This missive for Lady Rockley,” he intoned.

Victoria nearly knocked over a vase of sweet-smelling lilies in her alacrity to seize the message. An excuse to leave, she hoped, before the droves of afternoon callers began their never-ending influx.

The message was simple, and in an elegant hand that Victoria recognized with relief: Your carriage awaits without.

“I must go,” she said, without sitting back down.

“What is it?” asked Lady Nilly. But she was overrun by Lady Melly.

“Surely not now!” exclaimed that genteel lady. “It is too early.”

Victoria fixed her gaze on her parent. “I’m sorry, Mother, but it is of an urgent nature.”

“But you cannot,” Lady Melly started, but this time Victoria was more firm.

“I must.”

Her mother stood. “Surely it has nothing to do with that Monsieur Vioget you insist upon allowing to stay around,” Melly said, her voice sharp. “He is no better than those clinging vines that we have to cut away from the chimney top.”

Victoria blinked in astonishment that her mother was even aware of such a mundane occurrence.

“I must say, Victoria, that it is just too ridiculous that you encourage him! Why he has no title and isn’t even British, and rather a bit slick in the tongue, if you ask me.”

That was one way to describe it, Victoria thought as her lips threatened to twitch.

“His tailor is quite excellent,” Lady Nilly offered. “And he does rather remind me of a kind gentleman who once saved me from a vampire… or at least, I dreamed he-”

“Do hush, Nilly.”

“Mother, I suggest that you become used to seeing Sebastian about,” Victoria said firmly. “For it is quite possible-quite possible-that he will someday become your son by law. And now,” she continued rapidly, shocked that she’d actually said those words, let alone thought them through, “I really must leave. Don’t try to stop me.” Why had she said that?

“Victoria Anastasia!” Lady Melly shot to her feet. Teacups rattled and brown liquid slopped merrily. “How dare you take that tone-”

“Good-bye, Mother. I’ll be in touch soon.” And with that, Victoria whirled out of the parlor, fairly sprinting down the hall to the front door.

The sounds of screeching voices and gasping breaths faded as she darted out the front entrance in a most undignified manner. Her carriage was indeed waiting, its midnight blue paint sleek and shiny under the late-afternoon sun. Gold and silver trim gleamed when the coachman opened the door, and Victoria climbed in.

She didn’t expect to actually find Wayren in the carriage, but there she was. The woman was of an indeterminate age-she appeared older than Victoria, but younger than Lady Melly. Yet she had been there when Aunt Eustacia had taken up the vis bulla. The satchel that always seemed to contain more books and manuscripts than appeared possible sat like a lumpy toad next to her.

A brittle brown-spotted scroll open on her lap, Wayren looked up from behind perfectly square glasses, squinted, and then removed them as Victoria settled in her seat. “Hello, Victoria. How are you?”

The words, so simple, and often spoken-and responded to-without regard to their real meaning, were said with such sincerity, and the expression in her gray-blue eyes was so kind, that Victoria felt the threat of tears sting, and the inside of her nostrils tingled with emotion. She blinked hard, and then answered with pure honesty. “I don’t know. I don’t think… perhaps not so well.”

Wayren nodded. Gravity rendered her face smooth. “Aye, I can see that is so.”

The carriage started with a gentle lunge, and Victoria looked at her companion. “You received my message. Can you tell me… is Lilith correct? Will I… am I…?”

“The reason I did not arrive sooner-for I received your missive yesterday, of course-was that I spent some time with Ylito to see if he was aware of anything that might stop… or slow… the effect of the undead blood. That would, you see, give us more time to determine a cure. If there is one.”

“And?”

Wayren shook her head slowly. “There’s nothing he can do. But Victoria,” she said, and to her surprise, the older woman reached across the space and clasped her fingers around Victoria’s wrist. Her hand was bare, and her grip closed over the skin above Victoria’s gloves. The touch sent warmth and ease flowing through her; Victoria felt steadier than she had in some time. “You have already shown the strength to fight back the impulse of the immortal blood that threatened to take over. You are well armed, and you are strong. Though Ylito has nothing in his laboratory that might protect you, I believe that it is possible… more than possible… that you are strong enough to conquer this trial.”

A deep wave of disappointment and fear washed over her, despite Wayren’s comforting grip. There was nothing. Nature, in the form of tainted undead blood, would take its course. There was nothing that could be done.

Victoria drew back, and in spite of the warm summer afternoon, her flesh felt chilled when Wayren released her arm. Nausea churned in her belly. She’d expected, she’d believed, that Wayren would be the answer to her problem-that the mystical woman who seemed to know everything, or at least where to find out about it, would arrive with a potion or a serum that would wash away the vampire blood.

But of course. How could she be so foolish? If there were such an elixir, she could have ingested it after her experience with Beauregard.

She could have given it to Phillip.

Victoria blinked hard. So it would come full circle then. Her mistakes, her selfishness back to haunt her. Her fate would be the same as Phillip’s, the innocent man. She just hoped someone staked her before she did something terrible.

The memory of Max, holding the stake when she’d awakened at the Consilium, refreshed in her mind. He would have done it without hesitation.

Wayren watched her with steady eyes, soft with worry. She didn’t speak, as though knowing that Victoria had to assimilate it all on her own. She merely waited as the carriage rolled through the streets.

“Will I…” she began, then had to start again. It was better not to think of herself… but to keep the thoughts removed. “A vampire who drinks from a mortal is damned for eternity. Will you ensure that I…” Her voice clogged. All of a sudden, her future was becoming real to her. The possibility that she’d forced away, refused to consider, disbelieved… its reality was reflected in the expression of Wayren’s eyes and in her thinned mouth.

“Victoria.” The other woman’s voice, stern and sharp, penetrated the fog of pink that threatened the edge of her vision. “You cannot let the power of evil slide into you. You cannot succumb.”

“But vampirism isn’t a choice; it’s not something that can be fought off. I know that.”

“No,” Wayren said. “It isn’t. Once the vampire blood is ingested, it overtakes the mortal blood in the human and… you know what happens. The person becomes undead. But that didn’t happen with you, Victoria. Against every odd, and every expectation, it didn’t happen.” Her eyes were serious. “Why?”

“Because of the two vis bullae.”

“That’s what we suspect, yes,” Wayren replied. “But we don’t know for certain. Ylito and I have discussed your situation, and there is no real explanation for it, other than the two vis bullae, and the power and strength-both physical and mental-that goes along with them. That’s the only thing it could be. But there’s something else to consider, and this is why I think there could be more hope than you think.”

Victoria was almost afraid to ask, so she remained silent.

“Normally when one is turned undead, when they awaken, as you did, the vampire blood has already taken over the entirety of the body and made the mortal immortal. But when you awoke, that wasn’t the case. You were still mortal. You’d been spared. But now, that vampire blood is still within you, fighting to take over. That is what makes your situation different, Victoria. You’re awake, and aware, and the battle for your soul is waging within you. The two strength amulets you wear have bought you the time… time for you to fight the urge to become immortal, and evil. Both physically and in your soul. Your mind.”

Victoria shivered. “Is there a chance, then? With this evil growing inside me… is there a chance?”

Before Victoria knew it, Wayren was next to her on the seat. She grasped her shoulders with strong, slender fingers and looked deeply into her eyes. “Every mortal has the portent for evil deep inside them. Every man and woman makes choices for his or her self, for self, Victoria. It is only when those decisions outweigh all others; when they become the driving force, the normal state for that mortal, does evil win. Self-service drives all malevolence-but it will only succeed in winning if you allow it. Do not allow it.” She gave her a little shake, and the red mist faded. “I believe you can fight this away… physically. And spiritually. Do not allow it to take over, Victoria. I believe you can stop it.”

Despite her nebulous information, Wayren showed no indication that she meant to leave London. In fact, she told Victoria that she’d sent for two of the other Venators, Brim and Michalas, to come immediately to London from Paris, where they’d been investigating some heightened demon activity. Victoria knew the two men well, and rather than being annoyed by the wise woman’s presumption, she was relieved that she’d done so. They should arrive within a week, and would be able to provide extra support in light of Lilith’s presence in London and whatever her plans were.

And although Wayren took her own quarters when she stayed in London, she remained with Victoria into the evening and they dined together with Kritanu. They had just finished dinner when Sebastian was announced, and, despite the fact that the Venators rarely paid attention to the rules of polite society, Victoria and Wayren met him in the parlor.

If Wayren was surprised at the way Sebastian greeted Victoria-with an embrace and a lengthy, well-placed kiss on the back of her hand-she gave no indication. Even when he took his place next to Victoria on the sofa, as if he were a love-struck swain-which was so far from Sebastian’s persona that Victoria chuckled to herself at the thought-Wayren didn’t appear to notice.

“I’ve just recalled something that I believe you will find very interesting,” Sebastian told Victoria.

She sipped from the blush-tinged sherry she had poured, feeling the comfort of his warm thigh brushing next to hers. “What is it?” she asked, throwing aside the gloom that had threatened her since Wayren’s arrival. “Have you found a new way to tie a neck cloth?”

“But of course not,” he told her lightly… yet there was a bit of real affront in his voice. That surprised her, and she looked more closely into his tigerish eyes. A prickle began to worm its way down her spine. He’d been more… sensitive? serious?… as of late, and while Victoria had been deft at keeping their kisses to little more than kisses, and her corset fastened, she knew something was going to change. Soon.

She felt as if the decision had been made for her that afternoon, when she confirmed their engagement to her mother.

After all, he loved her. Or claimed he did… there was still a niggling suspicion about Sebastian; she’d refused to trust him for so long.

The only problem was the uncertainty of her future. Victoria felt a chill wash over her, and the unpleasant roiling return to her belly. She took a bigger gulp of the sherry than she’d intended, and realized that Sebastian had continued.

“When George Starcasset was in Italy this last year, not only did he make the acquaintance of Queen Caroline… but he became one of her favorites.” He raised an eyebrow and gave Victoria a complacent smile. “It’s more than a bit convenient that he and Sarafina Regalado have returned to England at the same time the queen has… after having been fairly banished for years.”

Understanding burst over her, and she caught her breath. “And how telling that she should return from her self-exile in Italy just in time to see her husband crowned King of England.” They looked at each other, and Victoria grasped his hand.

That was it. It had to be Lilith’s plan: to invade the coronation of the king, where all of the most powerful men in England, the most powerful country in the world, would be gathered at one time.

But why?