The Bleeding Dusk
Page 26

“I thought…you preferred…carriages,” came a raspy, annoyed voice from across the room, “Vioget.”
Victoria started and twisted her face violently from Sebastian, who seemed to have no inclination to release her. “Max? Oh, thank God, you’re alive!”
“Your…concern…overwhelms me.” There was a soft shuffling sound, a sharp intake of breath. “Perhaps…you could be…so kind as to…bring that knife…here. When”—his voice trailed off, then picked up more strongly—“you’ve finished…of course. I cannot…imagine…it should take…very long…at all.”
“Carriages, parlors, dungeons,” Sebastian said carelessly, “wherever the opportunity presents itself. Which it does rather more often than I would expect you’d imagine—or be familiar with.”
But as he spoke Sebastian had released her, mainly, Victoria thought, because she’d mutinously kept her face away from his seeking fingers and mouth, twisting back when he tried to renew the kiss. Now he moved behind her, his hands on her hips as he found his position.
Too late, she realized she was at an even greater disadvantage with him kneeling behind her, knife in hands. “Don’t move now, Victoria,” he said, his voice curling in her ear like soft smoke, his breath warm on her skin. “This knife is very sharp, and I cannot see what I’m doing. I’d hate to slice into your beautiful flesh…the fresh blood would draw the hungry vampires here in a moment.”
One of his hands moved aside the great mass of hair that had fallen down from her coiffure, when her stake had been removed, and now his lips pressed gently to the sensitive skin there on the top of her shoulder, at the juncture of her neck. Featherlight at first, then heavier, then with a sleek brush of tongue, he kissed her flesh while he sawed away, one-handed, at her ropes.
She couldn’t help the smallest of gasps when he mauled and sucked at the tendon there, where he knew she was most sensitive. And Max couldn’t help but hear her reaction, the faint sound of breaking suction, the quiet lapping of Sebastian’s mouth.
He did it purposely—whether it was to titillate and arouse her or to annoy Max, she wasn’t certain, but the only thing she could try to do was ignore the swipe of his lips, the warm slide over the top of her shoulder, up along her neck. But when one of his hands—the one not holding the knife, fortunately, slid around to cover one of her breasts, Victoria couldn’t hold back a sudden intake of breath.
Sebastian laughed softly against her skin, leaving a hot, moist puff there at the side of her throat, and Victoria pulled so hard to the side that she lost her balance and tumbled to the floor. But as she fell her hands moved automatically to catch herself, pulling at the ropes. She was strong enough—and they were already frayed enough from the knife—that they tore free, and even though she landed half on her cheek on the cold, gritty floor, her hands were loose.
She rolled away from Sebastian before he could grab her again, though she felt his swipe through the air. “Your games are at an end, Sebastian. May I have the knife back?”
Half expecting him to taunt her with it, to demand a kiss or some other payment, Victoria was surprised when she heard it drop to the floor in front of her.
“If we only had something for illumination,” she said, feeling on the floor until her fingers brushed the stiletto. Gingerly she followed the blade until she found the handle and picked up the knife. It was no longer than the length of her longest finger to the end of her palm, and about the same width as her little finger. The entire dagger was nearly as flat as the piece of boning it had replaced, but was deathly sharp.
Miro had made the weapon specially for her, casting it to certain specifications. The silver handle was very short, extending only one knuckle’s length from the small, flat hand guard. This was so that the blade could slide into the slit in her corset, and the handle would protrude just a small distance past the bottom end of her stays, keeping the metal from poking into her leg when she walked or bent. The other unique thing about the knife was that for perhaps another inch past the hand guard, the blade itself was covered with the same silver as the handle, so that Victoria could wrap her fingers around the hand guard and allow the blade to protrude between them without cutting herself. Since the handle was so short, it was the only way she could comfortably hold the dagger.
It certainly had worked, cutting easily through the ropes.
“I have something for light,” Max’s voice rumbled, a bit stronger now. “But I’ll need…some help.”
Victoria felt Sebastian moving, but he seemed to be farther away. “Sebastian? What are you doing?”
“I’m examining the door to determine whether there might be a way to open it, of course.”
Victoria wanted to protest that she would need his help with Max, but she did not. Instead, she felt around on the floor and finally brushed against something solid and warm. And very, very wet. Stickily wet.
“My God, Max…” She started in shock, moving her hands frantically around, trying to determine what part of him had been injured, and accidentally poked him in the face.
“Christ, Victoria…are you trying to blind me?”
She slowed her jerky movements, brushing over his warm, moist cheek and down along his neck, staying far away from his sharp mouth. “You needn’t be so profane. I cannot see a thing!”
“Obviously,” he grumbled on a long breath. “I have a light. After you cut these blasted ropes.” His breathing was heavy, and she could feel it now, feel the exertion in his body as he struggled to keep it steady.
She quickly sliced through the ropes that held his wrists behind him, and heard his moan of relief when his arms fell back into place. With trepidation she asked, “Where is the light?” The last thing she wanted was to be groping around Max’s long, powerful body. Especially when he was injured.
“My left boot.”
Relieved, Victoria gingerly skimmed her hands lightly along the side of him, taking care not to investigate anything mortifying, and noting with increasing anxiety that there were several places that were soaking wet. The stench of blood was strong, and she could nearly taste the iron in her mouth. “Are you bitten?” she asked, reaching the bottom of his calf and finding the smooth, supple leather of his boot. “Again?” she added, remembering Sara tearing away Max’s collar.
“No, I’m shot,” he replied, as if she should somehow have known. “And it hurts like the damned blazes, so if you could please…hurry.”
Like a valet, she knelt at his feet and tugged at the boot.
“No,” he snapped. “Under. In the heel.”
“Heel?” she muttered, thinking that she was dealing with more heels than the ones on his boots.
“It slides off. Inside are small wooden sticks. Don’t…drop them! And a piece of sanded paper.”
“Ah, the work of the famous Miro, I’m certain,” came Sebastian’s patently bored voice from across the room.
“How do you know about Miro?” asked Victoria in surprise, prying at the heel of Max’s boot as quickly as she could. It came off more easily than she’d expected, and then, feeling around, she could tell that it was nothing more than a little box with a lid.
“I know much about everything.”
Max’s breath caught audibly, as if he’d heard something humorous—or a new wave of pain had slammed into him—but he replied, “And do little with it, is that not…right, Vioget?”
“I have the little sticks and the paper. Now what shall I do?”
“Find something…to burn. One of those ridiculous flowers on your gown. Put them to use.”
Victoria bit her lip instead of replying. The man was in great pain, Venator or no, so she could give him a bit of an excuse for his rudeness. Carefully she cut off one of the satin roses from above the hem of her gown and realized Max was right—it would make a good candle. How clever, and she was abashed that he had thought of it before she did.
Made from tightly twisted and sewn satin ribband, the flower was about the size of the center of her palm. It wouldn’t burn forever, but she had many flowers, and surely each one would last for several minutes. “Now what shall I do?”
“Bring them…here. Give me one of the sticks. And the paper.”
She moved back up toward Max’s head and their hands found each other easily. His fingers were frighteningly cold, and they shook slightly as he took the slender wooden stick from her, and then the paper.
Victoria heard a faint snick, and suddenly a little burst of light illuminated Max’s face. It looked like a hollow-eyed, grimy mask, his dark hair plastered to his forehead and temples, his full, angular lips tight and flat.
“Where’s the bloody flower?”
Victoria pointed to the floor and watched as he shifted to the side and held the little flame to the red flower. She could see the fire dancing nearer his fingers, watching how he struggled to keep his hand steady as he tried to light it. With her own sigh of exasperation, she picked up the flower and held it to the flame.
One satin petal lit, and she put it on the floor next to them as the flower kindled to life. Lifting her gaze, she found herself face-to-face, very close to Max, and their eyes met over the tiny flame on the stick before he huffed it out.
There’d been pain there. She’d seen it in the unguardedness of his expression for a moment, the deep, bone-crunching pain swimming in his dark eyes.
“Where are you shot?” she asked in a kinder voice than she’d used recently.
“My shoulder. My right leg, though I think it isn’t more than a graze.”
A normal man would still be unconscious—between the chill of the dungeon and the loss of blood, not to mention the battering he’d taken under the hands of the vampires.
Before she could move he was shrugging painfully out of his heavy coat, which smelled like bloody, wet wool. Victoria helped pull it away from his left shoulder and saw the huge bloom of darkness glistening on his white shirt. It was, she realized suddenly, just above where the tiny vis bulla hung from his areola.