When Twilight Burns
Page 31

“One could contemplate the beautiful irony of monks scribing a Bible in chambers next to those penning vampire secrets,” Max said gravely. “It would not surprise me, as the monks and undead have intertwined—usually at odds—for centuries.”
The Bible’s pages had been bound, and rebound, and more pages added to include the growing family tree as the decades passed. Victoria carefully turned the crisp brown sheets. They crackled like a gentle fire. She saw images on some of them, and fading script on others, line after line. Ornate lettering, patterns, and illustrations in faded colors decorated the first letters of each book of the Bible.
Turning back to the front, she resumed scanning the list of Venator names. Catherine Victoria Gardella. An image of a vivid redhead with a flashy emerald ring and a saucy expression came to mind, and Victoria nodded to herself. Yes, she’d seen her portrait in the hall at the Consilium in Rome.
Another name, faded and further up the list, drew her attention. Rosamunde Joanna Gardella. The mystic who wrote pages of prophecy during her youth in an abbey . . . before she learned of her calling as a Venator.
A thought struck her, and she turned back to the end of the list. “Sebastian’s name isn’t written here,” she said, looking up at Max.
“Nor is mine.” He sipped, swallowed. “That list in the front is confined to those who have descended directly from Gardeleus, with strong Gardella blood—such as yourself.”
An odd expression crossed his face and he stopped, blinking hard. Victoria tensed. But then he continued, “I believe the back of the book shows a full family tree, and also every Venator from the extended branches of the family tree—and those of us who can’t claim one drop of Gardella blood. You’ll find Zavier there, I suspect, and Brim, and Michalas as well. Or so I’ve been told.”
“I see.” A little shiver worked its way over the back of her shoulders. It wouldn’t be long now. “If I had looked more closely at the book early on, I would have known the truth about Sebastian much sooner, since you and Aunt Eustacia chose not to tell me.”
“There was no point in telling you.” Max shifted in his seat. “And Vioget should have been struck from the list years ago. He had no cause to be there.”
Knowing that this could be the last conversation she and Max ever had, Victoria closed the book and looked at him. “Why do you hate him so?”
“You ask because you know why he loathes me . . . but you can’t help but wonder what possible reason I could have for enmity toward him. I know he’s made his case to you.”
“There is no case to be made, Max. I understand why he . . . dislikes . . . you, and holds you responsible for Giulia’s death—even though it was by his own hand. But I also know that you’ve forgiven yourself for the horrible mistake, and that you didn’t bring her to the Tutela to hurt her. Only because you thought to help her, and that you’ve done everything you can to atone for it. But I do want to know what it is about him that makes you so disgusted.”
He looked at her, and she saw the signs lingering in his gaze. “Vioget has the calling—the blood, the innate skills, to be a Venator—and yet he rejected it. For years. I can’t forgive him for that. Nor can I understand it.”
“At first, I couldn’t either. But I’ve come to realize why he lost the urge to hunt vampires. Knowing that I’m responsible for sending a creature who—no matter how abhorrent he became—was once a mortal, loving and loved, to his eternal damnation, does give me pause sometimes.”
“Yet you still do it,” Max said quietly. His words were firm, steady. “As do I. Because you must; because we’re charged to protect our own race. Do you think it hasn’t occurred to me that not only did I cause Giulia to turn into an immortal half demon, but I also gave her a sentence of eternal damnation? I live with that knowledge every day.”
Victoria looked at him, at last realizing why he wore such a cold, harsh persona; why he seemed so brittle and emotionless most of the time. That made what she was about to do all the more difficult. “It was hard enough for me to slay Phillip,” she said, her heart breaking for him, “but it was that much easier, knowing that he’d not be sent to eternal Hell because he’d not yet fed on a mortal.”
“Indeed.”
“And yet,” she said, echoing words he’d said himself, “you’ve never wavered from your decision to hunt vampires. Despite knowing the sentence you—we—thrust upon them.”
“No. For what choice do we have? If we don’t slay them, strive to put an end to them, what would happen to our race? They’re stronger and faster than we are, immortal, and their instinct—their driving need to survive—is to take from humans. If we did nothing, if all—or even many—Venators rejected their calling as Vioget did, it wouldn’t be long before the undead would take over. We have no choice. As Venators—you especially, as a Gardella—it’s our calling. Our duty and responsibility. But it’s not our role to make judgments about whether the undead should live or die. Or whether there truly is no chance that an undead’s soul might be spared damnation.”
“Is there?”
He shrugged, lines deep in his face. “It’s a hope I live with every day, that perhaps . . .” He shook his head as if to clear it. “It’s not for us to question our calling.” He looked at Victoria. His eyes were bleary. “If Phillip had drunk from a mortal before you had the chance to slay him, would you still have done it, knowing you’d be sending him to Hell?”
How many times had she wondered the same thing? Countless times, over the last two years, sometimes waking from a deep, twisting slumber, damp and heart pounding, with her fingers curled around an invisible stake. She knew the answer.
“Yes.”
Max nodded. “And that is the difference between you and me—and Vioget. We fulfill our God-given purpose no matter how difficult or painful it is.” He raised his glass to drink again and stopped, his hand in midair.
Their eyes met and, in that moment, a burst of clarity flashed into his. “By God, you didn’t.” He surged to his feet and swayed. Fury darkened his face, fury the likes of which she’d never seen before. He looked carved from stone.
Her stomach tipped and roiled as she pulled slowly to her feet. Guilt was plastered all over her face. She remained silent. She had no words.
He lunged toward her, unsteady from the effects of the quick-working salvi, and bumped into the table. Glasses clinked ominously. “Why?” His chest moved in quick, hard jerks, as if he’d been running for hours.
She couldn’t answer; her mouth was devoid of all moisture. She could barely swallow and her tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of her mouth.
Max slashed out at her, clumsy and slow, and she moved easily out of reach of those strong fingers. “What are you doing tonight? Where are you going?” His words were slurred; the salvi, once it took hold, worked quickly.
Victoria shook her head. “Max, I wanted to pro—”
“My God, Victoria . . .” His voice trailed off, weakening, and he turned away, staggering slightly. “I will . . . never . . . forgive. . . .”
His proud shoulders slumped and she saw his fingers closing into lethal fists. He half fell into the chair he’d recently vacated, the force of his uncontrolled weight shoving it against the wall.
Max looked up, fixing his dark eyes on her in one last look of loathing before he slumped into unconsciousness.
Sixteen
In Which the Marquess of Rockley Acquires a Chaperone
The night still hoarded some of the sun’s warmth, eliminating the need for a shawl or wrap. The moon was a bit more slender than the night before, when Victoria had stood on the empty street and faced Bemis Goodwin, but the stars were twinkling in a great wide swath overhead and helped to light the inky blue sky.
James sat next to her in the curricle, holding the lines and bumping his solid arm against hers every time he moved. The open-faced, two-seater vehicle rumbled along the deserted pathways of Regent’s Park, the awkward, random shapes of bush and shrubbery adding to a slightly eerie feel. The faint essence of wood smoke sifted through the air.
Victoria couldn’t get Max out of her mind. Taking a deep breath, she looked up obediently when her companion commented on the array of celestial bodies, but her thoughts churned like the swill at the bottom of a fishing boat.
He would never understand, never forgive her. She knew that. But, more than that, she feared what could happen if he followed her tonight. It had been worth taking the chance, knowing she wouldn’t have to worry about his safety.
“Oho, and here they are,” crowed James in delight. “Over here!”
Forced from her unpleasant thoughts, Victoria looked up and redirected her mind to the matter at hand. She had not come on this little excursion without preparation and planning. In fact, as she peered in the dark toward the sprightly vehicle that presumably carried Sara and George, she was actually looking beyond it. If all had gone as expected, Sebastian and Kritanu would be there, somewhere in the darkness, having been delivered by Barth and his hackney. They would be watching and waiting, ready to help quell any problems that might arise.
As Sara and George moved closer in their vehicular conveyance, Victoria became aware of the telltale chill on the back of her neck. Complacence and anticipation settled over her. She’d been right to suspect something.
“Good evening, Lord Rockley . . . and Lady Rockley.” George’s voice held faint amusement, presumably at the linking of their names.
Behind the other carriage, Victoria saw shadows moving. The corresponding barometer at her nape indicated a fair number of undead in the vicinity. She tensed beneath her skin, careful not to indicate her reaction to James. If he were a daytime vampire, he didn’t need to drink the elixir at night—unless he wanted to keep her unaware of his condition until now. Which would make sense.
Or, just as likely, he and she were both planned victims.