Bleeding Dusk

occasional shout or shrill laugh far in the distance. Monuments and headstones made tall, stark shadows over the dark grass.

“No,” she replied, walking on, mask dangling from her hand. The fresh air felt good on her face, now that it was uncovered, but the back of her neck had warmed slightly, and the fine hairs there had flattened. She’d lost the scent.

“Nae many vampires during Carnivale this year,” Zavier said, walking along with her. His shoulder bumped against hers, then drew away as he kept on. “Perhaps they’ve all cloistered away since the death of Nedas, trying to get organized again.”

Victoria had killed Lilith’s son, Nedas, at the same time Akvan’s Obelisk had been destroyed. Nedas had been a powerful leader among the vampires in Rome who’d been served by the Tutela. With his destruction, the fate of his followers and the Tutela had been thrown into question, along with the issue of who would succeed him.

“I hardly think that Beauregard would lose his opportunity to gain control of the vampire underworld in Rome,” Victoria replied, stepping over a low iron fence. Its spike caught at the hem of her trousers—thank heaven her mother hadn’t been around to see her wearing them. “He was fairly salivating at the news of Nedas’s death, and intended to execute Max that night while the vampires looked on.” Her fingers were cold, but the air was only chilly. “We barely made it out alive.”

“Was there not another vampire who wished to succeed Nedas?”

“Indeed, the Conte Regalado, who was the leader of the Tutela, wanted it very badly. He is a newly turned vampire, and young in his power, but it seems as if he may have not only the support of the Tutela, but also of some of Nedas’s followers. It was partly due to Regalado’s interference that Max and I were able to escape from Beauregard.” Regalado was also the father of the woman Max had intended to marry, a woman who enjoyed being fed upon by vampires.

Victoria wondered, fleetingly, if Sarafina’s father ever fed on her, now that he was a vampire. He was vulgar enough to do so.

And Sarafina was indecent enough to let him.

The truth was, Victoria wouldn’t have escaped the battle between the two factions of vampires without the assistance of Sebastian Vioget. But at least now she thought she had a way of finding him.

Lost in her thoughts, Victoria didn’t realize Zavier had stopped walking until something snagged her sleeve. Dropping her mask, she whirled around, stake raised, and nearly drove it into his barrel chest.

Instead of being surprised or taken aback by her offensive stance, he looked at her with a glint of humor in his expression. “Ye can put that down for a minute.”

“No, I can’t,” Victoria replied, spying a movement in the shadows behind him. The hair on the back of her neck lifted, and the chill intensified again.

Stake in hand, she started off after the glowing red eyes, leaping over a gravestone and slipping a little when she landed on the damp grass.

The vampire must have thought he’d come upon two lovers strolling through the graveyard, taking a quiet moment away from Carnivale; for until Victoria landed in front of him, stake at the ready, he’d remained hovering in the bushes. When he saw that she’d fearlessly come after him, he turned and ran.

Elated, Victoria followed. She loved the feeling of letting herself go, of running, leaping over the stones and low fences, dashing around a crumbling mausoleum, and finally throwing herself at the vampire. She crashed into him, barely feeling the impact, and they tumbled to the ground. The loose legs of her costume wrapped around their calves as he rolled on top of her, fangs bared.

His eyes were red, the color of Chianti, glowing as he bent his face down toward her. She could smell blood on his breath, and she dropped her stake, reaching up to grab him by the shoulders and fling him onto his back. He was young and relatively weak, and would be perfect for the message she needed to send.

But suddenly there was a whistle of movement and the vampire jerked, then froze, then burst into a cloud of dust and musty ash. It poofed onto her face and into her hair and lashes, and Victoria looked up to see Zavier standing over her. He was offering a hand to help her up.

“Why did you do that?” She ignored his hand and rolled easily to her feet, barely breathing hard, stake again in hand. For a moment she wanted to plant it in that big barrel chest in front of her. Damn and blast! The first vampire she’d seen in a week, and he was gone before she could talk to him. Now she’d have to find another one tonight—although it shouldn’t be hard, really, since they were bound to be out on the Corso.

“Why, I was helpin’ ye.”

“I had things well in hand. I didn’t need help. I wanted to talk to him, not kill him.” The thrill of the fight had gone out of her and left Victoria with a rumbling annoyance and the feeling of unfinished business. Not to mention covered with vampire dust.

“Ye appeared to be in danger, so I wasna going to stand by and watch him maul you.”

Victoria looked at him as she brushed the dank ash from her hair and clothes. They were nearly the same height, although he was much bulkier than she. “I am capable of staking a single vampire,” she said slowly and distinctly, her nerves still wanting to jump. “I’ve done it many times before. In fact,” she said, closing her eyes to finger away the dust on her lashes as much as to retain the evenness of her voice, “I have fought five at a time, and won. I purposely didn’t kill him because I needed him to take a message for me.” A message to Beauregard that she was looking for his grandson.

But, of course, Zavier wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—known that. He didn’t even know anything about the Door of Alchemy.

When she opened her eyes, Zavier was still looking at her. But instead of bafflement or chagrin or even annoyance, his expression was filled with admiration. “Of course,” he said. “Fool that I was, I forgot that you of all women dinna need protection.”

The smile he gave her there, in the cold cemetery, warmed Victoria from her cheeks down to her toes, and she had to glance away for fear her face would start to glow. Although fighting her way through undead immortals and evil demons was becoming second nature to her, she was less sure of herself when interacting with men.

She’d debuted into London Society just about a year and a half ago, and had been in mourning for her husband, Phillip, for a twelvemonth of that period, during which, of course, she’d worn black and stayed cloistered in her husband’s home—far away from members of the opposite sex. No fetes, no balls, no theater engagements. She’d been lonely and grieving and trying desperately to determine how to fit the two parts of her life together.

She had come to the realization that there was no way to have a real life, with a real relationship with a man. Her life was with the Venators, especially now, as Illa Gardella. She would touch Society from time to time, but she would never be immersed in it as she once had been. She’d never marry again, never have a child, much as her mother might wish it.

But then, as she looked over at Zavier and saw the admiration and attraction in his face, she wondered if it had to be thus. If she really did have to be alone and keep anyone who might care about her—or whom she might care for—at arm’s length. The last vestiges of her annoyance filtered away.

“I hope that ye will forgive me,” he was saying, and somehow he’d taken her hand in his large warm one. The one that wasn’t holding the stake. “’Tis just that I am—that a man is—bound to protect a woman. And I dinna think of you as a warrior, yet I ken that you are a fierce one. ’Tis hard to reconcile that with…well…” His voice trailed off, and Victoria would have believed he was blushing if his face weren’t already a bit ruddy from the cold.

“I’m not angry,” she said, when he appeared unable to select the words to finish his thoughts. “I’m glad you understand. Zavier, if ever I need assistance, it will be obvious.”

He was looking down at their joined hands, her small white one in his, and when he raised his face again she felt her heart begin to pound.

Before he could speak, a rustling in the bushes near a large tomb drew their attention. Zavier’s hand tightened on hers in warning, and then released. They both moved silently across a fenced expanse of grass toward the stone structure. It was nearly as large as a small home, its cream-colored stucco appearing gray and forbidding in the sliver of moonlight.

The front of the mausoleum was grand, its upper edge topped with a wide, jutting cornice and studded at