“So I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands.” She smiled. It wasn’t a seductive smile, or even a pleased one. It was feral. Bestial. “Once I’m sure Wayren is safe, I’m going to find Lilith, and kill her.”
Seven
Sebastian did not return to Victoria’s chamber after all.
He thought to have had his mount saddled in order to take himself off to the rooms he let while in London, but something drew him back to the sitting room. He had a compelling desire to see if the Gardella Bible, about which he’d heard so much, was there. An odd thought, to be sure… It certainly wouldn’t be sitting out, and, furthermore, why did he feel the need to see it? It had never occurred to him to care before.
Nevertheless, that persuasive thought directed him to the small room when he would have left the house, plagued by other unpleasant thoughts instead.
Though Victoria had said that Wayren was resting, she seemed to be waiting for him. He would have backed out of the room if she hadn’t fastened those all-seeing blue-gray eyes on him from her half-reclined position on a chaise.
“Sebastian. Come.”
“But you’re weary.” Something niggled uncomfortably inside him, something that told him he would be happier if he left.
“Please.”
Before he realized it, he was limping into the sitting room, as though drawn by some invisible thread. Wayren had always unsettled him-from the first time he met her, years ago, when he first learned of his Venator calling… to less than six months ago, when he was discovered sneaking about in the Consilium, the secret headquarters of the Venators in Rome.
Yet she seemed to mean him no harm, and unlike Pesaro, she had no condemnation in her eyes. They were peaceful. Serene.
And perceptive. His self-deprecating charm would be out of place in the face of such bald honesty and sincerity.
“Do the dreams still plague you?” she asked as he began to sit.
Startled by her question, Sebastian froze, half poised above the seat cushion. “Dreams?” How could she know?
But as soon as he thought it, he knew the question was foolish. Wayren knew many things-of past, present, and future. Of truth and deceit, of promise and threat.
Her weakness wasn’t knowledge. Wayren’s limitation was her inability to change what she knew-or portended. Or even, sometimes, to simply divulge her information.
She didn’t respond-merely looked at him. Sebastian allowed himself to sink into the chair. Devil take it. He should have left when he had had the chance. But now he had become entwined.
“I dream of Giulia, if that’s what you mean.” Sebastian could hardly believe he’d admitted it aloud. The dreams he had of the woman-girl, really-he’d loved all those years ago were a private thing. By admitting it aloud, he felt as though he tainted those nocturnal images and memories-at least, the pleasant ones. Yet he was compelled to speak honestly and without prevarication.
Wayren nodded. “Tell me about the dreams.”
Sebastian looked down at his hands. His fingers trembled in his lap. “I dream over and over again of the moment when I saw her… and realized she’d been turned undead. Her eyes turned red for only a moment, then dissolved back to normal mortal ones.”
Normal mortal ones that he saw every time he looked at Giulia’s brother. Max Pesaro.
“Your antipathy for him has not affected your work as a Venator… now that you’ve returned to us,” Wayren said quietly. It did not surprise him that she knew the trail on which his thoughts had gone. “I find that commendable.”
Antipathy? What Sebastian felt for Max Pesaro went deeper than antipathy. It had been Max who’d taken Giulia-as well as their elderly, crippled father-to the secret society of vampire protectors, believing that the Tutela could help prolong their lives. Even give them immortality, through the vampires.
Giulia, beautiful and gentle as she was, had always been a sickly girl, unlike her twin brother. Pale, delicate, and with a persistent cough that worried those who loved her.
In his more generous moments, Sebastian almost understood Max’s intent, naive as it had been: to protect and save his family.
But that empathy usually dissolved when Sebastian reminded himself that because of Max, he’d not only lost the woman he loved, but had been forced to send her to Hell by slamming a stake into her heart. Giulia had been the second vampire he’d slain, and she became the last undead he killed… until last autumn in Rome. Nearly fifteen years later.
Sebastian realized he’d been silent for too long, and looked up to find Wayren’s eyes focused on him. Patience limned her gaze, patience and sympathy.
“I dream it over and over: that her eyes turn red and her fangs… extend… and then moments later, she returns to normal. A mortal. Unchanged. But I slay her anyway. I slam that stake into her heart even as she opens her mouth to plead with me.” He swallowed. “And then the dream shifts, so I don’t see if she turns to ash… and I wonder if I was mistaken… if I was wrong, and she hadn’t been undead. And if I killed her for no damn good reason.”
He didn’t care that those last words came out tight and low and hard, that fury burned through him. Moisture stung the corners of his eyes and he closed them tightly.
And now he was about to lose the second woman he loved. To the man he hated.
“It is said that those turned undead have souls damned for eternity upon the destruction of their physical body,” Wayren said. Her voice remained easy, soothing. And despite the turmoil inside, the anger and pain, Sebastian felt a vestige of peace slide over him. “And that is why you turned from the Venators for years, is it not? The belief that you had no right to send any soul to its eternal damnation.”
“Yes. How could I make that judgment? How would I know who was… deserving? For if they had been good in life…” To his great mortification, his voice cracked with emotion. Sebastian swallowed and forced himself to go on. “If they had been good, and blameless in life, and then unwillingly or unwittingly turned undead… how could I thrust eternal damnation upon them?”
“You believe that there might be hope for those undead.” Wayren did not ask a question; she stated a fact, a hope that had been buried so deeply inside Sebastian that he’d never really allowed himself to think it. Let alone to bring it to life by putting it into words.
Emboldened now-or, perhaps only dispirited-by her question, he looked at her. “Is it possible?”
Her eyes remained clear; he could read nothing there. But she replied, “Anything might be possible, Sebastian. I may know much, but I do not know all. I suspect that divine judgment considers many factors that we cannot comprehend. And that all we can do here is what we are called to do. No matter how difficult it might be.”
Sebastian sagged back in his seat. An answer that was no answer. He stood, brushing self-consciously at his rumpled shirt. “Thank you, Wayren.”
Her smile held a tinge of amusement and a bit more of sorrow. “I thank you, Sebastian. I know it was difficult for you to return. And to have this conversation with me.”
At this, he allowed his lips to quirk on one side. “I’ve had many difficult conversations with women in the last weeks,” he said, recalling the moment when Victoria attempted to tell him what he already knew: that she loved Max in a way that she’d never love him. “I begin to think that it would be best for me to avoid females until such a time as when my luck has changed.”
“I am sorry for your pain,” she said. “Sometimes, it is through pain that one discerns one’s true path.”
Sebastian would have liked to return with a quip about figurative stakes through the heart, but something stopped him. He closed his lips and bowed, relieved to quit the room.
