As Shadows Fade

surge of power sleeked through him. Power and peace. “You’re feverish. Are you ill?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been. A bit.”

She offered him a flask of water, and he drank. He’d never tasted anything more pure, more cold and clean. The heat burning through his limbs eased a bit, but it still raged beneath. He was ill and bloody weak. Yet he had work to do.

“Did you ask Ylito what he thought?”

Wayren nodded. “He agrees that you should not remove the vis bulla during the battle. There is no reason to, and yours is a special situation. Never have we had a Venator need to pass another Trial, wearing his own vis bulla. You do have your own back, don’t you?”

Max shoved away the memory of the exchange with Victoria, when she had returned his vis bulla, which she’d secretly been wearing, and he had given her back her own. Which he’d been wearing. “Yes.” He looked at Wayren. “Did you discuss with him the other matter?”

“He agrees that it would do no harm to try, Max. Normally, of course, we have the blood from the vampire waiting, with the vis bulla soaking in holy water. After the vampire is dead, then the vis is taken from the holy water and dipped in the dead vampire’s blood and then pierced through the flesh of the Venator. That is when the truth will out: either death or life as a Venator.

“But in your case, since you already wear the vis, Ylito believes you may be able to miss that step and finish the Trial sooner. We’ll pour holy water on the amulet before the battle. If blood from the vampire is wiped on the vis during the battle, it may indeed reactivate your Venator powers.”

“Or it may not.”

“Or it may not.”

Either way, the result would be the same. If it was meant to happen, it would happen, whether during the battle with the vampire, or after.

Max knew that he didn’t want to kill a vampire only to die afterward.

He didn’t want to die at all, he realized, for the first time in a long time. For the first time since he could remember.

But he might. And he was prepared. He stood. “I’m ready.”

Fourteen The Trial Commences

When he walked in, Max didn’t look at Victoria.

She supposed she wasn’t surprised-after all, this was Max.

But what if he never came out of that pit again? What if this was the last time she’d see him? And he wouldn’t look at her.

Victoria dug her fingers into the palm of her hand and tried not to notice how gray he looked in the face, beneath his olive skin. How exhaustion pinched his mouth and lined his eyes. A sheen of moisture glazed his forehead and cheeks. Was he ill or simply worn down?

He moved easily, yet lacking the grace she was used to seeing from a man who could waltz like a creek flowing over rocks, or lift his feet and glide through the air while wielding a sword as though it were an extension of his arm.

She assumed he wore nothing but his breeches for safety purposes-for the same reason she’d cut her hair: to give his opponent nothing to grab on to-but for the moment, the sight of his square shoulders and powerful arms made her mouth dry. The vis bulla at his areola shone against dark skin and the hair on his muscular chest and arrowing down his belly. His feet, bare and wide and brown, moved silently across the room, taking him past her. She saw the brand of the Tutela on the back of his shoulder, a stylized, wiry canine burned into his flesh in an unforgiving reminder of his youthful mistake. He carried a stake. And as she watched, he poured a small vial of water-holy water, probably-over the silver vis, then drank long and deeply from a skin that Wayren handed him.

Victoria knew better than to speak, to move toward him. But couldn’t he even look toward her for a moment so that she could let him see how much she loved him?

Her fingers tightened against the trousers she wore, her knuckles scraping over rough wood. A splinter shot into the tender skin there, but she welcomed the discomfort. A distraction.

Brim sat on one side of her, and despite the fact that they weren’t touching, she felt compassion radiating from him. On the other sat Sebastian, stiff and removed.

Just in front of where they sat on rough wooden benches, an iron grate rose from ceiling to floor, separating them from a shallow ditch. Lit by a torch at either end of the elliptical space, the gated space reminded Victoria of a shallow version of the pit in which Lilith had thrown her less than two months ago. Then, it had been Max who sat helplessly and watched as she fought for her life… and then for the life of Sara Regalado.

Victoria didn’t know how or when Wayren had arranged for the Trial to be here in this abandoned building. It didn’t matter. What mattered now was the large, scar-jawed vampire who paced in the space, waiting for Max to join him.

The vampire happened to be the one Victoria had lured out of the tavern last night-so very different from the creature she’d hoped Max would face. He was a Guardian; she’d been right about that, damn it. And because of the games the Venators had played the night before, they’d either scared off many of the undead or whittled their numbers down to nearly nothing… and this tall, strong undead had been the only one they’d been able to find for the Trial.

The next thing she knew, Max clanged the grate’s door open and jumped down the shallow incline, his stake black and lethal in his hand. He landed with a bit of a stumble, catching himself, and Victoria closed her eyes.

Three days of fasting and lack of sleep… no vis bulla… How could he be anything but weak and slow?

But he’d done this before.

Her eyes had opened, and she watched, trying not to wonder what Max thought about being on display for them all. Whether he was aware of anything but the powerful undead he faced.

Beyond the grate, she saw a blur of motion. Victoria found it hard to tell who launched first, but both were fighting for their lives.

And only one would walk through that gate.

Victoria found it a small consolation that, should the undead be the one to do so, she’d meet him there with her stake.

As always when he fought, Max cut everything from his mind, his awareness-everything but the battle. The hand to hand, the strikes, the rhythm, the timing.

Despite the fever that burned beneath his skin and parched his tongue, the exhaustion that wanted to weight his limbs and slow his movements, he met the vampire’s assault readily.

Draw blood first.

He swiped viciously, but the undead dodged and slammed Max against the iron grate. It clanged loudly, echoing in the space, and Max whirled around just as the powerful vampire launched at him, eyes burning pink.

A bloody Guardian. A large one.

The room spun around Max, spewing dots of lights before his eyes, but he surged up and toward the vampire, slicing the stake’s point at his face, along his arm. Not deep enough. No blood yet.

Not enough strength, even, to lift himself through the air in qinggong.

Look away from the eyes.

Max ducked another assault, hooking the creature’s leg to pull him off balance. He was damn big, and frighteningly strong, and he fell hard. But he pulled Max with him, slamming his head against the dirt floor. Something pinged at the back of his skull, but then Max felt the vampire move with him, grabbing for him, and he kicked him off.