But he also pocketed a gun.
When Max walked into the Silver Chalice for the third night in a row, he knew something bad was going to happen.
It was about time; he'd been waiting for it all to explode for three days. Ever since that first raid at Vauxhall, followed by the one at Bridge and Stokes, he'd known this was leading up to something.
Lilith's patience had worn thin.
What he didn't expect—couldn't have fathomed finding—was the Marquess of Rockley sitting companionably at a table with Sebastian Vioget.
Before he had a chance to wonder about it, Vioget looked up and saw him standing at the entrance. The faintest flare of a smile tipped his mouth, and he nodded to Max.
Max started toward them. No matter how cunning Lilith was, this could not be part of her plan.
'Good evening, Rockley,' Max said as he approached the table.
'Pesaro. Why am I not surprised to see you here.' True to his words, there was no inflection in his voice.
'Perhaps, but it is I who am at a disadvantage. I would have believed that after your last visit, you would have actually learned something. Namely that there are places where you are not welcome… and not safe.'
'Vioget here has assured me that that is not the case, that I have nothing to fear while I am in his establishment. Victoria has told me everything.'
'Indeed? But you did not believe her, so you came here to find out for yourself. Foolish man. If I had not arrived, you would be at the mercy of this man's whim.' So she had told him. Max's eyes slitted as they scored over the marquess: his sleepy eyes, perfect hair, tailored and pressed clothing. The man had walked into this den of the undead, disbelieving, and wholly unprepared to face the results of his actions.
He was as good as dead unless Max intervened. Again.
'If you had not arrived, we would have continued our conversation most pleasantly,' Vioget returned coolly. 'Now, if you please, Maximilian—'
But before he could finish, a bad sound behind Max grabbed the attention of both of them. He whirled as Sebastian bolted to his feet.
Imperials. Five of them—more than Max had ever seen together at one time—standing at the bottom of the stairs, swords drawn, red-violet eyes glowing. Only one of them smiled, and his fangs gleamed.
Max heard Rockley's intake of breath. Too late, poor bastard.
The room had quieted, and the tension pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
'Good evening and welcome to the Silver Chalice.' Max had to give Vioget credit; his voice was as smooth and unruffled as if he'd been greeting a lady for tea. But Max knew that five Imperials were not here for tea, or for libation of any kind. Even the fresh sort.
Lilith had sent them.
The leader of the Imperials took three steps. The undead at the tables near him shrank away. Imperials, when angered, had been known to cannibalize their own.
'Sebastian Vioget, we have been sent to escort you to the presence of our mistress.'
'Please give her my apologies, but as you can see, I am otherwise engaged this evening.'
Max noticed that Vioget had shifted himself back toward the brick wall behind Rockley. Under the guise of adjusting his coat, Max moved to the left of Rockley, placing him between Sebastian and himself and only a few inches from the hidden doorway. Max wasn't about to let Vioget get through there without the two of them.
Not for the first time, he wondered how he had been saddled with babysitting a marquess… yet again.
'You are amusing, Vioget. Now, you can make this simple… or you can make it difficult.' The way the Imperial leader caressed his lower lip with his left fang indicated that he much preferred difficulties.
Max touched Rockley and felt the rigidity of his shoulder. 'Be ready,' he said softly, without moving his lips. 'Behind you.'
But they never had a chance.
Suddenly the room was a flurry of movement—a table went flying, swords flashed, chairs splintered; there were shouts, screams, and the thuds of flesh on flesh.
Max grabbed Rockley and threw him under the table, then followed. Forget the hidden door; they would try to slink out by edging along the walls.
Phillip, who had found himself unable to move, suddenly knew his only chance to escape was to follow Victoria's cousin on the floor under the tables. He let go of the gun in his pocket, realizing, at last, what Pesaro and Victoria had been trying to tell him. Too late.
It hadn't been enough—the hypnotic tug and pull of the eyes of the customers in the inn, the way they seemed to bore into him and soften him… no, it wasn't until those five men, with burning eyes and lethal weapons, had exploded into the place that he realized that he was going to die.
He was going to die with accusations and anger toward his wife hanging between them.
Knowing instinctively that the crucifix in his pocket would be little protection against the five creatures, Phillip scrambled across the floor after Max, pinning his only hope of survival on the man who seemed to know what to do. Shards of glass and splinters of wood cut into his fine breeches, sliced into his hands. Something dark and sticky spilled onto his head and shoulders from the tables above. Rust's stench filled his nose. There was a loud crash behind them, and he smelled the spill of lantern oil and, closely thereafter, the clogging scent of raging fire.
He and Pesaro miraculously reached the curve of wall that ended at the bottom of the stairs to this place he would forever think of as hell. Shouts and the sounds of fighting followed them as they inched along the wall under the cover of a sudden thick smoke, and Phillip wanted to shout in triumph when they touched the bottom stair.
Stumbling up the steps, Phillip saw his guide look back, pausing on the stairs. He pushed past Max, onward, recognizing that there was no hope of helping Vioget. Or anyone else in the way of those five monsters.
But when he reached the top—freedom—he found himself facing two more of the creatures. Their eyes were red, and they did not carry swords. One was a woman. But, as unfamiliar with these demons as he was, Phillip recognized that they were vampires by the way he slogged into futile motions when he was caught by her gaze.
'How lovely,' she said in a throaty voice. 'Just what I needed. And I thought I would miss all the fun, being stationed up here.'
He couldn't fight it; her eyes trapped him. He was picked up and carried effortlessly away… away somewhere. He struggled; he couldn't break free… she held him close, and he felt her heart beating in him, through him, as if wrapped in some kind of tendril that tightened with each struggle.
She shoved him somewhere; he fell onto something upholstered and struggled to get away. He was in a carriage; he could see out the door; they had Pesaro. They were dragging him toward the carriage, but she pulled him back, away from the opening.
'Now, my lovely,' she said, and he looked into her eyes. He couldn't help it. They compelled him like nothing ever had. He was vaguely aware of a heavy burden tossed in next to him, for it broke the connection for the barest of moments.
'My lovely,' she said again, and her strong fingers filtered through his hair like a lover's. Like Victoria's. Then she tightened them, pulled his head back hard, and he cried out at the shock. She bent to him; her lips were warm and cool at the same time. They touched the curve of his neck, the soft part now open and bare.
He struggled, but she pulled away and looked at him, settling him with her eyes. 'It won't hurt, my lovely… my lovely.' She licked his face, closed her mouth over his, and thrust her tongue into it. Choking him… yet pleasing him. When she pulled away, he tasted blood… and she was licking her lips. He wanted to lick them too.
Someone was struggling next to him in the carriage. It jolted him, and the female vampire hissed, 'Subdue the Venator. But control yourself. The mistress will have your heart if you feed on him.'
Then she returned to Phillip, smiling, calling him with her eyes. 'And what is your name, my lovely? You are too pretty to remain nameless. Perhaps I will keep you.'
He wanted to answer; he didn't want to answer… He had no choice. Her red eyes, circled with black, pinpointed with black too, compelled him to respond. 'Phillip…' he managed. 'Rockley…'
