There were ropes looped over the poles from which the canvas backdrops hung.
Blocking out the sound of the incessant chanting, Victoria considered the heavy canvas scenery and, a plan half forming in her mind, moved carefully toward one that hung exactly opposite where Nedas seemed to stand. Perhaps she could swing down on the rope, using the element of surprise. If she aimed correctly, she could land on Nedas and stab him before he knew what happened.
Of course, after that she would be at the mercy of the rest of the vampires and the Tutela members, and, weakened as she was, she would be unable to fight them. And the obelisk would still be available for someone else to use.
The craving to drive the stake through Nedas's heart, to make him poof into ash, was so strong she considered taking the chance. And what about Max? He was the one who'd wielded the sword! The one who'd actually done the deed.
He deserved to die too.
She could have shot him, vampires be damned.
Her mouth twitched as she realized the irony of that thought. Then it straightened, for this was not a time for humor. Not with her aunt dead.
She could shoot Max from here. The realization swept over her, and she pulled the gun from her waistband. She could shoot him and be running through the catwalks before they realized what had happened or where she was.
At least then a part of her vengeance would be satisfied.
The firearm was heavy, so heavy. She sighted Max, trying to line up his tall frame with one eye squinted and the other focused on him. Never still, he moved with the power and confidence that had been so valuable to the Venators.
The best of them.
How could he have fooled them all?
Suddenly flames burst from below, diverting her attention from her target. They were tall black and blue flames, replacing the smoke tendrils from the five small bowls. They shot straight up, high into the air, narrow and hot, one column of eerie flame blazing only feet below where Victoria was perched. This was why Nedas had needed the large theater chamber.
The chanting had continued, melding into the background, as Nedas stood inside the circle made from the bowls of flame and began to speak, gesturing with his arms as though to bring the air toward the obelisk. He pulled his fingers through the air gracefully, drawing little buffets of movement toward the small table and its burden as though urging the heat toward it.
Victoria could not understand his words, but she did not need to know what he was saying. She knew what he was doing.
The sweet smell had ebbed, to be replaced by the heat of the flames and the deafening sound of their crackling. Max, Regalado, and the other two vampires stood outside of the circle, watching.
As Victoria looked down, she saw the flames begin to lean toward the center, above Akvan's Obelisk. Nedas continued to chant, surrounded by the black and blue flames that reflected the same color of the evil object, and the columns of flames drew closer and closer together.
At last they knit together as one, at the tip of the obelisk: five ropes of flame merging into one tall blaze that threatened to reach the highest part of the ceiling arching over the stage.
The flames roared, and Victoria could see, directly in front of her, the black and blue twining and writhing like rabid snakes, and feel the heat blazing on her face from yards away.
Akvan's Obelisk began to glow and sweat. Green and blue sparks radiated from it in a random pattern on all sides. Nedas reached out to touch one, and laughed when the spark snapped his finger. On and on he chanted; on the fire blazed; greener and bluer glowed the obelisk. Little beads glistened on the obsidian, trickling down and plopping on the floor.
The entire theater was lit by the weird blue and black flames, casting odd-colored shadows and plays of light everywhere. The vampires in the seats had ceased their chanting and stared at the flames as though desiring to pull their power into themselves.
Now the flames were changing, and large black drops swam down them faster than rain during a downpour. The drops swarmed down the long blazing tower and melted into Akvan's Obelisk, on and on and on.
Victoria noticed a sudden movement below; something odd. She looked over, down, away from the blaze that had captured her attention, and watched in amazement as Max burst through the flames, something long gleaming in his hand.
He tumbled into the circle, rolled upright, and slashed the blade through the obsidian tower in the same wide arc he'd used earlier.
The obelisk sizzled, then exploded, the flames extinguished, and the scream of fury from Nedas reverberated in the suddenly silent theater.
Chapter 25
When Max felt the sword connect with Akvan's Obelisk, a rush of pure relief blasted through him.
It was done.
The powerful arc of the sword set him off balance enough that by the time he'd regained his footing, the vampires were rushing toward him.
Max caught a glimpse of a shocked, feral-mouthed Nedas, and fury ripped through him; anger at what he'd done, for what he'd been forced to do by that creature. He whipped around with the sword, which was made of pure silver, and beheaded one of the vampires who'd leaped toward him.
Another one came at him, and he met him with the same, and then another, and another. They were climbing onto the stage from the audience at Nedas's frantic command. There were too many to fight, and he knew it wouldn't be long before they overpowered him, but until then he would use the acrimony of regret and madness to fuel as much revenge as he could.
He'd do what he'd been unable to for nearly a year.
A year—an eternity—of watching these evil creatures—these vampire-loving members of the Tutela—of living with them, jesting with them, pretending to scheme with them, professing love for one of them. He'd had to submerge his loathing and disgust, and some days it was all he could do not to explode.
He had succeeded in his deception. He would die with a clear conscience, and leave Beauregard and Nedas to fight between themselves.
And Victoria to lead the Venators in defeating them both.
The sword sang in his hand, but even with the weapon forged specially to conquer evil, blessed and containing a vial of holy water in its handle, he could not fight them all back. He was too exhausted, both in mind and body, to use his
But his body was conditioned to fight; despite the fact that he knew he would not leave here alive, that he had sealed his death sentence when he first swung the silver sword after the great black sweat began to pour down the obelisk, he kicked and swiped and spun and sliced as though there were hope.
At last he fell, tumbling to the stage floor, and used his legs to thrust at the undead as they lunged down toward him, and then, lying there on his back, struggling to get up, he saw something that made everything else fall away.
Above the stage.
Victoria.
Something slammed into him, bringing him back, and the world tipped, went black, then came back with a vengeance of tearing hands and pummeling fists. And the reality that Victoria was still here.
The sword was gone; he'd dropped it, and he was at the mercy of the undead.
