Colleen Gleason
Bleeding Dusk
Acknowledgments
I realize more and more with each book how much it’s not a solitary process. There are many people to thank each time, and my heartfelt gratitude goes out to each of them.
First, always, thanks to Marcy Posner for holding my hand, keeping me from going off the deep end, and for celebrating the good stuff.
And to Claire Zion, whose brilliance makes the Gardellas that much better…every time.
Thanks to everyone at NAL who has helped bring Victoria and her story to the market—Sandra Devendorf, Hilary Dowling, Kara Welsh, and the incredible, amazing art department, which just blows my mind with their cover and promotional designs. They just keep getting better and better! Thanks, too, to the sales reps, who have done a fabulous job getting the books out in unexpected places everywhere.
Big thanks to my blogger friends who have helped along the way, especially Carl V. (who is constantly going out of his way to support me), Cheya, Nancytoes, Zeus and Marina, Bam, Susan Helene, Chris, Mary F., Kailana, the Smart Bitches, Heather Harper, Megan F., and everyone who hangs out at my blog. Also to Jeff for the great pictures!
Thanks to my writer friends, especially Jackie Kessler, Diane Gaston, Janet Mullany, Anne Mallory, and all of the Wet Noodle Posse.
I couldn’t do it without Holli and Tammy holding my hand through the whole creative process, and also Jana DeLeon, whose shoulder to cry on and ear to celebrate in has made it all so much easier.
Thanks to Christel for the Italian and French assistance, and to Beth, Debi, Danita, and Jen for all their support. And also to the Brighton Borders, for hosting me and my Mambo addiction nearly every day during deadline time, and to Paperback Outlet, for two of the best signings ever!
And, lastly, to Steve and my three lovelies for understanding the whole concept of the writing process, and letting me do it…even when we’d all rather be hanging out together. I love you all, and thank you for your love, enthusiasm, and plot help!
Prologue
The lair of the Queen of the Vampires was tucked away in the snowy mountain range of Muntii Făgăraş.
The only reason Maximilian Pesaro had been able to find the hideaway was because of the two bite marks on his neck. Permanent ones left by Lilith herself.
They burned and tingled as he approached the entrance to the interior chamber. The throbbing never fully went away, but there were times when it ebbed enough that he could forget about the fact that he was permanently linked to the vampire queen.
The back of his neck felt as though a brick of ice rested on it; but it was not because of the winter that blustered outside of the stone-cut chambers in the mountain. The howling winds and blinding snow that came much too early and stayed too long in these Romanian mountains had nothing to do with the chill that burned his neck, and everything to do with the fact that there were vampires nearby. As he was a Venator, it was his way of sensing the presence of the undead.
Coming here was foolish and brazen. Max was never foolish, although he had his brazen moments. But after what he’d been through in the last months, he was willing to accept the consequences of this visit. Even if it resulted in his death, he chanced it—because it could also result in his freedom.
The only reason he’d made it so far into the bowels of Lilith’s refuge was the fact that he bore her markings. Her branding of him was an obscene protection from the undead that guarded her compound.
Max passed yet another of Lilith’s Guardian vampires, ones that had eyes that burned pale ruby and fangs that released a strong poison at will. She opened the heavy wooden door to Lilith’s private chamber and stepped back to allow him in.
“Maximilian.” Lilith’s voice was a purr, and her red-ringed blue eyes were avid as she cast her gaze over him. “I believe this is the first time you have ever come to me of your own accord. What a pleasure.”
Carved in the deepest part of the mountain, Lilith’s sanctuary was as far as possible from the sunlight that would peel the skin from her body. Its interior was otherwise like any well-appointed house in the civilized world of London, Rome, or Budapest, with the exception of its lack of windows.
Comfortable furnishings were arranged throughout the large, high-ceilinged room. Tables held lamps and sheafs of parchment; settees were covered with thick pillows and cushions. Thick Persian rugs warmed the cold stone floor. A large tapestry hung on the wall depicted the immortalization of Judas Iscariot, the first true vampire. Another showed him slaying the first vampire hunter, Gardeleus the Venator.
That was the first time a vampire had killed a Venator, and, Max thought grimly, it had not been the last. Fortunately there had been other vampire hunters born from Gardeleus’s blood over the ages—arising randomly from far-flung branches of the family tree. And then there had been a very few—like Max himself—who were not of Gardella blood, but had chosen the path of a vampire slayer and had passed the life-or-death test that allowed them to wear the holy empowering amulet of the Venators, the
Nor were Venators protected from being turned by a vampire, although the power of the
The chamber was warm, and the lighting burned low. A massive blaze roared in the fireplace, taking up the entirety of one long wall and casting black and red shadows into the room.
Lilith herself was arranged casually on a long chaise, her filmy ice-blue gown draping from her hip to the floor, leaving her white feet and arms bare. Her red hair, so shiny and bright that it appeared to burn, poured over her fair skin in sensual coils that reminded Max of the locks of a copper-haired Medusa. Although she had been on the earth for more than a millennium, Lilith had the beautiful elfin face of a thirty-year-old, and a body that matched. Her pose appeared nonchalant, but a fleeting glance at her dangerous eyes told Max a different story.
He was glad for at least the advantage of surprise.
The doors closed behind him, and he stopped in the center of the room. Wanting to keep what little leverage he had, he waited.
“You’re not dead,” Lilith said after the silence stretched. She followed suit and arched her long, lithe body as she drew herself into a seated position. One of control.
“Then you’re aware that I’ve destroyed Akvan’s Obelisk. That I’ve kept my part of our agreement to stop your son, Nedas, from using its power.” Lilith had raised Nedas, who was the son of one of her consorts from the tenth century, from an infant, and had turned him to an undead when he was twenty.
She smiled. Her upper fangs glinted. “So that is why you have come.”
Now she stood and moved toward him, bringing with her a renewed burning in the bites on his neck and the scent of roses. Max felt her presence as it seeped into him, cloying and close, and noticed the way his breathing became…heavier…controlled.
