Bleeding Dusk

Six

Wherein Victoria Encounters a Stubborn Chin

“Max?” Victoria’s free hand automatically grabbed his arm, jolting him toward her, as if to be certain it really was him. “It’s you!” Relief and a wave of gladness washed over her as she felt the solidness of him under her fingers. He was alive. He was back.

“Perhaps you were expecting Sebastian Vioget,” Max added, releasing her wrist and stepping away from what was as close to a welcoming embrace as she’d ever given him.

In truth, she had expected it to be Sebastian—now that she’d sent the message through Beauregard.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her heart still hammering from the surprise of his unexpected appearance. She looked up at him as if the answer would be in his countenance. And perhaps it was.

Even in the mediocre light from a smattering of stars and the occasional lantern on the street, she could see weariness there in his face, and a sort of hesitancy. His cheeks seemed more pronounced, his thick hair more out of place than usual, his sharp jawline set and harsh and with at least three days’ stubble. Max’s dark clothing, although never as perfectly stylish as Sebastian’s, was rumpled, and there was no sign of a mask, costume, or moccoletto anywhere on his person.

“It’s been almost four months, Max. Where have you been?”

“I’ve been in various places of no import.” He stood back from her, but could not seem to remove his attention from her face. “You don’t appear to have suffered any great mishap during my absence.”

Victoria realized how she must sound—needy and uncertain, and as though she and the Venators could not function without him. She straightened, becoming more aloof to match his style. “Have you been following me? Or perhaps you were looking for someone else tonight.”

Max’s handsome, angular countenance appeared even sharper than usual in the bluish glow of night. Because he was so tall, when he looked down his long, straight nose at her, his eyes were little more than dark hollows in the shadows of his face. “Following you? I’d have no reason to do such a thing.”

“You certainly weren’t lurking about in the shadows trying to protect me.”

He paused, then replied in an odd voice, “You’d lost your vis bulla.”

“So you were watching to make certain I was safe? How very nice of you, Max. But I don’t know what you thought…”

…you might do to protect me without your own vis bulla.

Victoria quickly changed the subject. “You’ve cut your hair.” The last time she’d seen him he’d worn his hair clubbed back in a brief stub. Now it was too short for that.

“I couldn’t be more gratified that you noticed.”

She ignored the comment and responded with one of her own. “Is Sarafina lurking in the shadows? Why not invite her to join us? I didn’t get to speak with her last night.”

“I’ve just arrived, so I haven’t any notion where Sara is, but undoubtedly you have some point to make by mentioning her. If so, then make it, Victoria. Unlike Vioget, I prefer to cut to the quick of the matter rather than banter around it like a May dance.”

“It sounds as if you’re bantering now,” she replied smartly. Then she thought better of continuing the game and said, “Your fiancée attempted to have me kidnapped last night. Do you have any idea why?”

He didn’t respond immediately; nor did he deny that Sara was his fiancée. Max just looked down at her, as though deep in thought. “What happened?” he asked at last.

“She lured Zavier and me from Carnivale up to the Regalado family plot in a graveyard, and four or five men tried to wrap me in a big canvas and spirit me away.”

“And fortunately Zavier came to your rescue.”

“And fortunately I was able to rescue myself and didn’t stake Zavier when he tried to get between me and a vampire,” Victoria replied, realizing Max was succeeding in annoying her already, and wondering why she continued to let him—and why he continued to try.

“Zavier came betwixt your stake and a vampire? Did he get the harsh side of your tongue for his troubles? At least you never need worry about that happening with Vioget.” Then he, too, appeared to ease. “No matter, I’m certain you instructed Zavier on the proper way to accompany you when on the hunt…but back to the important matter, which is: You saw Sara at that time? Has she turned?”

The question startled her, but after a moment Victoria wondered why it should. After all, Sara clearly enjoyed interacting with vampires, and her father, the Conte Regalado, had been the leader of the Tutela in Rome before he was turned into a vampire just before Akvan’s Obelisk had been destroyed. “I don’t believe so. Were you expecting her to? It would make for a considerably interesting marriage bed if she had.”

Max looked at her sharply, his mouth opening as if to say something just as cutting. Victoria cringed inside, knowing he would have every right to do so after she’d baited him. Instead he stated, “It’s obvious you’re wearing a vis.”

Her face blossomed warm and, even though she was certain he couldn’t tell in the low light, she looked away. She was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that his vis bulla, the one that had at one time pierced him in the intimate area of his areola, was now one with her flesh and dangled warmly in the curve of her belly. And she would swear the tiny silver cross suddenly felt warmer and heavier, shivering in her navel.

Would he be able to sense that she was wearing it? Since it was his?

“Yes. I’m wearing Aunt Eustacia’s,” she added.

At the casual mention of her great-aunt, a pall fell over the already awkward moment. Max turned toward the ragged Colosseum, which was only a few yards to her right, and she saw his shoulders lift as he took a long, deep breath.

“Kritanu? How is he?” he asked finally in a different voice. “The others?”

There were many other questions between the lines of those particular ones, and Victoria wanted to answer all of them—but couldn’t fully answer any of them. “He is philosophical and uncomplaining, as only Kritanu can be,” she replied, choosing the easy one. “He grieves, as do I—”

“And I.” The words were a challenge, as if to dare her to presume he didn’t.

“And the others. But she lived a long life, a dangerous one, in which she devoted more than sixty years to the Venators. We miss her—we all do—but…it’s past, Max.”

“Is it?” Now he looked at her fully. Still challenging. And he was right to be so.

Although she finally understood that he’d had to execute Aunt Eustacia, the fact remained that he had actually done it—and she’d witnessed it. There was no glossing over that in her memory.

Once again her gaze skittered away. Victoria was no shy rabbit, no cowering woman…yet the expression on his face made her want to alternately rage at him for his coldness and fold him in her arms to erase whatever it was that gave him the hard edge.

What an odd thing to think about Max, of all people.

She’d once accused him of being unfeeling, emotionless, of being envious of the loving relationship she’d found with Phillip. How ironic that now she was the one who felt cold and empty, while he seemed to be almost tentative, with the slightest hint of vulnerability.

But no, it was grief for the loss of Aunt Eustacia and guilt for the part he’d played in her death that made him seem less harsh. And he was asking her if she’d yet forgiven him for setting in motion the events that had resulted in that horrible ending.

She truly didn’t know if she had. She tried not to think about that night and the part he’d played in Aunt Eustacia’s death, the risks he’d taken, the danger they’d faced. The fact that there had been only a sliver of hope of destroying Akvan’s Obelisk, and that he’d risked everything to do it. And had succeeded.

But she still couldn’t answer him.

When she remained silent, he asked, “You have Eustacia’s vis bulla? How?”

“Sebastian sent it to me. I don’t know how he came to have it.”

He drew back, looking beyond her, toward the ruined amphitheater. “Very clever. I’m certain you thanked him appropriately, just as he no doubt intended.”

Victoria did not mistake his meaning, as Max himself no doubt intended. But she