Bleeding Dusk

days.”

He looked at her and realized she didn’t really understand. “The guilt doesn’t burden me any longer, Wayren. It’s Lilith’s thrall that burdens me. I don’t flay myself for what I did, for the choices I made. Those decisions are in the past and cannot be undone, and I’ve done everything I can think of to atone for them.

“But as easy as it might be to contemplate the freedom of ignorance, I can’t do it. I know I’m needed. How can I live in ignorance when I’m needed? How many deaths can I prevent by staying? I have no right to turn my back when I am one of the few who can prevent them.”

Wayren had folded her slender fingers in her lap and was watching him during this impassioned speech. “You were not called to be a Venator. You made the choice. You aren’t obligated as those Gardellas who are called.”

“Do you not understand? I became obligated the moment I turned Father and Giulia over to the Tutela.” His jaw cracked beneath his teeth.

“You were barely more than a child. You thought you were giving your family a gift—immortality—which is precisely what the Tutela led you to believe. That’s how they draw in strong, smart young men like yourself.”

“You dare to excuse what I did? Feeding my father and sister to the vampires? At sixteen, I knew what was wrong and what was right. Yet I was blinded by the chance for power and wealth and immortality.”

“And for the next seventeen years, at the risk of your life, you’ve worn the vis bulla. You’ve paid your penance, and then some.”

Max stopped suddenly and glared at Wayren. Wayren, who had been as close to him as Eustacia. Wayren, who, with her wisdom and calm, gentle ways, had been more of a mother figure to him than even Eustacia had. Eustacia had mentored and challenged him as a fighter; Wayren had touched and taught him as a young man.

She had been the one to help him through the life-threatening trial of attaining the vis bulla. She’d been there when he reached the point where he would either live and wear the amulet of the Venators, or die when it was pierced into his flesh.

“Why do you want me to use the salve?” he asked abruptly. “Do you think I’m no longer fit to be a Venator? After what happened with Eustacia?” His throat was dry, his hand tightly fisted into itself.

“No, Max. No.” She stood, coming to him, resting her slender hand on his arm. Some of his tension eased at her touch, as it always did. “I fear only that one day Lilith’s hold on you will become too strong for even you to fight. Already she has caused you to do her work of destroying Akvan’s Obelisk, bringing about the death of her rival and son. You could just as easily have failed as succeeded. What will she require of you the next time? And the next?”

The anger and annoyance that had whipped up inside him settled as he listened to her reasoning. “I do not know. But she has yet to control me as she would like.” Max stepped away and walked across the small room. On a small table next to the narrow bed was his favorite black-painted stake. It was sleek and heavy and it fit his hand perfectly. A cross was carved into the blunt end and inlaid with silver. “Victoria told me about the Door of Alchemy. You’ll need me if they get the keys.”

“You spoke to Victoria?”

“Last night. Briefly.”

“I’m certain she was glad you’ve returned. It’s not been an easy few months for her—losing her husband, and then Eustacia, and you as well. Just as you disappeared after Phillip died, you disappeared after Eustacia’s death. This inconstancy is becoming a habit of yours.” Her head tilted to the side like a little wren’s, her bright eyes watching him.

Max put the stake back with a soft clatter and glowered at Wayren. “I was not fit to be here, to wear the vis.”

“It was very difficult for her to lose you, someone she knows and trusts, during a time of such pain and upheaval.”

“Trusts? I hardly think she’s foolish enough to trust me any longer. And she was not alone. You were there, and Ilias, and others.”

Wayren stood abruptly. “That is true, Max. You’re right. She has taken over her role as Illa Gardella with little trouble. A bit of grief, perhaps, some sorrowful moments…but overall, she is an amazing Venator. It’s become her life. She’s made some difficult decisions. In fact, she insisted that no one know that Eustacia died by your hand—in order to protect you and your legacy. She carries on with her life as though unburdened with grief. It’s rather astonishing how well she has adapted to the sacrifices and changes this life has brought her.”

Wayren looked down at the little jar on the table, reaching to touch it with her slender finger. “I would like to take this, if you do not plan to use it, Max. Perhaps I can learn what it is that would sap your Venator powers while severing your ties to Lilith.”

“Take the damned thing.”

She picked it up and slipped it into a small pouch that dangled from her silver-link girdle. “I presume you will join us at the Consilium tonight, now that you have returned. And are wearing a vis bulla again.” Behind her square spectacles, she looked at him shrewdly.

Max picked up his favorite stake and traced the silver cross. Victoria had protected him. Bloody hell. “Of course I will be there. I am ever the dutiful soldier.”

Victoria was in a quandary by the time she reached Santo Quirinus late the next day.

Having been awake until dawn, she’d slept well past noon and met up with the ladies Melly, Winnie, and Nilly over a lunch filled with raptures about the hospitality of the Tarruscellis, the lovely view of the extinguishing ceremony from their balcony, and regret that there would be very little society during the next forty days of Lent.

Oh, and sympathy for poor, dear Victoria, who’d been in bed the night through with the megrims and had thus missed the most riotous, beautiful, exciting night of all. How could she bear it?

Victoria explained that she’d borne the annoying headache rather well, knowing that the ladies weren’t inconvenienced by her illness. “And it is very unfortunate that I cannot remain here with you ladies this afternoon to hear all of your adventures,” she said, rising from the table, “but I promised to meet with a portrait artist about doing a new painting of Aunt Eustacia.”

“You poor dear,” Lady Winnie said, her pudgy fingers flashing rubies and emeralds as she patted Victoria’s smaller hand. “After being ill so often this last week, I should think you’d be able to rest instead of gallivanting off.”

“You still look a bit pale,” Lady Nilly added. “Perhaps a brighter color gown would serve better to pinken your complexion. I shall have my Rudgers have a word with your maid.”

Despite her hurry to get to the Consilium and tell Wayren about meeting Sebastian and Max last evening, Victoria’s smile was genuine. The ladies could be dithering and overbearing, but they had only her best interests —and those of her mother, of course—at heart.

“Perhaps we shall be gone before you return, if you are very late into the evening,” Lady Melly said. “The party…er…meeting begins at eight o’clock.”

“Party? But it’s Lent,” Victoria replied, trying to keep her lips from twitching. Yet she was relieved to hear of their plans. Anything to keep the ladies occupied, and from worrying over Aunt Eustacia’s personal effects, was fine in her book.

“It’s not a party,” Lady Nilly squeaked, her bright blue eyes wide with innocence and sparse lashes. “No, we wouldn’t go if it were a party. Of course not.”

“It’s a meeting,” the duchess added, nodding vigorously. “Definitely a meeting. With dinner. But no music or dancing.”

“How unfortunate that I couldn’t join you at your meeting,” Victoria replied, dropping her grip from the chair and taking that all-important first step away from the table. “But it’s probably best if I rest again tonight. You ladies have a wonderful time.”

“I’m certain we will,” Lady Melly said, smoothing the napkin in her lap. “I haven’t any idea why the Palombaras chose to have their par—meeting on Ash Wednesday, but—What is it,