Bleeding Dusk

responsibility—of Illa Gardella: the Gardella.

“You may be younger—in fact, you may be our youngest Venator,” Wayren told her with that same smile, “but you are well deserving of your title. What you have accomplished in the last eighteen moons would have been a challenge for even your aunt when she was in her prime fighting years.”

Victoria looked away from Wayren’s serene gaze, focusing on the spill of glittering holy water next to her. She hadn’t accomplished running off Lilith last year in London, or killing Nedas, the vampire queen’s son, a month ago, without Max’s help.

Wayren was speaking again, perhaps in an effort to draw Victoria from her unpleasant thoughts. “The vis bullae are precious amulets. They cannot and should not be destroyed, and they are worth nothing to one who is not a Venator. Did your aunt tell you from whence they come?”

“The crosses are forged from a silver vein under the hill at Golgotha, in the Holy Land,” Victoria replied. “And they are held in holy water blessed by the pope”—she gestured at the fountain—“until they are given to the Venator for whom they were intended. But…is not each vis bulla made for one particular person? Can another Venator wear one not made for herself?”

Wayren was nodding. “Yes, one and only one vis bulla is forged for the person for whom it is intended. As you see, the one that belonged to your aunt Eustacia is different from the one that Max gave you. But as you are aware, the power of a vis bulla can strengthen any Venator.”

Victoria didn’t need to look at the small crosses, each of which hung from its own silver hoop, to recall which was which. Aunt Eustacia’s had tiny beveled edges, and the ends of each bar of the cross were pointed. Max’s was slightly thicker and sturdier, without any ornamentation. Both crosses were no larger than her thumbnail.

Victoria’s own vis bulla had been torn from where she wore it pierced through her navel on the same night that Aunt Eustacia had died, during a fierce battle with Lilith’s undead son, Nedas. Hers had been slender, with delicate filigree along its edges, so minute she could not comprehend how anyone could have worked silver into such an intricate design.

“Well?” asked Wayren after a moment. “Shall I ask Kritanu to prepare for two of them?”

Victoria nodded slowly, wondering if wearing two amulets would make her feel any different. Would it make her twice as strong? Or would they cancel each other out? She made the decision; if there was a problem she could easily remove one of them. “Yes. I’ll wear them both.”

During their conversation, the other members of the Consilium had been walking about the chambers, in and out and through, some pausing to dip their fingers in the fountain or to speak to another. They were all men of varying ages and appearance. Victoria was the only female Venator of the hundred in the world, and there were only two dozen Venators in Rome, at the Consilium, at any given time.

“Then I shall inform Kritanu, and we will proceed in a few moments. I know you have missed being on the hunt this last month while your wound healed, and you were closing up your aunt’s properties in Venezia and Florence.” Wayren gave her another soothing smile, then moved away in such a graceful manner that she appeared to glide.

The reinserting of her vis bulla was brief and less painful than Victoria recalled the first piercing being. Perhaps it was because the pain of its being torn away was more prevalent in her memory than the quick, smooth piercing. Kritanu, the elderly man originally from India who had been Aunt Eustacia’s companion and Victoria’s trainer, was quick and efficient with the long, curved needle. Since Victoria had decided to wear the two amulets, Kritanu inserted them separately, so that they each hung from the top of her navel and brushed against each other as they settled into the small hollow below. The moment the first one slipped into place, Victoria felt a renewal of energy, a familiar surge tingle through her body.

She felt as if she’d become whole again.

And, now that she was wearing something from her aunt, perhaps she would not only have her aunt’s strength of spirit with her, but also begin to heal her grief.

“Beheaded dogs and cats?” Victoria said, looking from Ilias, the keeper of the Consilium and one of the eldest Venators, to Michalas, one of the Venators who lived permanently in Rome. It was nearly two months since Victoria had had the two vis bullae inserted, and although she’d been out several times after sundown searching for vampires, things had been relatively quiet.

Michalas nodded, his russet curls so tight they moved but a whisper. With his fair skin and very blue eyes, he looked more like a young boy than a feral warrior, despite the fact that he was a decade older than Victoria. “A pile of them—perhaps three dozen. In various stages of decay, so it appears the pile was started some time ago, and has been added to. I saw it two weeks ago, but many of the carcasses had been there much longer. Perhaps two or three months.”

“That doesn’t sound like vampires,” she said, looking at Ilias for confirmation. “They prefer human blood, and certainly would have no reason to cut off the heads of their victims, at any rate.”

“Yes, and it’s for that reason that I waited until today’s gathering to apprise you of it,” Michalas said, glancing at Victoria and then back at Ilias. “There’s no urgency, nothing to indicate any connection to the undead or any other nonhuman threat.”

The older man nodded his head in agreement. Ilias was well over fifty, perhaps approaching sixty, and had watery yet wise eyes that crinkled at the corners, matching the furrows on his forehead. When he was deep in thought, as now, he pinched the end of his sharp nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Vero, not vampires. But something unpleasant, to be sure. It could be as simple as the leftovers from a butcher shop—some of the Oriental pilgrims have unusual eating habits. This was two weeks ago? Has the pile grown?”

Michalas smiled ruefully. “I confess, I didn’t deem it important enough to check on it again. With the city preparing for Carnivale, and all of the tourists arriving for the festivities, I’ve been busy in the more populous areas.”

“Where did you find this?”

“In the Esquiline,” Michalas said. “I saw no undead in the area, but there were some about. I could sense them.”

“The Esquiline. That’s near the Villa Palombara,” Ilias said, his pale blue eyes suddenly sharp. Sometimes they appeared rheumy, but that affect seemed to disappear when something of interest presented itself.

Victoria looked at both of the men, natives of Rome, and waited for an explanation. Having lived her first twenty years in England, she was at a disadvantage in this city, the home and birthplace of the Venators. Nevertheless, despite the fact that she was a woman, and much younger than either of them, they were respectful and forthcoming with whatever information she needed. She was the Gardella.

“The Villa Palombara has been empty for a hundred and forty years, since its marchese disappeared under unusual circumstances. He was an alchemist, and had quite a popular salon with others of his inclination—trying to find the way to transmute any metal to gold, that process which, of course, is believed to be the source of immortality.”

Victoria felt that it would be in poor taste to mention that one could easily achieve immortality by having a vampire turn one undead. Of course, there was the disadvantage of being damned for all eternity and being relegated to drinking human blood if one was turned. Instead, she said, “Perhaps we could go tonight and see if anything has changed. As well, I’m not familiar with that part of the city and would like to see it with someone who knows it well.”

“That would be a pleasure,” Michalas said with a genuine smile. “I would enjoy hunting with you.”

They were interrupted from their conversation, which had taken place in one of the alcoves adjoining the fountain chamber, by a handsome man with red-gold hair. His arms were heavily muscled, a feature that Zavier tended to display by wearing unfashionable shirts with the sleeves cut off, much as he might have on the farm his father and brothers worked back in Scotland. It made him look slightly barbaric, and Victoria felt mildly embarrassed at all of his exposed skin.

“Come, ye gabblers—Wayren is gathering us in the Gallery. Victoria, ’tis good to see your bonny face again. Ilias, Michalas, come along with ye.”

“Zavier.” She turned toward him, smiling. “I knew you wouldn’t miss our celebration today! I can only