Bleeding Dusk

Marquess of Rockley.

If she had to give that up, who would she be?

So, yes, she understood.

Now, there in the cool evening, she understood and she wept and she grew angry and determined again.

She looked up when a shadow went by, hurrying along the street in front of her.

He didn’t notice her, for she was backed into the shadows in the dark, but she saw him and recognized the smooth movements, the elegant stride. She knew the tousled, curling hair and the sweep of that well-tailored coat.

The nasty feeling swirled again in her belly, making the back of her throat dry and scratchy. He’d come from the same direction as she—from Via Tilhin, on which sat the abandoned building that gave access to the Consilium. So she hadn’t been mistaken when she thought she saw a flash of movement in that deserted corridor.

It couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d been back there again. Not tonight.

Not after what had happened to Zavier and Lady Nilly. Not after what Beauregard had done.

Firming her lips, she followed.

The moment Max stirred Wayren put aside the delicate, curling manuscript she’d been studying. She slipped it into her ancient leather bag, followed by her square spectacles, and waited.

She didn’t know how long it would be until Max woke, but since this was the first time he’d so much as altered his breathing, she knew it wouldn’t be long. She knew she had to be on hand when he became aware. The only thing that had taken her away was when Zavier’s unconscious body had been brought to the Consilium hours ago, and then Victoria’s subsequent arrival.

Wayren wasn’t given to sensitivity, but the recollection of Victoria’s face when she’d seen Zavier, the shock, anger, and fear that had passed over her beatific countenance, would long be in her memory.

Such anger.

It worried her.

Max groaned softly, drawing her attention again. The golden disk lay on the table next to him, its chain coiled around it in serpentine fashion. He shifted again, becoming restless, his large hand rising as though to ward off something, then falling heavily onto the table, sending the lamp and the earbobs that had belonged to his sister jiggling.

Hoping to calm him, Wayren took his warm hand in her smaller ones, noticing scraped fingertips and cracked nails that looked as if he’d tried to climb a stone wall.

She knew many things of past and future, of possibility and truth, of good and evil…but she did not know whether Ylito’s plan would succeed. She wouldn’t know until Max awakened, and she used the golden disk into which she had collected his memories.

As if she’d called him to waken, his eyes fluttered open, suddenly clear and dark. He looked around. She released his hand, watching as he curled his fingers closed.

“Max.”

He looked at her, half sitting, the blankets falling to his hips. “Yes. Where am I?”

The bites were gone, she saw. His neck was smooth and clean, sweeping gracefully into powerful, broad shoulders. But he recognized his own name, seemed comfortable with his body.

“You’re safe, Max. I’m Wayren.” She waited.

He nodded, but she knew he didn’t remember. “Wayren. What am I doing here? Have I been ill?”

“In a fashion, yes. Please. Drink this and let me talk to you.” She handed him a metal cup filled with another of Ylito’s concoctions.

He hesitated, sniffed at it. Hesitated more.

She smiled. “If I wanted you dead, I had ample opportunity while you were sleeping.”

He nodded and drank.

When he looked back at her, she had the golden disk spinning eerily in her hand. She began to murmur again, calling down the power of the Spirit, asking for help, and watched as his eyes were drawn irrevocably to the flat pendant.

Wayren knew the moment he remembered it all…a tightening of the face, a tension in the shoulders, a return of the sharpness to his eyes. He reached for the tiny, delicate vis bulla. Closing his fingers around it, he picked it up, shuttering his eyes, and drew in a slow breath.

And then opened his eyes. They were bleak. “Nothing. I feel nothing.”

Wayren nodded. “But you remember.”

“Yes.” He swung his feet off the bed. “What time is it? I must go.”

“It’s midday. But you cannot go hurrying off, Max.”

He’d half risen, but at her words he sat back heavily. “Of course not. I’m the shell of a Venator now. I have the knowledge and the skills, but not the strength or the powers. A shell.”

“You’ll not go alone.”

His beautiful lips snarled. “I may not be a Venator any longer, but I’m not helpless. I killed vampires and at least one demon before I earned the vis bulla, Wayren. You know that.”

“Do you remember what you told me to tell Victoria, just before you went to sleep?”

He stilled, his face blank. “You didn’t bring her here.”

Wayren shook her head. He’d made her promise not to let anyone see him—anyone, especially Victoria. “Only Ylito.”

“What did I say? Did you tell her?”

She felt his tension; it was as if it hung in the air over them like a heavy blanket. She knew much, but now she knew even more. “You wanted me to tell her you were sorry.”

Because they were bare, she could see the slight shift in his square shoulders, the bit of ease that came over him. “I can only imagine how she received that bit of information.”

Wayren couldn’t hold back a smile. It wasn’t amusing, not at all, not in these moments, not ever. But the look on his face…it was the Max she knew. Thank God. “She had a few choice words.”

He stood again, energy simmering below his muscles so that she could feel his need to move, to do, to get out of there—almost as if she were inside his skin. “One person to go with me,” he said, reaching for the clothing that lay folded on a chair. “White? It’s too easily seen at night,” he said, frowning at the shirt. “It glows. Zavier. I’ll take Zavier with me.”

“Briyani and Michalas will go with you.”

He must have read the expression on her face, for he didn’t pursue it. There would be time to tell him about it all later. But for now…“When you’ve finished dressing we will make our final plans—not to worry, Max. You’ll leave soon enough.”

“This afternoon. I want this done and over with.”

So that he could get on with his life. Get away and get on with life.

He didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. She understood.

Max hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the companionship of Briyani, who was not only the nephew of Kritanu, but also Max’s own Comitator. Kritanu had trained both of them together, enhancing his nephew’s fighting skills as he taught Max, eventually turning over the training to Briyani when he himself became older and less flexible.

He’d certainly not stinted in his training of Victoria, despite his age and proclaimed lack of flexibility, but Max didn’t begrudge her that. It made sense that he should personally teach Eustacia’s niece and the future Illa Gardella.

Having Briyani back with him reminded Max of those early years, when he’d been much more of a loner and kept away from the Consilium while fighting his battles with the undead—and within himself. Not quite thirty, Kritanu’s nephew was a bit younger than Max, and had the same wiry build and wide-jawed, tea-colored face as his uncle. He wore his straight black hair in a single braid that reached to the middle of his back, and he was