The Bleeding Dusk (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 3)

At last she reached the ragged part of the wall of Villa Palombara, at the backside of the elongated pentagonal estate. Far on the other end of the property, beyond the tops of the heavy thicket of trees, was the roofline of the villa itself.

She would have to traipse through the overgrowth again, and, just her luck, it was on another wet day. But the Magic Door was situated approximately in the center of the property, its crumbling stone wall a short perimeter around a smaller yard that belonged to the villa. Still, getting wet was better than trying to approach from the front, where someone in the villa might see her.

Climbing over the stone wall was rather difficult, even with the tree to assist, but Victoria managed it after nearly falling on her face when the heel of her boot caught in the back of her hem. As it was, she landed in wet grass on her knees, palms slamming one onto a branch and the other into a small thrush of weeds. Unfortunately, her wrenched knee landed on the corner of a sharp rock and sent a stab of pain blazing through her.

Swearing under her breath, she started to scramble to her feet when a pair of scuffed black boots stepped into view.

“I expected you hours ago.”

Why did it always have to be Max to witness when grace deserted her?

“Well, foolish you, waiting in the damp for so long. What are you doing here?” she asked, standing gingerly on her weak knee and wiping her dirty, damp palms on her coat. At least the drizzle had stopped coming down, and now the moisture just hung in the air enough to keep it gray and dark and heavy.

“Waiting for you.”

She looked up at him, pushing away a lock of hair that had fallen in her eyes with the tumble, and saw that he was staring at her from under the brim of his dripping hat. It made her skin tingle, the way his dark eyes scored over her as if he’d never seen her before. “What is it? A smudge on my face?”

“Right there.” He reached toward her, his large, rough thumb brushing the side of her cheek before she could blink. “You’ve got the piece of the obelisk with you?”

She shouldn’t be surprised. She wasn’t surprised. “And the last key.” She bumped into a tall sapling with a few leaves still clinging to it, and a light shower sprinkled over her arm and onto the ground.

Max was nodding. “A good strategy. Use the last key to open the Magic Door, retrieve whatever is inside that we want, and then lock the obelisk piece safely in. Not only can it not be removed without the keys, but Akvan’s own proximity will not allow him to sense the additional source of power from the pieces.”

“Or the power from any other splinters or shards he might have will mask the presence of this one.” She realized they were still standing next to the large oak, the wall behind them and a trickle of wind sending its branches dripping old rain down on them. It was utterly quiet, and there among the gray and brown bushes they were well hidden from any prying eyes in the villa. “How did you know what I planned to do?”

“It was the logical thing, of course. You found the last key and you realized the danger of the obelisk. Very simple to put the two together.” Normally he’d sound arrogant in such a discussion, but today he seemed rather subdued.

She thought she understood why. “You spoke to Wayren about the attack.”

He nodded again. “Earlier today.” Then he made an impatient Max gesture. “Well, let’s be on with it. Unless you’re waiting for someone else? Zavier, perhaps? Or…no…it must be Vioget who has you hesitating.” Now the familiar edge was back in his voice.

Victoria had started to walk into the brush but at his words she stopped and turned back. Max loomed over her, nearly on her heels. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about Sebastian?”

He raised one dark eyebrow. “About…Sebastian? He’s not generally my preferred topic of conversation.”

“He’s a Venator. You never told me.”

Again that supercilious brow. “What difference does it make? He might have the blood of the Gardellas, might even be called to the duty…but he chooses to ignore it. He’s worth little of my thought or concern.”

“He saved your life.”

“For which I am eternally grateful.” The bitterness in his voice belied that statement. “He could have saved many other lives if he’d taken his rightful place in the Consilium.”

“He still wears the vis bulla,” she said.

Now both brows rose, and she felt her cheeks warm at the knowing expression there. “Ah. That explains your delay in taking the shards from the Consilium. You were otherwise…engaged.”

She held her breath to force away the blush. There was no reason for her to play the modest miss with him; he already knew she and Sebastian had been lovers. “And so I was. But I’m here now.”

Max looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable. Then his lips quirked in a hard smile. “So it is to be Sebastian. Have you left Zavier intact, or are there pieces to pick up there too?”

Victoria couldn’t feign a cool response to that, remembering the anger and pain on the Scotsman’s face. Nevertheless, she lifted her chin, shoving her hands restlessly into the two side pockets of her coat. She wished suddenly for an undead to appear so she could stake it. Do something other than stand face-to-face with the man who bloody always seemed to be right.

“I warned you,” Max said, correctly interpreting her silence. “And who will it be next, Victoria? Surely you won’t destroy your entire army of Venators, one after another, because you cannot keep your—”

He stopped, biting the words off, and seemed to draw himself up and away from her, cloaking what had been sudden ire. “This is a waste of time. We have only a short while until sunset.”

Brushing past her, he started off on those long legs, moving rapidly through the brush along the stone wall, leaving branches and tall grasses shivering and dripping in his wake. Droplets rained down on Victoria’s hair and arms as she turned to follow, wishing she too had a hat.

She felt the heavy metal of her pistol and the warm sleekness of the obsidian shard in each of her pockets. The not wholly idle thought of which one would invoke the most long-lasting pain in the back of his broad shoulders entertained her as she strode after him.

She dropped the pistol back into the depths of her pocket, but did not release the shard. It felt good in her hand, solid. Weighty. She’d never noticed how well it fit, how it seemed to mold into her palm. She’d thought before what a good weapon it would be, but had never held it long enough to really notice its strength.