When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

He shook his head. “No, none of them.”

Victoria looked around and left Sebastian. She walked along the inside of the ring of people, looking sharply at the clusters of faces turned to each other. Some were being embraced and others were crying. But there was no sign of Max. Or Gwen.

“Have you seen Gwendolyn Starcasset?” she asked, at last coming upon a matron she vaguely recognized as being an acquaintance. She recalled that she had an odd fascination with science and chemistry, and often spoke endlessly about things that Victoria didn’t understand.

Mrs. Debora Guyette-Foster had tears running down her face, making glistening white lines in gray ash streaks. Her costume appeared to have been that of a gypsy, but her flowing scarves sagged, and her rainbow-colored frock was dark and torn. Glitter sparkled weakly in her straight, dark hair. “She’s not here. She left before—before—” The woman’s sobs obliterated her words, but Victoria had heard enough to feel easier about Gwen.

But Max.

He would tower above most everyone here. She stood on the empty patio, close enough that the heat of the fire from the house blazed against the back of her legs and her one bare shoulder. Looking for the tall dark head.

A deep unease flowered inside her as she searched in vain. He had to have gotten out of the house.

But it would be just like him to be a hero, trying to rescue someone.

Damned man.

Why couldn’t he be a hero by staking vampires?

Then she remembered the vampire that had dragged off the Crusader. Maybe Max had seen him, and gone after him.

Ignoring the people around her, who seemed to be coming out of their daze and once more were talking in full sentences, she ran into the dark garden again. This time she drove to the left, away from where she’d rescued Miss Keitherton, and found herself abruptly against a tall hedge.

She smelled blood. Tasted it in the air.

Victoria could have followed the hedge around, but impatience and need won out and she plowed right through it, heedless of the nasty branches. When she stumbled through to the other side, she landed on her knees next to a sprawled dark figure. The blood-iron essence filled her mouth and nose and she found herself struggling to breathe normally.

Groping frantically at him, for it was a man, she shoved him onto his back and saw vaguely that the dark red tunic of the Crusader merely looked black in the low light, with the dirt and soot and blood.

Her hands were wet with it, the cooling lifeblood of the man who would never wear another costume, ride another horse, eat another meal. Victoria pushed the hair from her face and pulled to her feet. There was nothing she could do for him. And she knew faintly that she had to leave him and get away from here. Her vision clouded darker in the night as saliva pooled in her mouth. The blood’s essence tugged at her.

Her heart pounded, ramrodding through her body so that her fingers trembled and it felt as though her whole chest was moving. Time churned sluggishly.

All at once, she realized she was not alone.

Victoria looked over. Three figures had come around the bushes and stood clustered together as though afraid to move any closer. She felt their shock and fear, and her heart pounded more strongly. She swallowed.

“He’s dead,” she managed to say. Gestured to the Crusading knight. “There’s nothing to be done now.” She thought her words came out normally. But no one replied. They watched her, and she noticed that one had a gun. It wasn’t pointed at her . . . but he had a gun.

A shout drew her attention. Her name. It was as though her ears were stuffed with cotton. She turned to see Sebastian. Slowly. The blood was so thick, it clogged everything. Even her movements.

“Victoria.” He came toward her, and she recognized the expression on his handsome face: worry, relief. He was soot-streaked and his hair was sticking out in thick waves. Before she could protest, or even think, he pulled her away from the small clearing, back toward the blazing house.

“Victoria,” he said as soon as they were far enough away, almost to the patio. She could breathe now. The blood-smell was gone and her head was a little clearer. The fire had quieted a bit, though the golden light flickered through the trees. The muted sounds from the crowd reached her ears.

Clarity.

She sank into his arms, felt them wrap strong around her, buried her head in his sweaty neck. “So much blood,” she whispered. “I couldn’t think.”

“I know,” he said. He lifted her face. The kiss tasted like smoky Sebastian and sweat and it chased away the lingering essence of iron. He pulled away and looked down at her. “I thought you’d gone back in the house.” His eyes were tigerish, the blaze turning them gold even in the dark. His fingers curled tight on her arms.

“No.”

But she thought of Max. If he wasn’t outside, he had to be in the house.

“Victoria,” said Sebastian. “I . . . let me take you home.”

She knew what he meant. But she didn’t answer.

Though she didn’t need to be steadied, didn’t need to be held up, she let him put an arm around her. Moments later they were back with the others, but, by now, the crowd had begun to thin out. Some had been able to find their carriages and had left in disheveled, smoky clothing.

Others still stood, talking, describing in loud, important voices, what had happened. How they’d escaped the fire, what they’d been doing prior to the alarm, how they’d helped pull out Mr. or Miss or Lady So-and-So.

She felt clearer now. Stronger.

Victoria turned toward the house, which had crumbled in on itself in some areas and still blazed angry orange and red. An elegant poplar that grew too close to the building had all its leaves burned off. The heat still blasted, but there was little to be done. The fire would burn itself out; keeping it from spreading was the only reasonable objective.

No one could get close enough to the structure to even pour water on it. There could be no survivors inside. How many people had perished?

Who?

Victoria turned, not yet ready to leave with Sebastian, still searching, and she noticed a tall, dark, blade-nosed figure. Her heart leaped, and she lurched toward him— but then he moved from the shadows.

Mr. Bemis Goodwin.

He saw her and she felt the ugly weight of his eyes on her, sweeping over her. She could only imagine what he saw—a torn gown, blood streaks everywhere, her hair in dishabille. His gaze narrowed and although he said nothing, did nothing to acknowledge her beyond an arrogant nod—she felt it.

The animosity.

Sebastian folded her into his arms; she’d told him nothing about Goodwin, so he couldn’t know. But she felt a wave of foreboding sweep over her.