She quickly sliced through the ropes that held his wrists behind him, and heard his moan of relief when his arms fell back into place. With trepidation she asked, “Where is the light?” The last thing she wanted was to be groping around Max’s long, powerful body. Especially when he was injured.
“My left boot. ”
Relieved, Victoria gingerly skimmed her hands lightly along the side of him, taking care not to investigate anything mortifying, and noting with increasing anxiety that there were several places that were soaking wet. The stench of blood was strong, and she could nearly taste the iron in her mouth. “Are you bitten?” she asked, reaching the bottom of his calf and finding the smooth, supple leather of his boot. “Again?” she added, remembering Sara tearing away Max’s collar.
“No, I’m shot,” he replied, as if she should somehow have known. “And it hurts like the damned blazes, so if you could please…hurry. ”
Like a valet, she knelt at his feet and tugged at the boot.
“No,” he snapped. “Under. In the heel. ”
“Heel?” she muttered, thinking that she was dealing with more heels than the ones on his boots.
“It slides off. Inside are small wooden sticks. Don’t…drop them! And a piece of sanded paper. ”
“Ah, the work of the famous Miro, I’m certain,” came Sebastian’s patently bored voice from across the room.
“How do you know about Miro?” asked Victoria in surprise, prying at the heel of Max’s boot as quickly as she could. It came off more easily than she’d expected, and then, feeling around, she could tell that it was nothing more than a little box with a lid.
“I know much about everything. ”
Max’s breath caught audibly, as if he’d heard something humorous—or a new wave of pain had slammed into him—but he replied, “And do little with it, is that not…right, Vioget?”
“I have the little sticks and the paper. Now what shall I do?”
“Find something…to burn. One of those ridiculous flowers on your gown. Put them to use. ”
Victoria bit her lip instead of replying. The man was in great pain, Venator or no, so she could give him a bit of an excuse for his rudeness. Carefully she cut off one of the satin roses from above the hem of her gown and realized Max was right—it would make a good candle. How clever, and she was abashed that he had thought of it before she did.
Made from tig
htly twisted and sewn satin ribband, the flower was about the size of the center of her palm. It wouldn’t burn forever, but she had many flowers, and surely each one would last for several minutes. “Now what shall I do?”
“Bring them…here. Give me one of the sticks. And the paper. ”
She moved back up toward Max’s head and their hands found each other easily. His fingers were frighteningly cold, and they shook slightly as he took the slender wooden stick from her, and then the paper.
Victoria heard a faint snick, and suddenly a little burst of light illuminated Max’s face. It looked like a hollow-eyed, grimy mask, his dark hair plastered to his forehead and temples, his full, angular lips tight and flat.
“Where’s the bloody flower?”
Victoria pointed to the floor and watched as he shifted to the side and held the little flame to the red flower. She could see the fire dancing nearer his fingers, watching how he struggled to keep his hand steady as he tried to light it. With her own sigh of exasperation, she picked up the flower and held it to the flame.
One satin petal lit, and she put it on the floor next to them as the flower kindled to life. Lifting her gaze, she found herself face-to-face, very close to Max, and their eyes met over the tiny flame on the stick before he huffed it out.
There’d been pain there. She’d seen it in the unguardedness of his expression for a moment, the deep, bone-crunching pain swimming in his dark eyes.
“Where are you shot?” she asked in a kinder voice than she’d used recently.
“My shoulder. My right leg, though I think it isn’t more than a graze. ”
A normal man would still be unconscious—between the chill of the dungeon and the loss of blood, not to mention the battering he’d taken under the hands of the vampires.
Before she could move he was shrugging painfully out of his heavy coat, which smelled like bloody, wet wool. Victoria helped pull it away from his left shoulder and saw the huge bloom of darkness glistening on his white shirt. It was, she realized suddenly, just above where the tiny vis bulla hung from his areola.
Her stomach squirmed, remembering how he’d forced her hand to touch it when she needed power and strength, and how warm and firm his skin had been under her reluctant fingers.
She reached to help him, but he batted her hand away.