And then she slumped, relaxed, her hands falling to the stones beneath her.
Max carried Sara’s body over his shoulder, perhaps, Victoria thought, as a last tribute to a woman he’d cared for . . . at least to some extent.
“Lilith’s gone,” said Brim. “She slipped away. ”
“But she didn’t get the ring,” said Victoria. Nor did she get Max.
They left in silence, necks warm, filing out through the throne room where the chair was tipped over from the Venators’ entrance . . . and out into the empty antechamber.
Victoria was last, and it happened when they were walking down the narrow ramp that led to the sewer canal. She noticed, to her great relief, that she could see nothing in the darkness without the torches Brim and Michalas carried. The rush of water echoed around them, and suddenly she felt something moving through the air, rushing down from above her.
It crashed onto her, something warm and human, and she lost her balance.
They fell, tumbling off the walkway, down . . . down to where the water splashed below.
Twenty-eight
A Battle Is Lost
Sebastian heard the noise behind him. He turned in time to see the dark figure land on Victoria, falling with her down into darkness.
“Victoria!” he cried, and jumped after them.
The fall wasn’t as deep as he’d expected . . . yet far enough to be fatal if rocks were hidden there.
He heard the other splash moments before his own, heard a struggle in the water, gasps for air, but he couldn’t see anything. She was already weak, dammit, and she’d been taken by surprise . . . if she’d hit her head on anything, or crashed onto the rocks that he kicked against . . .
He couldn’t see, but heard . . . he could hear, and he fought his way through the rush of water to the sounds of struggle, unsure who or what he was swimming toward because it was so dark.
Where were the others? There’d been no other shouts, no other splashes. Did they even know he and Victoria had fallen? The others had been quite a bit ahead of them.
Groping in the water, at last he found hair, strands of hair, and from the soft glow of light, saw Victoria’s white face, eyes closed. She wasn’t moving and he pulled at her. There was something dark on her face, dark and sticky. Oh God.
“Max!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the darkness. “Brim! Down here!”
Then he felt another body bump against him, but before he could say anything—was it Pesaro? Brim? There’d been no other splashes—strong hands pushed him underwater. Then he felt the slice of something sharp scoring his arm, then down his leg. His blood surged into the water.
Above he heard the faint echo of a responding shout, and managed to bellow out another call for help as he fought and struggled in the rank pool. He was weaponless against this mortal with the blade and feeling renewed pain from his missing finger. At last a new beam of light from above—finally!—illuminated the man’s face. He recognized him.
Bemis Goodwin, damn him. Bemis Goodwin.
Rage sliced through him, rage and hatred for the man who would take her from him. He held onto Victoria while battling the man back, grappling in the water, protecting her from the knife that slashed into him. She slipped from his grip, from the slippery hold, and disappeared.
Sebastian cried another warning aloud, choking in a mouthful of water, just as he noticed a light moving near the edge of the pool. Pesaro, and Brim, at last.
He pushed Goodwin underwater, holding him there until the man stopped slicing and kicking. Sebastian released him then, splashing toward the faint white he saw in the distance. At last there was another splash behind him. He heard Michalas call out and could barely respond.
At last his hand touched something warm and human again . . . and then hair. He pulled, felt her come up against him. She wasn’t moving, she wasn’t breathing. He pulled, keeping her face from the water, dragging her to the side, onto the bank where Pesaro and Brim were clambering down the rocky edge.
Light danced behind him as he turned her onto her stomach, her face to the side. Blood everywhere, her face bruised and cut, her hair a mat of curls, her body cold and white. “No, Victoria, dammit,” he breathed.
He felt the others come up behind him, down from the rocky wall, carrying torches. He kissed her cold face, brushed the hair from her eyes, willing himself not to think of Giulia . . . not to think of losing yet again.
Not to Bemis Goodwin. By God, not to the likes of Bemis Goodwin.
He struck her hard between the shoulder blades, and gave her a desperate shake.
Victoria coughed, and Sebastian rolled her to the side. Water spewed forth and she coughed more, her body wracked and shaking. Someone—Brim—handed down a dry coat and he wrapped it around her. The golden light encircled them, illuminating her face, the bruises, the three slices down her cheek, the myriad of other, smaller ones.