As Shadows Fade (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 5)

Suddenly, she seemed to come back to herself. “I am tired, Victoria, and you must have your injuries seen to. All of you. And some rest. I am safe here… and it will keep until we’ve all had a chance to rest. ”

Victoria pulled slowly to her feet, her hand squeezing, then finally releasing Wayren’s. “I’m glad you’ll stay here tonight,” she told the older woman. “We’ll all rest easier. ”

The draft that Kritanu had given him leeched away some of the agony radiating through Max’s body, though it pained him to admit it was needed. But it was.

His muscles trembling, his salved wounds still oozing stubbornly, he changed out of his dirty clothes, all the while grimly considering Wayren’s request.

Become a Venator again.

He’d not need the bloody draft if he did. He’d not need to step aside and let a faster, stronger Vioget save a comrade. He’d have no reason to leave.

Yet he couldn’t bear to stay.

Even if he got his Venator capabilities back, he couldn’t. He couldn’t trust himself to be strong enough, to do the right thing.

To share her.

Pouring the still-hot water into the basin, Max felt a wave of steam rise. He splashed it on his face and chest, gasping at the sudden twinge of pain when he moved his arms too vigorously in his ablutions, and pausing to catch his breath.

His face was buried in one of Kritanu’s lemon-scented towels when there came a knock at the door. He flung the door open, startling the twitchy red-haired servant, Oliver. The groom who’d taken his mount earlier tonight had obviously been pressed into other service within the small household.

“Beg your pardon, sir, but my lady wishes you to attend on her,” Oliver said most correctly.

Max glowered at him. “My lady?” Wayren or Victoria?

Oliver looked confused for a moment, then recovered, offering, “Lady Rockley. ” Apparently, he didn’t consider Wayren a lady, which wasn’t surprising. Only the Venators-and the evil ones-knew what she was capable of.

Max wadded up the towel and tossed it onto the table. One end flipped over the side of the basin, landing a corner in the water. Blast it. Could she not leave him be? He pulled out his last clean shirt and tugged it over his damp skin, where it seemed to stick everywhere. Just as his head emerged from the opening, he heard the man add, “She awaits you in her chamber. ”

Max stilled, his hands crushing into the soft linen. “Her chamber?”

Christ.

Then he centered on the whirl of thoughts-and, damnation, the images –that bit of information invoked, and extracted the most palatable one. Victoria’s face had been dead white and her clothes soaked with blood. Was she injured more severely than he’d thought? She’d never released Wayren’s hand during their short meeting in the parlor.

Max opened his mouth to ask Oliver, but the young man had scuttled off, leaving the door ajar.

There was nothing for it but to “attend to her. ”

His mouth closed grimly, his jaw tight, he set off, certain that whatever he found, it wouldn’t be to his liking.

When he reached Victoria’s chamber, his peremptory knock produced no response. Max waited for a moment, then knocked again, a bit harder, and the door edged open. Hell. Was he supposed to go in?

Blast it.

He’d not hesitated entering her chamber a few months ago when he first came back to London. He’d been uninvited then.

And now it was morning. Filled with light, which meant exposure. And few shadows in which to hide.

Max pushed the door open, his attention going immediately to the bed. It was empty.

He stepped inside and closed the door, firmly, behind him, looking around the chamber. Early-morning sunlight filtered through the nearby tree branches, casting the small room in a soft warm glow. The bed lay pristine and made, high off the ground, with a bumpy white coverlet. The dressing table was situated near the entrance to what must be a small dressing room. The mirrored table held an array of ladylike items-and a few that were not so ladylike: perfume bottles, combs, brushes, jewelry, stakes, holy water vials…

He paused and looked more closely, seeking a slender blue-tinted bottle. No. It was gone. The potion that he knew Victoria drank in order to keep from getting with child. Aunt Eustacia, and now Kritanu, made it for her. But it was gone, and he knew that Victoria had made good on her promise to stop taking it.

Max did not want to consider the implications of that fact, and he turned abruptly to examine the rest of the room.

The fireplace held a neat stack of kindling ready to be lit should the weather turn chill or rainy. A chair in the corner near the floor-to-ceiling drapes would provide a good, distant seat from any other furnishings or activity in the room; it was the same chair in which he’d sat when he’d visited her chamber before. This morning, the windows had been flung open, and a soft breeze filtered through them.