The Rest Falls Away (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 1)

Frothy pink skirts wrapped around her legs as she rolled onto her back; then they slid back like skates on ice as she drew her knees to her chest and kicked out with both feet. She caught him in the chest as he rounded on her, and propelled him away into a small table. The table fell over, scattering its contents over the rug. The vampire landed on the floor and she followed him, rolling after him on the rough Persian rug, stake at the ready.

She was just about to plunge it into his chest when something wrapped around her neck from behind: a strong, slender arm, ending in a white glove. Skirts of blue—a color that did not match Victoria's dress—tangled around her feet.

As the arm pulled on her, Victoria slammed her head back, cracking into the woman's face. But the male vampire was reaching for her shoulders again, yanking her down toward his bared teeth.

She kicked out with her feet, blindly, not in the measured way Kritanu had taught her, and felt panic begin to clamp her chest. Two of them! She'd been fooled again!

She felt his hot breath on her neck, felt the tug of his calling, the promise that if she would just relax… just let go… there would be no pain, only pleasure. Ecstasy. Release.

His breath hypnotized her; his burning eyes scored into her, promising.

She vaguely felt a movement behind her, and then the jolt as he pushed someone away, growling in anger. The woman, she thought in the back of her mind. He wants me for himself.

The smooth wood slipped from her fingers. He breathed again, drawing in her strength. Her head swam.

She closed her eyes.

Chapter Four

The Marquess's Thirst Remains Unquenched

Maximilian brushed past the butler, who would have announced him if given the chance, and hurried down the wide, sweeping staircase at the Dunstead home.Two Guardian vampires on the loose and here he was, chasing down a novice Venator who was more concerned with filling her dance card and juggling beaux than wielding a stake. Only the slight chance that the vampires might find her first had convinced him that he must notify Miss Grantworth by tracking her down at a bloody dance.

A quick scan around the crushed ballroom told him she was not attempting that ridiculous waltz. The back of his neck remained neutral: no vampires in the vicinity. Frowning, Max pushed around a cluster of tittering debutantes who gawked at him from behind fans in every shade of pink. He flung them a glower meant to send them cowering, but more than one of them looked at him with promise in her eyes and a pout on her lips.

Blasted English twits. Nary a thought in their minds but what was in a man's purse or his pants. Or both. No wonder so many of them were targets of vampires. Easy marks.

Max pushed through the room. He had the urge to leave, to get back on the street and track down the Guardians, but he also had to report to Eustacia that he'd first done his best to locate Victoria. He'd make his way through the entire perimeter of the room, perhaps stick his head out onto the terrace, as it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the virginal Miss Grantworth had found an excuse to walk in the moonlight… and then he'd leave.

He'd made his circuit and seen nothing of his quarry, and was just about to slip out onto the terrace when he felt the barest coolness on the back of his neck. Max stopped. The chill was faint, just barely there; but since there was no draft and his nape was thoroughly covered with a healthy mass of hair, there was no mistaking it. He looked around, scanning the room again, and then down the hallway that stretched away up five steps. There.

He bounded up the steps and started down the hall that made an ell turn after only three doors. The hair on the back of his neck was standing now, and at least he knew he was on the trail. The fact that Victoria was missing from the ballroom intensified his urgency; she was either with the vampire—or vampires—or outside kissing one of her beaux. Either way, Max would have to handle the problem.

A novice Venator was no match for a Guardian vampire; God help her if she was battling both of them.

As he hurried down the hall, he saw one of the English fops Victoria had been swooning over at her ball.

"Miss Grantworth?" the man called, tentatively opening one of the doors.

Either he had an assignation with the girl or he was chasing her on her assignation. Regardless, Max had to get rid of him, for it was now obvious that Victoria was in this proximity.

"Are you perchance looking for Miss Victoria Grantworth?" asked Max pleasantly, belying his urgency. His nape was positively icy.

The man—the Marquess of Rockford or something of that nature—straightened as if caught with his hand down a lady's bodice. "Indeed I am." He looked at Max with a hint of challenge in his deep-set eyes.

"I believe I just saw her walking that way… She appeared to be returning to the dance," Max told him. The last thing they needed was an interfering hero type, which was exactly what the Marquess of Wherever appeared to be. "She looked to be making much haste."

The marquess measured him, then gave a brief nod. "My thanks to you, sir."

Max barely waited until the man had passed him before hurrying off down the hall. His instincts pushed him on and he knew when he found the right door.

Flinging it open, he rushed in, pulling a stake from his pocket.

He was just in time to see a vampire poof into dust across the room; but he had no chance to take in the details, for a second Guardian had turned as he burst in and flew toward him with instantaneous speed. He stopped her in midleap with a stake to the chest, and she was gone.

Shutting the door behind him, for it had all happened so quickly he'd left it wide-open, he stepped in and surveyed the scene.

Victoria was in a tumble of skirts on the floor; but she was pulling herself to her feet by the time he took two steps. Her curling black hair was still anchored high at the back of her head, intertwined with some fripperies that appeared to glint when she moved. One thick corkscrew had escaped and fell over a white shoulder. The delicate fabric of her skirts was crinkled beyond repair, and her fair English skin cast a paler glow than usual.

"Maximilian," she said, standing straight, holding on to the back of a settee. He noticed that her hand trembled ever so slightly as she pushed away a loose black wave that dipped over her eye. "How fortuitous that you should arrive just in time to see my great escape. Or"—she lowered her chin and looked at him from under her lashes—"was it that you came to rescue me? Sir Stakes-a-Lot saving the helpless damsel?"

She was white. And the faint quaver in her voice gave away her strain. And… "Bloody hell!" Max was at her side, roughly pushing away the errant black curl that hid… "You've been bitten!"