The Bleeding Dusk (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 3)

Sebastian had turned too, also taking a defensive stance, but he kept talking to her. “Victoria, the armban—”

His words gasped away as the first of the undead slammed a fist into his gut, and a second came from the other side and threw him to the floor as he spun to defend himself. Instinctively Victoria raised her stake, but a strong hand grasped it from behind, holding her wrist aloft, sliding an arm around her waist, and squeezing her so that her breath was caught. She struggled, kicking backward, watching Sebastian rise to his feet, only to be knocked back down by a boot to the jaw. On a normal man the blow would have cracked the bone. Another vampire dragged him back to his feet, and Sebastian managed a well-placed punch, but he had no weapon with which to stop them.

“You said you wanted him out of the way,” Beauregard said in her ear.

Victoria slammed her head back and felt it crash into Beauregard’s nose, at the same time trying to twist away from his strong grip. But he held on tightly and slipped his other hand around the front of her throat, pulling her back against him.

The hand tightened, cutting off her air, sending her struggling in his arms, stomping her foot down, slamming back with her free hand to jab her elbow into him, kicking, trying to breathe….

And then suddenly she was released with such force that she stumbled against a chair; then her hand clashed onto the keys of the harpsichord. She turned in time to see the door close, leaving the room silent but for the last echoes of discordant notes.

Silent, but not empty.

Her neck was cold; her fingers were trembling. “After all he’s done for you?” she said in a shaking voice that she abhorred.

Beauregard, who bent to pick up the paper she’d dropped, placed it on the table and looked at her. “Is it not what you expected from me? No loyalty? Manipulation? Where do you think Sebastian learned it?”

“You wouldn’t kill him. He’s worth too much to you.”

Beauregard looked horrified. “Kill him? Of course not. I merely assisted him in complying with your wishes. You should be grateful, for now we can converse without his interference. Now, shall we get to business? You were going to kill me. Or attempt to.” He looked pointedly at the stake that had fallen from her hand and rolled across the floor. “But I think that will have to wait. You have something of mine.”

“And you have something of mine.” She would play his game for the moment. Until she had the chance to cut the bastard’s head off.

“It was only one page,” he said, lifting the paper from the desk. “And you mustn’t blame Sebastian. The man would do anything for me—loyalty is his great flaw, much as I’ve tried to teach him otherwise. But I’m all he has, and he just cannot abide the thought of me burning in the fires of Hell for all eternity.” Beauregard gave a genteel shudder. “It’s not a particularly pleasant thought to me either. And so when at last the door to Palombara’s laboratory was reopened, I was understandably interested in obtaining not only my missing armband, but also this particular page.”

“So, will you tell me what is so important about that page?” Victoria kept her tone easy, unconcerned, even as she divided her attention between the details of the room, any potential weapons, and the undead himself.

His eyes were pink when they looked at her, and she turned her gaze firmly away.

“I think you can guess, if you put your mind to it.” His voice was soft and seductive, and she felt the tendrils of his thrall reach out gently and brush over her skin as if he’d actually touched her.

“It’s a plant. It must have something to do with your immortality…or your destroyed soul, if Sebastian was willing to help,” Victoria replied. She heard her voice as though it were in a tunnel, far away and hollow, and she blinked and took a step. Her fogged ears cleared, and she felt steadier.

She couldn’t forget the image of blood soaking Sebastian’s shirt. Blood she’d drawn.

“It’s a very useful flower,” Beauregard told her, “to the undead, in particular, and, if one believes the work of the alchemist pilgrim who came to Palombara, to mortals as well. But it grows rarely only once or twice per century. I needed the page to identify it, for this year is a year it’s expected to bloom. And with your aunt’s death, I knew the key to the workshop would be more readily available.”

He smiled. “You must appreciate my brilliance. It was my intent all the while to divert your attention to Akvan as he and his worthless followers tried to find the keys. I made sure he knew about the journals and about the keys, and I even made certain the key Palombara had kept—which I, of course, had stolen from him that last night—was found by one of Akvan’s servants. I knew once the door was opened I could retrieve my armband—one way or the other.”

Victoria kept her gaze far away from him and his pink eyes. She moved so that the desk remained between them and she was a good distance away. She wasn’t frightened; she’d been in worse situations before, much more overmatched. But if he called for help again, as he’d obviously done when he moved behind his desk earlier, she would find herself in the same situation as Sebastian.

Or worse.

“You wanted Sebastian to steal the key, didn’t you?”

He inclined his head. “He didn’t realize he’d actually had the key in his possession until much later, when you described it to him.”

“But you allowed me to use it.”

“He refused to steal it, if that is what you’re asking. But it didn’t matter to me—once you got the door open I could get what I needed. Except that you and that bloody Pesaro were too quick and he went off with it.”

“And you actually thought that by mutilating and nearly killing one of my men that you would get what you wanted from me?”

“You’re here, are you not?”

She didn’t like his smile. Didn’t like the way she suddenly remembered his mouth covering hers, sucking the warm flow of blood from her lip.

“Of course you would come to avenge your friend. Your fellow warrior. What else would you do?” he said, his voice alluring and coaxing, as if he were trying to lull her. “You are a Venator.”

What else would you do?

It was as if he’d read her mind and her private thoughts earlier. She was a Venator—only, wholly, and without reservation. Of course she would come to avenge the death—or near death—of one of her own.