When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

“That is the story that’s been given out.” He nodded. “What ship was he sailing on?”

“Your questions are not only becoming tiresome, but an outright waste of my time. These matters are of the public record. And, as they can have no relevance to your investigation regarding Miss Forrest, I believe we are done.” Victoria looked pointedly at the study door, gesturing the man toward it. “Good day, Mr. Goodwin.”

“The ship The Plentifulle, it was, or so has been reported. And your husband left his new wife less than a month after the return of your wedding holiday? Suddenly? Without notifying even the servants?”

Victoria drew herself up in all haughtiness. “Mr. Goodwin, I’m not certain how your household is run, but here at St. Heath’s Row, the servants do not grant permission for the master’s comings and goings.”

“I see.” He pulled his hat brim even straighter, and gave a little bow. “Thank you very much for your assistance, Lady Rockley.”

With loathing, Victoria watched the man go. Such a prig, and he had pulled on her strings enough to make her feel unsettled. She, a Venator of two years, who had faced demons and vampires and multiple undead, had been set off balance by a mere Bow Street Runner.

But why on earth had he been asking her about vampires?

Seven

Of Stone-filled Wicker Baskets, Meeting at the Altar, and Confessions

After Mr. Bemis Goodwin, Bow Street Runner, made his exit, Victoria did not return to the parlor. She decided that it was more than fitting to leave Sebastian to face the ferocious Lady Melly and mop up the pieces of his little charade.

Of course, there was always the risk that he might complicate matters further . . . or that Lady Melly might be won over—Sebastian, after all, was as charming as they came—and leap heartily into planning the second wedding to which he had alluded.

But for now . . . Victoria had so many things to think about, to worry on, that she absolutely couldn’t sit in that crowded parlor and pretend to be civil any longer.

She’d already given Verbena, her maid, the direction to pack some of her belongings and to have the footmen take them over to Aunt Eustacia’s town house. She wouldn’t sleep another night under James Lacy’s roof, where Sebastian felt as though he could invade her chambers at will, with disregard for whoever might see him.

Taking care to stay away from any window that might reveal her location to those visiting in the parlor, Victoria took a pea-gravel path along the side of the mansion. She suspected that Kritanu was still in the chapel where she’d left him yesterday afternoon, before joining James for dinner. She’d meant to visit again last night, but the sherry, along with Sebastian’s visit to her chamber, had sent her to bed earlier than she planned.

“Victoria.” Kritanu greeted her as her shadow spilled into the chapel. She closed the door behind her and moved down the aisle toward her trainer.

He was on the altar arranged in one of his more complicated yoga positions: balanced on shoulders and chest with his arms extended along the floor and legs bent up around. His feet rested gently on the top of his head and his arms splayed strongly beneath his raised torso, extended on the ground in a stabilizing vee. As she watched, he moved slowly and smoothly out of what she recognized as the shalabha-asana.

Although Kritanu had taught her some of the positions, or asanas, of yoga in order to help her learn to concentrate and breathe more efficiently, Victoria had never been able to arrange her body thus. Neither had Aunt Eustacia.

“I meant to come again last night,” she began, but he was already shaking his head.

“You’ve much to attend to, child. I know well how difficult it can be.”

Indeed he would, for he had been Aunt Eustacia’s trainer, companion, and—as Victoria had recently learned—her lover for more than fifty years.

Victoria closed her fingers over his smooth, tea-colored hand and squeezed. “When will you bury him?”

Kritanu shook his head. “We do not bury our dead. His body, worn out like that of an old chariot, will be burned. I will take his ashes back to the Consilium, where he would want them to be.” He straightened, and she saw that although grief still lived within his gaze, it had softened. “But I have wanted to talk with you about continuing your training. We’ve done little in the last months, and I fear that you’ll become weak and slow . . . and fall back into using predictable moves.”

Victoria smiled, though for some reason she wanted to cry. “I have made arrangements to move to Aunt Eustacia’s house—which I should have done immediately upon returning to London. It was foolish of me to stay here.”

Kritanu nodded. “I will take my nephew today, then, so you needn’t worry on that. And I’m glad that you’ll be back with me. We’ll hone your ankathari skills, for you must become more adept with a blade. It’s a worthwhile skill for fighting Imperials.”

Imperial vampires were the oldest of the half-demon race, often having been created more than a millennium ago. Their eyes burned red-violet, and they were faster and stronger than even the Guardians. They carried swords, and had the ability to glide through the air. Some of them could also shape-shift or pull the life force from a person with their mere gaze.

Victoria had fought Imperials only twice, and only with help. They were horrible, fearsome creatures.

“When will I be ready to start qinggong?” she asked.

She’d seen Max’s graceful, gliding movements through the air, swooping and leaping as though he was bewinged. As a novice Venator, she’d observed him use these skills in a battle he’d fought against an Imperial vampire two years ago. Max’s strength and skill were well matched to the vampire’s, and the battle had been almost beautiful to behold as they matched blade to wooden pike, feet brushing the ground then rising again, swirling and sliding in great arcs through the night air.

Kritanu gave her a fatherly smile. “If you wish, we can begin tomorrow. But, I must warn you, it will take years, perhaps decades, for you to master it. Unlike other combat skills, qinggong is not enhanced by the vis bulla. It is mostly the strength and power of your mind that will make you successful with qinggong.”

But Max had mastered it, and he couldn’t have been doing so for more than a decade himself. Victoria knew she could learn it as well.

“I see you are skeptical.” Kritanu tipped his head in a gentle nod. “Qinggong is an art from China, not of the Venators. And you will begin, tomorrow if you wish, in the same manner of all who study qinggong.”