When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

Now she understood. Victoria hesitated, curling her fingers into her palm.

He was closer to the bed now, and she swung her feet out from beneath the coverings and sat on the edge as if that position would give her more stability—yet her feet dangled nervously above the floor. Holding the flickering flame on a stick, he reached for her wrist.

“Open.”

She did, and the yellow glow illuminated the faint bluish cast over the plump parts of her palm, up along the inside of her thumb.

Their eyes met and she felt warmth billow through her, from her chest out into each of her limbs. The room pressed in around them.

“It won’t wash off.” Her voice was soft.

“I told you it would not.”

The blue tinge was from a shard of Akvan’s Obelisk, the demonic stone that had been shattered by Max the previous November when they battled Nedas. Victoria had retrieved one of the pieces and brought it back to the Consilium, where, unbeknownst to her, the power of the obelisk had called Akvan back to earth—and the power of the splinter directed his minions to the secret location of the Consilium.

When she’d removed the shard from the hideaway, returning it to a safe place behind the Door of Alchemy, Max had been there as well.

That was when Victoria, influenced by the malevolent power of the piece of obelisk that she’d held, had goaded him into kissing her.

The blue on her hand was indelibly connected to the memory of her fingers curling into the rough stone wall as Max fit his mouth to hers.

She closed her hand into a fist. It was a good thing she had to wear gloves in polite society.

“I’ve often wondered if that also contributed to the failure of Beauregard’s blood to take root in you.” He nodded brusquely at her hand as he released it, then moved slightly away.

She breathed a bit easier now, and stopped her leg against the edge of the bed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s possible. Vampires and demons are immortal enemies. I obviously had been somewhat influenced by Akvan’s power when I was holding the shard. Perhaps some essence of it remained.”

He nodded. “That and your two vis bullae.” His eyes focused on her, and even in the shadowy light, she could sense the sharpness of his gaze.

Her two strength amulets were not a topic on which she cared to speak. She didn’t want to discuss or acknowledge the fact that one of them was his. It was simply too uncomfortable. Strange, to think about the intimacy of wearing an amulet pierced through her own skin that had once hung from his.

The silence snapped when he shifted away with spare, smooth movements. His hand closed over the doorknob, answering at least one of her questions: how he’d entered the room. “Perhaps you’d best get some sleep now, Victoria,” he said. “I’m certain Vioget will return soon enough.”

“He hasn’t open access to my bedchamber,” she said sharply. “Much as he might wish to.”

“Do I detect upheaval in paradise? A bit of a tension between two lovers?”

“Sebastian isn’t my lover.”

His brows rose. “Indeed.” He turned the knob, but refrained from opening the door. “Another word of advice, Victoria. For all of the enmity between Vioget and myself, I know that he means well by you. His greatest weakness is blind loyalty. He is a worthy match for you.” His words were short and clipped. “It’s . . . important that you think of the future.”

“You begin to sound like my mother,” Victoria replied, feeling bewildered. Why was Max encouraging her toward a man he loathed?

“Whereas your mother is concerned only with titles and wealth and grandchildren, my interest relates to the well-being of the Venators. You are the last of the direct line, and should consider what will happen if you die without issue. Or prematurely.”

Victoria slid down from the edge of the bed, her feet landing on the soft woolen rug. The brush of silk from her nightgown shifted sleekly against her calves, swishing down from her thighs. “This from a man who, two years ago, was furious that I chose to wed? Make up your mind, Max.” As she stood in front of him, she saw him draw back . . . subtly, almost imperceptibly putting distance between them.

“My mind has been made up. Don’t be a fool, Victoria. Remember your duty.” He pulled the door open, then paused halfway out of the room. “I do hope you’ll be considerate and keep any—er—activities in here from being too strident.”

She looked at him, enlightenment dawning as the urge to tamper with him disappeared. “You’re staying here?”

“Kritanu suggested it.” His sardonic smile flashed again. “But you needn’t worry that I’ll disrupt things . . . I’m staying in the servants’ quarters.” The door closed behind him with a firm click as he made his escape.

Nine

In Which Our Heroine Is Interrogated Yet Again

Victoria did not go back to sleep after Max left.

Instead, she found herself staring at the ceiling of the bedchamber that used to belong to Aunt Eustacia. As ceilings went, it was patently uninteresting—there was nary a mural nor a small plafond to relieve its eggshell color. It was flat, unmarked, and without flaw.

Thus Victoria had nothing to distract her from her churning thoughts.

Max was somewhere in the house, a fact which alone made her feel odd. He was suggesting that she marry—or at least have a long-term, child-bearing affair with—a man he loathed. The man who’d killed his sister, in fact, sending her, as an undead, to an eternal damnation that Max had caused. A man that Max had disparaged for his cowardice on more than one occasion, who had declined to accept the role of Venator, yet who had kept the knowledge and power of one for more than a decade.

A man that Victoria had been intimate with on more than one occasion, although, as she’d informed Max, she didn’t consider Sebastian her lover. Not really. Not in an ongoing or permanent way. Not as if she was ready to wed the man.

Since she’d first met Sebastian, he’d projected an aura of mystery and untrustworthiness. Yet, from their initial conversation at the Silver Chalice, there’d been a connection between them, a flare of attraction on which he never wasted an opportunity to act. Or attempt to act.

And she’d been willing. A few times.

She shivered, smiled, remembering.

In truth, he had made her feel when she’d otherwise been numb. When she grieved, he soothed and awakened her. When she raged, he enraged her further, drawing forth that energy and massaging it into passion. His sense of the absurd, his ability to turn every situation into a prospect for seduction, his fit, golden body . . . the one, she remembered now, with a tinge of bitterness, that he’d kept fairly hidden from her until two months ago, when she’d discovered that he wore the vis bulla.