When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

“Very well, then, Lady Rockley. I believe that you are somehow involved in these attacks. Either you are the perpetrator, or are somehow involved with the person— or creature—who is.”

“Mr. Goodwin, do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?” Victoria found it easy to laugh, although an uncomfortable feeling had begun to settle in the back of her mind. “How would a woman such as I make those kinds of wounds on another person?”

“A woman such as you?” Mr. Goodwin’s eyebrows turned into dark, inverted vees, drawing together above the bridge of his nose. “I have a feeling that a woman such as you just might be able to.”

Victoria’s mouth dried. Who was this man? The discomfort in her middle turned cold and heavy. Yet she responded coolly. “Accusations toward me are merely a waste of your time and energy. The real monster who is doing this is escaping your notice while you point the finger at me.”

“Of course you would say that, Lady Rockley. You are very clever, I do give you credit for that. After what happened with your husband, I would expect you to react in such a fashion.”

She must have frowned in question, but, in truth, her anxiety was turning to anger at the skinny man before her. Victoria’s vision blurred and began to pinken. She felt her fingers close in on themselves, her nails scoring deeply into her palms.

“Yes, indeed,” he continued in an unhurried voice. “The circumstances under which your husband disappeared are exceedingly odd, indeed. I shall not be overlooking them in my investigations. And do not think that your status will protect you, Lady Rockley.”

“Get out of my house.”

“Of course, Lady Rockley.” He started toward the door, moving as if he had all of the time in the world and as if Victoria wasn’t ready to do something violent to his person. It must have showed in her face, despite the fact that she tried to control it. The anger bubbled and simmered and she felt it in the way her knees shook beneath the fall of her skirt, and her teeth ground down on themselves.

“Perhaps you recall the fate of Baron Clifton’s heir? It wasn’t even murder, Lady Rockley. He merely stole some jewelry.” Mr. Goodwin smiled with great pleasure. “Stealing is still a hanging offense. As is assault, and accomplice to murder.”

Now his hand was on the knob, and he turned it. Then he stopped, just like Max had earlier this morning. “Did I mention that one of the servants at St. Heath’s Row told me that Rockley had left the home days before you claim he left on The Plentifulle, after a great row between the two of you? And that the day you say he sailed on that ship, that same servant saw his master enter the house in the dead of night? The same night that you dismissed all of the servants?”

He stepped through the door as Victoria’s vision began to burn. She felt her heart beat and her breath increasing in speed, and herself wanting to move toward him . . . to stop him. Stop him from these snide remarks, these thinly covered accusations.

He had one more thing to say. “I believe you had something to do with his disappearance, Lady Rockley. Just as you had something to do with the attacks on Miss Forrest and Miss Flowers. And a man left for dead in the Dials more than a year ago. He had been repeatedly stabbed.

“I’ve been awaiting your return from Italy for nearly a year now.” He smiled and slammed his hat onto sleek, smooth hair, looking at her with the same insolence that Nedas, the vampire son of Lilith, had. “I’ve seen many of your class behind the bars of Newgate, Lady Rockley, and watched them on the scaffold. It’s my opinion that you will soon join them, and then how long will your lush, dark beauty last?”

And he closed the door so quietly it was ominous.

Despite the uneasiness from her meeting with Mr. Goodwin, Victoria was clearheaded enough to order Charley, Aunt Eustacia’s trusted butler, to follow the odious man.

Once she was alone, standing in the foyer, Victoria shook off the foreboding and fury that had billowed through her during their meeting. Her vision cleared, and she looked down at her hands—one scarred and creamy, the other faintly blue, as though she’d been out in the cold for too long. They showed the marks of her nails, but none had drawn blood.

And her fingers no longer shook.

Despite his threats, she had no real fear of the Bow Street Runner. What could he do to her? Not only was she a member of the ton, but she was Illa Gardella. And most importantly, she’d done nothing wrong. She’d certainly not had anything to do with the deaths of Miss Forrest and Miss Flowers, and the situation with Phillip was utterly different.

But . . . there had been that incident in the Seven Dials neighborhood.

As she stood in the entrance of Aunt Eustacia’s home, Victoria couldn’t help but remember the night she’d come into this very same space. Well past midnight, nearing the dawn, only a month after Phillip’s death, she’d eased through the front door, blood-spattered and insensitive.

There wasn’t supposed to be blood.

That phrase rang through her memory again, just as it had done that night, over and over. Aunt Eustacia, roused by her niece’s arrival, had listened with calm, dark eyes as Victoria described how she’d come upon a large man attempting to ravish a young girl in the filthy, poverty-stricken, and mean streets of the Dials. It was her first night out hunting for undead after Phillip’s death, and grief for him and hatred toward herself had burst forth as she attacked the man bare-handed.

When he turned on her, a dagger in his hand, she’d wrested the unfamiliar weapon from him and used it against him—plunging it into mortal flesh and bone in an awful parody of slaying an undead. A berserker had overtaken her.

The man had been breathing when she left him, but, nevertheless, Victoria had inflicted grave harm on a human. A mortal, of the very race she was bound to protect.

After that incident, she’d removed her vis bulla and let it languish. She mourned Phillip for a year, struggling to contain and control her need to destroy and avenge. It was then that she realized how terrible and dangerous her Venatorial gifts were—how they could be used to destroy those she was meant to save.

When she replaced the vis bulla, she did so with the full understanding of who she was, and what her limits were. And with the vow that her powers were not to be used against her own race. That was not her role to play.

She took a deep breath and unclasped her hands, stretching her fingers, tried to ease the tension. The oddest thing of all was that Mr. Goodwin even knew of the incident in the Dials. After all, in that area of town, violence and murder happened so regularly that it was difficult for the authorities to bring the criminals to justice, if they were even notified of every death or injury—which was impossible.