When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

Something shoved her from behind and she stumbled deeply. She used her forward motion to roll over in a somersault—a very unladylike technique that Kritanu had just taught her—then sprang to her feet, stake still in hand. The vampire had lunged after her, and when she steadied herself and turned, she went after him. Fool, she thought as he exploded.

As she turned back to the crowd of people, she remembered the two partygoers who’d been taken off by the vampires. With a glance at Sebastian, who seemed to have taken to vampire staking with surprising vigor, Victoria dashed off down the brick pathway where the two vampires had dragged their prey.

Down the dark path she barreled, unfamiliar with the garden. Smoke tinged the air, and large black ashes wafted and swirled like small bats. She tripped over a stone, falling half into a boxwood or some other prickly hedge. Catching her balance, she paused, listening. She’d left Sebastian to handle the group of vampires back there, choosing to go after the ones who were already feeding from their prey, and she wasn’t sure that was the right thing to do.

But she couldn’t leave them to be killed in the shadows of a rosebush.

And Max could take care of himself. Wherever he was.

A soft gurgling cry met her ears, and Victoria spun to plow through a thick bush too dark to identify. She rammed her knee into something sharp and metal, felt it gouge and drag over her thigh. She kept going, heedless of the noise as she shoved the thin, sharp branches out of the way. Then she saw the shift of movement ahead.

With a cry meant more to distract than anything else, she sprang the last few feet forward. The vampire released his victim, who crumpled to the ground in a puddle of white-and-gold fabric. Victoria launched herself at the vampire, and saw the dark drool of blood from the corner of her mouth.

The undead was a tall, corpulent female, her arms as bulky as those of a burly man. She smiled at Victoria, her fangs gleaming, and faced her, ready. “The female Venator,” she grunted.

The smell of blood tickling at her consciousness, Victoria swallowed hard. And focused. She smiled back at the female, feeling the feral curl of her own lips—but she didn’t have time to waste looking ferocious and confident. With a quick snap, she broke off a wrist-sized branch as long as her leg, and swung out powerfully.

The female grabbed at it as Victoria expected she would, and Victoria gave a hard yank, pulling the vampire off balance. As the heavy creature lurched forward, Victoria leaped out of the way and tripped the lumbering undead, then spun to slam the stake deep into the back of her evil heart.

Before the dust had settled, she stumbled over to the victim collapsed on the ground, and turned her over. Her mask was gone and she recognized the shy Miss Melissa Keitherton, who spoke of little but her beloved cat Damian. She was still warm and breathing, and despite the blood oozing from her neck, she wasn’t terribly hurt. It was a small wound, a single bite, with a relatively meager amount of blood. She would live to spoil Damian with catnip another day.

Victoria ripped a piece of silk from her gown and tied it firmly, but not too tightly, around the neck wound, and she then flung Miss Keitherton over her shoulder.

When she reached the patio again, she came upon a scene that could only be described as Hell. The house was in orange and red flames, throwing eerie shadows threaded with a dancing golden glow over the figures standing at the horizon of light and darkness. Smoke poured through the eaves and chimney, through upper windows open to the summer air. The ballroom, which appeared to be the last room on the lower level broached by the fire, was filled with black smoke. Flames ringed the far wall, making their way relatively slowly through a room that was fairly empty of fuel.

Releasing her burden gently to the ground, Victoria turned back and saw that the last pair of vampires, unengaged in battle and seeing that their companions had been vanquished, had turned tail. They bounded into the darkness, slick and dark and fast, and Victoria couldn’t resist. She preferred that there be none to tell the tale to Lilith, or any other creature who might be there.

But as she dashed into the shadows again, heedless of the now-tattered gown and the slipping silver brooch on her shoulder, she heard a loud noise behind her. Faltering in her chase, she turned just in time to see the house’s roof fold in on itself. The sound of screams, dulled by the roar of fire and distance, reached her . . . and urged Victoria to return.

She let the vampires escape, realizing, suddenly, that she hadn’t seen Gwendolyn. Had she made it out of the house? Were there others trapped inside? Max?

And what about George and Sara? There and at that moment, in the middle of the melee, Victoria realized how this whole tragedy had been executed—and why.

Panting, Victoria sped back to the clearing in time to hear the tolling of the fire bell as the wagon arrived. It was impossible to pump a large volume of water fast enough to keep the fire from destroying the house—it was too hot and too strong of a blaze. But at least the nearby buildings and fences could be dampened to keep it from spreading.

But now that the threat of the undead was gone and the house was evacuated, Victoria knew she needed to find George and Sara. It was obviously no accident that vampires had been waiting in the walled garden when a blaze forced a group of rich-blooded partygoers outside. As invited guests with access to the house, and members of the Tutela, George and Sara had obviously had a hand in this.

She scanned the crowd of people who’d quieted down and were now merely staring with soot-streaked faces— some even unaware they were still wearing their masks. Shadows of light and dark danced over their smoke-tinted costumes and faces. Many of them spoke quietly to each other, shock turning stoic facial expressions into long, drab ones. The household staff clustered off to one side, some of them still in their glittering livery; others, in plain dress, watching their home and livelihood eaten alive by flames.

Victoria didn’t see a Romeo or Juliet anywhere, nor an unmasked George or Sara. Nor, come to think of it, did she see Gwen.

Or Max.

Her heart thumping hard, she hurried forward, realizing she was limping from the gash on her leg. She shoved through the crowd of people to get between them and the house—the only way she could see their faces and recognize anyone. Sebastian came up next to her. A slight sheen of sweat glistened on his face in the flames, and he put his arm around her, pulling her close.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his face in her hair.

“I can’t find Gwendolyn,” she replied, pulling away. “Or Sara or George. Have you seen Max?”