When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

A woman like you.

No, he knew something about her. He could be a vampire himself and be drinking the elixir. Obviously a vampire would want her, Illa Gardella, to die. But that didn’t follow—for he’d said he’d been watching her for over a year. Since she nearly killed the man in the Dials. The elixir hadn’t been in existence for that long, and he appeared to have been living a normal life as a Bow Street Runner for longer than that.

She concluded he couldn’t be undead himself.

He could believe she was a vampire herself, and want to destroy her. If Barth and Verbena had known about vampires before Victoria did, before she became a Venator . . . it was possible that he did too. But . . . if he knew anything about vampires, he would know that hanging her would do no good. So why focus on getting her to the magistrate?

If that were the case, if he believed she was a vampire, that should be easy to address—after all, then they were fighting on the same side.

Or . . . this was the most interesting, and worrisome thought: perhaps he wanted revenge. Perhaps he knew someone she’d killed—a vampire she’d staked, who’d once been someone he loved. A wife or a brother, or anyone.

So that would mean he knew that she was a Venator, and knew that the undead had tried many times to destroy her without luck. And he would try another way.

After all, bullets, blades, nooses—they would all work equally well to slay a Venator.

Victoria felt an unpleasant shiver ripple over her shoulders. Whatever the reason, Bemis Goodwin loathed her, and he was essentially an unknown opponent.

These thoughts settled in her mind, leaving Victoria uncomfortable, but not panicked. After all, she knew she was a formidable adversary herself.

But when the hackney dropped her off a block from Aunt Eustacia’s house, and Victoria slipped into the mews that led into the small yard behind the house, she found herself confronted by Bemis Goodwin and four burly men. On seeing them, her first thought was that he clearly knew her strength.

She’d already stepped out of sight of Barth, who’d rattled off in the carriage as soon as her slippers touched the ground. And the thick hedge of the mews, which ran along behind the row of houses, obscured the view from any of the residences—should anyone happen to be watching, which was in itself unlikely.

Any further considerations evaporated as she braced herself, ready for battle. “What do you want?” she asked, aware that her heart was racing.

“Come now, Lady Rockley,” Goodwin said with a supercilious gesture. “It should be no surprise to you that the magistrate awaits your presence. I’m merely here to see that he gets it.”

“For what reason?” She inched to the side, eyeing the thug closest to her as a feeling of urgency began to build, and her heart to pound. He couldn’t be as strong as a vampire. Or a Venator. None of them could be. Confidence surged through her. She was also smaller and could slip through the hedge more easily. . . .

“It will do you no good to run, Lady Rockley. You may be quick and strong, but you cannot outrun this.” He pulled a gun from his pocket.

No, she couldn’t. But the bullet would have to find her first.

Red glazing her vision, she ducked and rushed at the first of the burly men, knocking him into Goodwin. The sharp retort of a pistol shot sounded, and something whistled through the air much too close to her.

Victoria spun and began a mad dash through the hedge—if she made it through, she’d be in sight of the rear windows of the house and there was a chance someone would see her.

Something yanked hard at her cloak, and she flew backward, landing with the jolt of her skull on the ground. Head spinning, heart pounding, veins pumping, she rolled and leaped to her feet. Rage blasted through her, and she kicked out, tearing into the man closest to her. She felt her nails pare the skin from his face and her foot connect with something soft.

Her red-hued world became a cyclone of movement and ferocity in that narrow, dark walkway until suddenly something wafted down over her. It was clingy and heavy and she realized a net had been thrown over her. It wrapped around her legs, restricted her arms, and before she could fight her way out of it, the net tightened and Victoria felt herself falling.

She crashed to the ground, her head slamming onto a rock. Someone shoved her into a spin. She rolled, tangling further in the net, shouting now—hoping that someone—Max, Verbena, Kritanu, someone would hear.

Something dark went over her head, muffling her voice and smothering her gasps for air, and, like a bundle, she was lifted. The heavy cloth tightened over her face, cloistering her nose and mouth, making her struggle for every bit of air. She struggled, bucking and kicking . . . the red of her vision faded, consciousness ebbed, and she knew no more.

When Victoria became aware again, she found herself sitting in a hard wooden chair. Her hands were bound behind her and she slumped forward. The only things preventing her from tumbling off the chair were her arms bent over the top of it. They ached, and her fingers were cold and numb. Her feet were in a similar condition, tied to the rung of the chair.

She wasn’t alone. She kept her eyes closed and listened. It took her only a moment to realize that she’d awakened in the middle of Goodwin’s meeting with the magistrate. Her hearing, such as it were.

Her mind was fuzzy, and she knew little about the workings of the Bow Street Runners and their responsibility to the magistrate. But she did know that there were few honest magistrates. And fewer honest Runners. Which did not ease her anxiety in the least.

“I find your evidence against Lady Rockley compelling, Mr. Goodwin,” intoned a voice, presumably that of the magistrate.

“The woman is exceedingly strong,” now spoke Goodwin himself. “She will have to be transported in chains, and in secrecy. She has some fairly able friends.”

Victoria’s mouth went dry. Chains? Good God. But surely they would have to bring her to public trial. And by that time, Max, and Sebastian, and Lady Melly—

But did any of them know where she was?

Barth and Oliver would know. They’d still be watching Goodwin. Or they would be able to figure it out.

She lifted her head. Its throbbing was so harsh it had to be audible. “Who brings the charges against me?” she said. Her voice . . . it was not one she recognized. It was . . . dark, heavy, rough. A shiver rattled down her arms and she pulled on her bonds as rage shuddered through her. “Someone must charge me.”

She knew at least that much about crime and punishment in London. A victim or family member must press charges for a trial to occur. There were no representatives, or prosecutors, for the general public.