When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

“So I should have let him—”

“And,” Max continued smoothly, “if he was Tutela, it would explain his animosity toward you. The Venator who took his brother’s life.”

She didn’t like the train of this conversation, for the condemnation from Max still weighed heavily on her. Perhaps she shouldn’t have left Goodwin at the hands of the vampires . . . but at that time, it was the only thing she could do . . . wanted to do.

It was as if all concepts but self-preservation had evaporated from her mind. Leaving only a single-minded need for survival. Red-tinged anger, blind wrath. Conscience-less fury.

Then she remembered. “He did say something . . . something about protecting his brother. ‘After all I did to protect him.’ ”

“He could have helped him turn undead to protect him. It’s been done before.” Bitterness.

Victoria looked at him sharply and recognized that he was speaking of himself. “As you did with your father and sister.”

“But Vioget has told you all of the sordid details, has he not.” Max’s voice was staccato and hard, and he turned to pick up the tangle of blades.

“I know enough from Wayren to be aware that you were young and had been tricked into believing in the promise of the Tutela. You did it to save your father’s life, and your sister’s too. They were both weak and ill.”

“Immortality. Protection from illness. Power.” He stood, holding the weapons. “Only a naive boy would believe there was no cost for such a prize.” Max turned, walking toward the cabinet where the weapons were stored.

Victoria realized that Kritanu had gone, and they were alone. “The way I understand it, the Tutela is more than a match for a naive boy. Mature and learned people like John Polidori have succumbed to their machinations.”

“Never fear, Victoria. I’ve come to terms with what I did. Why do you think I’ve dedicated my life to hunting the undead? I see no reason to wallow in self-pity or flagellate myself. There’s too much work to be done.” Max lifted one of the swords, fitting it onto its pegs inside the cabinet. He didn’t look at her as he latched it into place. “And I certainly don’t need your sympathy or pity.”

Victoria opened her mouth to reply, but Max was already out of the room.

Fifteen

Wherein Victoria Breaks a Trust

“We called yesterday,” Lady Melly sniffed, “after we’d heard about that terrible fire. But that Verbena insisted that you were indisposed.” She glowered at Victoria. “She made us wait here in this room for an hour. Without tea.”

Victoria thought it was more likely that Lady Melly and her two cronies had refused to budge for that hour, rather than being forced to sit there . . . but then again, Verbena was just as strong-willed. Perhaps it had been a game of who would blink first.

Apparently, the ladies had blinked—or perhaps hunger had won out.

“I wasn’t feeling at all up to visitors yesterday, Mama,” she told her with a placating pat on her hand. In reality, Victoria felt a bit guilty for her mother’s worry— for the lines on her face seemed deeper, and the way she’d gasped upon seeing the scrapes and bruises on her cheeks and chin bespoke her concern. “But Verbena told me that you’d come, and it made me feel much better.”

“You do look rather worse for the wear,” Lady Melly said, her tone and her face softening. “Fires are terrible things.”

Victoria nodded and squeezed her fingers around her mother’s wrist. Lady Melly’s father had died in a stable fire when she was a young girl, and she’d often described the terror of the furious blaze and the screams of the horses trapped inside. “But I survived with only a few scars, and all is well.”

Lady Melly sniffed again, the tip of her nose tinged suspiciously pink. “When your maid wouldn’t allow us to see you—and I must say that I am quite offended that she should disallow your own flesh and blood to visit— we called on Rockley.” She looked at Victoria, the calculation back in her blue eyes. “It seemed the right thing to do.”

Victoria smothered a sigh. “Mama, you must understand—”

As if to forestall any declaration of her disinterest in the marquess, Melly interrupted. “He is quite besotted with you, Victoria. There’s no need to feel uncomfortable about it. It’s not as though he and Rockley—your Rockley— were brothers or any such thing. As I hear it, they’re very distantly related and it wouldn’t be odd at all. And then you would be a marchioness.”

“I’m still a marchioness,” Victoria reminded her dryly. “But, Mama, you really must cease this matchmaking. I’m a widow now, and I haven’t any real desire to marry again. Nor do I need to.”

Even as she said those words, and registered the bald disapproval in her parent’s face, Victoria felt an odd nudge deep inside. Marriage in the way Society expected of her was most definitely out of the question. But there was the fact that she was the last direct descendant of the Gardella line—as far as she knew. If she died, as Max had said, without issue . . .

And, if she examined things even more deeply, she couldn’t deny that being a Venator, especially Illa Gardella, was a lonely, terribly lonely, life. Even Aunt Eustacia had had a partner, someone to share it with, to sleep next to, to be held by when times became dark and frightening. Someone who understood her, and loved her. After all, Aunt Eustacia had had a brother, who had been Melly’s father, and thus she knew the line wouldn’t die with her. Perhaps it really was time for Victoria to think in that manner, and to stop taking the special potion that kept her from getting with child.

Sebastian flashed into her mind, and she smiled. He had made it more than clear how willing he was to be with her. Intimately. Whether he loved her or not wasn’t clear, but he certainly cared for her.

Unlike Max.

Victoria focused back in on her mother, who had launched into a breathless diatribe about how terrible it was to remain unmarried and alone. She let her go on for a moment longer, then said, “But Mama, you’ve been widowed for more than four years now and I haven’t heard you speak once of wedding Lord Jellington.”

Lady Melly’s barrage of platitudes abruptly stopped and she blinked at her daughter.

And then, thankfully, before she was able to gather up a full breath to respond, a knock came at the parlor door. Charley opened it and Victoria saw that behind him were not only the ladies Winnie and Nilly, but the tall, rumpled figure of James Lacy.