When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

Loved.

Her knees trembled anew.

It was the reason she’d been able to forgive him for Aunt Eustacia’s death. The reason she’d never stopped trusting him. Had known he wouldn’t forsake the Venators, even once stripped of his own abilities.

In her own mind, that stark black-and-white line had always leaked a bit into charcoal, or to fog . . . but that had recently begun to bloom into a wide stretch of gray. . . . Was that why he retreated from her? Because she wasn’t as good?

By now the rosiness had faded, her pulse had slowed. The surge of malevolence had gone. Was it getting easier to fight it back? Or was it her imagination, wishing and hoping?

It also hadn’t escaped her that last night, when she and Max were fighting . . . that vulgar evil hadn’t attempted to take her over. That reddish haze and surge of wickedness hadn’t teased and fought to control her. Why?

Was it because she hadn’t been fighting for self-preservation, as she had other times? Her self hadn’t been in jeopardy; she’d not been battling for her life? She’d not needed to be selfish to win.

The seed of everything evil begins with self.

When she felt steady, Victoria looked up and saw that Max was watching her. His attention scored her, as though trying to decipher what it was that had sent her off into the whirlwind of her mind.

Before he could speak, there was another knock at the door.

It was Verbena again, and she held a small white box.

A red ribbon tied it closed, and when Victoria accepted the container, an awful feeling of foreboding rushed through her. Max took one look at the brownish streaks on the outside and swore. It bore the same seal of Brodebaugh.

Victoria couldn’t get it open fast enough, and when she did, she nearly dropped it. “My God.”

Inside were two fingers, their bloody stumps sticky and oozing into the sides of the container. One had skin the color of coffee, and the other a few shades lighter. This second one bore a small golden ring that Victoria recognized. She didn’t need to say anything; the look of revulsion on Max’s face mirrored her own.

The message was perfectly clear. Time was running out.

Victoria arrived at the Brodebaugh residence as though making an early social call. The house wasn’t as large as St. Heath’s Row, but grander than Grantworth House. Situated near Hyde Park, the grounds of the home were walled but the rear was adjacent to a small finger of the park. Neighboring houses were far enough away to give privacy, due to the unusually wide side gardens.

The moment the door opened, she smelled blood.

“Victoria!” It was Gwendolyn, her eyes wild and her face tinged gray and streaked with tears. Her hair fell in ungainly clumps, and she was still dressed in the gown she’d worn to the coronation yesterday. “You’ve come! I was afraid . . . I’m so afraid!” She clutched desperately at her, pulling her into the house. “You have to help us!”

Victoria’s heart was pounding. She’d suspected, but now she knew for certain.

As Gwendolyn closed the door, Victoria fought to ignore the heavy iron scent in the air, and to keep her mind steady. Instead, she focused on the comforting stake deep in her pocket, her own vis bulla beneath her clothing, and her surroundings. The foyer of Brodebaugh Hall was empty, fairly ringing with its silence. The whole building was silent.

“Where are they?” she asked, battling the smell of blood, the horror that now gripped her, the edge of pink at her vision.

“Did you . . . you came alone?” Gwendolyn sniffled, looking around wildly. “How could you . . . how . . .”

“I can handle it myself,” Victoria told her firmly. “Where are the servants?”

“They’re all gone,” Gwendolyn said fearfully. “They— she—took them all away.” She looked again, over Victoria’s shoulder, out the door, as if expecting to see an army there. “There’s no one but you? But, Victoria—”

She’d had enough with the hysterics. The stake was out of her pocket and Victoria had slammed Gwendolyn up against the wall before the girl took another breath. Or made another fake sob. Her hand closed in a tight vee under Gwen’s throat, and she poised the stake against her chest. “Tell me where they are, or you’re dust.”

Gwen dropped all pretense. Her pretty face, which had turned gray and tired from the overuse of the elixir, curdled into a malignant expression. Her eyes bulged, and turned from blue to red in an instant. “How did you know?”

“I’d suspected for awhile,” Victoria told her, realizing that the back of her neck had cooled. Gwen wasn’t the only vampire in the house. “You were always there when a daytime attack occurred. I could see the elixir taking its toll on you, in your face, but I just thought it was exhaustionfrom your wedding plans.” She tightened her fingers around Gwen’s throat, causing the girl to cough and to scratch at her hand, trying to tear it away. “But when I saw the queen yesterday, I realized there’s a certain shadow in the eyes of a daytime undead. They all had it: James, Caroline, her guards. And you.”

“James.” Gwen kicked out, but Victoria was ready. The little pointed foot, strong with undead power, merely grazed the side of her target’s leg. “You killed him too! You killed my love.”

“So that was it.” Victoria knew she was taking up valuable time . . . but she had to know more. And why. “You helped set him in place as the new Rockley heir.”

“I had no choice, since the first one was dead. I wanted to marry Phillip and you stole him from me. I’d seen him first, and then you made your debut, and immediately he was stumbling all over his feet for you. I didn’t have a chance.” Gwen’s voice was rough from the hand at her throat, but her tone was petulant. “And now James. We were going to be so happy together. Eternal youth! And wealth.”

Victoria looked at the girl who had been her friend and wondered how such a lovely young woman could have turned so evil.

Self. The seed of everything evil begins with self.

“You never intended to marry Brodebaugh?”

Gwen gave a squeaky laugh. “Oh, yes, we were to wed. And then he would die a sudden death, and I would find solace in the arms of the Marquess of Rockley. We’ve been planning this for months!” she ended on a shriek.

“How long have you been undead?”

“Only since George returned from Italy. He brought Malachai—you knew him as James. And when I met him, I knew the Tutela wasn’t enough for me. I wanted immortality.” Her laugh was grating and malicious. “I wanted revenge on you for years, Victoria Gardella . . . since you married the man I desired. I planned for you to die when you came to the house party last summer . . . when the vampires came for Polidori. But you fought them off. You and that blond Frenchman.”