When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 4)

“Now,” said Lilith almost kindly. “We shall see how strong you are, Victoria Gardella. And then it will be all over.”

A cold web of fear covered her as she breathed hot, bloody, sluggish air and felt a drop of perspiration roll down her back.

Everything happened very quickly, but Victoria could have done nothing to prevent it. Sara’s gun barrel poked her in the side, and the dogs sat sentry in front of her as three vampires moved forward at Lilith’s command. They placed heavy, clinking manacles on Max’s wrists, crossing them together at his lap. When they first approached, he stepped back, his teeth baring ferally . . . but when Sara prodded Victoria with the gun, he acquiesced.

“That’s it, Maximilian. Don’t put an end to the experiment before it begins,” said Lilith. “And you need not worry, Victoria Gardella. I have no intent of harming your lover. This is merely a precaution so that he does nothing foolish.”

Victoria looked at Max. His stony face gave no indication of what was in his mind. Even his eyes were flat and emotionless, and though he met her gaze, he gave her nothing else.

Nothing for her, but also nothing for Lilith.

The shadow in the middle of the floor turned out to be not a shadow at all, but a pit. As she realized this, Victoria turned cold again. She knew what awaited her.

Before she could think further, the three vampires who’d chained Max came toward her. She fought them with stake and foot and red-clouded desperation, but in the end she was subdued by two of them. She took little satisfaction in the pile of ash that the other had become. Red burned her vision and her body trembled. Her mouth salivated. It took them all of their might to hold her steady when Lilith approached.

Her fangs dipped into her thin lower lip. It was purplish in color and the incisors left little dark dents, revealed when she smiled. Victoria held her breath, expecting anything . . . but not the sudden swipe of nails over her cheek and neck.

She felt the three claws dig into her face, and the burst of blood that followed as though it had been simmering below the surface . . . waiting.

And then, before she knew what was happening, she was flying through the air, falling down, down, down . . . into the black pit.

Twenty-six

A View from the Stands

Max saw the scarlet weals of blood erupt on Victoria’s skin. It would be over very soon. Whatever it would be.

Damn her. Why in God’s name did she come here?

At the scent of such fresh blood, the dogs surged to their feet, heedless of their mistress’s command. They snarled and drooled and tore after Victoria, leaping into the hole where she’d been flung.

“Open your eyes, my dear Maximilian,” crooned Lilith near his ear. Her breath was hot over his flesh, almost liquid in its promise . . . and malignance. The scent of roses was nauseating. “You needn’t worry that she’ll die down there. I have the utmost confidence in her abilities. Now, come closer, so you can watch her at her best. She truly is magnificent.”

She prodded him forward, and he obeyed. He understood what Lilith meant to do, and his palms grew damp as his insides churned. Hot tears burned his eyes. The silver ring was heavy on his finger, yet useless, dammit. Bloody useless.

If there’d been one chance to get close enough to Victoria, he’d have lashed out, sliced her with it, eradicating Lilith’s opportunity for entertainment.

Damn you, Victoria. Why didn’t you stay away? It could have been over by now.

He didn’t want to look in the pit, yet he could not keep from doing so. You’d be safe. It was a mass of snarling teeth and writhing fur, slender white limbs, flashes of pale skin and fabric. Victoria had her stake; he saw it rise and plunge, awkward and desperate, even as the dogs snapped and bit and surged. He cringed at her gasps and cries, and hoped when there was a canine squeal or shriek. God, he hoped.

Rather than mauling her all at once, the mastiffs seemed to come in waves . . . one after the other, lunging, biting, snarling, scratching, then rolling or dodging away in the pit to let the next come. The attack was so fast and relentless that Max could make out no details . . . only that Victoria had not been able to rise from beneath them. And her stake had not yet been effective.

He didn’t realize he was jumping forward, down, until a horrible jerk on his wrist manacles whipped him through the air, then slammed him back onto the ground, fairly yanking his arms from their sockets. Rough stone tore his skin raw as he skidded across the dirt and rock. Blood oozed from his wounds as he crawled rapidly back to the edge of the pit, feeling the strain of hard breathing coursing through him. If he could get down there, he needed only a moment, and the ring would do its job.

But another powerful drag pulled him back, sending him sprawling onto his spine, head whipping back hard onto the stones. He breathed heavily, looking up into the furious face of Lilith. “Do not try such a foolish thing again,” she said. “Or I’ll release them fully.”

Max clambered to his feet, head pounding, fists clenched. He wanted to beg, his mouth formed the words, he drew in the breath to plead . . . but he knew it would do no good. Lilith would lap it up like her vampire dogs and stroke him like the pet he was . . . and she would do what she wanted anyway, reveling in his pain and using his weakness to control him, to destroy them both.

Christ Almighty, his weakness was two bloody women. The vampire and the Venator. The seductive evil incarnate and the feminine warrior.

There was a sudden sharp squeal and a soft explosion. Then quiet.

He surged to the edge again, looking back down into the blackness, hoping. . . . Her white fingers were there, bloody, digging into the small cuts on the side of the pit, pulling her battered body up . . . not so far from the edge, and Max plunged his chained wrists down to help drag her up, heedless of Lilith standing behind him, of her triumph in seeing his weakness. There were no dogs left . . . only the smell of vampire dust on the air.

Victoria collapsed onto the ground at their feet. Her clothing was bloody and torn, her eyes glazed, her loose hair in a long, witchy tangle about her, red-streaked fingers still clutching the stake. Yet she pulled raggedly to her feet and blinked hard; Max could see her struggling to maintain her composure, to clear her vision.

He saw it . . . he recognized the struggle going on beneath her skin, deep within. The need to go on, to destroy, to annihilate. His fists tightened. There was nothing anyone could do for her. She had to fight through herself. Wayren had told him all of the details that Victoria had not.

Holy God, let her be strong.