As Shadows Fade (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles 5)

Raising his own weapon at one of the swooping birdlike creatures, he lunged at the amorphous neck area. The blade arced through the evil black shadow as though through a fog, and a streak of cold paralyzed him.

Max staggered, his arms trembling with the sudden overwhelming chill, and he fought the dip of his belly as he staggered against the stone wall. But he raised that sword again, feeling the scream of pain along his arm as another demonic shadow dove into him. Claws dug into the back of his shoulders, gouging in the same wound, drawing forth a deep, guttural cry of pain as he turned again. The sword was heavy, but Max aimed well… He whirled around and whipped the blade through the being. Stumbling back, he saw it burst into dark, fizzing curls.

Breathless with exertion, nearly blind with pain, Max lunged forward again. Unable to rise from the ground, Brim nevertheless fought to beat back the never-ending crowd of shadows, slashing up and out with his sword. Despite the blood streaming from him, winging through the air with every movement, Max fought hard… but not as quickly and powerfully as Vioget, whose blade suddenly appeared, slashing and gleaming like stars winking in the night.

The blond man had arrived like the cavalry, leaping into the fray, moving with speed and assurance despite the continuing attack of the shadows. Max’s movements, though lethal and strong, came slower and with less power, and when he and Vioget came face-to-face, the other man said, “Go! Take her and go.”

Blood streaked his handsome face, but determination-and a bit of satisfaction-twisted his lips. After so many years away from it, he’d come to love the battle again.

Max made one last vicious slash, marking a shadowy target, and said, “Bring her back. This time.”

Vioget’s eyes met his, and a flash of anger dissolved the satisfaction there. He knew Max was referring to when Vioget’s grandfather, the vampire Beauregard, had nearly turned Victoria-and Max had been the one to bring her back. Sebastian alone couldn’t have done it.

Then Max whirled away, ducking under another darting shadow. He slashed above him with the sword, missed his mark again, dammit. He was growing weary… and he felt that blast of nauseating, paralyzing cold stagger him. He nearly fell, saw the red eyes and bared teeth of the demon as he tried to regain control of his sword-but Sebastian was there, with his gleaming silver blade, saving his bloody life yet again.

As the creature disintegrated into a foul-smelling tangle of coils, Max ran unsteadily toward the horse, where Wayren still slumped. A foglike tendril teased after him, cold and musty.

Dammit. Dammit. Had his delay, his coming back, given the demons a chance to find Wayren?

Max used the qinggong he had mastered to fly forward and leap onto the horse. Gathering up the reins, he slipped an arm around Wayren, huddling her back against him, and slammed his heels into the flanks below. His mount surged forward with a great leap, and Max bent low, closing his eyes for a moment to banish the agony that coursed through his body.

After no more than a pace or two, he looked behind him.

He saw the roiling black cloud that was still somehow contained by the walls of the cemetery, except for a few slender tendrils. He pulled back on the reins, ignoring the agonizing pain in his back and arms. The frantic horse fought the bit, needing to charge ahead… but Max forced him around, turning on the road to look back again.

The black cloud pitched and rolled, clear below the night sky lightened by moon and stars. It crept beyond the boundaries of the cemetery, slowly, as if searching. Max could hear the rising of the wind as it crooned eerily… It sought something. It knew Wayren was gone.

Bloody hell. He’d never seen anything like this. Ice settled over him as he stared back.

Something unaccountably evil burned here. Something that, he feared, would change everything.

At that moment, Wayren moved. She shifted, groaned, and Max’s attention came back to her.

“Wayren,” he said as she lifted her head as though trying to waken from a dream.

Her eyes fluttered, but they didn’t open, and she seemed to sag further in his arms. Bone white in the silvery light, her face stretched taut and still like porcelain. She was ill, gravely weakened by this permeating malevolence. If she was to survive, he had to get her away.

Max looked back toward the cemetery one last time, then kicked the horse again. And they were off.

Dawn reached up from behind the line of London rooftops by the time Max returned to the town house. Wayren had moved, awakening enough to sag back against him and grasp the horse’s mane with weak fingers. His body, shaky from loss of blood, ached with every movement. Black dots and long, slender shadows danced before his eyes. The memory of every sword slash, every swipe of the blade replayed in his mind. Every stumble, every missed arc, every time he’d been too slow… too weak.

He tired more easily, hurt too strongly, bled too damn much.

She’d been right to send him away.

He rode directly into the small stable, pounding on the wall to awaken the groom as he slid to the ground. No one was there to see his knees buckle and him stagger before catching himself, still holding Wayren.

The groom, a bulky, redheaded young man named Oliver, appeared, and Max tossed the reins to him. No explanation was needed.

Inside the house, Kritanu waited. Lights shining in the windows told Max that the elderly man hadn’t left his vigil since sending Brim and Michalas after them.

Words weren’t necessary; the grave condition of Wayren, who attempted to stand but needed to lean against Max, spoke for itself.

“I’ve sent word to Ylito,” Kritanu said quietly, helping Max settle Wayren into a large chair. “The birds fly fast; perhaps we will hear by tomorrow if he has any wisdom.”

The birds did indeed fly quickly, helped, Max knew, by the same holy power that protected and strengthened the Venators through their vis bullae . Ylito, the hermetic who dabbled in herbalry, alchemy, and other spiritual elements, was likely still in Rome. But with the assistance of the message pigeons, he could share any knowledge that might help Wayren.

“Max.” She spoke at that moment, her voice low and weak. “Sit.” Her hand shifted in her lap as if too weak to make the full gesture.

He didn’t want to sit. He wanted to go back out, get a fresh horse from somewhere, and fly back through town, over the Thames, to that demonic cemetery so that he could drag Victoria to safety.

Damn. What a bloody mess he’d become.

Weak. Indecisive. Battered.

“Sit,” Wayren said again, more strongly now. “Before you fall.”