“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Victoria wanted some answers before she staked him too. It could be no coincidence they’d both chosen this night to visit Sebastian’s rooms, and by the amount of dust here, and the neatness of the room, she gathered this was the first visit anyone had made.
“Merely curiosity.” He stood so that the sofa was between them. “This is what remains of the infamous Silver Chalice; I was interested in seeing the place owned by Sebastian Vioget.”
His fangs had not protruded and his eyes remained unexceptionally dark.
“Do you know him?”
The vampire, who was no taller than most other men in London, had nondescript brown hair brushed back from his face. His nose, a bit too large to make his face attractive, rounded on the end like a garlic bulb. His brows were straight, narrow strips over his eyes. He shook his head in response to her question. “I’m afraid I haven’t the pleasure of meeting Monsieur Vioget. From what I have heard, I’m not altogether certain it is any longer possible to do so.”
“I haven’t seen a vampire here in London for months,” Victoria said, watching him. “Since Lilith took herself and her followers off. Did she send you back to ascertain whether it was safe for her to return?”
He looked at her for a moment, then recognition shifted into his black eyes. Not red, not yet. They were normal. He looked like nothing more than an average English gentleman, except for his ill-fitting clothing. “You are the woman Venator.”
Victoria bowed her head in acknowledgment.
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What a coup it would be for me to bring you to Nedas. He would reward me greatly.”
A spike of anticipation jolted through her. “You could certainly attempt it. I’m certain that whoever Nedas is, he would appreciate your intent, if not your martyrdom in attempting it.”
“I’m not quite as impetuous as my dearly departed companion,” he replied. “But I am much stronger and faster.”
Suddenly he was there: across the room, next to her, reaching for her throat. Victoria spun back, but he grabbed her arm, and he was indeed strong.
She tried to wrench away, caught in his suddenly glowing red eyes, and felt the sofa behind her legs. She pretended to stumble, dodged, and knocked him off balance. He came after her again, close behind, without giving her a chance to catch her breath, and the next thing she knew, she was whirling back to face him.
Raising her stake at shoulder level, she lifted her face to look at him, ready to slam it home, and faltered.
Phillip.
It was Phillip.
Her body turned to ice, and then blossomed into raging fire. The stake fell from her limp fingers, and the scream was knocked out of her as he shoved her aside, sending her to the floor.
On the rug, dragging in dust and lint along with her panicked breaths, Victoria looked up at the figure looming over her. How? Phillip was dead.
By her own hand.
But it wasn’t Phillip who bent over her. It was the same nondescript man, now with glowing eyes and a determined line for a mouth.
She scrabbled for her stake…surely it hadn’t rolled far on the rug. He lunged for her and she twisted away, suddenly trapped against the edge of the sofa. She felt something under her hip, round and hard and long, and rolled sharply to the right, toward his feet, grabbing the stake.
The force of her motion sent him off balance, and Victoria propelled herself to her feet, stick in hand. She turned, using the momentum of her leg to whip around, then shifted her center of balance as she plunged the stake into the center of his chest. She pulled it away, stepping back to watch him dust to the floor.
Nothing happened.
And he came at her again, his mouth drawn in a frightening, feral smile.
Victoria recoiled in shock, stumbling backward, and tripped over the flipped-up corner of the thick Persian rug. She tumbled to the floor, slamming her head against the wall as she fell, and stared up at the red-eyed man who advanced toward her.
Calm and steady he moved, and Victoria could barely get her mind around the fact that she’d stabbed him, sunk a stake into his chest, and nothing had happened. Neither blood nor dust…he’d just come after her again.
As she gaped up at him sprawled against the tapestried wall, readying the stake for another plunge, his face turned toward her again.
“Phillip?” she cried softly.
“Venator,” he said, sweeping down toward her. “Come now…relax…I shan’t hurt you.”
“No!” she grunted, slamming the stake upward with all of her might.