When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 4)

Prologue

Wherein Our Heroine Has a Rude Awakening

Victoria opened her eyes.

A ring of faces looked down at her: Max, his face shadowed but sharp-eyed; Sebastian, golden-haired and tense; Wayren, near the foot of the bed, her pale oval face tight. Ylito and Hannever stood above Victoria’s head, frozen and watchful. She knew from the pattern on the stone walls behind them that she was in the Consilium, the secret, subterranean space belonging to the Venators. The vampire hunters—of which she was the leader.

“What—” Her head felt soupy and her eyelids heavy, and suddenly she remembered. “Beauregard!”

As memory sliced through the fuzziness, she tried to pull up, but her ankles and one of her wrists were caught fast. Someone’s—Max’s—fingers tightened around her left arm, keeping it pinned onto the bed beneath her, and before she could react with the anger and confusion erupting inside her, a splash of water caught her over the face.

The cold seeped down into her hair and over the warm skin of her neck, and she jerked beneath her restraints. “Why did you do that?” she said, glaring up at Ylito, who’d tipped the vial over her face. She raised her free arm, near Sebastian, to brush some of the water from her eye.

No one answered . . . yet, something in the room had changed. Eased. Sebastian glanced at Wayren, who was looking at Ylito over Victoria.

“Is it possible?” asked the ringlet-haired man.

“I don’t know how it can be, Ylito,” Wayren replied.

The tightness in her dear friend’s face had softened, and her countenance had taken on more of that serene look Victoria was used to seeing.

What was happening?

And then the recognition of a searing pain in her neck, and the memory flash of shadows and blood and long, sleek fangs brought it all back to her. Beauregard . . . she’d been with Beauregard, the master vampire . . . his cold and warm mouth on hers, his teeth sliding into her flesh . . . the brush of skin against skin . . . the rusty taste of blood . . . on her lips. Pooling, rich and heavy, on her tongue. Filling her throat. His hands, smooth and sure . . . everywhere. . . .

He’d bitten her, fed on her. Had she drunk his blood? Oh . . . God . . .

Her heart was racing now, and she wanted to struggle, to whip off Max’s firm hold on her arm, to sit up and demand to know what had happened. But the others were talking, above her, around her, as if she wasn’t there.

For a moment, Victoria was afraid to know.

And then, Wayren was touching her, smoothing her hands down over Victoria’s face, her wounded throat. Light and warm and sure, the pressure was soothing, spreading relief through her body. As she touched her, Wayren hummed a chantlike prayer deep in the back of her throat, and Victoria felt the vibrations coming through Wayren’s fingertips, rippling through her body.

“The two vis bullae. ” Max’s quiet voice broke into the charged silence. He stepped back, releasing Victoria’s wrist and, she noticed for the first time, the stake that rested on the table next to him.

Dear God, he’d been ready to stake her. She understood in an instant: they’d feared Beauregard had turned her.

Her mouth dried and she swiveled her face to look toward him, but Max was looking intently at Wayren. “She wears two of them, does she not?” he asked.

And then she realized what had happened, even as they discussed the situation above her head, above her prone body: it was only because of the two holy strength amulets that she wore, the badges of her Venator calling to hunt vampires, that she’d been saved from becoming one of the very undead that she vowed to destroy.

A chill wave rushed over her and Victoria closed her eyes, the conversation around her becoming a distorted buzz. When she looked again, she found herself caught by Sebastian’s dark amber gaze. He was looking down at her, a frozen expression on his handsome face.

It took her a moment to remember what had happened, and for the anger at his betrayal to bubble up inside her aching body: he’d stolen from the Consilium, from the Venators.

Her sometime lover, sometime enemy had deceived her in even more ways than she had expected.

He was a Venator. Born of the Gardella family tree.

A Venator who had disdained his calling for years because of loyalty to his great-great-great-grandfather, Beauregard. One of the most powerful of vampires.

Her fury abated slightly as another scrap of memory slipped into place: Sebastian, thrusting himself between her and Beauregard, shouting at her to leave, even as she shoved a stake meant for Beauregard into Sebastian’s shoulder . . . and the blood, blood that wasn’t supposed to be there. . . . She saw the crusty bloom even now on his sweat-stained shirt.

And then another memory consumed her. A dark, liquid one, of heavy, deep pleasure . . . lush shadows and dangerous pleasure and heat . . . hands, and lips, and tongue . . . And Sebastian, again, his face pale and desperate, pleading with Beauregard for her release.

And her own laugh, welling up from deep inside her, husky and low. Derisive. Dismissive.

And then the handsome face of Sebastian’s grandfather bending to hers, his fangs sleek and lethal, his lips warm and cold.