She’d realized that there could be more than one daytime vampire, as she’d begun to think of the creature. After all, if an undead merely had to drink the special elixir, what was to stop more than one of them from doing it?
Or many of them?
She sat in the hackney, her shoulder slamming against the side every time Barth made a right turn, and her head bobbing every time he urged the horse forward. His vulgar language peppered the air as he navigated them down Fleet Street—a mistake in itself, for the road was clogged with other carriages and conveyances, as well as shoppers, shopkeepers, and street urchins.
But it gave Victoria a bit of time to consider the situation.
From what she knew about the elixir, it could only be made from the stamen of a special plant that bloomed rarely—perhaps once per century, or no more than twice. Since little could be made, more vampires must want it than could have it. That didn’t preclude more than one undead from using it, but the supply couldn’t last forever. And there couldn’t be an entire army of undead drinking it, which gave her some measure of comfort.
Still, both Sara and George could be daytime vampires.
Of course, as Max had suggested, James could be the daytime undead. She hadn’t missed the fact that the incidents had begun to occur the day he arrived at St. Heath’s Row.
Sara and George, as well as James, had been at the Hungreath dinner party, and also at the masquerade ball. And while she’d seen none of them in Regent’s Park when Victoria found the first victim, that didn’t mean they hadn’t been around. She had, after all, spoken with Gwen and Brodebaugh, who could have told them Victoria was in the vicinity.
Or, it could simply be that the daytime vampire was someone she didn’t know or hadn’t noticed. After all, it didn’t have to be someone she’d seen. It could be any minion of Lilith.
And, yes indeed, it could also be Mr. Bemis Goodwin.
Oh, how she wanted it to be him.
Even now, thinking about how his sharp, angry eyes examined her, searching for something that wasn’t there, she felt tension rise. Her fingers itched for a stake, ready to plunge it into his chest. He had made it clear he wanted nothing more than to see her hang.
But why?
Victoria turned the ugly thought over in her mind. It wasn’t easy; the fury tinged her vision, and her mind rebelled at the very thought . . . but she had to consider it.
Why would a man she didn’t know want to harm her?
Several deep breaths later—ones she’d had to focus on, draw in deeply, hold, and then release—Victoria had pared her scattered, berserker thoughts down.
He either truly thought she was a murderess and wanted to see justice done—in which case, she was innocent and should have nothing to worry about. But that wouldn’t explain his pointed comments about the undead.
A woman like you.
No, he knew something about her. He could be a vampire himself and be drinking the elixir. Obviously a vampire would want her, Illa Gardella, to die. But that didn’t follow—for he’d said he’d been watching her for over a year. Since she nearly killed the man in the Dials. The elixir hadn’t been in existence for that long, and he appeared to have been living a normal life as a Bow Street Runner for longer than that.
She concluded he couldn’t be undead himself.
He could believe she was a vampire herself, and want to destroy her. If Barth and Verbena had known about vampires before Victoria did, before she became a Venator . . . it was possible that he did too. But . . . if he knew anything about vampires, he would know that hanging her would do no good. So why focus on getting her to the magistrate?
If that were the case, if he believed she was a vampire, that should be easy to address—after all, then they were fighting on the same side.
Or . . . this was the most interesting, and worrisome thought: perhaps he wanted revenge. Perhaps he knew someone she’d killed—a vampire she’d staked, who’d once been someone he loved. A wife or a brother, or anyone.
So that would mean he knew that she was a Venator, and knew that the undead had tried many times to destroy her without luck. And he would try another way.
After all, bullets, blades, nooses—they would all work equally well to slay a Venator.
Victoria felt an unpleasant shiver ripple over her shoulders. Whatever the reason, Bemis Goodwin loathed her, and he was essentially an unknown opponent.
These thoughts settled in her mind, leaving Victoria uncomfortable, but not panicked. After all, she knew she was a formidable adversary herself.
But when the hackney dropped her off a block from Aunt Eustacia’s house, and Victoria slipped into the mews that led into the small yard behind the house, she found herself confronted by Bemis Goodwin and four burly men. On seeing them, her first thought was that he clearly knew her strength.
She’d already stepped out of sight of Barth, who’d rattled off in the carriage as soon as her slippers touched the ground. And the thick hedge of the mews, which ran along behind the row of houses, obscured the view from any of the residences—should anyone happen to be watching, which was in itself unlikely.
Any further considerations evaporated as she braced herself, ready for battle. “What do you want?” she asked, aware that her heart was racing.