by Колин Глисон
But Victoria did not want to be the one to do that.
Despite Max's initial begrudging acceptance of her calling, the other Venators appeared to have no such hesitation. In fact, Victoria felt as if she were making her debut at a ball as gentlemen of all ages and looks crowded forward to meet her.
"Would ye like to see the Consilium chambers, Signorina Gardella?" asked one of them with a faint Scots burr. He was not much taller than she, but he was as large and muscular as an ox. His hair was the color of polished copper, much too long to be fashionable, in London, anyway, and tied back loosely with a leather cord. Unfortunately, she couldn't recall his name, which she'd just learned. "I would be pleased to show you around whilst your aunt speaks with Ilias and Wayren."
"Wayren is here?"
He smiled, taking her arm and slipping it through his as though to stake his claim. His muscles were so large, her fingers felt as though they would be squashed in the cleft of his elbow. "Aye, of course she is. She is nearly always here, ye ken. Or, at least, it seems that way."
He swept her away, and as they walked off one of the others called, "Do not dare to monopolize the signorina, Zavier!"
Ah. Zavier. That was his name.
"How kind of you, Zavier. I am very interested in learning all about the place." It felt odd to be calling a man she'd just met by his familiar name, but apparently Venators didn't stand on ceremony—except with her and Aunt Eustacia—as he had not been introduced with a surname.
Zavier took her first to the fountain and bade her put her hand in it. "It is the most holy of water," he told her when she'd dipped her fingers. "Do ye feel your vis bulla now?"
Victoria wanted to blush at the mention of the silver cross because of where it dangled; he was a gentleman, after all, and a stranger. But he seemed so casual about it that she didn't allow herself to feel uncomfortable. Much, anyway. And, yes, he was correct. "I do feel it. It's as if it knows we are here."
"Aye. Ye might wish to have it blessed again before you leave today. I would be happy to assist if you like." His eyes twinkled as they swept over her, and Victoria could not hold the blush back any longer. She might be used to Sebastian's overt comments, but she was still not comfortable with such teasing from other men.
"I think that I should be able to manage it all on my own," she told him reproachfully.
He laughed and tugged her closer to his side, so that she bumped into his tree-trunk arm. She could only imagine how horrendously strong he was! "I kenned you would say that, but I could not resist making the offer. It is so very rare that we are honored with the presence of a female Venator that one often forgets oneself."
Although she was sure it was not the case of him "forgetting" himself, Victoria forbore to comment. Instead, she said, "How many other female Venators have you met?"
"Well, as ye and your aunt are the only living female Venators—only two thus far," he replied with a smile. "Of course, only a woman directly of the Gardella line can be a Venator. The rest of us… well, we are diluted Gardellas, from the very furthest branches of the family, spread or sent all over the world. And some of us—of course you know Maximilian Pesaro—are not of the Gardella blood at all, but have been called in a different way, and have met the deadly trials and tribulations that allow them to wear the vis."
"Indeed."
"I have not seen Max in some time. The last news I had of him was that he had traveled to England. That is where you have come from, aye?"
"Yes, of course. I had the pleasure of working with Max to retrieve the Book of Antwartha before Lilith obtained it." Calling it a pleasure to work with him was a bit of a stretch, but Victoria was attempting to be polite.
"Ah, aye, we have all heard the story of your adventure, and your sacrifice." The teasing had gone from his face now, as they walked away from the fountain, and was replaced with a soberness that made him look more like a warrior than the flirtatious humor had. "I am quite in awe." And he was so serious that she believed he was not merely flattering her.
"Thank you," was all she said.
"Since ye asked about women Venators, perhaps ye would like to see the gallery?" Zavier asked, leading her toward one of the arches that contained a heavy mahogany door.
He opened it and gestured for her to precede him in. This chamber was long and low, more of a hallway or passage than a chamber. Portraits and sconces alternated on the walls. Occasionally there was a hip-high pedestal with a statue or bust on it, or a glass cabinet, or shelves.
"Every Venator since the first stake was given to Gardella has a portrait here. And we have some other artifacts and mementos as well. It is a bit morbid, perhaps—more like a museum than anything—but it is important that we do not forget those who have given of themselves before us."
Victoria walked slowly along the line of portraits. They all seemed to be done in the same hand, by the same artist, though some of them were obviously centuries, perhaps a millennium old.
She stopped in front of the painting of a striking woman. " 'Catherine Gardella,'" she read aloud. Catherine's hair was bright, shining like polished copper, looped and curled and coiled at the sides of her head with ribbons and jewels. She was dressed in court clothing from perhaps three or four centuries ago, with a ruff fringing her neck and split velvet sleeves, puffed, with red satin behind them. She looked more like a queen than a Venator. In her lap, amid reams of skirts, she held a stake. A large emerald glinted on her other hand, painted so realistically that Victoria almost expected the hand to move and the facets to shine in a different direction.
"Our Cat," Zavier said with a smile in his voice. "She was well named. A spitfire if there ever was one, from tales I've heard. Her temperament matched her hair."
"Lilith's hair is the same hue," Victoria commented, remembering the glowing beacon of the vampire queen's hair, unholy in the way it lit the room.
"You are not the first to have commented on that, and you have seen Lilith, and are here to tell of it. I had forgotten that." Zavier's voice hushed. "Ye and Max Pesaro, and your aunt, of course. Some of the few, the very few of this era, who have walked away from her. I dinna ken how Max has remained so strong all of these years."
Victoria remembered what Max had said last night, about making a bargain with Lilith to be released from her thrall if he joined the Tutela. She'd wondered what he'd meant; surely he'd never shown himself to be under any kind of control by the vampire queen. His skill at stalking and hunting vampires was legendary; how could he be controlled by Lilith and still be so fearsome? There had not, of course, been time to ask him—and, of course, she knew better than to expect him to answer her. He had been intent on getting her out of the opera house, out of Rome, out of Italy.
"What hold does Lilith have over him?" she asked. "I have worked with Max, but he is not terribly forthcoming about… certain things."
"Of course. Ye ken that is Max's way." Zavier looked over at her; he did not have to look down, as they were of a height. "Her bites dinna heal, even for a Venator. Even with the balm we use, or the salted holy water. They are always there, and cause him pain when she wishes, for she chooses to remind him of her influence over him."
"Why?"
Now he looked at her in an odd way. "She wants him as her concubine, is my understanding. I am certain he would do anything to be released from that position. To be a Venator yet tied to the vampire queen is a burden heavier than I could ken."
He offered his arm and she slid her fingers around the bulge of muscle that seemed to be flexed at all times, even when at rest. "Here is another of our lady Venators. Lady Rosamund, meant to take holy vows, but instead she left the abbey when she learned of her calling, and went on crusade to the Holy Lands."
Victoria stood before the picture of the young woman. Dressed simply, in a sapphire-colored gown similar to Wayren's long, loose garments, with pointed sleeves that brushed the ground, Lady Rosamund looked serene and calm—very different from the mischievous Catherine Gardella. Lon
g honey-colored hair fell from a simple headdress of pearls. She held a stake in one hand and a rope of prayer beads in another.
"She was a mystic, and during her time in the abbey, before she knew she was called, she wrote many manuscripts about the revelations she received during her meditation and prayer. Many of her works have become known as our prophecies, and Wayren studies them a great deal. Aye, she is the one to whom was revealed the whole story of how Judas, beloved of Jesus, came to betray him and turn to Lucifer, and was thus turned into the first vampire."
"There are some who say Jesus asked him to turn him over to the Jews in order to set all of the following events in motion," Victoria commented, looking at the portrait of the serene woman whose calm gray eyes reminded her of Wayren's.
Zavier laughed, a low, rolling laugh that fit his bearlike physique. "Och, that is what Lucifer would like us to believe. If ye study Rosamund's writings, as I have, ye will learn that for whatever reason, Judas indeed sold Jesus for thirty pieces of silver, and even today the presence of that particular metal is cause for a vampire to shrink back. Perhaps Judas knew what would happen because of his betrayal; perhaps he did not. But the truth is, after Jesus was crucified, Judas dinna believe he would be forgiven for his role in the betrayal, and Lucifer was easily able to convince him to turn to him for protection."
"You are quite a historian. Do you remember such detail for all of the Venators?"
He grinned back at her. "Ye ken, it is the female Venators' stories I am the most fond of, because men are expected to be warriors and hunters. When a woman is called to do so, she has more hurdles to leap than the men ever do. It is hard enough for a man to be chosen and called as a Venator. I have the greatest respect for a woman who answers the call."
Victoria thought of Melly, her own mother, who had been chosen to be a Venator, but who had ultimately decided not to take on the responsibility because she had just met the man who was to be Victoria's father. Because of that, Melly's mind had been wiped clean of any memory related to vampires and Venators, and any innate skill that she would have had had been passed to her daughter. In that way, and because Melly's father—who was Aunt Eustacia's brother—had also chosen not to accept the Venator call, Victoria had inherited the skills and sense of two previous generations of Venators.
Zavier was clearly pleased to be in the presence of a female Venator, and had no hesitation in showing it. Victoria decided to be flattered and to enjoy his acceptance. "And where is Aunt Eustacia's portrait?" she asked.
"There is no portrait yet. The paintings are not made until the Venator's work is done. The biggest question regarding your aunt will be how to portray her—as the young, fierce Venator of legend, or the older, elegant matriarch."
Before Victoria was able to ask about the next portrait, they were interrupted.
"Pardon me, Zavier, Signorina Victoria, but the Consilium is drawing to order." The man gestured toward the door with a great flourish, torchlight glinting off his round spectacles.
"Grazie, Miro," Zavier replied, and led Victoria out of the room. "He is one of our weapon masters," he explained to her. "A Comitator who has a finesse for creating new ways to fight vampires and protect ourselves. We will have to see if he can create a special, more ladylike stake for ye. Perhaps one that will fit in your reticule, or down a stocking. Or some formfitting leather armor?" He winked.
The Consilium, which was both the name of the governing body and also the name of the chambers through which they walked, met in a different room. This one had a circle of chairs arranged in a half-moon shape about a semicircular dais.
Most of the twenty seats were taken; Victoria selected one near the back and noticed that her aunt and Wayren had been seated on the dais behind a table.
They did not waste any time. Wayren spoke, referring to the sheaf of notes in front of her.
"Nedas has Akvan's Obelisk, and it is clear he intends to activate it; in fact, has already begun the necessary steps to do so. My research indicates that the Day of the Dead, All Souls' Day, is the optimal time for such an event. This is the day on which the souls of the departed are released from their bodies, making it a perfect time for Nedas and the immortals to attempt to capture them and use them for their purposes. It is, of course, November the second, which is two days from now."
She shuffled the curling papers into a pile and looked at Aunt Eustacia, who continued. "As many of you know, I was present the last time the Tutela gained vast power and unleashed it upon the mortals. It was the Battle of Praga, where twenty thousand people were massacred by vampires and the members of the Tutela, in the name of the immortals. Although we were ultimately able to stop them, it was only after great devastation. With the power of Akvan's Obelisk controlling the souls of our departed, Nedas will be impossible to beat back and we expect the damage to be even greater, should he succeed." She paused and looked around the room. "I believe it will be the end of our battle with them, for their power will overmatch ours."
"So how do we stop it?" asked Zavier. His face was expressionless. "How do we destroy the obelisk? And where does he keep it?"
"Last night there was a fire at the Blendimo Opera Theater," Wayren said, with a glance at Victoria. "It has not been completely destroyed, by some odd happenstance, but it has been closed to the public and will not reopen for months, if at all. And there were some reported vampire attacks at that location as well. I do not believe it is a coincidence, for several reasons. First, my research indicates that Nedas will need a very large space in which to complete his activation of the obelisk, and the theater is one of the largest and tallest chambers in the city—other than cathedrals, of course, which would not be a welcoming place for a group of vampires bent on calling an evil power to life. Second, the theater, as you well know, is perched on a small hill near the city's largest cemetery. This makes sense, for it will be much easier for him to draw the dead souls from the nearby cemetery; although I do not believe he would be restricted to only those that are close to him. I am certain that this is where Nedas plans to activate the obelisk. However, there is no known way to destroy the object, so we must consider other alternatives."
"Then we must assassinate Nedas. If he is dead, he cannot activate the obelisk," offered another Venator, one of the older ones. Perhaps he was nearing fifty.
"That would have been our hope," Wayren agreed. "But once the… mm"—she squinted down at her papers, plugged a word with her finger, and looked back up—"shadow has been broken and has wrapped around the being who broke it, even assassinating the holder of the obelisk will not solve the problem. Its power can be transferred quite easily to another. And another. We certainly do not want any other demon or vampire to obtain it and its powers."
"Beauregard would be waiting to snatch it up with both hands if Nedas were taken from the picture," agreed Zavier.
That caught Victoria's attention. "Beauregard?"
"A rival vampire to Nedas. He's older and very powerful; but Nedas is Lilith's son, and has been given more favor as a result. If only we could turn their attention to the other, and engage them in their own internal battles, we could let them destroy each other."
Aunt Eustacia was nodding. "Indeed. In fact, that is how we were able to stop the horror in Praga thirty years ago. But I do not think it will work now, for from what we have been able to learn, the obelisk's shadow has already been broken. Nedas has already begun the steps to activate the obelisk, and Beauregard, powerful as he might be, is no match for Nedas with his obelisk. There is no chance of distracting them in that manner."
"What can we do, if the obelisk cannot be destroyed and Nedas is already bound to it?"
"Two things. We must prepare for the worst, and expect that Nedas will succeed. We shall commence with that discussion shortly and put our preparations into place immediately, for we have less than two days. The only other possibility is for someone to get close enough to assassinate Nedas and steal Akvan's Obelisk before its power can be transferred t
o another."
"I will do it," volunteered the same Venator who'd first suggested assassination.
"You will not get close enough to do so," Eustacia told him. "The moment the Tutela recognized you as a Venator, you would be slain. As would any of you." Her eyes lingered on Victoria. "Except perhaps one."
"I have already agreed to do it," Victoria said, rising. "In London I agreed. There is no question that it must be me." She had not told Aunt Eustacia what had occurred at the opera house last night—that she had been seen by the Imperial, who would recognize her as a Venator. Or of her conversation with Max.
She opened her mouth to speak, then decided better of it. There was no one else who could do it. The others here would more certainly be recognized as Venators than she would.
There was a chance—slim, yes, but a chance—that the Imperial vampire had not betrayed her to the Tutela, or that he did not know for certain that she was a Venator.
And then she remembered what Max had told her: Nedas is going to win. He is too strong. You will be needed after this is all over.
However and for whatever reason Max had become involved with the Tutela and with Nedas was no longer important. The worst was going to happen, and he accepted it. He would allow it to happen. Somehow he knew that Nedas would succeed.
At that moment her last vestige of deep-seated hope poofed like a staked vampire. There would be no help from Max. From anyone.
She really was on her own.
Chapter 20
Lady Rockley Dines Out
When Victoria arrived home from her visit to the Consilium, a carriage waited in front of the villa.
It was past teatime, nearing supper—late for a casual social caller.
Her steps were quick as she hurried up the stairs to the entrance.
"You have a visitor, signora," the butler told her; but she was already flinging the parlor door open.
Sebastian looked up from the newspaper he was perusing. "I don't know who you were expecting, my dear, but I'm sure you must be disappointed. Such enthusiasm could not have been meant for me, much to my regret." His attention wandered over her figure in a way that reminded her of the last time they were in this room.