Bleeding Dusk gvc-3

by Колин Глисон

Moving through the streets, they soon left the celebration behind them, and Victoria realized they were walking up a small hill. At the top she could see the outline of monuments and gravestones.

  A cemetery. Not a bad place to find an undead.

  She took off her mask and adjusted the stake she now held as they walked through the open iron gate.

  “Do ye hear something?” Zavier asked, stopping next to her.

  Up here, in the yard of death away from the insanity of the festival below, the night was quiet but for the occasional shout or shrill laugh far in the distance. Monuments and headstones made tall, stark shadows over the dark grass.

  “No,” she replied, walking on, mask dangling from her hand. The fresh air felt good on her face, now that it was uncovered, but the back of her neck had warmed slightly, and the fine hairs there had flattened. She’d lost the scent.

  “Nae many vampires during Carnivale this year,” Zavier said, walking along with her. His shoulder bumped against hers, then drew away as he kept on. “Perhaps they’ve all cloistered away since the death of Nedas, trying to get organized again.”

  Victoria had killed Lilith’s son, Nedas, at the same time Akvan’s Obelisk had been destroyed. Nedas had been a powerful leader among the vampires in Rome who’d been served by the Tutela. With his destruction, the fate of his followers and the Tutela had been thrown into question, along with the issue of who would succeed him.

  “I hardly think that Beauregard would lose his opportunity to gain control of the vampire underworld in Rome,” Victoria replied, stepping over a low iron fence. Its spike caught at the hem of her trousers—thank heaven her mother hadn’t been around to see her wearing them. “He was fairly salivating at the news of Nedas’s death, and intended to execute Max that night while the vampires looked on.” Her fingers were cold, but the air was only chilly. “We barely made it out alive.”

  “Was there not another vampire who wished to succeed Nedas?”

  “Indeed, the Conte Regalado, who was the leader of the Tutela, wanted it very badly. He is a newly turned vampire, and young in his power, but it seems as if he may have not only the support of the Tutela, but also of some of Nedas’s followers. It was partly due to Regalado’s interference that Max and I were able to escape from Beauregard.” Regalado was also the father of the woman Max had intended to marry, a woman who enjoyed being fed upon by vampires.

  Victoria wondered, fleetingly, if Sarafina’s father ever fed on her, now that he was a vampire. He was vulgar enough to do so.

  And Sarafina was indecent enough to let him.

  The truth was, Victoria wouldn’t have escaped the battle between the two factions of vampires without the assistance of Sebastian Vioget. But at least now she thought she had a way of finding him.

  Lost in her thoughts, Victoria didn’t realize Zavier had stopped walking until something snagged her sleeve. Dropping her mask, she whirled around, stake raised, and nearly drove it into his barrel chest.

  Instead of being surprised or taken aback by her offensive stance, he looked at her with a glint of humor in his expression. “Ye can put that down for a minute.”

  “No, I can’t,” Victoria replied, spying a movement in the shadows behind him. The hair on the back of her neck lifted, and the chill intensified again.

  Stake in hand, she started off after the glowing red eyes, leaping over a gravestone and slipping a little when she landed on the damp grass.

  The vampire must have thought he’d come upon two lovers strolling through the graveyard, taking a quiet moment away from Carnivale; for until Victoria landed in front of him, stake at the ready, he’d remained hovering in the bushes. When he saw that she’d fearlessly come after him, he turned and ran.

  Elated, Victoria followed. She loved the feeling of letting herself go, of running, leaping over the stones and low fences, dashing around a crumbling mausoleum, and finally throwing herself at the vampire. She crashed into him, barely feeling the impact, and they tumbled to the ground. The loose legs of her costume wrapped around their calves as he rolled on top of her, fangs bared.

  His eyes were red, the color of Chianti, glowing as he bent his face down toward her. She could smell blood on his breath, and she dropped her stake, reaching up to grab him by the shoulders and fling him onto his back. He was young and relatively weak, and would be perfect for the message she needed to send.

  But suddenly there was a whistle of movement and the vampire jerked, then froze, then burst into a cloud of dust and musty ash. It poofed onto her face and into her hair and lashes, and Victoria looked up to see Zavier standing over her. He was offering a hand to help her up.

  “Why did you do that?” She ignored his hand and rolled easily to her feet, barely breathing hard, stake again in hand. For a moment she wanted to plant it in that big barrel chest in front of her. Damn and blast! The first vampire she’d seen in a week, and he was gone before she could talk to him. Now she’d have to find another one tonight—although it shouldn’t be hard, really, since they were bound to be out on the Corso.

  “Why, I was helpin’ ye.”

  “I had things well in hand. I didn’t need help. I wanted to talk to him, not kill him.” The thrill of the fight had gone out of her and left Victoria with a rumbling annoyance and the feeling of unfinished business. Not to mention covered with vampire dust.

  “Ye appeared to be in danger, so I wasna going to stand by and watch him maul you.”

  Victoria looked at him as she brushed the dank ash from her hair and clothes. They were nearly the same height, although he was much bulkier than she. “I am capable of staking a single vampire,” she said slowly and distinctly, her nerves still wanting to jump. “I’ve done it many times before. In fact,” she said, closing her eyes to finger away the dust on her lashes as much as to retain the evenness of her voice, “I have fought five at a time, and won. I purposely didn’t kill him because I needed him to take a message for me.” A message to Beauregard that she was looking for his grandson.

  But, of course, Zavier wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—known that. He didn’t even know anything about the Door of Alchemy.

  When she opened her eyes, Zavier was still looking at her. But instead of bafflement or chagrin or even annoyance, his expression was filled with admiration. “Of course,” he said. “Fool that I was, I forgot that you of all women dinna need protection.”

  The smile he gave her there, in the cold cemetery, warmed Victoria from her cheeks down to her toes, and she had to glance away for fear her face would start to glow. Although fighting her way through undead immortals and evil demons was becoming second nature to her, she was less sure of herself when interacting with men.

  She’d debuted into London Society just about a year and a half ago, and had been in mourning for her husband, Phillip, for a twelvemonth of that period, during which, of course, she’d worn black and stayed cloistered in her husband’s home—far away from members of the opposite sex. No fetes, no balls, no theater engagements. She’d been lonely and grieving and trying desperately to determine how to fit the two parts of her life together.

  She had come to the realization that there was no way to have a real life, with a real relationship with a man. Her life was with the Venators, especially now, as Illa Gardella. She would touch Society from time to time, but she would never be immersed in it as she once had been. She’d never marry again, never have a child, much as her mother might wish it.

  But then, as she looked over at Zavier and saw the admiration and attraction in his face, she wondered if it had to be thus. If she really did have to be alone and keep anyone who might care about her—or whom she might care for—at arm’s length. The last vestiges of her annoyance filtered away.

  “I hope that ye will forgive me,” he was saying, and somehow he’d taken her hand in his large warm one. The one that wasn’t holding the stake. “’Tis just that I am—that a man is—bound to protect a woman. And I dinna think of you as a warrior, yet I ken that you are
a fierce one. ’Tis hard to reconcile that with…well…” His voice trailed off, and Victoria would have believed he was blushing if his face weren’t already a bit ruddy from the cold.

  “I’m not angry,” she said, when he appeared unable to select the words to finish his thoughts. “I’m glad you understand. Zavier, if ever I need assistance, it will be obvious.”

  He was looking down at their joined hands, her small white one in his, and when he raised his face again she felt her heart begin to pound.

  Before he could speak, a rustling in the bushes near a large tomb drew their attention. Zavier’s hand tightened on hers in warning, and then released. They both moved silently across a fenced expanse of grass toward the stone structure. It was nearly as large as a small home, its cream-colored stucco appearing gray and forbidding in the sliver of moonlight.

  The front of the mausoleum was grand, its upper edge topped with a wide, jutting cornice and studded at its corners with curling plaster leaves. The family name carved into the frieze was covered with moss, and illegible from where Victoria stood. A square cupola that might have contained a bell was perched in the center of the flat roof. What must be the main entrance, set partially below the ground and reached by a few descending steps, was flanked by two columns. The bushes that had rustled were part of a large clump of pines and holly oaks that grew in a thick cluster close to the tomb, casting the area in wide shadow.

  Victoria’s neck was no colder than the February air made it naturally, so she was certain the only vampire in the vicinity was the one Zavier had staked. Perhaps there was no threat at all, and it had been merely a hedgehog or hare that bounded through the foliage.

  But then she saw a flash of something light in the brush, and then heard more rustling as she and Zavier drew closer. To his credit he didn’t try to hold her back, or even to take the lead. They hurried together, following the rustling bushes, but suddenly Victoria sensed something—or someone—behind her.

  She whirled just in time to see a large black canvas whipping down toward her. With a shout to warn Zavier, she ducked away and spun back around to see two large men swooping toward her again. They’d come from the other side of the mausoleum.

  Using a gravestone to leverage herself, Victoria kicked out and caught one of them in the gut, sending him sprawling, along with the blanket he’d been brandishing. The other reached for her arm, and she twisted away with such force she went sprawling into the bay laurel bush where she’d seen the flash of white.

  The branches were tough and prickly, and it didn’t help that her attacker had followed her and was trying to manhandle her out of the bush. She heard a shout, and looked up to see Zavier standing behind the man, hands on his hips, watching.

  At least he’d learned.

  But then something leaped on him from behind, and then another large body crashed into the fray, and she saw Zavier go down in a mass of fists and legs.

  With a howl Victoria kicked out at her assailant, the force propelling her farther into the brush. But she managed to roll to the side, off the bush, and onto the ground. She swept to her feet and, as she spun around, caught sight of something in the dark foliage behind her.

  A pale face, with light hair. A body that moved away through the bushes, using the same lithe movements as the one who’d thrown the sugarplum at her.

  But before she could react, something shoved her to the ground again, and she landed with a whump, face-first into the slick grass. The black canvas came flying down over her, covering her face and down over the front of her before she could roll away, and it clung to her when her attacker lifted her up.

  Strong arms wrapped around her, holding the canvas and her own arms close to her body. Suffocating under the heavy material, Victoria kicked and twisted until she landed two good blows against the legs of the man who held her, then slammed her head backward.

  The satisfying crunch and the sudden loosening of her person told her she’d hit the mark, even as her head swam. She tumbled to the ground, and it took her more than a moment to fling off the folds of the canvas and scramble to her feet.

  By the time she was upright, Zavier was standing in front of her. His red hair stuck out in tufts at the edge of his crown, and he was breathing heavily. “All right?” he asked with a satisfied grin.

  She looked around. Their assailants were gone and it was just the two of them, panting in the middle of a dark graveyard. She turned toward the brush, where she’d seen the face she was sure she’d recognized. Nothing was there but flattened bushes and broken twigs—both from her own tumble into the foliage and whoever had been watching.

  “They got away,” she said.

  “Aye, they did. Surprised me—three of them all at once. A stake wasna much use against ’em,” he said companionably.

  He was right, and Venators didn’t generally fight with guns or knives. Their prey was the undead, not human threats. But it didn’t seem to bother him that their attackers had gotten away.

  “Who were they?” she asked, looking around. “And why did they want to abduct me? Did they try to kidnap you too?”

  “No, it just seemed they wanted me out of the way so they could get to you. They all ran off when they saw they couldn’t get the best of us.”

  Victoria looked up. The wall of the mausoleum stretched above her, and she could see the impressions of the family name. She couldn’t make out all of the letters, but she saw enough to know that the face she’d seen in the bushes, the person who had caught her attention by throwing the sugarplum so hard, had indeed been Sarafina Regalado.

  But the question was, what was Max’s fiancée doing at her family tomb in the middle of the night?

  Five

  In Which a Message Is Delivered

  On the last night of Carnivale, the Corso was filled with a blaze of light.

  The entire population of the city seemed to fill the broad strada and its connecting piazza to bursting before it spilled into the narrower Ripetta and other streets. Each person held tightly in one hand to a large twisted candle, or moccoletto, and a long switch topped by a handkerchief in the other. The small blazes danced and glowed, painting the buildings and masked faces and elegant carriages in a yellow-white splash as the partygoers used their handkerchiefs to flick at the flames of nearby candles.

  The game was to extinguish someone’s light or have one’s own extinguished, all in a frenetic, rollicking mass of milling Romans.

  Victoria had never seen the like, this blast of illumination from thousands of Romans crowding the street. They even called down from crimson-draped balconies—one of which hosted Lady Melly and friends—holding their moccoli aloft. Victoria could barely breathe, the area was so thronged with bodies and carriages, and tinged with the scent of burning wax, the smell of so many people packed so tightly in the street, the overriding crispness of the cool air. Victoria was thankful the propellants of last night’s plaster sugarplums had given way to the friendlier, softer touch of flapping handkerchiefs.

  This final night of revelry, the eve of Ash Wednesday, was the wildest, loudest, most beautiful festival she’d ever experienced, and although she would rather have been seated safely in a high barouche where she could gape all she liked, Victoria had other responsibilities.

  Her switch, in fact, was more than a bit thicker than the ones other revelers were holding. In fact, it was not only thicker, but had been whittled to a lethal point on the bottom end.

  Eschewing the long-beaked peregrine mask she’d worn the night before, Victoria had donned a more manageable one tonight. The upper part of her face was covered by a gold mask painted with glittering streaks of blue and green, sparkling curlicues of orange and pink, and had no protrusions that would catch on nearby shoulders. White feathers sprouted from the top and sides, and long curls of red ribbon hung from the edges to her shoulders. Only her mouth and chin were free, which made eating those delicious roasted chestnuts and speaking much easier than the previous evening’s disguise.


  “Senza moccolo!” a man masked as a banditto shouted in her ear, and he flicked his switch toward her candle.

  As she had quickly learned to do, Victoria shielded her flame whilst grabbing at the handkerchief, and plucked the switch from the person’s hand. With a nod behind her own mask, she tossed away the handkerchief, but left off from dousing the switch holder’s taper.

  Zavier looked at her. “You are very quick,” he said with a smile beneath the heavy-brimmed sombrero he’d chosen to wear this night. She wasn’t certain how he’d gotten away without wearing a mask when Ilias had insisted she do so. “You protect your candle like you protect those of this city.”

  “This is madness,” Victoria said, looking about. All she could see were large, painted masks and acres of shoulders and necks and throats everywhere, everywhere. Cast in shadows below arm level, lit from above, glowing and stark by turns in the night, loud and more of a crush than any ballroom back in London, the extinguishing ceremony was by turns breathtaking and horrific. “Even if I knew a vampire was about, I’d never be able to identify it, let alone get to him or her.” She had to raise her voice to be heard above the din.

  “Aye, so perhaps we ought to just enjoy the festivities as much as possible until the candles are doused at midnight and everyone begins to go home. After that it will be much easier to move about.” The way he looked at her, so intently for a moment, as his hat brushed the feathers of her mask, made her stomach do a little flip.

  But before Victoria could reply, a sudden prickle at the back of her neck intensified into a chill. She turned quickly, sensing the presence of an undead in close proximity, and her shoulder slammed into the angel next to her, and then into a gypsy, and then into an owl, as the masked people pushed past her.

  Glancing back toward Zavier, she saw him starting off in the opposite direction as if he, too, had felt something and was pursuing it. Despite their agreement about the difficulty of identifying undead in this crowd, neither of them would stand aside and do nothing when a vampire was near.