Bleeding Dusk gvc-3

by Колин Глисон

  They were well separated by now, and as Victoria turned once again and tried to move in the opposite direction from the people near her, she scanned the crowd, looking for red irises behind the masks that streamed past her, or for a disguise that could be covering the face of Sara Regalado.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to sense which direction to go after the creature that skulked nearby, and finally set off toward the left, through the milling people. The chill at the back of her neck began to intensify as she made her way through to the edges of the crowd. Suddenly, not so far from the darkness that lingered beyond the revelry, she saw the glowing red orbs in a masked face two persons away.

  Edging her shoulder through the throng, playing the senzo moccoletto game, Victoria squirmed along until she was close enough to touch the vampire. Her neck was frigid, and she felt the odd rush of the presence the undead gave in close proximity. Angling her switch cum stake, Victoria turned to face him—or her; she wasn’t certain of the creature’s gender—and closed her fingers around an arm.

  The crowd was so thick and full of shouts and movement and the flicking of switches that Victoria could have slammed the stake into the vampire’s chest before he realized that she was a Venator, and without drawing any attention to herself, but she didn’t.

  Instead she said, “Tell Beauregard the female Venator is looking for his grandson.”

  He looked down at her, fangs gleaming. “I’m no message boy.”

  “You aren’t? Well, then, my apologies.” She moved easily, angling her stake, plunging it up and into his chest.

  The vampire disintegrated, as vampires did, into a poof of ash that burst over the partygoers, causing a dainty little shepherdess to forget about protecting her moccoletto for a moment in favor of brushing away the sudden gust of dust.

  The chilly prickling at the back of Victoria’s neck had eased, but had not disappeared completely. There were other vampires in the vicinity. Perhaps one of them would rather be a message boy than a pile of dust.

  Even so, she’d already given the message to two others last night, after returning to Carnivale from the graveyard and Sara Regalado’s aborted kidnap attempt. Perhaps that would be enough to get the message to Sebastian.

  Her neck still prickling, she began to push her way back through the crowd in search of Zavier. Behind her Victoria heard the shepherdess’s shriek of annoyance as her candle was doused.

  Suddenly something slammed into her from behind. She stumbled and would have fallen to the ground had she not knocked into a Pulcinella. Her flame guttered in its pooled wax, and the Pulcinella whipped his switch-laden handkerchief down on her moccoletto.

  When Victoria regained her balance and turned, her now-dark candle still steady in her grip, she found herself face-to-face with a masked man. His eyes weren’t red, and she couldn’t see the shape or color of them behind his black domino. But she recognized the angle of his chin, and the crop of fair curls that brushed the side of his neck. The smile he gave her was bemused, and laced with challenge.

  Apparently the message had been delivered.

  Before she could speak he moved sharply, yanking a nearby Joan of Arc between them and pushing off through the crowd.

  Victoria shoved a laughing Saint Joan out of her way and followed, her heart pounding. She didn’t hesitate to go after him, even though she certainly recognized that she’d been followed twice in as many nights, despite wearing two different masks. It was a risk, but not an unexpected one.

  Her stake was in her hand, and another was in a deep pocket where she also had a metal dagger Kritanu had given her when she started her ankathari training. The kadhara had a curved blade and was about the length of her forearm. She was also protected by the large crucifix she wore beneath her costume, not to mention her duo of vis bullae.

  Watching the back of the shadowy domino and following its irregular path through the crowd was no easy task. He didn’t carry a taper and Victoria’s had been extinguished, so as they neared the edge of the light-filled festival, she paused to catch a flame from the fat wick of a donkey’s candle.

  When she pushed through the last barrier of people and found herself in a small, narrow viuzza—what she would call a mews back in London—Victoria stopped and looked around. It was an odd setting: behind her thousands upon thousands of people laughing and shouting with their glowing yellow candles, and here, in front of her, a dark alleyway lit only by her single flame, and silent. Still as death.

  Her neck was still cold, the hair still raised to attention, but she saw no one. He’d been there a moment before, just as she burst free of the crowd, but now she was alone.

  Ripe for another black canvas cloth to come wafting down over her head.

  Victoria braced herself, half crouched, turning slowly and peering into the shadows. Then she saw one of them move.

  “Ah, it is you. I was not altogether certain, but the way you wielded that stake convinced me.” The voice was soft as the figure moved into the dim light.

  “Beauregard.” Victoria stepped toward him, warily casting about to see if he was alone, or if someone lurked nearby to pounce on her from behind. Sebastian, perhaps. Her stake was firm in her palm. The back of her neck remained cold and prickly. But it itched, as though there were something else watching them. “Did you receive my message?”

  “But why else would I seek you out?” His response was easy, but she could sense the respect and wariness in his demeanor as he flipped back the hood of his domino.

  “Perhaps the message was garbled, then,” she replied. “It was your grandson I wished to speak with. Not you.”

  “You needn’t brandish that stake as though you are a novice Venator out for her first hunt,” he said, crossing his arms over his middle in a picture of nonchalance that pulled up one of his sleeves and revealed a strong, elegant wrist. The stance, the expression on his face, reminded her again of Sebastian.

  Although the two shared a similar, elegant facial structure and thick, curling hair, there wasn’t a great resemblance otherwise. Beauregard, who must have been in his forties when he was turned, had a slightly wider nose and more delicate lips than his grandson, and his hair was more of a silvery blond than the tawny color of Sebastian’s. He was handsome enough in his own cool fashion, and that, along with his persistent charm, and the fact that he was exceedingly well dressed, was what reminded her of the younger man.

  “I’ve done nothing to threaten you or to harm anyone,” Beauregard continued.

  “You’ve been undead for four hundred years; I’m fairly certain you’ve mauled at least one mortal during that time. And once you’ve fed from one mortal, your sentence of eternal damnation is assured. I thought I might help you more quickly on your way there.”

  “Er…almost six hundred years, my dear Victoria. Six hundred. Yet, a pittance when one looks at the age of the elegant Lilith, yes?” He shifted, his eyes beginning to glow ruby, narrowing with annoyance. “Put the stake away. After all, you did send the message, and it’s not as if I’ve tried to bite you.”

  “I expect it will be only a matter of time until you do,” Victoria replied.

  “As you wish.” Beauregard grinned, and now his fangs flashed. They were no longer than a man’s first knuckle, but sharp as a razor. So sharp that the feel of them sinking into one’s flesh would hardly be noticeable, more pleasure than pain. His lower fangs were much shorter, but just as lethal, and hidden by his lower lip.

  During their banter she’d foolishly allowed herself to relax enough that her gaze drifted too directly to his, too tightly to his ruby irises. She was snared.

  Guardian vampires, the ones with ruby eyes who also made up Lilith’s personal guard, had especially strong enthralling powers. As Beauregard’s control crept over her, Victoria felt her limbs begin to soften and her head to swim. The blood in her veins surged, swelling the vessels so that hot pressure pounded through her body.

  His breath began to match hers, then fought to cont
rol their merging breathing. Victoria was sluggish, but she still held the stake, and the candle in her other hand. She had enough presence of mind to realize how incredibly strong his pull was, and how difficult it would be to fight it off.

  Dimly she forced herself to blink, trying to break the connection. Drawing her eyelids down was like wading upstream neck-deep in a river: slow, deathly slow. She felt movement around her, then the brush of his hand against her neck, warm and strong…. She tried to blink again, tried to recover her own breathing and slowly force herself out of the pulsing red tunnel into which she’d begun to fall, clawing back to her reality by focusing on the feel of the stake in her hand and the force of the vis bullae at her belly.

  Suddenly the thrall was broken. She snapped free and pulled in a breath all her own, then raised the stake, plunging it down toward his chest—a chest that had moved closer to her in those few moments of confusion. Everything in her mind was clear and crisp again—the night, the darkness, the smell of the city, the buildings looming over them. As the stake plunged, he threw up his arm to stop her blow, stepping back.

  Their forearms collided with a force that would have broken bones had they not been Venator and vampire, and she drew in her breath in annoyance, twisting away. “I knew you were not to be trusted,” she snapped, whirling back toward him, stake at the ready. “Despite your grandson’s arguments to the contrary.” She dropped her candle and leaped.

  He blocked her again, and the force of her blow sent them into each other, breast-to-breast, in a parody of a lovers’ embrace before she ducked down, seeking to surge up behind him.

  He feinted away, but she launched at him. Beauregard caught her by the waist and shoved her so hard she stumbled backward, catching herself against a plaster wall. Her candle flame, still burning on the ground, flickered wildly as she looked over at him, recognizing that they were at an impasse.

  “Strong, brave, stubborn…and beautiful. Once again, I can understand my grandson’s attraction for you.” His lips, thinner than Sebastian’s, but of the same shape, curved in a familiar smile. The movement couldn’t help but remind her of the many times she’d kissed lips rather like them. Beauregard’s eyes gleamed behind his mask, sweeping a pink gaze over her, trying again to capture her. “’Tis a shame he saw you first, Venator. But if he does not treat his ladylove with care and attention, perhaps you will tire of waiting for him and cast your affections elsewhere. Toward power. And immortality.”

  “I’m as likely to be his ladylove as he is to be a Venator himself,” Victoria replied with a derisive snort, stepping back, but ready to propel herself forward. “I trust him no farther than I do you; perhaps even less. At least I know where you stand.”

  “I see.” The way he looked at her, as though he were contemplating some great question, was so different from his earlier gaze when he’d tried to enthrall her that Victoria almost looked him straight in the eye. But she remembered how easily she’d fallen moments before and resisted. “Ah, well, at the least, as you said, you know where I stand. Now, do not strike at me again,” he added when she gathered herself up to do just that. “Now that you’ve proven just as enticing and capable as I’d hoped, let us get to business.”

  Wary, but no longer breathing hard, Victoria didn’t relax her stance. “Business? Was that your vampire that I staked earlier? A lure sent to pull me from the crowd? As you did last night?”

  She could almost see his eyebrows rising behind the hooded mask of the domino. “I’m afraid you must be mistaken. I was otherwise engaged last evening. It was a tedious thing, but one must feed at least occasionally. Although I will admit to using that young man you slayed as one of several…what did you call them? Lures? To help me locate you in the crowd. So that I could answer your call, so to speak.”

  “Apparently he was expendable.”

  Beauregard shrugged. “The young ones are so bloody sure of themselves they think they are invincible once they have been turned. They do not realize that a Venator can just as easily end their immortality as they believe they can take from other mortals. It was a lesson for some of his other companions. It’s fortunate for me that most of those young, weak ones have allied themselves with Regalado and his Tutela members.”

  “And so the battle rages on between the two vampire factions.” Victoria swept up the candle, then straightened from her offensive stance.

  “Battle? I’d hardly call it that. Regalado and his followers are no match for me, even with their new ally. Indeed, I have my own plan for dealing with them.”

  Victoria pretended to yawn. “Vampire politics: not something I’m terribly interested in—I’d just as soon stake all of you, regardless of who allies with whom. Instead, let’s talk about why you’ve enticed me to this dark alley. I can only assume the purpose is to exact some kind of payment for telling me what I want to know.”

  “Ah, good. You’ve alleviated the awkwardness of the topic by mentioning it yourself.” Beauregard laughed, sounding uncomfortably like Sebastian. Then his charm vanished, and his eyes burned pink again. “Why do you wish to see him? I did not expect a woman of your stature and confidence to be chasing after the noncommittal rake that is my grandson.”

  She bowed her head, taking care not to look directly into those dangerous irises. “I think that the rake is more like an apple that has fallen not so far from the tree. Ancient though the tree might be. And the matter concerns my aunt.” There was no sense in being coy with Beauregard—she needed his help to find Sebastian.

  “Your aunt?”

  Then Victoria realized her mistake. She should have let him believe it was Sebastian himself that she, playing the woman scorned, was after. But perhaps she could yet save it. “He…sent me something that belonged to my aunt, and I…wished to thank him.”

  She knew Beauregard was too smart to be fooled by a complete reversal of personality, but perhaps subtlety would be more effective anyway.

  “Thank him? Ah.” The way he allowed that last syllable to ease from his mouth in a low sigh told her he had taken the bait. The pink glow faded from his eyes, to be replaced by smugness. “It has been months, hasn’t it? And you wish to thank him.”

  “I need to see him.” She allowed the desperation in her voice—let him think what he would. Let him tell Sebastian she was pining for him. It wouldn’t matter in the end.

  “As you might imagine, gratitude is something my grandson and I both appreciate. I might be inclined to pass on the message to Sebastian, in exchange for some from you.”

  She didn’t reply, merely tightened the grip on her stake and waited for him to continue. It was nothing more than she’d expected.

  He bowed in acknowledgment, spreading his hands as if he had no choice. “I find that I have a curiosity…and a craving…that I desire to satisfy.”

  Victoria knew exactly what he meant. Her palms grew clammy and her heart began to thump harder as she felt his control begin to swirl about her. He was very powerful, and likely as strong as she was, even with her two vis bullae.

  “You cannot feed on me,” she said, shifting the long stake at her waist. “I’ll send you to Hell first.”

  Beauregard looked affronted. “Feed? My dear, you needn’t be crude. Feeding is like the rutting between hogs, or the mindless fucking of a whore. What I wish from you is much more than a mere gorging on your hot, thick blood. Your Venator blood.” His eyes were blazing ruby-pink, and she felt the insistent tug toward him. “Your sweet, female, Venator blood.”

  His voice was hypnotic, but she remained clearheaded enough to feel the wood under her fingers, even the hot splash of wax that spilled down in a trickle from the taper in her hand.

  “No,” she said, making her voice firm even as her mind softened. “You cannot bite me.”

  “Then kiss me, Victoria. Let me taste you,” he said softly, but it felt as though the words were there, all around her, filling her ears and insinuating into the blood suddenly rushing in her veins. “Let me taste what it is tha
t my own blood desires.”

  She blinked, focused on the feel of her weapon, forced herself to draw in the scent of rotting garbage nearby, willed her heartbeat to settle back into its own rhythm. “No,” she said sharply, breaking the gentle lull between them. “You can’t enthrall me, Beauregard. I’m too strong.”

  “I ask for nothing but a kiss,” he said, his voice still calm and low, but his eyes dimmed. “Mouth-to-mouth. You might hold your stake between us if it would make you feel more at ease, Venator.”

  “Perhaps I would slam it into your heart and send you to Hell, then,” Victoria replied, her voice easier, more normal. “Then Sebastian would surely seek me out, angry that I sent his grandfather to his eternal damnation.”

  Beauregard lifted his chin. “Please, Victoria, do not remind me of my fate. I prefer not to dwell on it. You would have no cause to do so, for if you give me what I wish, I’ll bring your message to Sebastian. Just…let me taste you.”

  She didn’t respond for a moment, and perhaps he sensed her weakening—after all, it was merely a kiss…and she would keep her stake poised and ready. And if his lips were on hers, that meant his fangs weren’t at her neck—or delving into any other area of her flesh. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d kissed a vampire.

  “One kiss,” she said at last, feeling the slam of her heart. “And I keep my stake between us.”

  “If it will make you feel better,” he said, stepping toward her almost before she was ready.

  His strong fingers closed over her shoulders, his head with the silvery blond curls bent toward her, the shadow in his cleft chin deepening. She rested her candle hand over his shoulder, kept the stake between them, and lifted her face, closing her eyes.

  She started at the strangeness when his mouth touched hers, when she felt the bizarre sensation of one warm, soft lip and one cold, firm one closing over her own. Cool and hot, slick and soft…the myriad of sensations flooded her, and her head tipped back even more.