“Where is the amulet now?” Savina asked, slowly working the stake from her pocket. Her vision was still unsteady, and she was beginning to feel lost and soupy…and realized the vampiress was attempting to enthrall her, even though the silver cross acted as a barrier between them.
She tried to blink, tried to break the connection while desperately forcing her fingers to work, to bring the stake free. Her world was murky and slow…her breathing no longer her own. What was happening?
“They sold it, the bloody fools,” Cecilia spat, her words penetrating Savina’s fog. “And the devil help you all, for Nicholas Iscariot has it now.”
Chapter 7
~ Dust ~
MAX WASTED NO time, and he sure as hell didn’t wait for Liam Stoker to try to keep up. He wasn’t a Venator for nothing—which meant he was fleeter of foot and stronger than a mortal man—and though he had no idea which way Cecilia was taking Savina, he was off.
The chill at the back of his neck that would normally lead him to a vampire still wasn’t clear enough, so Max had nothing to go by other than instinct.
Up or down? Right or left? Private chamber or public room?
His mind darted through these questions as he tore down the hall, and when he came to an intersection of corridor and stairway, he paused, panting, closed his eyes…felt…listened…sniffed.
And smelled her. Savina.
This way.
The barest trace of her perfume led him down the stairs and then down another hallway toward the servants’ stairs…and then he caught another faint wisp of the flowery-spicy scent. Hardly enough to notice, but enough to lead him on.
And then he heard the noise—fighting, a disturbance, thumps and bumps—and he tore faster down the dark stairs, silver-tipped stake in hand, ready to do what he did the best—what he was born to do.
Past the butler’s pantry, the kitchen, the laundry…
The cellar.
“…Nicholas Iscariot has it now.”
The ominous words reached his ears just as Max tore around the corner and found them. Savina, crumpled on the ground, blood streaming from a red mark around her throat, her face bruised and cut, her eyes wide and lost. But damned if she didn’t have a stake in her hand and a silver cross around her neck—and she was holding off the vampire, albeit unsteadily.
Cecilia heard him, spinning with shocking speed and power. Her gray hair sprang out in soft tufts, belying the fury and greed in her slender body, red eyes, and talon-like nails. Any hesitation he might have had about violence against the fragile, elderly woman disappeared when she launched herself at him.
Max stepped forward to meet the attack and flung her to the side with one powerful arm. She crashed into the wall, clearly not expecting such an assault, and before she even rebounded, he drove the stake into the back of her heart.
She exploded in the dust of death and age and damnation, the ash leaving behind its normal disgusting smell. Max ignored the film that filtered onto his shoulders and clothing as he turned to Savina, who was dragging herself to her feet by curling her fingers into the brick wall and climbing up it.
She still held the stake in her hand. Of course she did.
“That was some…stake…flinging…” she managed to say with a wobbly smile. Her voice was unusually raspy and low due to the strident red marks around her neck. “Thank you.”
“Thank you?” he growled, and the next thing he knew, he had her—a whole handful, armful, faceful of Savina—gathering her up against him, holding her close and burying his nose in her soft, scented hair. “That’s all you have to say?” he muttered, shocked when he realized his eyes were wet—dammit—wet with tears.
She pulled away to look up at him, but whatever she might have said—soft and sweet or sharp and accusing—was forever lost, because he drowned it when he kissed her.
And, oh, God, she kissed him back—hard and soft at the same time, rough and sweet, desperate and eager…until someone spoke.
“Och, then…I ken I’ll be leaving you both to it.”
Chapter 8
~ Dawn ~
SOMEHOW, LIAM STOKER’S words penetrated Max’s brain and he all but threw himself away from Savina, spinning toward the wall. He stood there, leaning against the bricks, panting and furious—with himself, with Stoker, with Savina, with the whole damned situation.
“Christ, Liam,” he said, stumbling around for something to say that would do justice for his abominable actions. Filled with nausea and shame, he faced the music, a punch, whatever was going to come. “It was me, all me—I grabbed her and she didn’t have a chance—it was inexcusable. I was—I am—I’m sorry. It won’t happen again…”
Max’s words trailed off when he saw the expression on Stoker’s face. It wasn’t the look of a man who’d just found his new bride practically crawling inside another man’s body.
It was…amused? Confused?
“You didn’t tell him then, lass?”
“No.” Savina’s single word was raspy, but the expression on her face was one of belligerence.
“Tell me what?” But Max was beginning to feel something like the dawn rising over him. Something light. Perhaps even hope.
“We aren’t really married,” Stoker said, and Max recognized true regret in the man’s voice. “It was just part of the story. Which is why I’m verra happy to let you carry on—not that I’m not disappointed. But isn’t that how it works—the hero gets the girl?”
“Woman,” Savina and Max said at the same time.
She looked at him and nodded. “Right.” But she still wore that mutinous expression.
“So you let me think—all this time—” He was still fumbling for words, still a little shocked over a number of things…including the fact that he could kiss her. Again. And no one would want to slam a fist in his face.
Well, no one would have the right to slam a fist in his face.
“Yes. I let you believe I was married for a total of what…eight hours? Maybe ten? At the most? That’s nothing compared to two years, Max Denton. Two years of wondering whether you were even alive.”
Christ. She was right. Oh, damn, she was right.
“Savina…”
She shook her head. For someone as battered and bruised and half-strangled as she was, Savina was pretty damn resilient and determined. “Not now, Max. You can grovel later.”
“Grovel? We’ll see about that,” he retorted, already thinking about the numerous ways he could grovel. Some of them would be quite pleasurable, in fact, that included far fewer articles of clothing. “For now, there are other things to attend to. Did you learn anything from Cecilia?”
“The amulet isn’t here. She said Iscariot has it.”
Max felt himself go numb once more, and the bit of warmth he’d begun to feel evaporated. Iscariot with the amulet was very bad news. “We’ll see about that as well,” he said. “I’ll have Bellitano and Paolo investigate. You’ll want to help,” he added to Stoker, who agreed readily.
“Lord and Lady Glennington aren’t vampires, according to Cecilia. It sounded almost as if they had her under some sort of control. They wanted money so they sold the amulet.” Savina went on to explain what she’d learned from Cecilia.
“There’s still the question of why I couldn’t sense her undeadness,” Max said with a frown. “She gave no hint about that?”
“No. But I wasn’t exactly trying to have a conversation with her—I was trying to keep from being bitten.”
Liam gave a short laugh. “My Aunt Evaline used to say that sort of thing to Auntie Mina, when Mina would complain that she didn’t get enough information before she staked a vampire.”
“It’s a fine line,” Max replied gravely. “Between that of information gathering and slaying. And I’m not certain I even want to know how you figured it out that Cecilia was an undead, Stoker.”
“It struck me after Savina left that I actually hadn’t shaken the hand of Aunt Cecilia. She’d sort of patted me on the arm whe
n we were introduced, and I thought nothing of it. After she was—er—sick in the hall, I was inspired to utilize a new measuring device just to make certain, and—”
Max held up a hand. “That’s all I need to know. Now we’d best decide how to handle the disappearance of Great-Aunt Cecilia without giving away our true identities. And get the hell out of here.”
He looked meaningfully at Savina, who lifted her chin and turned haughtily away…though her cheeks flushed an unusually dark shade of pink.
Let the groveling commence.
Chapter 9
~ Promise ~
“THIS IS A MUCH different holiday than the one I spent last year,” Savina commented.
It was very late that night, approaching midnight and the dawn of Christmas Day. She and Max were walking through a tiny, nameless village many miles from Knotwood Abbey. The houses and their residents were tucked away for the night and everything was still. Among the wisps of gray clouds, the moon glowed high and the stars shone bright—especially the one in the north. The Christmas star.
“For me as well,” he replied. “We…I…we have a lot to talk about, I think.”
She held his solid arm as they crunched through the thin layer of snow, thinking about how things had changed so radically in only a few hours. And yet, how uncertain was her future.
The three of them had decided to believe Cecilia that the amulet wasn’t at Knotwood Abbey, for the old woman had had no reason to lie, and her disgust with the situation had been genuine. The residual chill had left the back of Max’s neck, and he felt confident that the only undead creature who’d been on the property was now the pile of dust that once was Cecilia.
Now that the work had been done, none of them felt any reason to stay—and once the Glenningtons realized Aunt Cecilia was not only missing, but had been reduced to undead ash, that could compromise Max’s disguise as well as Savina’s cover. They didn’t want to risk any further exposure.
So they simply packed up their trunks and drove away in the night. Any guilt Savina might have felt about leaving Lady Glennington in the lurch—both with the amorous activities she’d planned with Max, or the excitement over her Christmas photography story—disappeared when she reminded herself that the lord and lady of Knotwood Abbey were Tutela members, had harbored a vampiress, and sold Rasputin’s amulet. It was better if none of them stuck around. Who knew how many other vampires or Tutela houseguests might be arriving for the holiday.
She and Max had parted ways with Liam later in the day. He’d taken his demotion to ex-husband of a celebrity photographer with humor and grace and seemed much more enthusiastic about returning to the Consilium in Rome to refine his vampire-sensing device than staying with Savina—at least now that Max was back in the picture.
She gave Liam a hug and accepted a kiss on her cheek. “Safe travels. How long will it take to get to London in this weather, do you think?”
“I’m thinking of a detour home first, to see my mother for Christmas. She was verra displeased I was going to be gone again this year, and Edinburgh isna far.” Apparently, even the thought of returning to Scotland made Liam’s burr become more pronounced. “Ye certain ye don’t want to come with me, lass?”
Savina smiled and shook her head. “Thank you. I’ve got other things to settle here.”
Liam nodded in understanding and drove off. Shortly after, Max disappeared for a while to send telegrams and, Savina suspected, to meet privately with Wayren. How Wayren, the mysterious woman who dressed like a medieval chatelaine, always knew where to find him, Savina didn’t know. She supposed when one was the Summas Gardella, as Max was—or would be, if he’d cease from going off on his own to brood (or hide)—one could contact Wayren as needed.
Savina had only met Wayren once, and the woman, though the epitome of grace and peacefulness, was nevertheless intimidating and unsettling.
Now, after what seemed like forever, she and Max were alone. If there weren’t such a divide between them—a two-year divide—Savina would be joyful and filled with contentment. After all, it was Christmas. And she was with Max, and he’d kissed her as if he were dying, back at Knotwood Abbey. There was no question how he felt about her: she’d seen the horror and fear in his eyes when he came upon her and Cecilia, felt the emotion shuddering through him as he held her. She’d melted at the intensity in his kiss, and it had taken every bit of control for her to act remote and calm after Liam interrupted them.
Big, fat flakes were just beginning to fall, and the air was crisp and cold, and she was with the man she loved.
But there was just so much…so much to contend with. And so when he said they had much to talk about, Savina didn’t really know where to begin. So she prevaricated. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” he replied. “I thought you wanted me to grovel.” His attempt at humor fell flat for both of them, and Savina felt his arm tighten beneath her grip.
“I don’t think groveling is going to help,” she said on a long out-breath. “It was a long two years, Max.”
“For me too, Savina. You might not believe it, but it was. And it was senseless.” He stopped, which forced her to halt as well.
“Was it?” She turned her face up at him, and her heart squeezed and thumped as she looked at his dear, familiar, handsome face. Dark from pain and tight with determination, punctuated by slashing brows and delicious lips, intense black eyes and a square jaw. The very sight of him—now clean-shaven and back to the Max she knew—made her warm with love.
But.
“Yes. Utterly senseless,” he said.
She slipped her hand from his arm and began walking again. Every part of her wanted him—but there were too many questions. Too much hurt.
“There was a night back in February,” he said, crunching along next to her. “It was like this, but wet. Freezing cold, and bloody wet. I was in London, living as Melke, and I was standing at the window of my room wondering what the hell I’d done—to you, to me, to Macey. And I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. And so…I just went on. It was…easier. Yet…I despised myself.”
Savina realized they were at the door of a small church. Its doors were open, and a soft golden glow spilled onto the snow—the only sign of life in the entire village.
Perhaps here was the place to say what she needed to say. What would have to be wrung from deep inside her: truth and decision.
She stopped in the glow and faced him once more. “I still love you, Max.”
His face, which had been taut and harsh, as if braced for the worst, shifted and he gave something like a quiet shudder. His eyes closed, then opened. “I thought maybe—”
She shook her head, stopping him. “I love you, but I can’t go through this again. I’m not willing to go through this again.”
He didn’t seem able to move his eyes from hers. “What are you saying?”
She could fairly feel the tension and fear emanating from him.
Fear?
From Max Denton?
“What if you leave again? What if you decide again that you need to be alone, that you don’t want me around, that you—”
“I never didn’t want you around, Savina. Never.” His voice was tight and low. “It wasn’t that. It was—”
“Yes, I know. The fear that something would happen to me like it did with Felicia. The same thing you fear about Macey—which is why you’ve been a terrible father.” He winced when she said the words, but Savina had no reason to hold back. If he didn’t understand this, if he didn’t take responsibility for his actions, then they could never be together.
“I don’t deny that I’ve been…lacking in that way.”
“Even the letters you’ve written her—have you even sent them?”
His expression turned forbidding. “In a manner of speaking.”
Savina shook her head. Tears burned her eyes. Her heart squeezed. “Oh, Max, I understand your fear that something will happen to someone you care about, because, dammit, I lived with it, fearing
for you, every day we were together, every time you would leave to go out at night to hunt for the undead…and for every damned day of the two years you were gone. You aren’t the only one to care about someone and to fear their loss.”
“I don’t just bloody damned care about you—I love you.”
That stunned her. He’d never said those words before. Never in the year and a half they were together.
But it wasn’t enough.
“When did you decide that you loved me?” she retorted, keeping her voice calm and soft. “Just now, when you realized it wasn’t going to be so damn easy to get back into my bed?”
“When I left. The day I left. I realized I didn’t want to be without you…ever. That I wasn’t certain I could go on if something happened to you. And so…I left. To prove to myself that I could.”
She could hardly keep from railing at him. “That is the most ridiculous, cowardly, absurd thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
Touched by the golden glow from the church, his face was miserable: dark, tight, shadowed. “I’m not proud of it. But it’s the truth. And after I left, I didn’t know how to come back. I thought after a while it’d be easier to do what I had to do alone…and I thought you’d move on.”
“I did move on, Max. I just didn’t know whether you left me voluntarily or not. That you didn’t contact me on purpose. But now I do.” She blinked hard and reached up to touch his face. Even now, it was warm beneath her cold, bare hand. “I love you, Max. I probably always will. But I’m not willing to take the chance of you leaving me again the minute you get scared. I can handle the dangers of your life, but I can’t—won’t—accept your choice to be a coward.”
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