The Bleeding Dusk (36 page)

Inside the room two fair heads, one the color of wheat, the other more of a lion's-mane shade, but both with the same thick curls, were bent over a table examining what looked like a single piece of paper.

Victoria chose that moment to step fully into the room. “It appears that I have yet another grievance to air with you, Beauregard.”

To her immense satisfaction, both of their heads snapped up in surprise. Sebastian's face wore a frozen, chagrined look, rather like the one he'd had when she'd found him in the Consilium. But Beauregard…after the initial shock evaporated, his was replaced by a sly, pleased expression that made the hair on Victoria's scalp lift.

“Welcome, my dear, welcome to my humble abode.” Beauregard made a sweeping gesture, inviting her in.

Victoria moved past the tapestry door, taking care to keep her back to the wall so there wouldn't be any nasty surprises creeping up behind her. She remained calm and focused, reining in the fury that vibrated through her muscles and veins. One step at a time.

“How did you get here?”

Sebastian's voice drew Victoria's attention to him. He was all too appealing in the flattering candlelight, with a boyish curl falling on his forehead and that guilty expression on his face.

But before she could speak, Beauregard interrupted. “I presume she found her way here the same way in which her paramour—Zander, Zavier, what was his name?—did. Surely he gave her the direction.” He smiled, now looking directly at her. His eyes were still a normal shade of blue, and his fangs were out of sight, but Victoria was properly wary. “Or perhaps you recalled your stay here last autumn, before all of that unpleasantness occurred.”

“Unpleasantness?” Victoria said, refusing to look at Sebastian. She couldn't afford to be distracted. “I rather thought you welcomed the destruction of Nedas and the thwarting of his plan to activate Akvan's Obelisk. After all, it put you in a much greater position of power.”

Beauregard bowed his head in acquiescence. “Indeed it did.”

“If this is a battle of wits, you shall find yourself overmatched. In fact, I rather think you might find yourself overmatched on all counts.” She allowed him to see the stake in the hand at her side.

“Well, then, if that is the case, let us get to business. I trust you're aware that I've returned your possession, and thus you've come to return that which is mine.”

“I have your copper armband, if that's what you mean,” she replied. “But you've yet to return that which you took from me.”

“Did he not make his way back? I do hope Gardriel and Hugh weren't too rough with him.”

He? Then, with a cool, horrible rush of understanding, she realized that Beauregard didn't have the splinter necklace she'd lost, but that he'd been referring to Zavier all along. Or what was left of him.

What had happened to Zavier had been purposeful and malevolent violence meant to send her a message.

Her head pounded as anger surged anew, setting her fingers to trembling in her effort to keep from attacking now.

Victoria drew in a steady breath and glanced at Sebastian, who was watching them sharply. She had no illusions about which side he would take…and she was glad she had a gun.

“He must have been in no condition to tell you how to find us then,” Beauregard was saying. He'd stepped from behind the table and moved casually toward her, the piece of paper they'd been examining curling in his hand. “So you came upon us quite by accident.”

Victoria's attention was caught, no doubt as he'd intended, by the piece of parchment he gently wafted against his leg. It reminded her of the journal Max had taken from the laboratory at Villa Palombara.

The journal that had been taken back to the Consilium.

Her attention flew to Sebastian, and their eyes met.

“Let me see that paper.”

The alacrity with which Beauregard proffered it to her confirmed her suspicions before she even glanced at it, but she did take a moment to examine the single page. Then she looked back at Sebastian. “A coward and a thief.”

He met her gaze boldly, and for that she had to give him credit. But that was all.

“It was a necessity, Victoria. A matter of life and death.”

“Damn you and your excuses,” she said, the darkness of anger closing in on the edges of her vision. She'd actually begun to trust him, to believe in him. To let him close. “Damn you, and your grandfather too, Sebastian Vioget.” She turned to Beauregard. “And you nearly killed Zavier— merely to turn my attention away, so you could send your grandson to do your dirty work.”

Beauregard smiled at her. “By the devil, you're quick, my dear. Quick to understand, quick to judge, quick to blame. And quite appetizing when you're angry.”

She raised her stake, flying across the room at him, no longer willing to restrain herself.

“Victoria, no!” Sebastian leaped between them, and her stake slammed into his shoulder. It was much more difficult driving it into mortal flesh than a vampire's heart; she felt the unpleasant give as it pierced skin and muscle. “Don't do it,” he said, gasping in surprise, his fingers closing over her arm to propel her away. “He wants—”

“Get away,” she said. He grunted as she pulled out the stake. Blood colored its tip and seeped quickly through his shirt, an unfamiliar sight.

There wasn't supposed to be blood.

But she couldn't let that stop her now. She pushed at Sebastian with all of her strength, sending him stumbling backward as he reached again for her.

“Victoria, don't,” he said again, coming toward her, the bloodstain blossoming on his shirt. “He wants to fight you. He wants to come between us.”

She turned to look at him, empty and angry and determined. “Either get out of my sight or you'll go with him. I'm through with your games and lies.”

She turned back to Beauregard, who was watching them with a half smile and a glint in his gaze. “Do you really want him gone?” he asked.

“What I want is you dead.”

“But you forget, I am already dead these last six hundred years.” He lifted his hand in a nonchalant gesture, his eyes turning pink. “Begone, Sebastian.”

“No.” He moved like a large cat. He carried no weapon, nothing but himself, and stood solidly between them.

Victoria looked at him, scanning his pale face, the determined look in his eyes, the dark patch spreading beneath his left collarbone, seeing that his breathing was faster than it should be. Still handsome as sin, still appealing, still able to tug at her because of all they'd shared. Thank God he wasn't a vampire with the strength of the thrall behind him too. “You stole from us. You betrayed us, Sebastian. I don't…want…to…see…you.”

Beauregard had moved away toward the wall behind his desk as Victoria and Sebastian faced each other. She heard a faint, low sound in the distance.

“You've chosen, Sebastian,” she told him. “You made your final choice when you did this—sneaking in while we worried over Zavier, while Max was—” She stopped herself. “It was your choice. Now get out of my way so I can finish this.”

The large door burst open and four massive vampires—three men and a woman—surged in. Victoria spun to face them, her heart knocking suddenly harder and faster. The stake was in her hand, but it would be a tough battle. She crouched, ready.

Sebastian had turned too, also taking a defensive stance, but he kept talking to her. “Victoria, the armban—”

His words gasped away as the first of the undead slammed a fist into his gut, and a second came from the other side and threw him to the floor as he spun to defend himself. Instinctively Victoria raised her stake, but a strong hand grasped it from behind, holding her wrist aloft, sliding an arm around her waist, and squeezing her so that her breath was caught. She struggled, kicking backward, watching Sebastian rise to his feet, only to be knocked back down by a boot to the jaw. On a normal man the blow would have cracked the bone. Another vampire dragged him back to his feet, and Sebastian managed a well-placed punch, but he had no weapon with which to stop them.

“You said you wanted him out of the way,” Beauregard said in her ear.

Victoria slammed her head back and felt it crash into Beauregard's nose, at the same time trying to twist away from his strong grip. But he held on tightly and slipped his other hand around the front of her throat, pulling her back against him.

The hand tightened, cutting off her air, sending her struggling in his arms, stomping her foot down, slamming back with her free hand to jab her elbow into him, kicking, trying to breathe….

And then suddenly she was released with such force that she stumbled against a chair, then her hand clashed onto the keys of the harpsichord. She turned in time to see the door close, leaving the room silent but for the last echoes of discordant notes.

Silent, but not empty.

Her neck was cold. Her fingers trembled. “After all he's done for you?” she said in a shaking voice that she abhorred.

Beauregard, who bent to pick up the paper she'd dropped, placed it on the table and looked at her. “Is it not what you expected from me? No loyalty? Manipulation? Where do you think Sebastian learned it?”

“You wouldn't kill him. He's worth too much to you.”

Beauregard looked horrified. “Kill him? Of course not. I merely assisted him in complying with your wishes. You should be grateful, for now we can converse without his interference. Now, shall we get to business? You were going to kill me. Or attempt to.” He looked pointedly at the stake that had fallen from her hand and rolled across the floor. “But I think that will have to wait. You have something of mine.”

“And you have something of mine.” She would play his game for the moment. Until she had the chance to cut the bastard's head off.

“It was only one page,” he said, lifting the paper from the desk. “And you mustn't blame Sebastian. The man would do anything for me—loyalty is his great flaw, much as I've tried to teach him otherwise. But I'm all he has, and he just cannot abide the thought of me burning in the fires of Hell for all eternity.” Beauregard gave a genteel shudder. “It's not a particularly pleasant thought to me either. And so when at last the door to Palombara's laboratory was reopened, I was understandably interested in obtaining not only my missing armband, but also this particular page.”

“So, will you tell me what is so important about that page?” Victoria kept her tone easy, unconcerned, even as she divided her attention between the details of the room, any potential weapons, and the undead himself.

His eyes were pink when they looked at her, and she turned her gaze firmly away.

“I think you can guess, if you put your mind to it.” His voice was soft and seductive, and she felt the tendrils of his thrall reach out gently and brush over her skin as if he'd actually touched her.

“It's a plant. It must have something to do with your immortality…or your destroyed soul, if Sebastian was willing to help,” Victoria replied. She heard her voice as though it were in a tunnel, far away and hollow, and she blinked and took a step. Her fogged ears cleared, and she felt steadier.

She couldn't forget the image of blood soaking Sebastian's shirt. Blood she'd drawn.

“It's a very useful flower,” Beauregard told her, “to the undead, in particular, and, if one believes the work of the alchemist pilgrim who came to Palombara, to mortals as well. But it grows rarely only once or twice per century. I needed the page to identify it, for this year is a year it's expected to bloom. And with your aunt's death, I knew the key to the workshop would be more readily available.”

He smiled. “You must appreciate my brilliance. It was my intent all the while to divert your attention to Akvan as he and his worthless followers tried to find the keys. I made sure he knew about the journals and about the keys, and I even made certain the key Palombara had kept—which I, of course, had stolen from him that last night—was found by one of Akvan's servants. I knew once the door was opened I could retrieve my armband—one way or the other.”

Victoria kept her gaze far away from him and his pink eyes. She moved so the desk remained between them and she was a good distance away. She wasn't frightened; she'd been in worse situations before, much more overmatched. But if he called for help again, as he'd obviously done when he moved behind his desk earlier, she would find herself in the same situation as Sebastian.

Or worse.

“You wanted Sebastian to steal the key, didn't you?”

He inclined his head. “He didn't realize he'd actually had the key in his possession until much later, when you described it to him.”

“But you allowed me to use it.”

“He refused to steal it back, if that is what you're asking. But it didn't matter to me—once you got the door open I could get what I needed. Except that you and that bloody Pesaro were too quick and he went off with it.”

“And you actually thought that by mutilating and nearly killing one of my men that you would get what you wanted from me?”

“You're here, are you not?”

She didn't like his smile. Didn't like the way she suddenly remembered his mouth covering hers, sucking the warm flow of blood from her lip.

“Of course you would come to avenge your friend. Your fellow warrior. What else would you do?” he said, his voice alluring and coaxing, as if he were trying to lull her. “You are a Venator.”

What else would you do?

It was as if he'd read her mind and her private thoughts earlier. She
was
a Venator—only, wholly, and without reservation. Of course she would come to avenge the death—or near death—of one of her own.

What else would she do?

Nothing.

“I want my armband.” He'd moved closer to her, and she tensed.