As Shadows Fade (17 page)

“If you want to see the Gardella Bible, there's no reason to hesitate.”

“Is it blasphemous to say I greatly dislike it when you do that?” he said wryly, turning toward the cabinet.

Wayren gave a soft laugh. He couldn't ever remember having heard it before—quiet, gentle, spritely. “No indeed. I've heard much worse over the centuries. Sebastian, do you know what you're looking for?”

He had to shake his head. “No.” Honesty compelled him to speak with forthrightness. “I feel as though I'm waiting to find out what will be asked of me next.”

The heavy handle twisted easily, levering downward and unlatching the door of the cabinet. Inside, the Bible sat, large and smelling of age. He pulled it out, sensitive to the crackling, browned pages and the faded ribbons that marked places in the great tome.

“The first pages of that Bible were scribed by the sisters who lived with Rosamunde in Lock Rose Abbey. Rosamunde, the mystic who wrote many pages of personal revelations before being called to the
vis bulla
.”

Sebastian nodded, carefully opening the heavy cover. His education of Venator history was sketchy and incomplete, due to his many years away from them. But he had heard of Rosamunde, and he had seen the painting of her in the Consilium. Serene and oval faced, Lady Rosamunde Gardella had seemed much less imposing than a Venator should be.

“In the front of the book are listed all of those called
Summa
Gardella,” Wayren continued. “And in the back are named all of the Venators. Your name is there, as well as Max's.”

And in between, Sebastian found, were faded pages of cramped medieval text of the New and Old Testaments, many of which were decorated with large illustrations, their colors long since washed out. These pages had been bound and rebound, and bound again into this much newer leather cover.

Beyond those crackling medieval texts, he found, were more pages of cramped writing in a different hand. Each one signed with a large, ornate
R.

Here Sebastian paused. His hands hovered over the page, and he felt compelled to stop and read.

Feeling Wayren's interested gaze on him, he looked up and saw understanding there. “Rosamunde's writings. Of course. Would you like a copy of your own?” she asked.

Sebastian watched as Wayren reached into her ever-present rugged leather satchel and shuffled around inside. At last, she withdrew a sheaf of papers. Not nearly as aged as those he held on his lap, but crinkling and loosely bound with a leather thong stitched up one side.

“Perhaps you will find what you are looking for in here,” she said, offering them to him.

Sebastian carefully closed the Bible and reached for the papers. When he touched Wayren's hand, a peaceful warmth slipped along his arm and settled inside him.

“Perhaps I shall.”

 

+ + +

Victoria slept alone the night before they left for Prague, and, of necessity, the nights following.

The journey left little time for sleep. Once they crossed the Channel, she, Max, and Sebastian sat asaddle from sunrise until past sunset. Wayren did not ride, but she had her own methods of travel and would join Brim and Michalas in Rome and then the rest of them in Prague.

In fact, Victoria was relieved Wayren would not be traveling with them. Knowing she'd been a target of the demons once before left her uneasy, and she thought it would be best if Wayren were safely in the Consilium.

“But I will be there in Prague for Max's Trial,” the blond woman told Victoria, after agreeing to go to Rome as quickly as possible. “I must be there to ensure all goes well, and to make certain that he is well prepared.”

Victoria had no reason nor desire to argue. She felt confident Wayren would be safe now that she was on her guard against the demons, and until they could meet again in Prague. She wanted Max to be ready for the life-or-death task ahead of him as well, and she vacillated between begging him not to take the chance and understanding why he must. He felt it would help to protect her—as well as himself. She couldn't argue with that logic or sentiment.

In fact, after her conversation with Max in the carriage back in London, Victoria had little time to speak with him privately. His bleakness and underlying anger left her cold and uncertain…and frightened.

It wasn't a matter of him not caring for her, loving her.

It was a matter of him caring for, and loving, her too much. So much that he could be tempted from his duty if her life was at risk.

At last she understood why he'd resisted being with her. Making her a part of his life. He was afraid she'd affect his decisions, his honor, his duty.

And perhaps…perhaps she should be as thoughtful and hesitant.

But she could not. She'd found what she wanted, and if she had to live the life of
Summa
Gardella—a life of sacrifice and danger, duty and necessity—she wanted Max to be part of it.

The night before they set off for Prague, after she left Sebastian in the small sitting room with Wayren, she'd had one last private moment with Max in the
kalari
room.

The broad, mat-carpeted chamber housed a variety of weaponry as well as piles of cushions and pillows. Kritanu used them for protection when he worked with Victoria, training her in the martial art of
kalaripayattu
and on the Chinese fighting method of
qinggong,
the half-flying, half-gliding ability Max had mastered.

Victoria and Max had used the generous cushions for a wholly different purpose only a few weeks ago.

When she opened the door, Victoria found Max standing at the slender weapons cabinet that held Kritanu's extensive collection of blades.

Despite the fact that she moved silently, he turned when she came into the room. He held an odd-looking sword that curved from blade through hilt, and with his bare feet, thick dark hair, and swarthy skin, he reminded her of a fearsome pirate. His expression supported the comparison.

“Three days of fasting?” she asked, imitating his habit of getting immediately to the point as she walked across the room to him. “And then what?”

“Three days of fasting and prayer, while you and Vioget obtain the Ring of Jubai,” he corrected her. “I know time is of the essence, but the process is not unlike that of the knights of old when they were ready to take their vows. Three days on my knees, and then locked in a room with an undead. Only one of us will survive that meeting.”

Victoria felt the ground shift beneath her feet and the walls tip.

She'd heard about the Trial before, but never having had occasion to witness it, she hadn't known the details other than that it was a life-or-death proposition. Max would never have spoken of it, and no one had attempted the Trial since she became a Venator. It was an exercise that Wayren, not
Summa
Gardella, managed—and now that Victoria understood who Wayren really was, it made even more sense.

“You have to fight a vampire after no food or sleep for three days? In a closed room?” Even she, with her two
vis bullae,
would be hard-pressed to succeed in that.

And even though they were in a hurry to close the portal, a one- or two-day delay in Prague wouldn't make much of a difference if they had Max back with them in full strength. Especially when it came to facing Lilith and finding her lair.

But what if he didn't succeed? Oh God. Then they would be without him…
She
would be without him. After all of this. Victoria swallowed and looked up at him. “Max,” she began, trying to find a way to speak her worries that he would understand…and not find insulting, but he interrupted.

“Did you think it would be a simple task?” he asked derisively. He replaced the
khukuri
knife and latched the cabinet. “Only four others have ever succeeded.”

“But, Max…”

“Stop with the histrionics, Victoria. It's not becoming to
Summa
Gardella. Do you think your aunt Eustacia begged Daclid not to take the Trial?”

“Who?”

Max looked at her in exasperation. “Before she loved Kritanu, when he was merely a young man sent to train her, Eustacia loved a man named Daclid who believed he could wear the
visbulla.
He attempted the Trial and did not succeed—as have many others over the centuries.”

He didn't give her any relief. His face remained closed and hard. “There is no guarantee of my success, even this second time.”

Victoria struggled to gather her thoughts, which seemed to have splintered into uncollectible shards with these revelations. The last time she'd felt so taken off guard, so out of her realm, was when she witnessed Eustacia's beheading by the man who stood before her. “How do you get the blood if you stake the vampire? What is that for?”

“We get the blood prior to the battle—I'm allowed assistance with that because that isn't part of the Trial,” he added with self-deprecation. “Just enough blood to soak the
vis bulla
in it.”

He stood in front of her, so close her skirt brushed the tops of his narrow feet. “But that doesn't come into play unless I succeed in leaving the room alive. That part of the Trial, incidentally, comes from the battles in the Colosseum. You know of the men thrown to the lions for sport…but after dark, they might be thrown to vampires instead. A crowd of Tutela and vampires would watch for their enjoyment.”

Victoria didn't want to think about what Max would have to face. Not with him standing there, close enough that she could see the individual whiskers starting to emerge from his chin, and the steady pump of heartbeat in the side of his throat. But nor could she be ignorant of it. She had to know. She was
Summa
Gardella. “And if you leave that room alive?” she prompted.

“The blood-soaked
vis bulla
is pierced through my skin—just as it was yours. The difference is that I, not of the Gardellas, take it drenched with undead blood as well as holy water. That's the final test. I either live, and have the power of the
vis,
or I die from the combination of evil and holiness piercing my flesh.”

And then Victoria understood it all. “If you succeed in any of it—all of it—it's by…by divine will.”

“Of course. Just as your calling is.”

“Max, you—”

“Don't.” He spoke through teeth clamped tightly.

So she didn't. She surged into him instead.

His arms came around her with a fierceness she hadn't expected, a strength that told her he wasn't as dispassionate as he pretended.

She felt, for the first time, an edge of desperation in his touch, and knew the same fear echoed in her own actions. The faint tremble in her fingers as she dragged him as close as she could, the way he pressed his temple against hers in a singular, frozen moment as their hearts beat together, their breaths mingled. The way they dragged the other to the floor seconds later, pulling haphazardly at clothes, lifting, shifting, yanking them away so they could be flesh to flesh again.

They came together with ferocity, without finesse or hesitation. And when they finished and found themselves in a sweaty heap, limbs and fabric tangled and twisted, Max opened his eyes and looked down at her.

Her heart seized up, began to flutter and swell, and she opened her mouth to tell him how much she loved him, how she couldn't bear it if something happened…perhaps even to beg him not to attempt it.

But he spoke first, sending all her flowery thoughts scattering. “Stay away from me until after, Victoria. I need no distractions. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her head cradled in his large, warm hands, the weight of his body gentle against hers. She moistened her lips, drew in her breath to argue…then nodded again.

The corners of his eyes crinkled the slightest bit, just enough for her to know he recognized her struggle to acquiesce.

They rose, righted their clothing, and went separately to their chambers.

And the next morning, they left for Prague.

+ Eleven +

In Which a Vampire is Taken in by a Pretty Face

Max found it infuriating
that he couldn't shake the dreams. Nearly every morning, the remnants lingered throughout his first waking hours, leaving his stomach tight and hands shaky, and the images swimming in his memory.

One would think sleeping only four or five hours each night after a grueling day of riding, and then bedding down in small, rented rooms with Vioget and Victoria—one too close, and the other too damn far away—that he would be too exhausted to dream.

But, alas, no.

He staggered awake from the nightmare, his hand still gripping the sword to slice off Eustacia's head—and the image, not of hers, but of Victoria's face, turned toward him, awaiting the fatal blow.

Max rolled off the thin bed and pulled slowly to his feet, heart still pounding, fingers still shaking. When he turned groggily and slammed his temple against a low beam in the dingy little room, he didn't bother to hold back a bellowed curse. At least the blow helped to knock the nocturnal wisps from his mind.

Victoria looked at him curiously, but had better sense than to say anything. They'd fallen into a bit of a routine in the morning, the three of them. Max and Sebastian dressed quickly, then left to saddle the horses and find something to break their fast while Victoria prepared to leave.

Of necessity, for both riding astride and sharing a room with two men, Victoria had dressed in men's clothing since crossing the Channel.

And she'd cut her hair.

Rather, Max had cut her hair.

They'd argued about it on the first morning, in Normandy.

“You'll need to hide your hair better if you think to pass as a man,” Max had told her. Breeches and a shirt and coat were all good, but they'd been fashioned for the sharp angles of a man's body, not the curves of a woman's.

“Cut it off, then,” Victoria told him, lifting the rope of a braid and letting it flop against her shoulder. “You've already told me I should.”