As Shadows Fade (2 page)

“Is Vioget keeping you waiting? No doubt he is still fussing with a new knot on his neck cloth.” Max sounded supremely bored.

Victoria made a great show of pulling on the lacy shawl that would do little good against a chill in the air—but it was a hot, humid evening in early August and she needn't worry about being uncomfortable. “Oh, no. Sebastian isn't my escort this evening.”

“Indeed?”

Though she was turned half away, Victoria felt Max's gaze score over her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his expression. He was decidedly displeased.

She wasn't certain if it was because he'd noticed her gown or because Sebastian wasn't attending her. In any event, it didn't matter. A displeased Max was exactly what she wanted.

“Indeed.” She started toward the door. “Good evening, Max.”

“Surely you don't plan to attend without an escort.”

She paused, then glanced back at him. “Are you volunteering for the honor? You'd have to change…” She raised a brow, looking at him dubiously. “And you might even have to dance.”

“Where's Vioget? Foolish of him to allow you to go alone.”

“Ah, yes, the man should be protecting his interests, shouldn't he?” Victoria replied coolly. That had been Max's plan: that she should be with Sebastian—in all ways—because, as a born Venator, Sebastian would be able to understand the dual sides of her life and also assist her in the fight against vampires.

Max himself had been one of the most fearsome of Venators, called by choice and not by the blood of the Gardella family legacy, as the other Venators were. But he'd given up his powers in order to destroy a rising demon who threatened to take over Rome.

By relinquishing his powers, Max had also severed the thrall Lilith had imposed upon him years ago. He'd been freed of her influence, but she was still obsessed with Max. She was certain to be after him again, once she recovered from her recent setback at the hands of Victoria and the other Venators.

But it wasn't so much himself that Max worried about, but Victoria, as he'd admitted during a moment of weakness.

She'll be after me again…and again. And she'll use you, Victoria. She'll use you to get to me. I wish I could lock you up, and know you'd always be safe
…
and I know that can't
bloody well happen. But I won't be part of it. I won't make it any damn worse than it has to be. I can't do it.

Angry with what she perceived as an illogical argument, Victoria had called him a coward then—a word she could never have imagined attributing to Max. But to her surprise, he'd accepted it. Owned it. Then walked away.

The last thing he said to her was an acknowledgment of her insult:

When it comes to risking your life, yes, yes, goddammit, yes, I am, Victoria. I'm a damn bloody coward.

And now here they were. Two weeks later. Stalemated.

“Good night, Max,” she said, opening the door and stepping out into the balmy evening. Her carriage waited, the footman holding its door open. She didn't look back as the servant helped her into the vehicle, but she felt the weight of Max's stare on her back as if he'd been there, touching her himself.

The Duchess Farnham knew how to give a party, and the
ton
lapped it up. Even when her event was merely a dance instead of a ball, she did it with style and elegance. And when the duchess gave a dance, there were, of course, fewer invitations extended, making them all the more sought after and bragged upon.

Thus when Victoria arrived at Farnham Hall, her sleek midnight blue carriage waited in a long snaking line of arrivals, crossing in front of another long snaking line of carriages passing by the residence in hopes of catching a glimpse of who had been gifted with an invitation this time. The stagnant air and summer heat in the enclosed carriage made her feel sleepy and bored, and she tugged open one of the small windows.

She didn't feel odd about arriving without an escort, for she was as close to the duchess—hence the affectionate, if informal, nickname of Duchess Winnie—as if she were her niece. And also, Victoria's mother, Lady Melly, would already be in attendance, likely with her own escort and longtime beau, Lord Jellington.

Lady Melly, Duchess Winnie, and their other bosom friend, Lady Petronilla, were fairly inseparable, their heads always together, flinging gossip about with great abandon and plotting weddings as if the world were about to end. The three of them were probably the most upset in all of London about the disappearance of the new Lord Rockley, for they had been playing matchmaker with him and Victoria in hopes that she might drop the “dowager” from her title, and become simply “the marchioness” again.

Sebastian had offered to come with her tonight, but Victoria thought it best to decline. He was well aware of how she felt about Max, but in his words, “I don't plan to be a gentleman about this, Victoria. He doesn't want you—he doesn't want
anyone
—and I
do.
”
And then he gathered her up into his arms for one of those hot kisses that made her knees weak and her breathing unsteady.

Even now, the memory had the ability to warm her cheeks, making the carriage feel more stifling. By the time Victoria alighted from her vehicle, the mugginess had drawn forth a little line of moisture over her lip. She dabbed at it with a handkerchief and slipped past the butler into the side foyer of Farnham Hall.

There was no need for her to be introduced and attention called to her. Victoria attended this dance only because she could not disappoint Duchess Winnie. She'd make an appearance, then leave.

Despite the heavy heat of the summer night and the crush of people, the ballroom was fairly comfortable, and the reason was immediately evident: a row of six French doors had been opened to the garden, and an entire company of servants had been positioned throughout the room with large, palm-leaf fans, which they conducted vigorously.

“At last! I thought you'd never arrive, Victoria,” said Lady Melly, swooping upon her with curling gloved fingers. “The Earl of Tretherington is here, and word is, he's in search of a wife.”

“Tretherington?” Victoria echoed, looking at her mother with a raised brow. “Mother, please. I'm not about to be courted by a man old enough to be my grandfather.”

“But, Victoria,” Melly continued, “Tretherington House! It's grander than Westminster, or so they—”

“If you're so enamored with Tretherington House, why don't you set your eyes on him yourself?” asked Victoria. “Then
you
can be Lady T. You might just as well, Mama, for I don't believe Jellington will ever come up to snuff.” She rarely called her mother that informal name, but something prompted her to really look at her parent tonight. Perhaps Lady Melly's incessant desire to see Victoria married—again—stemmed from her own loneliness of widowhood.

Her mother was a fine-looking woman for her age. With the same dark, curling hair she'd bestowed upon her daughter and a more curvaceous figure, not to mention a more outgoing personality, she'd had her own share of admirers since her husband's death. One of them, in fact, had been the vampire Duchess Winnie had been stalking with her ungainly stake that night in Rome.

Victoria had relieved the duchess of her hunt, slaying the Conte Regalado herself. And shortly thereafter, she'd used her aunt Eustacia's special gold medallion to relieve Lady Melly, Duchess Winnie, and Lady Nilly of their memories of that particular occasion.

“I?” Lady Melly looked as though Victoria had suggested she dye her hair green. “But of course not. And, to be sure,” she added coyly, looking at her beau, who was eyeing her from across the room, “Jellington has already proposed to me. Six times.”

Victoria gaped at her. “Why on earth haven't you accepted? We could be planning your wedding.”

Melly tapped Victoria lightly with her folded fan. “But it's so much more fun to plan yours, my dear. What about Mr. Killington? You already have a title, and he—”

“Has no hair, and breath so bad I'd swear it's rotting his teeth. No, thank you, Mother,” Victoria replied, back to the formality.

“You aren't serious about that Monsieur Vioget, are you? He hasn't asked you to marry him, has he?” Melly's horror had gone from dying her hair green to shaving it all off and dashing through Almack's naked.

“As a matter of fact, he has,” Victoria said breezily. “Excuse me, Mother. I think I see…” And she let her voice trail off as she hurried away, grinning at her mother's dismay.

To be fair, Sebastian hadn't actually asked her to marry him. But that didn't bother Victoria one whit. After what had happened with Phillip, who, like most of London, had been unaware vampires existed— let alone of his wife's calling as a Venator—Victoria realized that she would never marry again. She couldn't put someone she loved in danger as she had done to Phillip—although men like Sebastian and Max were already in danger by virtue of who they were.

Just as she was.

But she'd also recently realized that, as
Summa
Gardella and the last of the direct line from Gardeleus—the first Venator—it was incumbent upon her to continue that direct lineage. Certainly, there were far-flung branches of the Gardella family throughout the world, where Venators born to the family legacy were called…but the most powerful of them, and the leader of the vampire hunters, descended only from the direct line. Aunt Eustacia and her brother, Victoria's grandfather, had been the last two directly descended Venators. But he had declined the legacy, passing his powers on to Lady Melly, who had also chosen not to be a Venator, and who now lived in blissful ignorance of the undead.

Victoria had received two generations' worth of Venator skills, and now that Aunt Eustacia was gone, there was only Victoria.

“Why, Victoria, how lovely you look tonight!” exclaimed Duchess Winnie.

Victoria blinked, wondering why she hadn't noticed her before nearly running into her, for the duchess had chosen a frock in a bright tangerine hue. It blazed like a beacon among the softer pinks and blues and greens of the other attendees.

And right smack in the middle of the duchess's massive bosom was an equally massive silver cross.

Victoria stared at the pendant. She knew the duchess had been known to carry garlic and to wear crosses in an effort to stave off potential vampire attacks, but this was absurd. Duchess Winnie, like the rest of London Society, didn't know the undead even existed beyond the fertile imagination of John Polidori. His story,
The Vampyre,
had taken London by storm a few years ago, and from that had evolved the fashionable superstition of vampires.

Little did most of London know that vampires weren't like the mysterious, elegant Lord Ruthven portrayed in Polidori's work, but bloodthirsty demons who tore into humans with no remorse. Victoria had seen the remnants of vampire attacks, and it wasn't pretty.

“That is a lovely cross,” she ventured to the duchess.

Winnie clapped her hand over the ornament. “I'm taking no chances,” she said in a low voice, her row of chins wobbling as she looked over the guests. She leaned closer to Victoria, bringing with her a subtle whiff of…garlic. Tinged with hyacinth. “The rumors about Rockley's disappearance claim it was a vampire that took him. If the Marquess of Rockley can be attacked in his own home by one of those creatures, then no one is safe.”

Victoria looked at her. “Where on earth did you hear such a thing?” The Venators took great pains to keep the rest of the world ignorant of the undead in order to protect them. And when someone did see or hear something they shouldn't, Aunt Eustacia's special gold medallion was used to hypnotically remove the offending memories.

“Why, from Nilly's new friend,” said the duchess. “He told us in the utmost confidence.”

“Lady Nilly's friend?”

“Ah, but I've forgotten! You already know him, Victoria, and in fact, here they are. Nilly!” The duchess waved, the underside of her arm jiggling enthusiastically as the bracelets at her wrists jingled.

Victoria turned to see the slender, flat-bosomed, pale-as-a-wraith Lady Nilly approach with her new friend.

He had blond hair, round cheeks, and a cleft in his chin. Dressed as befit his station, he looked elegant in a boyish way, although, as Victoria had cause to know, he was a few years older than her own twenty-one.

“Good evening, Victoria dear,” trilled Nilly. She seemed to be clutching his arm as though she were afraid he'd fly the coop.

But she was in no danger of that, for the man bowed deeply to Victoria and took her hand, raising it to his lips. “How enchanting to see you again, Lady Rockley.”

“I don't know
how
I could have forgotten that you two have met,” said the duchess with exaggerated surprise. Victoria noticed the waggle of her eyebrows as she looked conspiratorially at Nilly.

“Indeed we have,” Victoria replied, then turned to the gentleman. “George Starcasset. I certainly didn't expect to see you again.” Her voice was glacial.

No, she certainly hadn't. The last time she'd seen George, he'd been ushering two hostages, in the form of Max and a bloody, one-handed Kritanu, out of the room where Victoria had slain a group of vampires. George was a member of the Tutela, the secret society of mortals that protected and served the undead.

“I'm certain you didn't,” he had the grace to say. And when she looked at him, she saw a bleak sincerity in his eyes that had replaced the bravado she was used to seeing there. “But I needed to see you. Will you dance with me?”

Victoria would have rather taken a spin around the ballroom with Beauregard, the great vampire who'd tried to turn her undead, than George. At least Beauregard had been interesting.

But Lady Nilly and Duchess Winnie looked as though they were about to explode with pleasure at the handsome, albeit boyish, young man who was not only titled but also wealthy, and who was clearly attempting to charm Victoria.