As Shadows Fade (9 page)

Wayren's fingers tightened over Victoria's, and their eyes met. “It was both of you. You had to let him go…and he had to go.”

Victoria felt a sudden unexpected flush warm her face, and an automatic desire to pull away. The feelings were still new to her—at least, the acknowledgement of them—and had been so deeply buried it felt uncomfortable to have them spoken of so easily. So openly. Yet Wayren understood how difficult it had been to send Max away, where she could no longer watch over him…and how, at the same time, she'd known he was the one she could rely on to succeed in taking Wayren to safety.

“What happened?” Victoria asked, easing her aching body onto the floor next to Wayren. She was strangely loath to release the woman's hands, though her muscles reverberated with the remnants of battle. She ached, she bled, she trembled…yet the protective
vis bullae
had ensured it was so much easier than it could have been.

“They took me when I wasn't expecting it,” Wayren said simply. “I had gone to an old graveyard to see to…something. Not the one in which you found me, I don't believe. But it's a bit of a muddle in my mind. The black shadow demons pummeled me, flying into me, weakening me so I couldn't call on my power, cutting off my resistance.”

Victoria nodded, remembering the feel of those winged creatures shoving into her body, through her, leaving her cold and paralyzed, and shuddered. It was a miracle Wayren hadn't been killed.

But…she hadn't been breathing when Victoria found her. No heartbeat. Yet…she moved. Lived.

“Max explained how you found me. Thank God for Myza.” Wayren looked over, and Victoria noticed for the first time that Kritanu cradled the small bird against his body.

“Who or what was it?” Victoria asked. She felt Sebastian brush against her as he limped to a chair nearby, his hand lightly touching the top of her head.

Wayren looked around the room, her serene face grave. “Brim, Michalas…you returned to help. Thank you. And Sebastian.” She looked at him steadily, then nodded. “My thanks.” Her eyes lingered on him longer than necessary, then slid away. “Fallen angels. Demons. They took me…For what purpose, I'm not yet certain. But the very fact that they dared to touch me…” Her eyes looked like cool moonstones for a moment, clear and colorless, as she faded into silence.

Suddenly, she seemed to come back to herself. “I'm tired, Victoria, and you must have your injuries seen to. All of you. And some rest. I'm safe here…and it will keep until we've all had a chance to rest.”

Victoria pulled slowly to her feet, her hand squeezing, then finally releasing Wayren's. “I'm glad you'll stay here tonight,” she told the older woman. “We'll all rest easier.”

 

+ + +

The draft that Kritanu had given him leeched away some of the agony radiating through Max's body, though it pained him to admit it was needed. But it was.

His muscles trembling, his salved wounds still oozing stubbornly, he changed out of his dirty clothes, all the while grimly considering Wayren's request.

Become a Venator again.

He'd not need the bloody draft if he did. He'd not need to step aside and let a faster, stronger Vioget save a comrade. He'd have no reason to leave.

Yet he couldn't bear to stay.

Even if he got his Venator capabilities back, he couldn't. He couldn't trust himself to be strong enough, to do the right thing.

To share her.

Pouring the still-hot water into the basin, Max felt a wave of steam rise. He splashed it on his face and chest, gasping at the sudden twinge of pain when he moved his arms too vigorously in his ablutions, and pausing to catch his breath.

His face was buried in one of Kritanu's lemon-scented towels when there came a knock at the door. He flung the door open, startling the twitchy red-haired servant, Oliver. The groom who'd taken his mount earlier tonight had obviously been pressed into other service within the small household.

“Beg your pardon, sir, but my lady wishes you to attend on her,” Oliver said most correctly.

Max glowered at him. “My lady?” Wayren or Victoria?

Oliver looked confused for a moment, then recovered, offering, “Lady Rockley.” Apparently, he didn't consider Wayren a lady, which wasn't surprising. Only the Venators—and the evil ones—knew what she was capable of.

Max wadded up the towel and tossed it onto the table. One end flipped over the side of the basin, landing a corner in the water. Blast it. Could she not leave him be? He pulled out his last clean shirt and tugged it over his damp skin, where it seemed to stick everywhere. Just as his head emerged from the opening, he heard the man add, “She awaits you in her chamber.”

Max stilled, his hands crushing into the soft linen. “Her chamber?”

Christ.

Then he centered on the whirl of thoughts—and, damnation, the
images
—that bit of information invoked, and extracted the most palatable one. Victoria's face had been dead white and her clothes soaked with blood. Was she injured more severely than he'd thought? She'd never released Wayren's hand during their short meeting in the parlor.

Max opened his mouth to ask Oliver, but the young man had scuttled off, leaving the door ajar.

There was nothing for it but to “attend to her.”

His mouth closed grimly, his jaw tight, he set off, certain whatever he found, it wouldn't be to his liking.

When he reached Victoria's chamber, his peremptory knock produced no response. Max waited for a moment, then knocked again, a bit harder, and the door edged open. Hell. Was he supposed to go in?

Blast it.

He'd not hesitated entering her chamber a few months ago when he first came back to London. He'd been uninvited then, and it had been night time.

But now it was morning. Filled with light, which meant exposure. And few shadows in which to hide.

Max pushed the door open, his attention going immediately to the bed. It was empty.

He stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind him, looking around the chamber. Early-morning sunlight filtered through the nearby tree branches, casting the small room in a soft warm glow. The bed lay pristine and made, high off the ground, with a bumpy white coverlet. The dressing table was situated near the entrance to what must be a small dressing room. The mirrored table held an array of ladylike items—and a few that were not so ladylike: perfume bottles, combs, brushes, jewelry, stakes, holy water vials…

He paused and looked more closely, seeking a slender blue-tinted bottle. No. It was gone. The potion he knew Victoria drank to keep from getting with child. Aunt Eustacia, and now Kritanu, made it for her. But it was gone, and he knew Victoria had made good on her promise to stop taking it.

Max did not want to consider the implications of that fact, and he turned abruptly to examine the rest of the room.

The fireplace held a neat stack of kindling ready to be lit should the weather turn chill or rainy. A chair in the corner near the floor-to-ceiling drapes would provide a good, distant seat from any other furnishings or activity in the room; it was the same chair in which he'd sat when he'd visited her chamber before. This morning, the windows had been flung open, and a soft breeze filtered through them.

Where the hell was Victoria? Had she sent for him or not?

Suddenly, he heard a faint…
splash.
Water.

Max looked past the dressing table toward the dressing room and swore. Under his breath.

She was taking a bloody
bath.

He turned, ready to flee, when the chamber door opened and in bustled Verbena, the poof-haired maid. She carried a load of linens and didn't appear surprised to see him.

And now it was too damned late for him to slip out without being noticed.

“Oh, an' there y'are,” the maid said, bustling past him. “S'sorry t'keep ye waiting, my lord, sir,” she added, her skirts sending a glass bottle clinking against another on the table as she hurried into the dressing room.

Where Victoria was bathing.

Christ. Almighty.

Max considered making his escape anyway when the chamber door opened again and in limped Vioget.

He hadn't even knocked.

And he looked exceedingly pleased with himself as he came into the room dressed no more formally than Max himself, in trousers and an untucked shirt. Vioget never went about in such dishabille. He likely thought he'd not long be attired at all.

Fully aware of Vioget's penchant for carriage seductions, Max couldn't keep his mouth closed. “You're a bit out of your element, Vioget. There's not a carriage in the vicinity.”

He had to give the man credit; he eclipsed his shock almost immediately. “What are you doing here?”

“Likely the same as you,” Max replied smoothly, sinking into the chair in the corner. “Responding to our ladyship's beck and call. Unless you weren't beckoned, and are calling uninvited?”

“I was referring to your presence in London, not in this chamber,” Vioget responded.

Max looked away. Bloody damned good question. If he'd leave, Victoria would have no choice but to be with Vioget.

Now that she wasn't drinking from the little blue bottle.

He eyed Vioget with a mixture of loathing and candor. For all the man's faults, Max knew Sebastian cared for Victoria and would protect the woman who feared little and needed no protection—at least, overt protection.

If only Max would get out of his way and allow him to do what both men wanted Vioget to do.

“She attended a ball without an escort last evening,” Max said. “And left with none other than George Starcasset. Perhaps if you were a bit more attentive, I could leave you to your courtship.”

Vioget's fist tightened, and for a moment, Max thought he might use it. His glance flickered down to the clenched fingers, then back up to meet Vioget's eyes.
Yes. Do it.

Just then, he heard the quiet scuff of bare feet and the soft swish of clothing. Victoria entered the chamber, fresh from her bath. Her face flushed from the heat, her eyes bright, she brought in a waft of something spicy and exotic. She was properly clothed in a neck-to-floor robe. Only her bare toes peeked out, and in light of the fact that both Max and Vioget had seen—touched, tasted—considerably more than those slender digits, it seemed ridiculous to focus on that immodest display.

“Ah, so you're both here. Good.” She sat on the edge of her bed, high enough off the ground that her feet didn't quite touch. “I'm sorry for bringing you in here, but there was no other place for us to talk. Wayren is in the parlor, and I didn't want to disturb her…and Brim and Michalas are sleeping on the floor in the
kalari
room. The house isn't large enough to accommodate so many people.” She raised her chin, as if challenging him to argue that they could have met in the dining room, or…somewhere. Else.

In the most surreal moment of his life, Max realized he was about to have a strategy meeting with Victoria and Vioget in her bedchamber.

Someday, perhaps, he would find it amusing.

“Brim and Michalas aren't invited?” he drawled. “What a shame.” Her hair fell in a dark cascade over one of her shoulders, and he remembered her scream as the clawed demon had lifted her by the scalp.

Victoria looked at him, and hell if there wasn't a glaze of smugness in her expression. “I apologize for the informality of the accommodations, Max,” she said. “I realize you'd prefer to be anywhere but here.”

Bull's-eye.

She turned to Vioget, who'd selected a chair in front of the dressing table, turning it to face the rest of the room. “How is your leg?”

“Verbena assisted Kritanu, and I do believe that between their efforts, I'll be able to retain that limb, at least.” Vioget's smile held a bit of self-deprecation, and Max's attention flickered to the man's left hand—which was missing two knuckles of his little finger, thanks to Sara Regalado.

“I never doubted that,” Victoria said, shifting on the edge of the bed. The hem of her robe gapped a bit, revealing a slice of the gown beneath it.

Max recognized it. Unfortunately. The fabric was the same pale lilac as the lacy, satin-skirted night rail she'd been wearing the last time he'd ventured into her chamber. The one that left little to the imagination, as the bodice was made purely of lace. At the time, he'd complained, telling her to cover up the ghastly gown…but he suspected in retrospect she'd realized it wasn't because he disliked the style.

Hell.

“Perhaps I should take a look at it, Sebastian. Just to make certain,” Victoria was saying. She leaned forward, and the front of her robe gapped a bit, giving a hint of shadow and textured lace.

“Perhaps we could get to the matter at hand,” Max said crisply “Then I can excuse myself and the two of you can examine each other's injuries to your hearts' content.”

He found it more difficult to sound bored and irritated today. And when Vioget gave him an arch look, Max merely ignored the smugness in his face.

It really would be best if he took himself away and disappeared. For good.

At least then he'd not have such trouble making decisions. And sticking to them.

Victoria drew the edges of her robe closed and straightened in her position. Her face grew serious. “I spoke with Brim before he went to sleep—his injuries were very severe, but he'll be all right. Thank you, Sebastian.” She glanced at Vioget, who raised a brow at Max.

“He got there first. Credit where it's due. Shall we?”

“Of course. Max.” She nodded at him, and he recognized a decided frost in her eyes.

Good, she was still annoyed with him. Best to keep it that way.

“Brim agreed with me there has never been any kind of attack like this, that we know of. However, when he and Michalas were in Paris just before coming here, they had been investigating a rise in demonic activity. And there was, from one source, the report of an eerie black cloud forming over a cemetery.”