When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #4)

When Twilight Burns (The Gardella Vampire Chronicles #4) Page 24

Victoria could have followed the hedge around, but impatience and need won out and she plowed right through it, heedless of the nasty branches. When she stumbled through to the other side, she landed on her knees next to a sprawled dark figure. The blood-iron essence filled her mouth and nose and she found herself struggling to breathe normally.

Groping frantically at him, for it was a man, she shoved him onto his back and saw vaguely that the dark red tunic of the Crusader merely looked black in the low light, with the dirt and soot and blood.

Her hands were wet with it, the cooling lifeblood of the man who would never wear another costume, ride another horse, eat another meal. Victoria pushed the hair from her face and pulled to her feet. There was nothing she could do for him. And she knew faintly that she had to leave him and get away from here. Her vision clouded darker in the night as saliva pooled in her mouth. The blood’s essence tugged at her.

Her heart pounded, ramrodding through her body so that her fingers trembled and it felt as though her whole chest was moving. Time churned sluggishly.

All at once, she realized she was not alone.

Victoria looked over. Three figures had come around the bushes and stood clustered together as though afraid to move any closer. She felt their shock and fear, and her heart pounded more strongly. She swallowed.

“He’s dead,” she managed to say. Gestured to the Crusading knight. “There’s nothing to be done now.” She thought her words came out normally. But no one replied. They watched her, and she noticed that one had a gun. It wasn’t pointed at her . . . but he had a gun.

A shout drew her attention. Her name. It was as though her ears were stuffed with cotton. She turned to see Sebastian. Slowly. The blood was so thick, it clogged everything. Even her movements.

“Victoria.” He came toward her, and she recognized the expression on his handsome face: worry, relief. He was soot-streaked and his hair was sticking out in thick waves. Before she could protest, or even think, he pulled her away from the small clearing, back toward the blazing house.

“Victoria,” he said as soon as they were far enough away, almost to the patio. She could breathe now. The blood-smell was gone and her head was a little clearer. The fire had quieted a bit, though the golden light flickered through the trees. The muted sounds from the crowd reached her ears.

Clarity.

She sank into his arms, felt them wrap strong around her, buried her head in his sweaty neck. “So much blood,” she whispered. “I couldn’t think.”

“I know,” he said. He lifted her face. The kiss tasted like smoky Sebastian and sweat and it chased away the lingering essence of iron. He pulled away and looked down at her. “I thought you’d gone back in the house.” His eyes were tigerish, the blaze turning them gold even in the dark. His fingers curled tight on her arms.

“No.”

But she thought of Max. If he wasn’t outside, he had to be in the house.

“Victoria,” said Sebastian. “I . . . let me take you home.”

She knew what he meant. But she didn’t answer.

Though she didn’t need to be steadied, didn’t need to be held up, she let him put an arm around her. Moments later they were back with the others, but, by now, the crowd had begun to thin out. Some had been able to find their carriages and had left in disheveled, smoky clothing.

Others still stood, talking, describing in loud, important voices, what had happened. How they’d escaped the fire, what they’d been doing prior to the alarm, how they’d helped pull out Mr. or Miss or Lady So-and-So.

She felt clearer now. Stronger.

Victoria turned toward the house, which had crumbled in on itself in some areas and still blazed angry orange and red. An elegant poplar that grew too close to the building had all its leaves burned off. The heat still blasted, but there was little to be done. The fire would burn itself out; keeping it from spreading was the only reasonable objective.

No one could get close enough to the structure to even pour water on it. There could be no survivors inside. How many people had perished?

Who?

Victoria turned, not yet ready to leave with Sebastian, still searching, and she noticed a tall, dark, blade-nosed figure. Her heart leaped, and she lurched toward him— but then he moved from the shadows.

Mr. Bemis Goodwin.

He saw her and she felt the ugly weight of his eyes on her, sweeping over her. She could only imagine what he saw—a torn gown, blood streaks everywhere, her hair in dishabille. His gaze narrowed and although he said nothing, did nothing to acknowledge her beyond an arrogant nod—she felt it.

The animosity.

Sebastian folded her into his arms; she’d told him nothing about Goodwin, so he couldn’t know. But she felt a wave of foreboding sweep over her.

“Let me take you home, Victoria,” Sebastian said. His chin brushed the side of her head and she raised her face to look over his shoulder.

“Not yet,” she said, still scanning the darkness.

At that moment, a dark figure came into view, making a wide skirt from around the front of the house. Appearing not to see her off to the side, he moved quickly, yet unsteadily, disappearing into the crowd of people. There was no mistaking it.

“Max,” Victoria breathed, her whole body going soft with relief. Then she felt jittery and warm. “Thank God.” She stared after him, trying to determine if he was hurt or wounded. Where had he been?

“And so it goes,” Sebastian muttered, so quietly she wasn’t certain he’d really spoken. Then she realized she’d stepped away from him, toward the crowd of people. And Max.

“What?” Victoria looked back up at him.

His face was drawn and hard. His lips formed a humorless smile. “Ah, Victoria . . . don’t be a fool. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want anyone.”

Twelve

In Which Sebastian and Victoria Have an Uneventful Carriage Ride

The carriage rumbled down the night-dark street. The smell of smoke lingered inside, clinging to all three of its silent occupants.

Victoria sat next to Sebastian, across from a grim-faced, bedraggled Max.

But they were all weary, their throats and lungs skimmed with smoke, eyes dry and stinging, clothing torn and soot-streaked. Victoria’s thigh continued to ooze blood, and the scratches on her face still stung.

She’d had to fairly shove Max into the carriage for the ride back to Aunt Eustacia’s home, reminding him that they were going to the same place. Since he’d settled grumpily into his seat, arranging himself so that no one could sit next to him even if they’d wanted to, he’d remained silent.

Yet his eyes were not quiet. Still sharp, they scanned over her—yet never met her gaze—and Sebastian, then moved to stare out the window of the vehicle. His mask was long gone, as was the hat he’d worn, and the cape she’d teased him about. Stubble made his face darker and more shadowed. His eyes were sunken in their sockets, and his skin seemed to have tightened in the last hours. Those elegant hands hid in the shadows.

Sebastian shifted next to her, bringing a gentle waft of smoke and clove, and she felt his ungloved hand settle on her knee. Lightly, half pinned between their thighs . . . but it had eased there stealthily and smoothly. As if to keep from drawing attention.

Yet it was there. Warm.

He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want anyone.

Victoria glanced at Max, who continued to watch out the window. Sebastian’s words had opened whole recesses in her mind. Had he guessed that the great weight, the awful, heavy mood that had settled over her as he encouraged her to come home had been from worry and grief over Max?

As she was turning to leave with Sebastian, knowing that there’d been no hope for anyone left in the flaming building, knowing that if Max hadn’t been in the house he would have been fighting with them, realizing that this time he had to be gone . . . had Sebastian realized how empty and weary she felt? How lost?

Would she have felt the same way if things had been reversed—if Max was leading her away from a missing Sebastian?

And so it goes.

“Sorry to intrude on your carriage ride, old chap.” Max’s curt voice cut the silence. He had shifted and was looking at them. Down at the hand on Victoria’s knee. “But my lady insisted.”

“Where were you?” Victoria asked.

He lifted his gaze to her languidly, as though contemplating whether to respond. “As it turned out, Miss Sara Regalado required my escort. It took some time to extricate myself from the situation.”

“You left with her?”

One side of his mouth twisted. “The lady was most insistent, and I do hate to disappoint. She had visions of reacquainting me with an old friend, believing that she’d be rewarded for doing so. However, I found the idea quite distasteful.”

“So Lilith is here? In London?”

Max’s eyes gleamed with appreciation. “Apparently that is the case, although I cannot confirm it.”

“And in what condition did you leave Miss Regalado?” asked Sebastian.

Max transferred his gaze. “As I usually do—quite distraught.” His smile was pale and humorless in the shadows. “But nevertheless mobile.”

“What about George?”

“I didn’t have the pleasure of his company; I assumed he was herding the evening fodder out to the vampires. Did you not see him?”

Victoria shook her head. “No, although I was otherwise . . . engaged. He could have been there for some time, and later took himself off once it was clear the battle wasn’t to be won.”

“And did you bestir yourself to stake some vampires, then, Vioget?”

Victoria felt Sebastian move. Ever so slightly, tension rippled along the arm and leg that pressed against her side. Then, as the hand on her knee lifted, the tension eased. “A few,” he replied negligently. “We . . . Victoria and I . . . took care of most of them.”

She felt a gentle tug on the loose part of her hair and thought it had caught between them . . . but then she realized he’d taken a lock of it and was rubbing it between a forefinger and thumb, twisting it softly around a digit. A most intimate gesture, and one that made her distinctly uncomfortable.