The Bleeding Dusk (11 page)

Would he be able to sense she was wearing it? Since it was his?

“Yes. I'm wearing Aunt Eustacia's.”

At the casual mention of her great-aunt, a pall fell over the already awkward moment. Max turned toward the ragged Colosseum, which was only a few yards to her right, and she saw his shoulders lift as he took a long, deep breath.

“Kritanu? How is he?” he asked finally, in a very different voice. “And the others?”

There were many other questions between the lines of those particular ones, and Victoria wanted to answer all of them—but couldn't fully answer any of them. “He is philosophical and uncomplaining, as only Kritanu can be,” she replied, choosing the easy one. “He grieves, as do I—”

“And I.” The words were a challenge, as if to dare her to presume he didn't.

“And the others. But she lived a long life, a dangerous one, in which she devoted more than sixty years to the Venators. We miss her—we all do—but…it's past, Max.”

“Is it?” Now he looked at her fully. Still challenging. And he was right to be so.

Although she finally understood he'd had no choice but to execute Aunt Eustacia, the fact remained that he had actually done it—and she'd witnessed it. There was no glossing over that in her memory.

Once again her gaze skittered away. Victoria was no shy rabbit, no cowering woman…yet the expression on his face made her want to alternately rage at him for his coldness and fold him in her arms to erase whatever it was that gave him that hard edge.

What an odd thing to think about Max, of all people.

She'd once accused him of being unfeeling, emotionless, of being envious of the loving relationship she'd found with Phillip. How ironic that now she was the one who felt cold and empty, while he seemed to be almost tentative, with the slightest hint of vulnerability.

But no, it was grief for the loss of Aunt Eustacia and guilt for the part he'd played in her death that made him seem less harsh. And he was asking her if she'd yet forgiven him for setting in motion the events that had resulted in that horrible ending.

She truly didn't know if she had. She tried not to think about that night and the part he'd played in Aunt Eustacia's death, the risks he'd taken, the danger they'd faced. The fact that there had been only a sliver of hope of destroying Akvan's Obelisk, and that he'd risked everything to do it. And had succeeded.

But she still couldn't answer him.

When she remained silent, he asked, “You have Eustacia's
vis bulla
?
How?”

“Sebastian sent it to me. I don't know how he came to have it.”

He drew back, looking beyond her, toward the ruined amphitheater. “Very clever. I'm certain you thanked him appropriately, just as he no doubt intended.”

Victoria did not mistake his meaning, as Max himself no doubt intended. But she forbore to respond. Now that he was back, they had other important things to discuss. “Max,” she said. “Have you spoken to Wayren? Do you know about
la Porta Alchemica
?”

“No…I haven't spoken to her since…since the night the obelisk was destroyed.” His demeanor changed. “What happened?”

She told him about the door and the missing keys, taking several steps toward the Colosseum as she spoke.

“Eustacia's armband that holds the key is missing,” he commented. It wasn't a question, but more of a thoughtful statement. “And so you're looking for the unreliable Sebastian in the hopes that he might know, since after all he somehow obtained her
vis bulla
.”

“You were there when I spoke to Beauregard, weren't you?” she said, continuing to walk across the grass-filled cobblestone square that surrounded the large amphitheater. The ruined building loomed over her, its ragged outer wall cutting in a jagged diagonal to the ground.

“Spoke?” He didn't appear to be surprised, and suddenly Victoria knew why. He'd been there. He'd seen Beauregard try to bite her. Seen them kissing.

“I knew someone was watching. So you needn't even bother to ask me what he said.”

“I told you, Victoria…at first I didn't know if you were wearing a
vis bulla
.”

She paused for a moment to look at him, and he stopped next to her. “But what about you? You don't have yours.”

He looked steadily at her. “You need not trouble yourself over it.”

She began walking briskly again, but with his long legs he easily kept pace, continuing to speak. “You're looking to Sebastian for help, but there's something else afoot. Someone—Sarafina, perhaps, if you didn't mistake her in the shadows—arranged for what amounted to an ambush. You were lured away and could easily have been outnumbered and killed.”

“I'm not foolish, Max. It was clear they wanted me alive. They must believe I know where the key is. No one raised a hand to injure me, and even the single vampire, who was nothing but a lure, simply ran away. Otherwise would it not have been easier to slay me—or attempt to—right there?”

“Wishing for death already, Victoria?”

They'd reached the Colosseum's wall. Its three rows of arcades, circling the arena one atop another, rose like dozens of black eyes staring down on them. In the shadows Victoria could see the walls were overgrown with foliage, sprouting tall plants and grasses along the top and from the sides. It gave the amphitheater a bushy, messy appearance.

“You're the one who has a wish for death. I have too much left to do here.” She cast him a sidelong glance. He'd had no gratitude when she saved his life the night Aunt Eustacia died. He'd told her it would be easier not to live with the guilt, despite the fact that he'd done what he'd done for the good of their race. What he'd been ordered to do by Aunt Eustacia herself. That was the only reason Victoria couldn't hate him—she understood he'd had no choice.

“I'm still living, am I not?” He looked at her as she gawked up at the wall. More than four months she'd been in Rome, and she'd not had the opportunity to visit the Colosseum until now. “Do you want to go inside? There will be no vampires there, for all that it's been consecrated for nearly a century, but if you can step aside from your duty for a time, we can walk through.”

“Yes.”

She felt odd strolling companionably with Max into the dark recess of one of the archways, instead of being on guard for a battle with undead. Once inside the outer wall, they were in a passageway that curved around the entire perimeter of the building, with more arches leading to the seats.

Victoria walked along the dark passage, Max close enough to brush her sleeve. Despite the openings on either side of them, the high ceiling loomed above in a vast cavern.

“Do you plan to walk around the perimeter all night?” he asked brusquely. “Or would you like to see the battlefield?”

Victoria gave a small laugh. She felt oddly nervous, and wasn't sure why she should. After all, this was just Max. “Yes, of course.” She turned abruptly toward one of the arches just as Max stopped walking, and she bumped forcefully into him. Her forehead slammed hard into his chin as her sudden movement pushed them into an unexpected embrace.

He caught her as they collided, his strong hands finding her arms and steadying her in the moment of her silent mortification. She'd forgotten how tall he was. How strong and solid.

“Pardon me,” she murmured formally, and pulled away to continue walking through the passage to the interior of the amphitheater. Her heart was beating harder. She couldn't feel more foolish and clumsy.

“This entrance is called a vomitory,” Max was saying as if nothing odd had happened—and indeed, nothing had, she reminded herself, except that for a moment she'd lost all of her Venatorial grace. In front of Max. “Because of the rapid ease with which the masses of people can enter or exit. Did you hurt your head?”

His chin had been just as hard and stubborn as it had always appeared, and it had indeed been painful to crash into. “I'm a Venator, so I think I can handle the bruise.” Her voice was light with humor.

“The moss that grows here can be slippery,” he said as they emerged from the short tunnel. “Take care.”

“There's moss everywhere, and plants,” Victoria commented, looking over the shadowy interior of what had once been a pristine arena. “It's so overgrown.”

“Hannever finds many of the herbs and plants he uses in his medicinal treatments at the Consilium growing here. There are hundreds of them, presumably brought here purposely or accidentally from the far reaches of the Roman Empire over the centuries. It's very fortunate for us that there is this great variety.”

She looked over at him. His face was averted as he gazed over the field below, and the sight of his profile struck her. With his long, straight nose, prominent forehead, and sharp-planed face, he looked like one of the very gladiators who might have fought below. Or perhaps he looked more like a senator, who might have sat in this very same section. In either case he looked strong and powerful and Roman.

Max must have felt her staring, for he shifted and turned toward her. “What is it?”

“It's just that you sound a bit like Zavier, expounding on the history of this place. I hadn't expected it.”

“Yes, Zavier is quite fascinated with the history of our female Venators—among other things,” Max replied, his voice dry. He looked back out into the darkness. “But it is this place in particular that appeals to me. Down there, somewhere” —he cast his arm out to encompass the arena— “Gardeleus—the first Venator—died at the hand of a vampire. And set in motion this battle that has lasted for centuries.”

She looked down at the oval-shaped field, tufted with untouched grass and bushes on one side, and on the other rumpled and disrupted by a series of excavations in the form of dark holes. Aunt Eustacia had told her the story of Gardeleus and his final midnight battle with Judas Iscariot, the first vampire.

Max continued to stare down in silence. “It's been a long time since I've visited this place,” he commented at last. “Born and raised a Roman, and yet I've forgotten the sacrifices made by him and the others through the ages.”

His words were so uncharacteristically nostalgic, Victoria wasn't certain she'd heard them properly. She didn't speak, didn't want to break whatever spell had turned him into this pensive, thoughtful being.

At last he seemed to pull out of his reverie. He turned and looked at her, and for a moment, as their eyes met, she couldn't breathe. There was this vast area around them, this great space, and yet she felt small and crowded. As though everything had circled down to the space between them.

“Victoria,” Max said at last, “I never told you how sorry I am about what happened with Phillip.”

That was the last thing she'd expected him to say. He'd never mentioned Phillip, except to decry the fact that she'd planned to marry him, claiming that Venators couldn't marry and that it would distract them from their duty.

Victoria was so shocked at first she couldn't respond. Then, breaking his gaze, she looked down at her hands, small and pale and deadly. “I think of him every day. And Aunt Eustacia too.” Tears stung her dry eyes.

He moved, shifting his tall, graceful body so that he leaned back against the wall. “And yet you go on as if nothing has happened. Perhaps even more determined than before. You're a strong woman.”

Victoria didn't feel so very strong at that moment.

There were times when she was able to keep the grief at bay, to move through life as though she were whole, as if she'd never been torn apart as she had been that night she realized Phillip had been turned. There were even hours and perhaps, occasionally, a day where she might not have felt the weight of her loss—losses—and when, for a brief time, she could pretend her life wasn't preordained by duty to be defined by loneliness.

She let her knees buckle gently and lowered herself to the ground. Even when she was sitting, the sides of the walls were at her shoulder height, and she could still see around the arena. But she had something to lean against here, and suddenly she needed it. “How could I turn my back and walk away? Evil and danger are everywhere, and their power must be stopped or eventually it will take over the world. Of course I go on.”

She'd said nearly the same thing to Sebastian only months ago. He hadn't understood.

“I know.” Max's voice was a low rumble, almost a breath, but she heard him.

She looked up at him looming above her, and her head brushed against the wall. Tiny crumbles of stone and a small shower of dirt and dried leaves filtered over her shoulder as the vampire dust had done earlier that evening. It was much easier to brush that away than the remains of an undead, easier to clean up a bit of dirt than the mess left by an immortal, damned for his desire to take and rape and devour the mortal version of itself.

They were silent again. This time it was a comfortable quiet, laced with sorrow, but without the underlying tension that always seemed to crop up between them. At last Victoria was moved to ask something that had been niggling at her mind.

“Did you truly intend to marry Sarafina Regalado?” she asked, thinking of the months he'd spent pretending to be a member of the Tutela and being engaged to the young woman, remembering the time she'd come upon him with his neckcloth loosened and his hair mussed after an obvious
tête-à-tête
with his fiancée.

Instead of looking down at the field, he'd turned his face up and was staring at the dark sky. His lashes were closed and his lips flattened into a slender line. He gave one bare nod. “If it was necessary, I would have.”

She wasn't surprised. Max would do what had to be done in the fight against Lilith and her vampires, no matter the sacrifice or pain.

Would she ever be that cold and emotionless?

She nodded, and more dust sprinkled over her shoulder.