It had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.
Now, here he was, ready to leave the Venators permanently.
Only an hour had passed since Victoria had awakened from her ordeal, and he and Wayren had slipped away to her library here in the Consilium, the subterranean head-quarters of the Venators, in order to discuss his future. They’d left Sebastian Vioget simpering over a pale-visaged, hollow-cheeked Victoria.
It was just as well, for that was quite obviously the way the wind blew. Although Max had had a moment of perverse satisfaction when he realized Vioget hadn’t known that Victoria wore two vis bullae.
“But once Lilith realizes I’m free, she’ll consider it a betrayal,” he said, returning to the conversation.
“And she won’t rest until she finds you,” Wayren replied in her even voice. She looked at him with her cool blue-gray eyes, reality shining there. “Her fury will know no bounds.”
“How fortunate I am to be the object of such passion.” Max tasted bitterness.
At that moment, there was a knock at the door and then Vioget came in, uninvited.
Max glanced up, not bothering to hide the flash of animosity in his face. Still flecked with blood, dirt, and debris from his battle to rescue Victoria from Beauregard’s lair, Vioget looked weary and uncharacteristically out of sorts. Max supposed that was only to be expected, after having been stabbed in the shoulder by the stake meant for a vampire. And by his lover, too.
Max’s lips twitched. Victoria with one vis bulla was stronger than any man—but wearing two, her strength would be superhuman. Vioget had to be in pain, even being a Venator.
Despite the fact that Vioget had called Beauregard “Grandfather,” the man was also a born Venator. Vioget’s father had descended from Beauregard’s mortal son, many generations after the vampire had been turned undead. And his mother had apparently carried some measure of Gardella blood in her, which had passed on to Vioget in an ironic turn: the grandson of a vampire was called to be a slayer of the undead.
“So sorry to interrupt,” Sebastian said in dulcet tones that didn’t match his disheveled appearance. He barely glanced at Max, turning pointedly to Wayren.
She sat not behind her desk, but in a cushioned chair, dressed, as always, like a medieval chatelaine in a long, loose gown with pointed sleeves that brushed the floor. This night, the bulk of her pale blonde hair hung in two thick braids, with two finger-slim ones hanging from her temples. She wore no jewelry or adornment except for the braided leather girdle at her waist, upon which hung a ring of keys.
“I have a matter of some urgency which I must discuss with you,” Vioget continued.
“I imagine you do. Beauregard’s death at your hand probably won’t be well received by his undead compatriots,” Max replied pleasantly. “Especially since for the last decade you’ve fairly lived among them. You may actually need to bestir yourself to slay a few more in order to protect your hide.”
He and Vioget had known each other for more than fifteen years, long before either even knew that vampires existed. The animosity between them had been put aside for the few hours it took to rescue Victoria, but Max saw no reason to hide his antipathy for Vioget and his years of denying his calling as a Venator. Cowardice or selfishness—Max wasn’t sure which one had driven the man—but it didn’t matter to him.
People had been mauled, killed, and Vioget had done nothing to help them.
Until Victoria came along.
And, as far as he was concerned, it was Vioget’s fault that Max had had to carry a bloody, unconscious Victoria from Beauregard’s bedchamber. If Vioget hadn’t been balancing both sides of his loyalty—to the Venators and his grandfather—for years, Victoria would never have been caught between him and Beauregard.
The other man elected to ignore Max’s comment, focusing his attention on Wayren. “The two vis bullae seem to have saved her from being turned,” he said.
“A miraculous occurrence,” she replied. “Completely unexpected. But, since I’ve never known of a Venator to wear two, there was no way to predict such a recovery. And who’s to say another such event would have the same result. At least some of her recovery must be attributed to her own strength and determination. Who she is.”
“Yes. But . . . how did she come to have two of them? I am fully aware of their rarity—that each vis is cast of precious silver from the Holy Land, and blessed only for its recipient,” Vioget continued. “Victoria’s was lost during the battle with Nedas last November, and I was able to retrieve Eustacia’s and send it to Victoria to replace hers. . . . But where did the second one come from?”
Max settled back in his chair and bared his teeth in a condescending smile. “It’s mine.”
He was a bit annoyed it had taken him so long to figure it out, for, after all, it was imperially logical. He’d given his vis bulla to Victoria after the battle with Nedas, when he thought he was leaving the Venators for good. The irony was that, unbeknownst to Victoria, he had recovered the vis bulla that she’d lost when Nedas’s creatures had torn it from her navel.
And it was her amulet that hung, now useless to him, from his areola. Max’s moment of satisfaction evaporated.
“I see.” Vioget’s jaw shifted, and he turned once again to Wayren. “Then may I assume you’ve already discussed the situation? Is it possible it’s merely a residual effect?”
Wayren looked at him with a slight frown. “Situation? I’m not certain what you mean, Sebastian.”
“When Victoria awoke, she didn’t react to the holy water splashed on her face, as any vampire would. She seems completely normal. Except . . .” Vioget looked at him. “Don’t you feel it? The vampire chill at the back of your neck, or however you sense the presence of the undead?”
Vioget didn’t know about him? Max shrugged off his surprise in order to focus on Sebastian’s disturbing question. “What are you saying?”
“I still feel cold at the back of my neck in Victoria’s presence.” Venators could sense the presence of the undead by a chill that prickled the napes of their necks.
For the first time since he’d seen her sprawled on Beauregard’s bed, blood trickling from her lips, Max was unable to breathe. Yet he kept his reply cool. “No. I don’t feel anything.”
Vioget looked relieved. “Well, that’s promising. Perhaps it’s only because Beauregard attempted to turn her, and I knew him so well, that I continue to sense his presence. After all, she did ingest his blood. It must be some residual effect.” He looked as though he was ready to leave the room.