“You were wrong,” Victoria said, triumph in her voice as she leaped over the pit. She landed solidly on the other side, steady, her feet planted on the ground. Sure. For the first time certain of her power. Knowing she had won.
From nowhere, from some invisible signal, came a horde of vampires, streaming into the room, swarming toward her. Victoria readied her stake, and the last thing she saw before the red-eyed creatures attacked was Lilith bending to Max.
Her world became a melee of fangs and claws, of pain and thrusts and stakes. She caught glimpses of the room around her as she fought to keep them away, from tearing her . . . but she was no longer afraid of the red and the blood and of herself.
And Max had his ring. He would be safe.
They covered her, as the dogs had, but larger and heavier, though no less feral. She screamed once, when she collapsed on the ground beneath tearing fangs.
“The ring . . . Max!” she cried, shoving her stake up into the red eye of an undead.
She rolled over and glimpsed Lilith’s green gown and white body against Max’s dark one . . . and the impression of blood and lips and tongue, and then the burn of red-blue eyes as the vampire queen turned to look triumphantly at Victoria.
Then her view was cut off when a large undead closed his hands over her throat, squeezing, as another captured her legs, pinning them down as she writhed and fought for air, her stake flailing . . . and suddenly her legs were released and the smell of vampire ash poofed through the air.
A war cry filled the room and she was free. There stood Sebastian, his golden eyes furious and horrified, finding hers from behind the shoulder of an undead . . . the vampire vanished and there he was again, reaching to touch her—just once, a quick caress—and then turning away to fight the undead.
Brim let loose another battle cry, and now he lunged and leaped, throwing vampires out of the way with his massive arms. The silver vis bulla glinted in his dark eyebrow against his black skin, his muscles bulging as he took an undead by the legs and swung him around, knocking vampires to the ground. Michalas was there too, his stake slashing and moving. Victoria and Sebastian backed up to each other, battling the vampires, cutting them down into piles of ash.
At last . . . there was nothing but the smell of foul air and heavy breathing. Victoria looked over and saw that Max was gone . . . and so was Lilith. She cried out and started toward the door, the only way they could have gone, but Sebastian pulled her back. She stumbled against him, her hand flattening over his chest, and saw that he was pointing her toward the other side of the pit.
Max was there, freshly bloody, his hands still chained. He knelt next to Sara, bending close to her.
He turned away and looked at Victoria, then pulled to his feet. Her stomach rebelled for a moment, and then she saw what he’d done. The silver ring was gone from his hand. Sara, a mutilated, torn, agonized bundle, curled her fingers around it. She made a jerky move, one hand against the other.
And then she slumped, relaxed, her hands falling to the stones beneath her.
Max carried Sara’s body over his shoulder, perhaps, Victoria thought, as a last tribute to a woman he’d cared for . . . at least to some extent.
“Lilith’s gone,” said Brim. “She slipped away.”
“But she didn’t get the ring,” said Victoria. Nor did she get Max.
They left in silence, necks warm, filing out through the throne room where the chair was tipped over from the Venators’ entrance . . . and out into the empty antechamber.
Victoria was last, and it happened when they were walking down the narrow ramp that led to the sewer canal. She noticed, to her great relief, that she could see nothing in the darkness without the torches Brim and Michalas carried. The rush of water echoed around them, and suddenly she felt something moving through the air, rushing down from above her.
It crashed onto her, something warm and human, and she lost her balance.
They fell, tumbling off the walkway, down . . . down to where the water splashed below.
Twenty-eight
A Battle Is Lost
Sebastian heard the noise behind him. He turned in time to see the dark figure land on Victoria, falling with her down into darkness.
“Victoria!” he cried, and jumped after them.
The fall wasn’t as deep as he’d expected . . . yet far enough to be fatal if rocks were hidden there.
He heard the other splash moments before his own, heard a struggle in the water, gasps for air, but he couldn’t see anything. She was already weak, dammit, and she’d been taken by surprise . . . if she’d hit her head on anything, or crashed onto the rocks that he kicked against . . .
He couldn’t see, but heard . . . he could hear, and he fought his way through the rush of water to the sounds of struggle, unsure who or what he was swimming toward because it was so dark.
Where were the others? There’d been no other shouts, no other splashes. Did they even know he and Victoria had fallen? The others had been quite a bit ahead of them.
Groping in the water, at last he found hair, strands of hair, and from the soft glow of light, saw Victoria’s white face, eyes closed. She wasn’t moving and he pulled at her. There was something dark on her face, dark and sticky. Oh God.
“Max!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the darkness. “Brim! Down here!”
Then he felt another body bump against him, but before he could say anything—was it Pesaro? Brim? There’d been no other splashes—strong hands pushed him underwater. Then he felt the slice of something sharp scoring his arm, then down his leg. His blood surged into the water.
Above he heard the faint echo of a responding shout, and managed to bellow out another call for help as he fought and struggled in the rank pool. He was weaponless against this mortal with the blade and feeling renewed pain from his missing finger. At last a new beam of light from above—finally!—illuminated the man’s face. He recognized him.
Bemis Goodwin, damn him. Bemis Goodwin.
Rage sliced through him, rage and hatred for the man who would take her from him. He held onto Victoria while battling the man back, grappling in the water, protecting her from the knife that slashed into him. She slipped from his grip, from the slippery hold, and disappeared.
Sebastian cried another warning aloud, choking in a mouthful of water, just as he noticed a light moving near the edge of the pool. Pesaro, and Brim, at last.
He pushed Goodwin underwater, holding him there until the man stopped slicing and kicking. Sebastian released him then, splashing toward the faint white he saw in the distance. At last there was another splash behind him. He heard Michalas call out and could barely respond.