They looked around as if searching for their missing colleague; since he'd popped into ash, they would see no sign of him. But perhaps they would smell the lingering dust in the air.
The Imperials strode down the steps, only feet away from Max and Victoria—they must smell them, Max's blood, too, for certain—looking around, the nostrils of one flaring as if testing the air for scent.
Just as one turned toward the bushy, shoulder-high boxwood that sheltered them, Max leaped from behind it, brandishing the sword, and beheaded the vampire in another clean stroke.
As the third and last Imperial whirled about, holding his own silver blade, another face peered around the doorway. Victoria saw him and crashed from behind the shrub, dashing up the steps before he could close the door.
He came out onto the stoop to meet her, and she saw that he was not carrying the book himself; but that did not matter, as now she had to fight him to his death. Or hers.
Dimly, through her own battle with the Guardian vampire, she was aware of the fierce clashing of swords below as Max and the Imperial faced off. A shout, and the one moment of distraction caused her to glance away. The next thing she knew, her opponent had her by the waist. He lifted and threw her so she half stumbled and half flew down the steps, landing in a breathless heap on the ground near Max and the other vampire.
She scrambled to her feet just as Max shouted her name; this time it was clear, and she looked over in time to see him point behind her; then he was back into the throes of defending himself.
Victoria turned and saw the figure of a man dropping from an open window of the house, carrying something large and bulky under his arm. She turned, and before she could lift her foot to take a step, she was knocked to the ground, facedown on the grass.
Groping hands, colder than the chill at the back of her neck, curled around her hair and pulled it from her nape. She whipped her hand around behind her and stabbed at the vampire.
Instead of plunging into his heart, the point of her stake popped into his eye like a stick into a plump grape. He cried out and she slipped from under him, staggering to her feet.
With only the briefest of glances at the embattled Max, she took off running.
Victoria ran faster than she had ever imagined a human could run; the vis bulla had to be helping her. Or perhaps it was Divine Providence.
Whatever it was, she managed to keep the running vampire in her sight. He wasn't too far ahead of her; when they reached the corner of a mews he took a sharp turn, and she followed, plunging into a dark, narrow alley lined with thick bushes and shrubs that blocked what little illumination the partial moon offered.
Her night vision wasn't as powerful as that of a vampire, nor did she have the sense of smell… but she pushed her way blindly down the passageway. She couldn't stop—if she lost him, the book was lost. It was Lilith's.
She could not let that happen.
When she got to the end of the mews, Victoria had to pause. Which way had he gone? Nowhere to be seen… then the ever-present chill at the back of her neck heightened, and she felt him behind her. He'd ducked into the brush to wait for her to pass.
His mistake.
She turned and started back slowly. He wouldn't be able to squeeze all the way through the bushes; they were too dense, and on one side was the wall of a garden. She was thankful he was only a Guardian, and not an Imperial, some of whom could shape-shift. Guardians were fierce fighters and had strong pulls of energy, but they were more easily bested than an Imperial.
There he was.
She turned, thrust into the brush, and felt something solid. Not his chest—he leaped out and they were suddenly grappling on the ground, rolling across the pebbled pathway and into the brush. He had his hands around her neck; he wasn't wasting his time going for a bite, she thought as they tightened.
Her breathing became more difficult, and the edges of her already dark vision clouded more. She grasped the stake. One shot… Her fingers felt soft and wobbly. She clasped them, ordering them to tighten even as her mind fizzled.
Wham!
She struck as she had earlier, and got him in the eye. Two blinded vampires to her credit tonight; but that wasn't enough. Victoria rolled to her feet as he pulled himself up, one hand over the injured eye, struck… and then he was gone. Poof.
Panting, Victoria stood for a moment to catch her breath. Drawing the oxygen back into her lungs, she thought nothing had ever felt so good. And she listened.
Nothing.
Silence.
Only the faint rumble of a horse clopping on a distant street.
The book.
He had to have dropped it. Victoria grappled through the brush until she found it. She reached, hesitated, then, holding her breath, picked it up. Nothing happened.
With a sigh of relief, she hitched up the bulky bag and tucked it under her arm.
Now what?
Should she go back and see if Max needed help?
What if he didn't? What if he'd been…
No, she'd best get the book safely home, and then she would find out what happened to Max. If he was all right.
God, she hoped he was all right.
If he wasn't, it had been a noble sacrifice.
If he wasn't, she was on her own.
Victoria stepped from the mews and into the open night.
Chapter Thirteen
The Marquess Makes an Unwelcome Announcement
A hired hackney—not Barth's—took her home. Victoria kept the Book of Antwartha on the seat next to her in the carriage and tried not to think about Max. As he'd taken great pains to impress upon her, he was more than capable of taking care of himself.And she knew he would rather she take care of the book, now that it was in their possession, than take a chance on losing it while coming to his aid.
When the hackney reached Grantworth House, Victoria alighted quickly, carrying the heavy bag under one arm and slamming the door of the carriage behind her. The windows of the house were dark except for the one lamp burning in the front parlor window. It was nearly four o'clock; her mother should have arrived home from the ball she'd attended by now and likely was snoring in her bed. Victoria slapped a coin in the hand of the driver and turned to start up the steps to her house.
And felt a blast of chill over the back of her neck.
Bloody hell.
Again?
She groped for the stake she hadn't thought she'd need again this night and turned to look up the street. Now her entire body went cold.
Her mother was home, indeed. But she wasn't in her bed sleeping.
No. The Grantworth carriage sat gleaming green and gold under the street lamp, where it should not be. And the man sitting in the driver's seat, holding the reins of the abnormally still horses, was not the Grantworth groom.