The Bleeding Dusk

Why did it always have to be Max to witness when grace deserted her?



“Well, foolish you, waiting in the damp for so long. What are you doing here?” she asked, standing gingerly on her weak knee and wiping her dirty, damp palms on her coat. At least the drizzle had stopped coming down, and now the moisture just hung in the air enough to keep it gray and dark and heavy.



“Waiting for you.”



She looked up at him, pushing away a lock of hair that had fallen in her eyes with the tumble, and saw that he was staring at her from under the brim of his dripping hat. It made her skin tingle, the way his dark eyes scored over her as if he’d never seen her before. “What is it? A smudge on my face?”



“Right there.” He reached toward her, his large, rough thumb brushing the side of her cheek before she could blink. “You’ve got the piece of the obelisk with you?”



She shouldn’t be surprised. She wasn’t surprised. “And the last key.” She bumped into a tall sapling with a few leaves still clinging to it, and a light shower sprinkled over her arm and onto the ground.



Max was nodding. “A good strategy. Use the last key to open the Magic Door, retrieve whatever is inside that we want, and then lock the obelisk piece safely in. Not only can it not be removed without the keys, but Akvan’s own proximity will not allow him to sense the additional source of power from the pieces.”



“Or the power from any other splinters or shards he might have will mask the presence of this one.” She realized they were still standing next to the large oak, the wall behind them and a trickle of wind sending its branches dripping old rain down on them. It was utterly quiet, and there among the gray and brown bushes they were well hidden from any prying eyes in the villa. “How did you know what I planned to do?”



“It was the logical thing, of course. You found the last key and you realized the danger of the obelisk. Very simple to put the two together.” Normally he’d sound arrogant in such a discussion, but today he seemed rather subdued.



She thought she understood why. “You spoke to Wayren about the attack.”



He nodded again. “Earlier today.” Then he made an impatient Max gesture. “Well, let’s be on with it. Unless you’re waiting for someone else? Zavier, perhaps? Or…no…it must be Vioget who has you hesitating.” Now the familiar edge was back in his voice.



Victoria had started to walk into the brush but at his words she stopped and turned back. Max loomed over her, nearly on her heels. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about Sebastian?”



He raised one dark eyebrow. “About…Sebastian? He’s not generally my preferred topic of conversation.”



“He’s a Venator. You never told me.”



Again that supercilious brow. “What difference does it make? He might have the blood of the Gardellas, might even be called to the duty…but he chooses to ignore it. He’s worth little of my thought or concern.”



“He saved your life.”



“For which I am eternally grateful.” The bitterness in his voice belied that statement. “He could have saved many other lives if he’d taken his rightful place in the Consilium.”



“He still wears the vis bulla,” she said.



Now both brows rose, and she felt her cheeks warm at the knowing expression there. “Ah. That explains your delay in taking the shards from the Consilium. You were otherwise…engaged.”



She held her breath to force away the blush. There was no reason for her to play the modest miss with him; he already knew she and Sebastian had been lovers. “And so I was. But I’m here now.”



Max looked at her, his dark eyes unreadable. Then his lips quirked in a hard smile. “So it is to be Sebastian. Have you left Zavier intact, or are there pieces to pick up there too?”



Victoria couldn’t feign a cool response to that, remembering the anger and pain on the Scotsman’s face. Nevertheless, she lifted her chin, shoving her hands restlessly into the two side pockets of her coat. She wished suddenly for an undead to appear so she could stake it. Do something other than stand face-to-face with the man who bloody always seemed to be right.



“I warned you,” Max said, correctly interpreting her silence. “And who will it be next, Victoria? Surely you won’t destroy your entire army of Venators, one after another, because you cannot keep your—”



He stopped, biting the words off, and seemed to draw himself up and away from her, cloaking what had been sudden ire. “This is a waste of time. We have only a short while until sunset.”



Brushing past her, he started off on those long legs, moving rapidly through the brush along the stone wall, leaving branches and tall grasses shivering and dripping in his wake. Droplets rained down on Victoria’s hair and arms as she turned to follow, wishing she too had a hat.



She felt the heavy metal of her pistol and the warm sleekness of the obsidian shard in each of her pockets. The not wholly idle thought of which one would invoke the most long-lasting pain in the back of his broad shoulders entertained her as she strode after him.



She dropped the pistol back into the depths of her pocket, but did not release the shard. It felt good in her hand, solid. Weighty. She’d never noticed how well it fit, how it seemed to mold into her palm. She’d thought before what a good weapon it would be, but had never held it long enough to really notice its strength.



The stone warmed under her grip, and she pulled it out to admire its shiny black length. Wicked. Gleaming blue-black even in the low light of a dreary day, even in the shadows of the sprawling, unkempt gardens, it seemed to burn from within.



Her steps slowed as she examined it, fascinated by the shimmer and shine coming from within the opaque object.



A great weapon. Something strong sizzled along her arm from where she held it, up and along her shoulder, surprising her so that she almost dropped it.



Sudden crashing through the brush drew her attention away from the shard. She realized why Max had stomped off as he had, and she looked up as he came back into view. He was missing his hat, and his hair dripped dark and stringy in a face shadowed by a day’s growth of beard. He looked annoyed.



No more annoyed than she felt.



“Victoria,” he began, and then saw what she was holding. “What—”



But she interrupted him, stepping forward. “You’re merely jealous,” she said, stopping a short distance away, looking up into his sharp-planed face.



“Is that so?” He stared down at her. “You think overmuch of yourself, Victoria.”



“No woman would allow you—”



His laugh was short and contemptuous. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve never been one to practice celibacy, forced or otherwise. I’m merely selective in choosing my…companions. You’ve seen evidence of it yourself, so how can you doubt?” Sudden as a snake, his hand shot out and closed around the wrist of her hand that held the shard.



Victoria laughed, a deep, odd sound to her ears. “You speak of the time I saw you and Sara leaving a room, all in dishabille. I wouldn’t put it past you to have staged such a scene; you were so determined to run me off.”



“And showing you evidence of the affection I had for my fiancée would have served to chase you away? If only it had been that simple.” He squeezed her wrist, smashing the bones horribly against one another, and pain shot through her hand. “Drop it, Victoria.”



“Affection for Sara Regalado? You couldn’t have felt anything for her.” Her fingers were weakening under his grip, becoming numb and cold. She tried to jerk her arm away, but he moved too quickly and caught at her wrist with both hands. He was strong, very strong. She had two vis bullae, and she struggled against him.



“I’ll break your arm if need be. Release it.”



“You’d do it, too,” she spat, anger blazing through her.



“I would.” He tightened his grip, his face, his tall body much too close to hers, his eyes dark and intense, his mouth determined. “Let it go, Victoria.”



With a groan she allowed her screaming fingers to open, and the heavy shard tumbled from her hand. It thunked to the ground, landing next to her foot, and before she could reach down to pick it up, Max kicked it out of her reach.



Still holding her wrist, he drew her back up to look at him, grasping her other shoulder so he could glare down into her face. He gave her a little shake, his fingers so tight she could feel them through the heavy wool coat as they bit into her skin.



Though she had dropped the shard, her hand still felt its warmth, and a faint tingle still sputtered along her arm and through her body. She looked up into his eyes, and again she knew just what to say to goad him.



“Are you going to kiss me now?” she asked boldly. He released her with a little shove that pushed her a step back into the branch of a tree, sending a little scatter of drops down the back of her coat’s collar.



“I prefer not to be one in a long line.”



“What are you afraid of, Max?”



Then he smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile at all, but it matched the same unpleasant feeling that was skittering through her. “So you want me to kiss you, do you, Victoria?”



His expression made her want to take a step back, but she stood firm. “Why not?”



The warmth from the shard had eased from her hand, and her fingers felt cold. He moved closer, and she felt the brush of ivy leaves that clung to the wall behind her.



“Why not…indeed.”



As he loomed over her, powerful and tall and so close, Victoria’s heart began to pound as if it were trying to burst from her ribs. Her lungs were so tight in her chest it seemed she could barely draw in a breath, but when she did she brought in the smell of Max—his damp wool coat, the faint smell of wine, and whatever it was that made him who he was.



She felt the brush of the stones behind her, her fingers pushing back into the wall as if to help keep her steady.



Then, hands planted on either side of her head, far enough away that they didn’t touch her, he bent forward, his dark head filling all of her sight before her eyes closed and his lips covered hers.