The Bleeding Dusk

But it would be too much of a coincidence to believe that the four dead humans were not intended to be added to the pile.



“Now we know there are undead involved,” Victoria said as she and Michalas walked away from the dark courtyard, still on the alert for more undead. “But the question becomes: What are they doing with the heads?”



Three



In Which Victoria’s Idyll Is Invaded



Victoria and Michalas finished the night by patrolling the rest of the rione near Villa Palombara. They staked a measly three more vampires before returning to the Consilium at sunrise to report their findings to Ilias. They found him on his way to speak with Wayren.



After their brief discussion, Ilias suggested that Victoria join him with Wayren in her private library. Michalas appeared relieved to be dismissed, saying with a crooked grin that he was ready to return home to his own bed.Victoria would have been pleased to do so herself, but of course she did not. She followed Ilias to the library. It smelled of old books—of paper and papyrus, of ink and leather. She had been there only once before—very briefly—so as she came into the dome-shaped room that was accessed by a locked door with hidden bolts, she took the opportunity to reexamine the chamber.



The ceiling of the round room was high above her head, and rows of books sat on shelves that appeared to be carved into the circular walls. On closer look, however, she saw that the shelves were stone ledges, and carved with letters or symbols in a language Victoria didn’t recognize. She presumed the symbols were some sort of code by which the books, scrolls, and laced-together parchments were organized.



Victoria stepped onto a thick white rug that covered half of the chamber floor and selected a straight-backed chair for her seat. In the center of the room was a large piece of glass situated like a tabletop. Wayren sat behind the desk, her square spectacles resting neatly on a wooden tray next to a spread-eagled book. Ilias, who’d followed Victoria into the room, closed the door behind him and sank into the final seat.



The room wasn’t as large as she would have imagined, knowing how many tomes Wayren had access to. A bevy of candles burned from sconces on the walls and some of the lower shelves, and from stands with multiple tiers and holders placed throughout the room. Despite being a deep flight of stairs underground, the room was lit as if it were noon in July.



Ilias glanced at Wayren. “Where is Ylito? Is he not joining us?”



She bowed her head easily. “He is in the midst of a procedure. I have already spoken with him, and he urges us to continue without him.”



“Ylito?” Victoria was surprised at the unfamiliar name. She knew of all of the Venators by name, even if she hadn’t met them all, and the Comitators, their martial-arts trainers, but this was one she’d never heard mentioned.



“He is not a Venator, but an herbalist and alchemist who studies the properties of plants and metals and is very talented with his work.”



Victoria looked at Wayren. “Do you mean to say he’s a wizard?”



The older woman looked pained for a moment, then smiled slightly. “He prefers to be called a hermetist, a sort of spiritual alchemist, which is a bit more palatable to him than the moniker of wizard or sorcerer.” When Victoria continued to look at her with clear question in her eyes, she continued, “As powerful and daunting as our Venators may be, we’ve found over the years that someone like Ylito often provides skills beyond what a Venator can do: casting protections, creating infusions or distillations, and even drawing forth the energies and inherent powers of gold and silver—all for the purpose of annihilating the malevolence brought on this earth by Lilith and her kind.”



“It is not surprising that you haven’t met Ylito, or perhaps even heard his name spoken,” added Ilias. “He prefers to remain cloistered in his workshop unless needed. Which is why he’s chosen not to grace us with his presence at this time.” He shifted in his seat and raised a hand to scratch his chin. “So let us get to the matter at hand, Victoria. We have vampires who are cutting the heads off small animals and now, apparently, humans.” He looked at Wayren. “That would be behavior more like that of a demon, so I am at a loss as to why the undead would do such a thing, particularly since they abhor demons.”



“I shall have to study it,” Wayren told them when they described in more detail the headless corpses. “But I would suggest that a visit to the Door of Alchemy—la Porta Alchemica—during the daylight would be in order. Perhaps we will find some evidence that you could not see in the dark.”



Ilias turned to Victoria. “There are three keys that open the Magic Door, as it is also called. Each one must be inserted in its proper slot and, once inserted, cannot be retrieved until the door is open. Palombara had one of the keys, he secreted a second one somewhere in the villa, and the third one was given to Augmentin Gardella shortly before the marchese disappeared.”



“A Venator.” Victoria’s skin began to prickle.



“Indeed. Unfortunately Augmentin wasn’t able to save Palombara from whatever befell him before he completed his quest. But he did keep the key. And passed it down through the family. Your aunt Eustacia was the last person to have it.”



“It’s not here, and we’d best find it before the vampires do,” Wayren said, looking at Victoria. “I believe your aunt wore it on her person. Do you recall a silver armband? It was made specifically to hold the key, which is quite small—not much larger than the first knuckle of your finger.”



“She wore it high on her arm, and never took it off. That and her vis bulla.” Victoria chewed on her lip, not liking where her thoughts were leading her. Not at all. Best to change the subject. “What’s behind the door that’s so important to the vampires? They already have immortality.”



“The papers and journals of the alchemist must contain something of value to them. After Palombara disappeared, there was much activity about the door, as the undead—and some of the mortal alchemists—tried to force their way in. But the only way in is with the three keys, and they were in possession of none of them, even, presumably, the one kept by the Marchese Palombara.” Ilias was rubbing his nose again, pinching it between a thumb and forefinger.



“They gave up after a time, and the Door of Alchemy has remained untouched and unbothered for a hundred and forty years. But now, with this undead activity in the area—as well as the death of your aunt and the possibility that the key might fall into the wrong hands—it’s imperative that we keep our attention on the door. In fact, the very great possibility is that somehow the key was removed from her person…after the events last autumn, and that it has already been put to use.” Wayren’s face, unlined and ageless, was a pale moon of seriousness. “The fact that the undead want what’s behind the door is more than enough reason for us to be concerned.”



“Yet another reason to visit the door, to see if any of the keys have been turned,” Ilias said.



“Yes. Ylito will want to accompany you,” Wayren said, to Victoria’s surprise. “Perhaps you will be able to ascertain what is so important behind that door, or at least whether there is indeed anyone trying to get inside it.”



Late that afternoon Oliver, Victoria’s driver and the bane of her maid’s existence, stopped the little barouche in front of the Gardella villa. As Victoria stepped out, she realized she hadn’t been home or slept since leaving yesterday morning for the portrait unveiling at the Consilium. She was bone-tired, yet energized with purpose in a way she hadn’t been for months. Her mind was racing down a myriad of avenues, and she felt as though she could barely keep up with it. At the same time she was still dirty and mussed from her evening of moving headless corpses with Michalas.But she had a task, and felt for the first time since Aunt Eustacia’s death that she was back in full form.



Still, she wanted nothing more than to get into the quiet of her room and practice some of the meditation and breathing that Kritanu had taught her. Tomorrow she would meet the mysterious Ylito and they would go to examine la Porta Alchemica.



The front door opened just as she reached it, Aunt Eustacia’s Italian butler looking slightly more harried than usual.



“Grazie, Giorgio,” Victoria said, walking in and directly toward the stairs as she pulled off her gloves and began to unhook the fastenings of her spencer. “Please ring for Verbena and ask that she wait upon me in my chamber.”



“Si, milady,” Giorgio said. “But perhaps you might wish to take a moment to visit the parlor?”



“The parlor?” Victoria, her hand on the newel post at the bottom of the steps, halted reluctantly—only a flight of stairs from the haven she sought. She glanced toward the parlor and saw that the door was closed.



But before Giorgio could reply, the door in question opened. “Victoria!” came a familiar shrill greeting. “Victoria, we have arrived!”



Victoria couldn’t move. Her fingers froze like a cap over the stairwell post as she looked at her mother, Lady Melisande Gardella Grantworth, rushing toward her from the sitting room, skirts and ruffles and lace bouncing and flouncing in all directions.



“We?” Victoria managed to ask, all thoughts of a quiet rest disintegrating along with the peacefulness of her home. No wonder Giorgio had looked out of sorts.



“Indeed! Lady Nilly and Duchess Winnie and myself, we’re all here. Just in time for the week of Carnivale. And for you, you poor dear, of course. Poor darling, to have to handle all of this on your own. I am only sorry I couldn’t have arrived sooner.” Lady Melly gathered Victoria into her maternal embrace even as her daughter desperately clutched the stairwell post.



And as her mother’s two bosom friends spilled into the hall behind her, arms outstretched in greeting, high-pitched voices exclaiming over everything from Victoria’s simple hairstyle to her sunken cheeks to the mild Italian weather and how it was so warm for February, so why were her hands so cold and her gown—was that even a gown?—so dirty and mussed? My goodness!—had she been hurt?…she could do nothing but let them fuss and hug and pat and croon as they’d done since she was a little girl.