The sentiment had been implicit: take care of Victoria without overtly taking care of her. It smacked of Pilate, but Sebastian’s annoyance grew from the fact that Pesaro felt it necessary to make it an order. Yet, the fact that Pesaro had felt the conversation a necessity at all made it clear that Sebastian’s warning to Victoria had been accurate: He doesn’t want anyone.
“You’d be better off learning that now,” Pesaro continued, holding a glass of brandy that was as full as it had been when poured. “She doesn’t need to be taken care of. Nor does she desire it.” But take care of her regardless.
Sebastian took a drink of his own liquor instead of replying the way he wanted to. He was better equipped to know Victoria’s desires than Pesaro was, by God. Once he swallowed the burning liquid and leashed his instinctive response, he replied, “That may be the case—which remains to be seen—but since I’ve been in such close proximity to her, I’ve noticed that all is not well. She’s acting differently.”
Pesaro glanced sharply toward the door, and Sebastian stilled for a moment. Had that been a sound in the front entrance? By silent communion, they waited for another beat, but they heard nothing else.
Sebastian sipped again, rolling the brandy over his tongue. Unease tickled when he looked at the clock and saw that it was midnight.
“Differently?” Pesaro sounded bored, but Sebastian noticed that he was resting the glass on the table next to him.
He could barely stand the sight of Pesaro sometimes, for the shape and color of the man’s dark eyes reminded him of Giuilia’s, along with the sharp peaks that formed the dip in his upper lip. On her, the Pesaro eyes had been huge and overwhelming in her pale, delicate face, and her lower lip a lush complement to the well-formed upper one. . . .
Giulia had been a sickly girl, thin and delicate, with a cough that never seemed to ease. Sebastian had fallen completely, foolishly in love with her the first time he laid eyes on her at fifteen. Plagued by illness, she might not have lived to her twenties, but her life had been shortened even further by her brother’s naive decision to bring her to the Tutela. Pesaro had thought vampirism’s immortality would be the cure for her illness, but he’d been horribly tricked.
Sebastian steeled his thoughts, returning from the past to the present concern. God help him—he couldn’t bear to lose Victoria as he had Giulia. But he wouldn’t.
She was so much stronger.
“She reacts to the smell of blood,” he told Pesaro, returning to the conversation. He hated having to share his concerns with him, but there was no one else. And, like it or not, Pesaro had been a fierce, capable, knowledgeable Venator who had given even Beauregard concern.
Sebastian’s statement snared the other man’s attention. The glass clunked softly as Pesaro released it completely onto the table. Though he didn’t move otherwise, Sebastian noticed that his eyes sharpened in a way Giulia’s never had. “What do you mean?”
Sebastian explained what had happened in the sewers, and also at the masquerade ball when he’d come upon her next to the dead Crusading knight. “She told me she has moments where she doesn’t feel the same.”
“And you’ve just now decided to share that important detail?”
Before Sebastian could reply, both men cocked their attention toward the door. That had been a definite sound in the front hall. Glancing at the clock, which now read well past midnight, Sebastian listened.
A low murmur of voices told him someone had arrived, and then the parlor door opened.
Victoria tottered in.
Taking in Victoria’s appearance, Sebastian stepped quickly toward her. He wanted to drag her into his arms, but the closed expression on her face held him back. “My God, Victoria, where have you been?” He settled for taking her hands—they were gloveless. Her hair was a disaster, her clothing—
“You do look frightful,” Pesaro agreed.
Sebastian would have twitched a smile if the moment hadn’t been so tense. Pesaro not only had no taste for fashion, he had no idea how to speak to a woman, no concept of charm. He had the glass in his hand again and remained in his nonchalant position, yet . . . something in his demeanor had changed. It was on edge.
Sebastian felt it, but he turned his attention back to Victoria. Her face was scraped up—there were long red scrapes along one cheek as if she’d ground it against something—and there was blood everywhere. Her hair was matted and tangled, a bushy black mess hanging in her eyes and face.
But it was the look on her face that arrested him. Cold, marblelike. Her rich green-brown eyes hard and empty. Long lashes dark against pale skin. Even her lips were pale, almost the color of lavender.
“I was taken to the magistrate. They were going to have me hung.”
“Drink this.” Pesaro thrust a hand between them, shoving his glass at Victoria. “You let them take you?”
“I didn’t bloody let them take me,” she replied, ignoringthe glass. Her eyes flashed now, hot and furious, at Pesaro.
The men listened as Victoria explained, quite clearly and concisely despite her obvious anger.
“Then you left them?” Pesaro said at the end. He rose from his chair, smooth and tall, and stood over Victoria.
“What the hell else was she to do?” Sebastian snapped. He had taken Victoria’s hand during her story, and felt the chill in her fingers. “He was going to have her hung. I’d have killed him myself.”
“Where did this happen?” Pesaro said in a calmer voice than Sebastian had expected, shrugging into his coat. “Where did you walk away?”
Victoria’s lips seemed to have a hard time moving, but she replied, giving him the direction of an address in Whitechapel. “I couldn’t,” she said, pulling away from Sebastian. “I had to leave.”
“Leave them to die?” Pesaro turned back to her, and for a moment they stood, facing each other as if ready to come to blows. Something snapped in the room, tightened, and stretched. He looked as though he was about to wrap his fingers around her throat, and Sebastian closed his fingers into his palm. “I thought better of you, Victoria. It was as good as murder.”
“They were alive when I left.”
“With no chance of survival. Their fate was sealed.” Pesaro turned away, then stopped suddenly, pivoting back to Victoria, his eyes narrow and sharp. He looked at her again, delving long and hard, then he raised his eyes to meet Sebastian’s. The bald condemnation Sebastian expected to see had gone; instead, it was a knowing look, filled with meaning. And then Sebastian understood.
This wasn’t Victoria—not the Victoria he knew.
Pesaro pushed between Sebastian and Victoria, marching toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
Pesaro didn’t break stride. “To see if there is anything to salvage.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “You can’t go alone.”
That insult stopped Pesaro, who turned back, his hand on the doorjamb. Even Sebastian was taken aback by the ferocity in his expression. “No. I don’t want you with me.” He flung the door closed behind him.
The room settled into quiet again. Sebastian saw Victoria’s stricken face, and familiar discomfort curdled in his belly. The way she looked after him, the way she’d looked when Pesaro had miraculously appeared after the fire . . . Sebastian didn’t like it.
He didn’t like it at all.
Which was why he was very glad he’d told Pesaro that Victoria knew everything about Giulia, and what her reaction had been.
A bit of an exaggeration, of course, but all was fair in love . . . and war.
Victoria dreamed of blood.
Rivers and ribbons of it, the smell, the thick coagulation . . . it filled her nostrils, settled on her tongue. She bathed in it. Choked on it.
She opened her eyes to find the sun streaming into her bedchamber. The bedclothes were twisted and wrinkled, cocooning her legs and wrapped togalike around her middle. Her head pounded, and her face felt tight and sore.
But she had to rise.
Even knowing that her wounds would heal within a day, seeing herself in the mirror did little to improve Victoria’s spirits. Her face was mottled with bruises, and there was a long scrape on the side of her jaw.
Downstairs, dressed in a simple gown that was barely more than a chemise, her hair pulled into a single braid, Victoria found Kritanu in the kalari, the room they used for training. It was a large space for the small town house, for Aunt Eustacia had had a wall removed between the music room and a parlor. The chamber was well lit, spacious, and covered by a shining wooden floor, which Kritanu claimed was the best surface for training. There were piles of huge cushions in the corner, used not only for seating or reclining, but also for padding during training sessions.
She didn’t expect to see Max, but he was there in a mock battle with Kritanu. Both men held long slender swords, blades curved in a gentle arc, and they clashed and slid and gleamed.
When she stepped into the room, Max stepped away from the exercise, letting the tip of his weapon bump to the floor. He was dressed in loose, ankle-length brown trousers and a cream-colored tunic streaked with sweat. His hair was pulled back like a pirate’s. His large feet were bare, but a slender cord encircled one of his ankles. A small silver cross hung from it.
“I found nothing last night,” he said abruptly. “I wonder if you gave me the correct direction.”
“Of course I did.”
“There was no sign of any destruction, nor had anyone heard any unusual disruption.”
“Does it mean nothing that they would just as easily have hung me?” Victoria asked, suddenly wanting a sword in her own hand. She’d like to make Max dance at the other end, and she knew she had the strength and speed, if not the skill.
He must have understood her desire, for he glanced at Kritanu. “Would you care to surrender the blade to Victoria? I do believe she wishes to stab me.” His smile was nothing more than a flash of teeth.
Kritanu relinquished his weapon and stepped back as Victoria hefted it in her hand. She was used to the shorter kadhara knives, or a long slender épée. But this was a much more serious blade. Heavier, and it would move differently.
