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.
At last his hand touched something warm and human again . . . and then hair. He pulled, felt her come up against him. She wasn’t moving, she wasn’t breathing. He pulled, keeping her face from the water, dragging her to the side, onto the bank where Pesaro and Brim were clambering down the rocky edge.
Light danced behind him as he turned her onto her stomach, her face to the side. Blood everywhere, her face bruised and cut, her hair a mat of curls, her body cold and white. “No, Victoria, dammit,” he breathed.
He felt the others come up behind him, down from the rocky wall, carrying torches. He kissed her cold face, brushed the hair from her eyes, willing himself not to think of Giulia . . . not to think of losing yet again.
Not to Bemis Goodwin. By God, not to the likes of Bemis Goodwin.
He struck her hard between the shoulder blades, and gave her a desperate shake.
Victoria coughed, and Sebastian rolled her to the side. Water spewed forth and she coughed more, her body wracked and shaking. Someone—Brim—handed down a dry coat and he wrapped it around her. The golden light encircled them, illuminating her face, the bruises, the three slices down her cheek, the myriad of other, smaller ones.
Her closed eyes were shadowed but at last fluttered, opening. Sebastian breathed easier. . . . She opened them, looked up at him. She looked at him, and he smiled, feeling the tug to one side of his mouth.
And then her gaze moved on, beyond, her eyes falling somewhere behind him. Her lips moved.
Sebastian recognized the look. Read the word, the simple name on her lips. Saw the expression on her face. It was his hand she clutched, her cold fingers gripping tightly. But the look was not meant for him.
He’d suspected . . . for far too long. Perhaps he’d always known, and that was part of the reason for the animosity, the discord, the enmity. He’d hoped, simply hoped he was wrong.
Hope drained away, leaving him empty.
He’d lost.
Twenty-nine
An Au Revoir
Wayren embraced Victoria, sending the warmth of something like maternal comfort washing over her . . . then pulled away to look into her eyes. Searching. “Yes, indeed,” she said, relief in her voice. “It’s gone.”
Victoria looked at her. “You could see it?”
The woman nodded. “A shadow . . . perhaps not so different than what you saw in the eyes of the daytime vampires. I admit, it’s more obvious now that it’s no longer there.”
It was late that night after they returned from Victoria’s near drowning in the sewers. Aunt Eustacia’s parlor was crowded with an unusual bulk of Venators: Brim, who was by far the most massive, Michalas, Sebastian, Max . . . and also Kritanu, who, despite the loss of his hand and the number of vampire bites, still seemed almost more complete than the latter two. He sat in the chair that had been Eustacia’s, near the piecrust table, silent and watchful.
Victoria looked at Michalas and Brim, then turned her attention to Sebastian. He watched her steadily, as though gulping in the sight of her. She wanted to flush. “It took you long enough to arrive,” she said, humor in her voice, trying to sound light . . . when inside she was a turmoil. She ached; her body ached and burned and still oozed blood. She’d easily be dead if she weren’t a Venator. “I’d begun to wonder if something had happened.”
“You knew we were coming,” he replied. “It was your plan, and it worked flawlessly . . . except that that blasted carriage of Barth’s broke a wheel and delayed us.”
Brim laughed. “Sebastian was fit to kill the man, as if it was his fault that the wheel broke.”
“The way he drives, it likely was,” said Max from the corner. “It nearly cost us everything.” His bitterness settled in the air.
There was a charged silence, and then Victoria spoke. “But it did not,” she said smoothly. “Not only did we ruin Lilith’s plan to assassinate the king, but I’m certain she’s not foolish enough to stay here in London any longer. Nor did she get the Ring of Jubai, which, thanks to Sebastian, Wayren can now add to the collection at the Consilium.”
The others nodded.
“And so the Queen of England is a daytime vampire,” Brim said, disbelief in his voice. “How has no one realized this?”
“She’s been taking the elixir since she turned, I venture to say, which can’t have been very long ago. So she’s dying,” added Victoria simply. “I doubt she’ll last another week or two.” She shrugged. “We could find a way to help her along, I’m certain . . . but I see no point in doing so. Why should we take the chance of being involved?” She frowned grimly. “I had a bad enough experience with the Bow Street Runners and Newgate that I wish to remain anonymous for awhile.”
“And Gwendolyn. How long had she been undead?” asked Michalas.
Victoria suddenly felt impatient with the questions. She wanted everyone to leave . . . she needed time alone. So much had happened, so much had changed. She could hardly keep from looking at Max, gauging every scratch and scar and bruise on his face. And the rough bites on his neck . . . the ones that wouldn’t heal nearly as quickly as hers. But at least they were merely bites from Lilith, and nothing more.
And he, for his part, brooded in the corner, saying little. Sending her black looks that certainly did not bespeak affection. He was furious with her. Dark and angry . . . in a way he’d not been before.
It made her question what she’d seen in his eyes in Lilith’s lair. Had she imagined it?
And Sebastian . . . Victoria felt her stomach squeeze. He’d become aloof. Still cocksure and engaging, but . . . aloof. Since he’d pulled her from the water and rescued her from Bemis Goodwin, something had changed.
