"Did he?" Eustacia's protege, Max, had left for Italy immediately after the tragedy, and she had not yet heard from him. The tension between him, an experienced Venator, and Victoria had been palpable. She found it interesting that Max had given her niece such a compliment; for he'd been so adamant that she would be more concerned about beaux and balls than vampires and stakes. "So you went out. Tell me what happened. Whose blood is this?"
"I almost killed a man. I don't remember doing it, Aunt Eustacia. He was going to rape a woman, a girl, and I stopped him. He was very big, much bigger than I. We started to fight, and when he pulled out a knife, I took mine out too… and the next thing I knew he wasn't fighting back. There was blood everywhere. There's never been blood." Her eyes were vacant again, and Eustacia's heart squeezed as she looked into her niece's beautiful face. Her brave, smart, strong, lost niece.
How many times had she regretted making her a Venator and bringing her into this world? This world of violence and evil?
But she was here, and they needed her. She and Max and the other Venators needed Victoria if they were ever going to destroy Lilith, Queen of the Vampires. The destruction of the evil that stalked their world was worth every sacrifice, great and small. Eustacia had lived this truth for more than sixty years.
Victoria would live it too. Eustacia just wished she had not experienced such a great sacrifice, and so very, very early.
"No, there's never any blood," she replied, selecting the last comment to respond to.
"It sickened me. He… I left him there. I didn't know what to do."
"Victoria. Listen to me. The man was attacking a girl, and you saved her. You helped her. And he would have cut you if you hadn't cut him. You had to protect yourself."
"I did. But I didn't have to slice him to ribbons!" Then, finally, the tears came.
Eustacia held her, feeling the jerks and heaves of her delicate shoulders as if they were her own sobs. This had been a long time in coming, since Phillip's death, and she was relieved Victoria had finally released the grief and anger that had built up inside of her. Losing her husband less than a month after marrying him, and in a horrific way, had caused her to withdraw and cloister herself away. At least tonight she had found a way to confront some of those emotions.
But what a terrible way to do it.
After a very long time, after the heaves turned to small jerks and then to gentle little hiccups, Victoria pulled away. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks blotchy. Tiny brown ovals splattered her face, and one long streak edged her jaw. Some of her dark curls had come loose from their single braid, curling wildly around her face.
Victoria began fumbling with the shirt tucked into her man's trousers, yanking it free and pulling it up and away from her belly. Eustacia cast a quick glance, but Kritanu hadn't yet returned.
"I can't wear this. I can't let it control me."
Eustacia knew what she was talking about. Victoria lifted the shirt and there, resting in the hollow of her navel, was the vis bulla, the holy strength amulet worn by Venators. Vampire hunters. Crafted of silver from the Holy Lands, the small cross had been soaked in holy water from Rome before its small matching hoop was pierced through the top of Victoria's navel, just as Eustacia's own vis bulla had been when she had accepted her duty as part of the Gardella family legacy. She still wore hers, of course. A Venator never removed the vis.
She and Victoria were Venators, born, trained, and blessed. A select few were asked, and even fewer accepted. There were only a hundred or so Venators in the world who had actually passed the test and wore the vis bulla.
And now Victoria wished to give it back. Eustacia opened her mouth to speak, but her niece interrupted.
"Do not fear, Aunt. I will take it again—when I can be sure I will not abuse it. I terrified myself tonight, but I learned that I am not yet ready to hunt again. It is one thing to kill an undead, an immortal evil being… but I do not wish to see human blood on my hands again."
Eustacia grasped her niece's bloodstained hands. It pained her and, at some deep level, it frightened her… but she understood. "There is no danger in London now. Lilith has taken her followers away, and although she will return, there is no imminent threat."
Victoria's eyes cleared; her mouth tightened fiercely. "Never worry. I will have my revenge on Lilith for what she did to Phillip, I swear it. What before was a duty is now my personal accountability."
Chapter 1
In Which Lady Rockley's Weapon Is Alarmingly Ineffective
Victoria tightened her fingers around the ash stake, more out of habit than necessity, and peered around the rough brick corner. It was dark and damp, as London was wont to. be shortly after midnight, and the streets just past the safety of Drury Lane were strewn with refuse and scattered with the occasional thief, prostitute, and other such dodgy persons.Unfortunately, none of said dodgy persons were wreaking any havoc, picking any pockets, or biting any necks.
Now a year had passed since Phillip died, and Victoria was back on the streets hunting for vampires for the first time since the night she'd removed her vis bulla. She'd spent the last twelve months practicing her fighting skills, learning to control the rage and grief that had driven her to nearly kill the man in St. Giles. She wanted to be sure she was ready, and able to temper those emotions before reinserting her strength amulet. The silver cross shivered in the hollow of her navel when she walked, and Victoria felt complete again. She was ready.
Which was why she'd been taking to the streets late at night, stake in one hand, pistol in the other. Looking for something to do. Someone to save.
She would never stop looking for someone to save.
Victoria shook her head abruptly to dislodge the memory and chase away the guilt that still crawled along her nerves. Her temple scraped against the brick, sending crumbles of mortar dusting to the ground and a dull pain over her skin. And she returned her thoughts to the matter at hand.
Barth would be along shortly in his hackney to pick her up and take her back to the echoingly empty Rockley estate known as St. Heath's Row, where she would continue to live until the arrival of the new marquess, who was somewhere in America and hadn't yet been located.
No sooner had she had the thought than the hackney in question rumbled around the corner and came to a rather slower stop than usual. It wasn't that Barth's driving had improved; it was that he'd been combing the streets, looking for Victoria.
As she climbed into the carriage, she made the decision she'd been putting off for a week. "Barth, I'm not ready to go home yet… take me to St. Giles. To the Chalice."
And before he could protest, she closed the door.
There was a bit of a wait, as though he were considering arguing, but then she heard Barth cluck to the horses and she lurched as they started off at a smart pace. Victoria settled back in her seat and tried not to think about the last time she'd been to the Silver Chalice. More than a year ago.
It was well past midnight, and the streets of St. Giles were deserted. Only very foolish or very brave people ventured into this area of London during the relative protection of daylight; at night, even fewer would dare to trespass. As they rumbled along St. Martin's Lane and crossed the intersection of the seven roads known as The Dials, Victoria cast her glance down one of them. She had not forgotten Great St. Andrews Street, nor even the block where she'd nearly killed the man. She could find it again in her sleep, for though she did not recall the actual event in all of its terrible detail, the location had imprinted itself on her brain.
Perhaps someday she would return.
Several streets later the hackney jerked to a stop, drawing her from her uncomfortable reverie. Anticipating the jolt, Victoria had already put out a hand to brace herself. Lifting the small lantern from the interior wall, she ducked out of the vehicle and slipped away before Barth could speak or follow her.
Her feet were soundless on the cobbled street as they skirted piles of trash and stepped over small puddles left from an early evening rain. The stench no longer bothered her; nor did the weight of eyes peering from the shadows.
Let them come. She was ready for a fight.
Across the street and down she walked, head held high, hand on her pistol, the legs of her men's breeches swishing faintly against each other, the lantern light slicing through her shadow. A welcome summer breeze lifted the smell of rotting carcasses and animal waste back to her consciousness, then brushed on away. The back of her neck cooled slightly under the beaver topper she wore, but it was from the wind, rather than a sign of approaching danger.
Victoria stood in front of what had been the doorway to the Silver Chalice. She had not visited the place since the night she came looking for Phillip, and found instead the smoldering ruins of what had been an establishment that served vampires and mortals alike.
Did she imagine it, or was the oaky smell of ash still in the air? It couldn't be, all these months later—
The chill had returned to the back of her neck.
She froze, stopping her breath to listen. To feel.
Yes, it was there; it was real, raising the hair on her nape in a warning she hadn't felt for a twelvemonth: a vampire was near. Below.
Now, the rush of anticipation fueling her actions, Victoria climbed over the rickety remains of the door frame and started down the steps into the cavernous chamber. She felt along the stones with her left hand whilst her right carried the lantern, shining onto the wood and stone rubble that littered the steps. If she could have approached without the illumination, she would have done so; but seeing in the dark was not one of the gifts bestowed upon Venators. Some of the element of surprise would be diminished, but that was better than trying to make her way through the mess silently, and in the dark.
Miraculously, the ceiling had not completely caved in over the stairs, and she soon found herself at the bottom. Victoria paused, thrusting the lantern behind her to block some of its light, and peered around the corner into the dark, misshapen cellar.
What was left of Sebastian's place.
Although the tingle at the back of her neck still played there, confirming her instinct, she did not feel or hear any sign of movement. She stilled, but for the fingers slipping into the deep pocket of her coat.