As Shadows Fade

Three In Which Our Heroine Dredges Up a Past Event, to the Dismay of Her Companion

Victoria climbed back into the conveyance she’d alighted from only moments before. The scent of Maybelle’s ash still hovered in the air, and she swore she heard Max sniff as he slipped in after her.

She hadn’t even pulled all her skirts up and into the carriage, saving the hem from being trod upon or caught in the door, when he pushed past and sprawled on the opposite seat, settling in the center of the bench in an arrangement that clearly indicated his desire for solitude there.

The footman closed the door, and Victoria heard it latch in place. Inside, the interior felt dark and close. Her corset suddenly felt more restrictive.

“You’re losing your touch, Max,” she said, sinking into her own seat across from him. She took her time smoothing the skirt over her legs, perversely allowing it to whisk against his pantaloons, which, in the way of fashion, were held neat and straight by narrow straps beneath his feet.

He raised a brow in question, his face half lit by the small lantern that hung in the corner above Victoria. Of course he’d choose the side that wasn’t as well illuminated.

She took the brow quirk as an invitation to explain. “That message,” she said, gesturing at his long, sprawled body, “doesn’t have your normal subtlety.”

His lips moved in what looked like a suddenly checked smile.

“In fact,” she continued, “it’s a rather clumsy and obvious shield against something you wish to ignore.” She drew off the single glove she still wore and looked expectantly at his stony expression. Her throat had dried, and she swallowed gently, trying to ignore the sudden… awareness… between them.

“Are you going to tell me what you were doing with George Starcasset, or are you going to continue to look for meanings that aren’t there?”

“Since you were the one who sought me out, on a matter of some urgency, I should think you’d be more eager to share your news. What on earth was so important that you braved a Society dance fraught with-what do you call it? Social frivolities?” One of her slippers was very close to his shoe. She edged her foot over slightly, just enough to touch him, and waited.

“Brim and Michalas have left,” Max told her. The other two Venators had come to London to help Victoria, Max, and Sebastian foil Lilith’s plot to kill the new King of England.

“For Rome?”

He shook his head, and moved his foot. Away from hers. “Back to Paris. We received word tonight that another demon was sighted. They went to conduct an investigation.”

Victoria considered him for a moment. Wheels crunched and ground along the street below, and the floor beneath her feet rumbled. The lantern above her jolted, swinging its light gently from side to side, casting larger, then smaller, larger, then smaller, shadows over his face. “And?” she asked when he said nothing further.

“And Kritanu thought that you should be advised immediately.”

Victoria smothered a smile. And thus Max, who was so biddable and who adored social functions, leapt at the chance to join her at the duchess’s party. Even for Kritanu, who was as close to him as an uncle?

Not, as he himself would say, bloody likely.

“So why was it necessary for me to leave the dance?” she countered. “If that was the extent of the news.”

“Your hair is mussed, you’re missing a glove, and there’s a streak of blood on your neck,” he replied. “You look as though you’ve just returned from some sort of assignation. A violent one.”

“As it happens, I have.” Of course her hair was askew. She’d not quite gotten the technique of pulling the small, hidden stake from her coiffure without messing it up.

“And along the way accosted a vampire? Or was that the purpose of the meeting?” He seemed to relax more, settling those wide, square shoulders against the velvet squab behind him. “You might wish me to believe that you had a tкte-а-tкte with George Starcasset, but the thought is utterly ridiculous.”

“If I were to have an assignation in a carriage, it would most definitely not be with George Starcasset.”

His elegant fingers, spread over the back of the seat, straightened. Then curled. “Viog-”

“Nor would it be with Sebastian,” she continued coolly, refusing to drop his gaze.

“Victoria-” His voice was strained. Laced with anger, real anger. He looked away, out of the window. His fingers relaxed again.

She wanted to reach across the gap between them and grab those shoulders and shake him until some sense filtered down through that stone-filled, honor-bound, cowardly skull of his.

And she could do it, too. She was so much stronger than he.

But what good would it do?

Silence, full and heavy, sat in the carriage with them.

“This reminds me of the night we had to go to Bridge and Stokes,” Victoria said after a moment. “Do you remember?”

“I remember,” he snapped, still gazing out the window. “We had to save your husband from a vampire attack.”

She took the opportunity to shift in her seat, arranging herself subtly, so that the small lantern light fell just so, cutting a swath of pale gold over the front of her gown. “I had to change in the carriage, remember? Into men’s clothing, because it was a men’s club, and of course I couldn’t enter dressed as I was.”

“My memory is perfectly clear; you needn’t review the details.”

“Then I’m certain you recall having to unlace my corset-”

“Victoria.” Now he looked away from the window. “What are you about?”

She couldn’t make out the expression in his eyes; they were muted by shadow. But by the set of his mouth, she knew he was angry. She knew how his eyes would glare, flat and black and cold.

“I’ve always wondered about something,” she continued as though he wasn’t looking murderously at her. “When I was undressing, and you were sitting shoved back in the corner, studiously looking out the window, or with your eyes closed as you claimed… did you peek?”

She heard what sounded like a stifled snort or strangled cough. Then… “Of course not.”

At that moment, the carriage eased to a halt, and Victoria realized in dismay that they’d arrived at Aunt Eustacia’s town house already. Max fairly leapt to his feet, looming like a full-winged bat in the small enclosure.

But although he stood in such a way that did not permit her to rise as well, he didn’t leave. Instead, he turned to face her, looking down from his half-stooped position. His hands moved to the wall above her head-a position of power that he must have felt he needed-and he looked down, his feet spread on either side of hers.

For the first time since they’d climbed into the vehicle, she could see his face clearly. Emotionless, sharp, closed. So empty it made her heart ache.

Her head tipped back, her neck cradled by the top of the cushion. Her fingers twisted in the shadows, burying in her thin, silky skirt, and her heart thumped audibly in her chest. At least, it was audible to her.

“Max,” she said. Whispered. Begged.

“I can’t, Victoria.” His voice was just as unsteady, but deep. And low.

“You won’t.”

“Don’t be a fool.” He’d regained control, and his words were clipped, cool. “You are obliged to do what’s right for the Venators-just as I am. And what’s right, Victoria, is for you to be with Vioget. A man who is your equal, who can stand at your side and doesn’t have to hide from the bloody queen of the vampires.”

“Max-” she began.

But he spoke over her. “Victoria, understand. You are the last of the Gardellas. You have to do what’s right for them, for the world. It’s your duty, your calling. You can’t ignore that because we”-here his voice dipped even lower-“spent the night together. I told you then, it changes nothing.”

“Coward!”

“Good night, Victoria.”

He snapped open the door and was out before Victoria could respond.

She pulled to her feet, suddenly frustrated to exhaustion. How could a man who did what he’d done, faced what he’d faced… made the decisions he’d made… be such a bloody coward?

Then all other thoughts fled as Max’s head came back around into the carriage. His eyes were fierce and dark as he reached forward to grab her by the arm.

“Victoria. Wayren’s gone missing,” he said, dragging her from the vehicle so quickly that she lost a slipper.

Victoria caught her balance once her feet were on the ground. At the same time as she assimilated Max’s words, she registered the fact that Sebastian and Kritanu, whose arm was curled up to hold something close to his body, were standing next to the carriage. All three of the men appeared tense and concerned.

“What?” she said sharply, ignoring the damp on her silk-stockinged foot. “What’s happened?”

Wayren was a woman of an indeterminate age-she looked older than Victoria, but much younger than Lady Melly, yet she’d been Aunt Eustacia’s friend and mentor for more than fifty years. The keeper of the Venator library, records, and many other secrets protected in the catacombs of Rome, she dressed like a medieval chatelaine and always carried a leather satchel that held many more books and manuscripts than could possibly fit.

She had been a source of information, advice, and guidance to the Venators for as long as anyone could remember. Yet no one knew very much about her.

“Inside,” Max said, looking around sharply, his hand over Victoria’s elbow. “Who knows what’s lurking about?”

Moments later they were gathered in the small study, and Kritanu, who was still a bit awkward with his missing hand, told them what he knew. He sat, his spry, seventy-year-old body straight, his wiry legs bent in their customary loose trousers, ankle stacked above ankle. The small burden he’d been holding outside was revealed to be a bundle of white feathers with a single beady eye peeking out. A pigeon.

“I have not seen Wayren today, but I thought nothing of it,” he said, glancing at Victoria.

When Wayren visited London, she took her own accommodations, their location unknown to the rest of them. She required her privacy and a place to study, but she often visited the house where Victoria and Kritanu-and, for the time being, Max-lived. “When Brim and Michalas received their summons back to Paris, they left straightaway. Max and I felt that you should be notified immediately, and Wayren as well. We sent a message to Wayren, and Max went to inform you.”

“You sent Myza?” asked Victoria, looking at the bird in his lap. “But she returned without a message?” Myza, one of the many pigeons the Venators used for communication, was the one Wayren preferred.

“No, Myza was not here at the time. That is how I know Wayren is in trouble, for Myza returned with the bird I sent. Her wing is injured.” He gently stroked the top of the pigeon’s head with one of his five remaining fingers. The quiet bird’s eye blinked and looked about sharply.

Victoria looked at Max for confirmation of her thoughts. He nodded, and she felt an uncomfortable chill descend on her. If Wayren’s pigeon was injured, it was likely she was also in trouble.

“Myza can lead us to where she is,” Max said. “If she can fly.”

Kritanu nodded. “Indeed, that is what Sebastian and I were discussing when you arrived home. The bird is hurt, but seems eager to leave, and I can only believe she wishes to take us to Wayren. She will be able to hop a bit, and I’ll help her.”

“We’ve also sent the other bird off with a message to catch Brim and Michalas and bring them back. They left under an hour ago, and could not have gone far,” Sebastian said.

“Good, but we cannot wait for them. It will take only a moment to change,” Victoria replied, then slid her glance delicately over to Max. “I’d prefer not to do it in the carriage.”

Max’s mouth quirked, but he didn’t smile. “Then be off and get it done.”

“What a shame,” Sebastian said as Victoria sailed past. “I rather like that gown.” But even he, the consummate flirt, still held worry in his expression.

Wayren missing, perhaps injured… this was something they’d never had to contend with before. She’d always seemed so protected, so above the violence and struggle in which the Venators were engaged. The idea that she, the wise, serene, ageless woman, had somehow fallen prey to some evil was unsettling.

True to her word, Victoria was quick to use Verbena’s assistance to change from her luscious red gown into clothing that was not only cooler, but also much less restrictive. Like Kritanu, she wore loose trousers, but of a dark brown color, and a man-style shirt she’d had made to fit her female curves. Her corset loosened, her slippers exchanged for heavier shoes, her person well armed, she hurried down the stairs, working her loose hair into a thick braid. She’d not wanted to take the time for her maid to do it; the sense of urgency had begun to grow.

“Mounts are being brought around,” Max said as she reached the bottom.

She nodded in agreement with his assumption. Following a hobbled bird would be much easier on horseback than in a carriage.

Outside, the air was still comfortable, and a wide swath of stars helped the moon light the sky. Yet threads of dark cloud threatened to creep over the half-moon and weave into the Milky Way, creating in her a sense of unease.

Kritanu elected to remain behind, partly because riding one-handed at the speed with which they hoped to move would be difficult; but also in the event that Wayren, Brim or Michalas should return or some other message arrive.

They started off, Myza being turned over to Max for assistance. The pigeon, whose eyes now seemed to burn with purpose, also acted as eager as the rest of them to be off and fluttered into the air ahead of the party. Lofting awkwardly into a low tree branch, the pearl white pigeon paused, then launched herself to another tree.

She flew a bit, then scuttled back toward Max, who caught her gently and held her until she was ready to fly again. As they made their way along the street of town houses, carriages rumbled by, bringing members of the ton to and from theater engagements, fкtes, and other events. Despite the hour, hacks and wagons transported members of the lower classes along with their wares, but as Victoria and her companions followed Myza, the streets became less populated, narrower, and more eerie.

They’d been following her stop-and-start rhythm for more than thirty minutes when Myza turned and fluttered back into Max’s large hand. She sat there, neck stretched up, head tilting, looking around, and Victoria found herself nudging her horse up next to them. Her leg brushed against Max’s as she maneuvered near him, watching the bird as she gave a soft, throaty coo.

Suddenly, the soft beat of wings and an answering coo announced the arrival of another pigeon. And then the clip-clop of rapid horses’ hooves as Brim and Michalas appeared from around a corner.

Myza and the new pigeon, who was called Thrush, seemed to be having some sort of avian conversation, and at once, the second bird flew up into the air and began to circle around them. Then it swooped down and nipped Max on the ear, fully gaining his attention and understanding. They would follow the uninjured pigeon, who would receive navigation from Myza.

Making much better time now, the five of them and one pigeon thundered through the streets, following the speedy Thrush away from the more populated areas. Often, Thrush had to stop and circle back, flying just above Max, because the horses had to follow a less convenient route-by road. At last, after more than an hour of hard riding south of the Thames, they reached a small graveyard at the edge of a dark-windowed village.

Black iron spikes fenced the cemetery, studded with masonry columns taller than Max. In the moonlight, what had been bone white stone gleamed from beneath eerie black moss and dirt stains. A stand of trees cast long shadows from the north side of the graveyard, mingling with the gray and ash colors of the headstones.

Thrush circled now, silent as the bats that darted and dodged around with him, sending sweeping black shadows over the horses and their riders. Victoria urged her mount closer to the fence, looking for the gate. It was clear from Myza’s reaction that Wayren was nearby. The pigeon had raised her head, warbling quietly, and attempted to take flight.

Max released her, and the pearly pigeon settled in the low branch of a tree, unable to get enough height with her injured wing to fly over the fence.

As she searched the enclosure, Victoria heard the others separate, some riding in her wake, the others starting in the opposite direction to circle around and meet her. Once she reached the west side of the fence, Victoria saw a small mausoleum near the north side, buried in the thick thrust of shadows.

The hair lifted at the back of her neck-not the same chill that portended the presence of a vampire, but a different, uncomfortable feeling. At the same moment, she came upon a small gate, barely a man’s width if he should move sideways, between two of the stone columns.

She was off her horse as Sebastian thundered up, and he swung himself off to land light-footed on the ground next to her.

One brief glance told them the gate would need to be forced open, or the wall must be scaled. The iron bars were topped with spikes much sharper than necessary for mere decoration; they looked wicked enough to slice through flesh and even bone, given enough force. Forcing the gate would be the most prudent option.

Victoria and Sebastian examined the gate more closely as Max and the other two Venators rode up, having circled the rest of the graveyard.

“No other entrance,” Max said. “It’ll have to be here. Any undead?” Of course, he could no longer sense the presence of a vampire, unlike the rest of them.

“No,” Victoria replied, stepping away from the gate to look around. Her attention focused on their target: the low, squat building cloaked in shadows only fifty yards away. “But something. Something…” Her voice trailed off, and she paused as she drew in a breath.

No.

She sniffed again, and her stomach pinched. An unmistakable scent of malignance and death simmered under that of moist peat and horse sweat.

Victoria looked up and met Max’s eyes, then looked at Brim. The tall, ebony-skinned man who wore his vis bulla through the corner of an eyebrow had lifted his head as if to scent something on the air as well. He nodded and looked at her, his dark eyes black pits.

Demons.

Not every Venator could sense the presence of fallen angels, or demons, but Victoria and Brim were both capable of recognizing the malevolent scent that lurked beneath everything else.

They would need swords along with stakes, then, for demons had to be beheaded in order to be completely destroyed. Being prepared for any eventuality, the Venators had armed themselves not only with stakes, but also with firearms and swords, which hung from the horses’ saddles.

At that moment, a low screech tore Victoria’s attention to Sebastian and Michalas, who’d used their Venator strength to work an iron hinge loose from its hasp embedded in the masonry. As they pushed, the long-abandoned gate creaked and moaned as they worked to free it. When Brim, the bulkiest of them all, added his muscle, the gate gave another long, low moan as it bent nearly double. Still attached by a lower hinge and by its heavy metal bolt on the opposite side, the gate had now been rendered impotent and scalable.

After retrieving the sword from her saddle and buckling it around her waist, Victoria scrambled over first, using Sebastian’s offered hand for stability. As she slid down to the other side, she eyed the mausoleum, watching for any sign of movement.

All was quiet except for the faint shuffles of the others as they joined her inside the cemetery wall.

Victoria stepped toward the building, and as she drew closer, more of its details became apparent. The structure stood no taller than the midpoint of a single story, with a low peaked roof and plain, blank sides. Perhaps half the size of a carriage house, the mausoleum was situated with the stand of trees curling around and behind it.

Beneath her feet, the ground was soft and damp, littered with stones and larger rocks, embedded brick boundaries outlining family plots, and tufts of grass poking out. As she drew closer to the building, the faint scent of demons grew more discernible, though not strong enough to clog her nostrils. Something stirred in the air. Not a breeze but… something.

Then she saw it. Above the low pitched roof of the mausoleum, not far above her head: a faint swirl of… fog? Smoke?

No, the threads were too dark for fog. Or smoke.

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard.

Thin clouds of black whispered in and out of the glowering trees, tangling like tendrils of hair above the mausoleum. Circling.

Victoria stopped and felt someone behind her. She turned. It was Sebastian, who was looking up over the mausoleum just as she had. Her heart thudding, she grasped his arm as she waited for the others to draw near.

When they came closer, Victoria sought Max’s gaze in the meandering light. His face held the same arrested expression as hers. “What is it?” she asked, looking at him, but speaking to them all.

Max shook his head, his lips pinched. Sebastian moved closer to her, murmuring, “Whatever it is, it’s not vampire.”

Victoria looked at Brim, whose face was wary. With terse words, she sent him and Michalas around the mausoleum in one direction, and she, Max, and Sebastian went the other way in search of an entrance.

They found it, well cloaked by two overgrown cedars. The door was set half below ground level, accessed by four rough, narrow steps.

Victoria glanced up at the swirling black mass above them. It seemed nebulous, for it hadn’t changed, nor did it seem threatening. But it moved and writhed, barely visible in the shadows of the trees, hovering like an eerie warning over the roof, beneath and among the tree branches.

She shivered. She’d met many demonic and undead threats in her two years as a Venator, but this was particularly disturbing-partly because it was unknown, but also because it was apparent that whatever it was, it had something to do with Wayren.

A shadow appeared close by and had Victoria reaching for her sword, but it was only Brim and Michalas, completing their circuit of the mausoleum.

She noticed that Brim, too, had a hand on the sword at his belt.

Everything was strangely quiet. Tense, and quiet.

Victoria lifted her foot to take the first step down toward the mausoleum door, but Sebastian curled his fingers around her arm and slipped in front of her. She allowed him to without annoyance, for she knew he made the gesture not because she was a woman, but because he loved her. Victoria followed him.

The small alcove at the bottom of the stairs was only large enough for one person to stand, and so of necessity, she remained on the bottom stair, her head level with his as he looked at the door. She watched as his damaged hand, the left one, felt along the solid wood bound by metal, and then heard the soft clunk as he found the iron latch. Victoria felt a shift behind her and realized Max was standing on the step above, towering over them both from his vantage point.

More dull clanks, and a soft creak, and then Sebastian had the latch loosened. The door opened without the reluctant groans of the iron hasp of the gate, indicating that this latch had been used more frequently.

Sebastian glanced up at her as if to ensure everyone was ready, and then returned his attention to the door, pushing gently against it with a widespread hand.

The heavy, metal-bound planks moved reluctantly, and it was so quiet that the faint scrape of wood over the gritty stone floor was audible. Shadows moved above Victoria, changing the faint illumination, and she assumed it was because Brim and Michalas had drawn closer as well.

Then, she realized with sudden horror that the shifting darkness wasn’t from the others gathering closer. She looked up, eyes wide, as the air began to move. She felt it against her cheek, a rising breeze.

The mass of dark clouds above now writhed faster and harder, curling above them, swirling and twisting, sinking like a vortex. It happened so quickly, all at once they were engulfed by the spinning air, the black fog, as it cloaked them in cloying darkness.

Victoria couldn’t see, but she felt Max behind her, grabbing her shoulders from above, her long, thick braid flailing like a whip, and Sebastian suddenly warm and solid in front of her. If anyone spoke or shouted, the sound was snatched up in the whirlwind and destroyed, for all she could hear was a roaring in her ears. The air, cold suddenly, smelled ancient-ancient and deathly, like rotting bones and aged flesh. The chill was unbearable, biting and sharp, stinging her face and skin through the fabric of her clothing.

Black filled her eyes and ears, buffeted against her, pushing and battling her trousers like wind against sails. Something screamed high and long in her ear-or perhaps in her mind. She felt Max hovering over her, touched Sebastian, kept her fingers around the useless sword.

Suddenly, the wind whipped hard enough to rip a tree branch from above, and it crashed down onto the group of them. The branch tumbled away, leaving Victoria scratched and her head aching though she’d not borne the brunt of its weight.

The demonic cloud surged again, louder and darker now. Victoria pushed at Sebastian, shoving him toward the open door even as Max tried to pull her back. She shouted, but couldn’t even hear herself, and so she shoved Sebastian with all of her strength, leaping after him.

Helped by the black gale force, they tumbled down through the door into the mausoleum.