As Shadows Fade (23 page)

“I couldn't find one, or sense one anywhere, and so I kept looking. I'd found the first nine rather quickly. But then, nothing. At last, I came to a small boarding-house and felt an undead was nearby. I found him. In one of the rooms, sleeping. Just as I staked him, I realized he was—”

“Tied up,” Victoria finished, her heart sinking.

“Tied up,” Brim repeated.

So Antonín was gone.

She glanced toward Týn and nodded slowly.

That, she supposed, was what she deserved for attempting to interfere with divine will.

 

+ + +

The gentle hand on his shoulder brought Max to reality.

He blinked, focused, swallowed, then breathed. A long, shuddering, deep breath.

The stones beneath his knees had long ceased paining him, but the moment he moved, the agony screamed along his joints. His legs felt leaden at first, and then as he moved them, nasty prickles traveled up and down and into his buttocks and down into his toes.

Colored light beams of red, blue, and gold glowed in the massive church nave, shining through stained glass and spilling over the altar and arches and pews. By their angle, he surmised dusk was near.

The end of the third day.

Always knowing, always perceptive, Wayren had touched his shoulder to draw him from the deep meditation, then eased away to allow him time to come back to himself. Now he turned and saw her sitting in a pew beneath a low arch, where the only illumination was a few alms candles. For a moment, he saw a definite shimmer of light around her in the dusky church, and then it was gone.

He moved stiffly next to her and sat for the first time in three days.

“You're here,” he said.

“I am indeed.”

“Do we have the third ring?”

She gave a brief nod. “We do. Now to finish here and retrieve the other two from Lilith.”

He couldn't think about that now. Not yet. One moment at a time. One task at a time.

Wayren seemed to understand, and she touched his hand, her fingers soft and cool against his rough ones. A surge of power sleeked through him. Power and peace. “You're feverish. Are you ill?”

He shrugged. “I've been. A bit.”

She offered him a flask of water, and he drank. He'd never tasted anything more pure, more cold and clean. The heat burning through his limbs eased, but it still raged beneath. He was ill and bloody weak. Yet he had work to do.

“Did you ask Ylito what he thought?”

Wayren nodded. “He agrees you should not remove the
vis bulla
during the battle. There is no reason to, and yours is a special situation. Never have we had a Venator need to pass another Trial, wearing his own
vis bulla.
You do have your own original one, don't you?”

Max shoved away the memory of the exchange with Victoria, when she had returned his
vis bulla,
which she'd secretly been wearing, and he had given her back her own. Which he'd been wearing. “Yes.” He looked at Wayren. “Did you discuss with him the other matter?”

“He agrees it would do no harm to try, Max. Normally, of course, we have the blood from the vampire waiting, with the
vis bulla
soaking in holy water. After the vampire is dead, then the
vis
is taken from the holy water and dipped in the dead vampire's blood and then pierced through the flesh of the Venator. That is when the truth will out: either death or life as a Venator.

“But in your case, since you already wear the
vis,
Ylito believes you may be able to miss that step and finish the Trial sooner. We'll pour holy water on the amulet before the battle. If blood from the vampire is wiped on the
vis
during the battle, it may indeed reactivate your Venator powers.”

“Or it may not.”

“Or it may not.”

Either way, the result would be the same. If it was meant to happen, it would happen, whether during the battle with the vampire, or after.

Max knew he didn't want to kill a vampire only to die afterward.

He didn't want to die at all, he realized, for the first time in a long time. For the first time since he could remember.

But he might. And he was prepared. He stood. “I'm ready.”

+ Fourteen +

The Trial Commenced

When he walked in,
Max didn't look at Victoria.

She supposed she wasn't surprised—after all, this was Max.

But what if he never came out of that pit again? What if this was the last time she'd see him? And he wouldn't look at her.

Victoria dug her fingers into the palm of her hand and tried not to notice how gray he looked in the face, beneath his dusky olive skin. How exhaustion pinched his mouth and lined his eyes. A sheen of moisture glazed his forehead and cheeks. Was he ill or simply worn down?

He moved easily, yet lacking the grace she was used to seeing from a man who could waltz like a creek flowing over rocks, or lift his feet and glide through the air while wielding a sword as though it were an extension of his arm.

She assumed he wore nothing but his breeches for safety purposes—for the same reason she'd cut her hair: to give his opponent nothing to grab on to—but for the moment, the sight of his square shoulders and powerful arms made her mouth dry. The
vis bulla
at his areola shone against dark skin and the hair on his muscular chest that arrowed down his belly. His feet, bare and wide and brown, moved silently across the room, taking him past her. She saw the brand of the Tutela on the back of his shoulder, a stylized, wiry canine burned into his flesh in an unforgiving reminder of his youthful mistake. He carried a stake. And as she watched, he poured a small vial of water—holy water, probably—over the silver
vis,
then drank long and deeply from a skin that Wayren handed him.

Victoria knew better than to speak, to move toward him. But couldn't he even look toward her for a moment so she could let him see how much she loved him?

Her fingers tightened against the trousers she wore, her knuckles scraping over rough wood. A splinter shot into the tender skin there, but she welcomed the discomfort. A distraction.

Brim sat on one side of her, and though they weren't touching, she felt compassion radiating from him. On the other sat Sebastian, stiff and removed.

Just in front of where they sat on rough wooden benches, an iron grate rose from ceiling to floor, separating them from a shallow ditch. Lit by a torch at either end of the elliptical space, the gated space reminded Victoria of a shallow version of the pit into which Lilith had thrown her less than two months ago. Then, it had been Max who sat helplessly and watched as she fought for her life…and then for the life of Sara Regalado.

Victoria didn't know how or when Wayren had arranged for the Trial to be here in this abandoned building. It didn't matter. What mattered now was the large, scar-jawed vampire who paced in the space, waiting for Max to join him.

The vampire happened to be the one Victoria had lured out of the tavern last night—so very different from the creature she'd hoped Max would face. He was a Guardian; she'd been right about that, damn it. And because of the games the Venators had played the night before, they'd either scared off many of the undead or whittled their numbers down to nearly nothing…and this tall, strong undead had been the only one they'd been able to find for the Trial.

The next thing she knew, Max clanged the grate's door open and jumped down the shallow incline, his stake black and lethal in his hand. He landed with a bit of a stumble, catching himself, and Victoria closed her eyes.

Three days of fasting and lack of sleep…no
vis bulla…
How could he be anything but weak and slow?

But he'd done this before.

Her eyes had opened, and she watched, trying not to wonder what Max thought about being on display for them all. Whether he was aware of anything but the powerful undead he faced.

Beyond the grate, she saw a blur of motion. Victoria found it hard to tell who launched first, but both were fighting for their lives.

And only one would walk through that gate.

Victoria found it a small consolation that, should the undead be the one to do so, she'd meet him there with her stake.

 

+ + +

As always when he fought, Max cut everything from his mind, his awareness—everything but the battle. The hand to hand, the strikes, the rhythm, the timing.

Despite the fever that burned beneath his skin and parched his tongue, the exhaustion that wanted to weight his limbs and slow his movements, he met the vampire's assault readily.

Draw blood first.

He swiped viciously, but the undead dodged and slammed Max against the iron grate. It clanged loudly, echoing in the space, and Max whirled around just as the powerful vampire launched at him, eyes burning pink.

A bloody Guardian. A large one.

The room spun around Max, spewing dots of lights before his eyes, but he surged up and toward the vampire, slicing the stake's point at his face, along his arm. Not deep enough. No blood yet.

Not enough strength, even, to lift himself through the air in
qinggong.

Look away from the eyes.

Max ducked another assault, hooking the creature's leg to pull him off balance. He was damn big, and frighteningly strong, and he fell hard. But he pulled Max with him, slamming his head against the dirt floor. Something pinged at the back of his skull, but then Max felt the vampire move with him, grabbing for him, and he kicked him off.

Free from the deadly weight, he rolled over and surged unsteadily to his feet. He sliced up and out again, catching the vampire's hand in a deep gouge. Bright red blood spilled at last, but as Max swiped his right hand toward it, the undead slammed him in the stomach.

The stake fell from his hand as everything ceased. The world stopped, darkened, became nothing but a desperate fight to pull a breath back in. Even the strong hands at his shoulders…the hand pulling roughly, jerking his head aside to bare his neck…they were barely more than dreams as he struggled…to…breathe…

Pull…it…in…

God…

The pink eyes came close. Fangs gleamed, Max couldn't move. His lungs wouldn't move. The fever made his body shake weakly even as it fought for air. The pink eyes burned, beckoning, trying to lure him in.

Then Max gasped a bit, and with a sudden whoosh, the oxygen flooded his lungs, and renewed strength swept over him. The vampire lunged down, and Max whipped himself around, twisting to the side and using his momentum to bring the vampire with him. Slamming him to the ground, Max twisted and reached for the streaming blood on the vampire's hand.

But instead of blood, he found only dirt. He leapt to his feet, bracing himself to face the vampire once again.

They squared off against each other, breathing heavily. Max tried to ignore the floor tilting beneath his feet, the trembling in his fingers and knees, the heat burning through his body, the shimmering lights before his eyes.

But the fever sapped his strength even more, and he found it difficult to draw breaths.

He was not going to bloody die.

 

+ + +

What the hell was he doing?

Sebastian had seen more than five missed opportunities to slam the stake into that vampire's chest…but Pesaro hadn't taken any of them.

Instead, he swiped at him.
Swiped.
At the face, the arm, the hand.

Was he
trying
to die?

Sebastian divided his attention between Pesaro—who, for all his obvious weakness, still showed more skill than he would have expected—and Victoria, who sat like stone next to him.

If Sebastian was wondering what had addled Pesaro's brain, she had to be thinking the same. Or worse.

Suddenly Sebastian realized he didn't know whether he wanted the man to succeed or fail.

Now Max's stake lay on the floor of the shallow ditch, out of reach, and the vampire was barely wounded, flinging blood with his every movement.

Sebastian felt his own heart racing, energy surging through his own veins as man and undead clashed again. The room was silent but for the slap of flesh against flesh, of grunts and groans, and the occasional dull clang against the iron grate.

Pesaro made a sudden move and shoved the vampire off him, then followed with a well-placed kick. Sebastian watched, waited for him to scoop up the stake and slam it into the open chest, but again, instead of doing so, Max moved forward with his bare hand as though to touch the undead.

He staggered away, his hand red with vampire blood, and the undead surged toward him again. Pesaro blocked him, but the creature came after him again and slammed him to the ground. They fell in a tangle, Max's head crashing into the iron bars as they tumbled onto the floor with an ugly thud. Sebastian heard the dull clang, and an uncomfortable chill washed over him when Pesaro didn't move.

The vampire struggled to his feet, and Max shifted slightly. His eyes opened. Sebastian saw those dark eyes look toward them for the first time; he saw the way they moved over Victoria. She tensed next to him. He could feel her gathering herself up and he heard the soft gasp. She read Max's expression as well as he did.

It all happened so quickly after that. The vampire moved, fangs bared and eyes burning pink; Pesaro lay still, one hand splayed over his chest as though to protect it and the other curled up behind and beneath him. His stake lay out of reach against the wall.

Sebastian knew what was going to happen—he knew it, but couldn't believe it—and he did the only thing he could do.

As the vampire launched himself for the fatal strike, Sebastian pulled Victoria toward him and smashed a kiss onto her lips.

+ Fifteen +

In Which Our Heroine Finds Herself

Between a Rocky Wall and a Hard Place

By the time Victoria
extricated herself from Sebastian, it was over.

She shoved him away, stunned and furious, and terrified by what she'd missed. In the back of her mind, she knew what he'd meant to do—to distract her from seeing the final blow, shield her from the last strike.