The resulting crash had been enough to jar and shock, but not enough to injure. She wondered if that had been the intent.
Or, she wondered again, had this all been a way to distract her while Sara and George went after Max—after ascertaining that he hadn’t been lying in wait to help Victoria?
If either one of them were vampires, they wouldn’t be able to get to Max inside Aunt Eustacia’s house, because they wouldn’t be able to enter. But if one of them wasn’t, they could go in after him . . . if indeed that was the intent.
She knew that Kritanu and Barth, along with a feisty Verbena, could easily handle one or two nonvampires that might try to break into the house.
Of course, Max would have been able to handle any such threat on his own . . . if she hadn’t drugged him.
Victoria ignored the niggle of guilt in favor of the larger matter at hand. Was it that simple? Was all this merely to grab Max for Lilith? Or was there something else going on?
Maybe Max didn’t figure at all into any of the reasons for these attacks, or the daytime vampire. Maybe she was focusing her attention in the wrong place. After all, she’d been the target of Bemis Goodwin—although there was no definite connection between him and the Tutela, only Max’s recollection of a vampire sympathizer named Goodwin.
Maybe Max was the daytime vampire himself.
That was patently ridiculous.
“We’ll have to get help to pull ’er back out,” James said, scratching his head in a way that a London gentleman never would. “Guess that won’ be until tomorrow.”
“Sebastian and Brodebaugh could do it, I venture,” Victoria said. She waved the two men over, and with their combined efforts—especially Sebastian’s vis bulla power—it took only moments before the carriage was righted again.
Then she and Sebastian looked at each other. “Do you feel any other undead?” he asked privately.
She grimaced. “You still sense my presence?” He nodded. But that was neither here nor there at this time. “I don’t feel any undead about any longer. And I don’t know what happened to George and Sara. But, somehow, we must get James, Brodebaugh, and Gwen home safely. I don’t trust this situation.”
“Starcasset whipped his horses into speed as soon as your vehicle fell,” Sebastian told her. “I saw them dash off, and from the looks of it, they aren’t coming back.”
“We can’t all fit in one carriage. I sent Kritanu and Barth back to my house.” She wasn’t ready to give him a full explanation, and, to his credit, Sebastian didn’t ask.
“Perhaps it would be best if I took the marquess home, and you could go with Gwendolyn and her earl.” Sebastian’s casual suggestion threatened a smile from Victoria.
She couldn’t hold it back and looked up at him teasingly.“Is that because you don’t trust the marquess in the moonlight . . . or me?”
That surprised a smile out of Sebastian. “He can try anything he likes. . . . I have no concerns that the big, uncivilized oaf might charm you blind, Victoria. He’s not man enough for you.” He looked at her slyly, his smile suddenly hot and promising there in the moonlight. “I miss being with you.”
“Victoria!”
Gwen’s voice broke into the moment, and Victoria wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved. Sebastian would not be held off much longer . . . and tonight . . . well, tonight, she just wasn’t sure if she was up to it. Although . . . Sebastian was quite adept at distraction of the most pleasant type. An unwilling smile tugged at her lips . . . then faded as she worried again about Max. “Yes, Gwen?”
“Are you going to tell me what happened?” her friend was all aflutter—apparently the shock of the attack had worn off, and what she’d seen had at last penetrated. “Who those people were? Why their eyes were so odd?”
Oh, how Victoria wished for her Aunt Eustacia’s golden disk! The one that was able to pull select memories from the minds of people who shouldn’t know about the presence of the undead. Which was most of the world.
“What am I going to tell her?” She looked at Sebastian, and he must have read her mind.
“I’ll see them home. You can ride with the marquess and ensure his safe return. Poor devil. I almost pity him in any endeavor he might make.” His grin flashed, cocksure and sexy.
That was good—St. Heath’s Row was closer to home. She could drop James off and then hurry back to Aunt Eustacia’s to see if Max was all right.
“Thank you for taking Gwen home. You spin a better yarn than I do, and I’m sure she’ll fall for whatever tale you choose to paint,” she said, smiling prettily at Sebastian.
“Flattery, my dear, will get you everywhere with me.” He pulled her into his arms, strong and warm, fitting his mouth possessively over hers.
The kiss was long enough that it caught at her breath, so that when he released her, she had to drag in a deep gulp of air. It had been a lovely, perfect melding of lips and tease of tongue, rife with the promise of much more to come.
And, of course, it had been Sebastian’s clear message to James Lacy that Victoria was spoken for.
Seventeen
Wherein the Smell of Roses Portends an Unpleasant Evening
Victoria realized, of course, that she still hadn’t identified the daytime vampire . . . and that the man sitting next to her in the scraped-up, creaking curricle could very well be the undead in question.
It could also be George, Sara, or any one or all of them.
She didn’t really believe it was Max, but he’d taught her to consider all possibilities.
Oh God. Max.
Victoria realized she was curling her fingernails into her palms. She didn’t like to imagine the way he’d look at her the next time she saw him—if indeed she ever did. When she’d made the decision to give him the salvi, it had been a single-minded, tunneled response to a very simple, real fear.
She could not bear for Lilith to have him again. Victoria had never been able to erase the memory, seeing him—always so powerful, so arrogant and in control— under that creature’s domination. Bare-chested, kneeling at Lilith’s side, a submissive Max with empty eyes and no will of his own . . . then the way he had jerked helplessly, convulsing, his torso shuddering as the vampire queen bent to sink her teeth into his neck. And drink.
The image haunted her.
And now, he was free—free of a hold Victoria knew she couldn’t begin to comprehend. Even though he was still brusque and arrogant and commanding, she’d noticed an easing in his face, a lessening of the darkness in his eyes. A few more smiles, even. Being released from the vampire queen’s thrall had—not softened him; that wasn’t the word. Max wasn’t soft in any sense of the word.
He’d become . . . easier. Just a bit easier.
“Would you like a rose?”
James’s voice broke into Victoria’s thoughts, and she realized the carriage had traveled from the park and was now rolling along the street. Other vehicles filled the thoroughfare, and ladies and gentlemen walked along arm in arm, likely returning from Vauxhall or Covent Gardens.
There was a young woman hawking roses on the corner. Victoria had never noticed street vendors about at night—although orange sellers and the like were thick in this area during the day. But how enterprising of the woman to take advantage of couples out for an evening in the Gardens, or other less innocent assignations.
James hadn’t waited for her response; he guided the curricle over to the side of the street. The young woman stood under a lantern, where its light gleamed over her blonde hair. Victoria might have been worried for her safety, there on the street by herself, despite the number of other people about. But when she noticed the hulking silhouette of a man propped against a building behind her, her fears eased.
“Which one would you like, my lady?” asked the girl, thrusting the bunch of roses in her face.
As Victoria leaned forward to select one of the blooms, two things happened: she realized that the back of her neck had chilled, and something sprayed in her face from the midst of the flowers.
She groped for her stake, but it was too late. The sickly sweet smell that had been atomized into her face filled her nostrils and seared the inside of her mouth and throat. She coughed, shaking her head, feeling the increased chill at the back of her neck, struggled to keep her fingers around the stake . . . saw the dark figure from the building move into the lantern light . . . and then everything went black.
Max forced himself to sit, unmoving. If he dared rise again, he feared what he’d do—to the room, to the furnishings, to the locked and barred door, to himself.
He kept his mind focused on inane things—counting the lines in the wood-planked floor, the number of neat pleats on the ruffles around the pillow on the bed that had been made so bloody comfortable for him.
A prisoner.
Every time he allowed his thoughts even to start in that direction, his stomach tightened and dangerous bile burned the back of his throat. He couldn’t let himself think about why she’d done it . . . or even the fact that she had.
Locked him here. A prisoner.
He knew why.
Oh, he knew why, and the fact that he did made it all the more disgusting and loathsome.
Bad enough that she’d broken his trust . . . but even worse—so damned much worse—was that she’d felt the need to do it.
He forced his attention to the pattern of rosebud wallpaper on the wall and began to count the blooms.
The salvi had not completely relinquished its hold on him, or so it seemed . . . for he began to feel heavy-lidded in the eyes and weary in the muscles.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the bed.
And Wayren was there.
She stood in the small room, tall and serene. Her beautiful elfin face bore traces of concern and also a hint of challenge. Thick silver-blonde hair hung, for once, unfettered by small braids or leather thongs. Simple, straight, melding into the pale gold of her gown, which seemed almost to glow. Her whole person seemed almost to glow. “Why do you fight it, Max?”
