Колин Глисон - Bleeding Dusk

Perhaps he’d been staying here all along, all these months, and Victoria could have contacted Sebastian if she’d been able to find this building again…but it was a moot point now.

She was here, and vengeance was on her mind. Blood pounded in her temples and reverberated in her chest as she moved along, flush with the wall, gun and stake within easy reach. The back of her neck had been chilled for quite some time, and she guessed there were a good number of undead nearby, doubtless fawning at the feet of Beauregard.

The passageway was cold and dark and very narrow. It occurred to her as she stayed far behind Sebastian that she had spent an inordinate amount of time sneaking, running, or being chased through deep, dank tunnels since she’d become a Venator. That was one of the hazards of hunting the undead, but it was becoming rather predictable. Stalking a vampire? Follow him underground. Searching for the undead? Look in a dark, damp cave. Seeking a potentially evil artifact? Follow a tunnel to find it.

These absurd thoughts served to distract Victoria and tame her urge to barrel ahead and confront Sebastian. If she showed herself, or was discovered too early, it would make things much more difficult. When outnumbered, as she surely was, Victoria preferred to have the element of surprise on her side.

It also occurred to her as she paused at a corner that, for as powerful a vampire as Beauregard was, his accommodations were rather primitive. She discovered close, dark corridors, rough walls, scattered stones underfoot, and more than one swath of clinging cobwebs that brushed her face and hair.

A rat scuttled near her foot; no, there were two of them; but Victoria didn’t react even when she felt the brush of a small furry body against the hem of her skirt. Rats coexisted with Beauregard? She couldn’t imagine Lilith—or even Regalado—putting up with such an affront.

But when she finally heard voices ahead and slunk her way along the dirty wall to peer around the last corner, Victoria had to revise her private thoughts. The wall that she came upon ended in a neat doorway that appeared to be covered by some kind of tapestry; it wafted back into place, indicating that Sebastian had just slipped through there. So she sneaked forward and pushed away just a corner of the cloth in order to peer in.

Beauregard’s lair, instead of being simple and inelegant, was as nicely apportioned as Lady Winnie’s parlor—albeit a bit less lacy. Rugs covered the floor. Candles and lamps shimmered from sconces and tables and shoulder-height candelabra. The ceiling was surprisingly high, nearly as tall as men of Max’s height. The furnishings included a harpsichord, and were of fine dark wood and plump brocaded upholstery. A large wooden door on the opposite side of the chamber told Victoria that Sebastian had led her to the hidden rear entrance to the room. Based on the size and strength of the other door—not to mention the frigidness on the back of her neck—she presumed Beauregard had friends located on the other side of that main entrance.

Inside the room two fair heads, one the color of wheat, the other more of a lion’s-mane shade, but both with the same thick curls, were bent over a table examining what looked like a single piece of paper.

Victoria chose that moment to step fully into the room. “It appears that I have yet another grievance to air with you, Beauregard.”

To her immense satisfaction, both of their heads snapped up in surprise. Sebastian’s face wore a frozen, chagrined look, rather like the one he’d had when she’d found him in the Consilium. But Beauregard…after the initial shock evaporated, his was replaced by a sly, pleased expression that made the hair on Victoria’s scalp lift.

“Welcome, my dear, welcome to my humble abode.” Beauregard made a sweeping gesture, inviting her in.

Victoria moved past the tapestry door, taking care to keep her back to the wall so there wouldn’t be any nasty surprises creeping up behind her. She remained calm and focused, reining in the fury that vibrated through her muscles and veins. One step at a time.

“How did you get here?”

Sebastian’s voice drew Victoria’s attention to him. He was all too appealing in the flattering candlelight, with a boyish curl falling on his forehead and that guilty expression on his face. But before she could speak, Beauregard interrupted. “I presume she found her way here the same way in which her paramour—Zander, Zavier, what was his name?—did. Surely he gave her the direction.” He smiled, now looking directly at her. His eyes were still a normal shade of blue, and his fangs were out of sight, but Victoria was properly wary. “Or perhaps you recalled your stay here last autumn, before all of that unpleasantness occurred.”

“Unpleasantness?” Victoria said, refusing to look at Sebastian. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. “I rather thought you welcomed the destruction of Nedas and the thwarting of his plan to activate Akvan’s Obelisk. After all, it put you in a much greater position of power.”

Beauregard bowed his head in acquiescence. “Indeed it did.”

“If this is a battle of wits, you shall find yourself overmatched. In fact, I rather think you might find yourself overmatched on all counts.” She allowed him to see the stake in the hand at her side.

“Well, then, if that is the case, let us get to business. I trust you’re aware that I’ve returned your possession, and thus you’ve come to return that which is mine.”

“I have your copper armband, if that’s what you mean,” she replied. “But you’ve yet to return that which you took from me.”

“Did he not make his way back? I do hope Gardriel and Hugh weren’t too rough with him.”

He? Then, with a cool rush of understanding, she realized that Beauregard didn’t have the splinter necklace she’d lost, but that he’d been referring to Zavier all along. Or what was left of him. What had happened to Zavier had been purposeful and malevolent violence meant to send her a message.

Her head pounded as anger surged anew, setting her fingers to trembling in her effort to keep from attacking now.

Victoria drew in a steady breath and glanced at Sebastian, who was watching them sharply. She had no illusions about which side he would take…and she was glad she had a gun.

“He must have been in no condition to tell you how to find us then,” Beauregard was saying. He’d stepped from behind the table and moved casually toward her, the piece of paper they’d been examining curling in his hand. “So you came upon us quite by accident.”

Victoria’s attention was caught, no doubt as he’d intended, by the piece of parchment he gently wafted against his leg. It reminded her of the journal Max had taken from the laboratory at Villa Palombara.

The journal that had been taken back to the Consilium.

Her attention flew to Sebastian, and their eyes met.

“Let me see that paper.”

The alacrity with which Beauregard proffered it to her confirmed her suspicions before she even glanced at it, but she did take a moment to examine the single page. Then she looked back at Sebastian. “A coward and a thief.”

He met her gaze boldly, and for that she had to give him credit. But that was all.

“It was a necessity, Victoria. A matter of life and death.”

“Damn you, and your excuses,” she said, the darkness of anger closing in on the edges of her vision. She’d actually begun to trust him, to believe in him. To let him close. “Damn you, and your grandfather too, Sebastian Vioget.” She turned to Beauregard. “And you nearly killed Zavier—merely to turn my attention away, so you could send your grandson to do your dirty work.”

Beauregard smiled at her. “By the devil, you’re quick, my dear. Quick to understand, quick to judge, quick to blame. And quite appetizing when you’re angry.”