Колин Глисон - Rises the Night

The best of them.

How could he have fooled them all?

Suddenly flames burst from below, diverting her attention from her target. They were tall black and blue flames, replacing the smoke tendrils from the five small bowls. They shot straight up, high into the air, narrow and hot, one column of eerie flame blazing only feet below where Victoria was perched. This was why Nedas had needed the large theater chamber.

The chanting had continued, melding into the background, as Nedas stood inside the circle made from the bowls of flame and began to speak, gesturing with his arms as though to bring the air toward the obelisk. He pulled his fingers through the air gracefully, drawing little buffets of movement toward the small table and its burden as though urging the heat toward it.

Victoria could not understand his words, but she did not need to know what he was saying. She knew what he was doing.

The sweet smell had ebbed, to be replaced by the heat of the flames and the deafening sound of their crackling. Max, Regalado, and the other two vampires stood outside of the circle, watching.

As Victoria looked down, she saw the flames begin to lean toward the center, above Akvan's Obelisk. Nedas continued to chant, surrounded by the black and blue flames that reflected the same color of the evil object, and the columns of flames drew closer and closer together.

At last they knit together as one, at the tip of the obelisk: five ropes of flame merging into one tall blaze that threatened to reach the highest part of the ceiling arching over the stage.

The flames roared, and Victoria could see, directly in front of her, the black and blue twining and writhing like rabid snakes, and feel the heat blazing on her face from yards away.

Akvan's Obelisk began to glow and sweat. Green and blue sparks radiated from it in a random pattern on all sides. Nedas reached out to touch one, and laughed when the spark snapped his finger. On and on he chanted; on the fire blazed; greener and bluer glowed the obelisk. Little beads glistened on the obsidian, trickling down and plopping on the floor.

The entire theater was lit by the weird blue and black flames, casting odd-colored shadows and plays of light everywhere. The vampires in the seats had ceased their chanting and stared at the flames as though desiring to pull their power into themselves.

Now the flames were changing, and large black drops swam down them faster than rain during a downpour. The drops swarmed down the long blazing tower and melted into Akvan's Obelisk, on and on and on.

Victoria noticed a sudden movement below; something odd. She looked over, down, away from the blaze that had captured her attention, and watched in amazement as Max burst through the flames, something long gleaming in his hand.

He tumbled into the circle, rolled upright, and slashed the blade through the obsidian tower in the same wide arc he'd used earlier.

The obelisk sizzled, then exploded, the flames extinguished, and the scream of fury from Nedas reverberated in the suddenly silent theater.

When Max felt the sword connect with Akvan's Obelisk, a rush of pure relief blasted through him.

It was done.

The powerful arc of the sword set him off balance enough that by the time he'd regained his footing, the vampires were rushing toward him.

Max caught a glimpse of a shocked, feral-mouthed Nedas, and fury ripped through him; anger at what he'd done, for what he'd been forced to do by that creature. He whipped around with the sword, which was made of pure silver, and beheaded one of the vampires who'd leaped toward him.

Another one came at him, and he met him with the same, and then another, and another. They were climbing onto the stage from the audience at Nedas's frantic command. There were too many to fight, and he knew it wouldn't be long before they overpowered him, but until then he would use the acrimony of regret and madness to fuel as much revenge as he could.

He'd do what he'd been unable to for nearly a year.

A year—an eternity—of watching these evil creatures—these vampire-loving members of the Tutela—of living with them, jesting with them, pretending to scheme with them, professing love for one of them. He'd had to submerge his loathing and disgust, and some days it was all he could do not to explode.

He had succeeded in his deception. He would die with a clear conscience, and leave Beauregard and Nedas to fight between themselves.

And Victoria to lead the Venators in defeating them both.

The sword sang in his hand, but even with the weapon forged specially to conquer evil, blessed and containing a vial of holy water in its handle, he could not fight them all back. He was too exhausted, both in mind and body, to use his qinggong skills and slip and glide through the air as an Imperial vampire would do.

But his body was conditioned to fight; despite the fact that he knew he would not leave here alive, that he had sealed his death sentence when he first swung the silver sword after the great black sweat began to pour down the obelisk, he kicked and swiped and spun and sliced as though there were hope.

At last he fell, tumbling to the stage floor, and used his legs to thrust at the undead as they lunged down toward him, and then, lying there on his back, struggling to get up, he saw something that made everything else fall away.

Above the stage.

Victoria.

Something slammed into him, bringing him back, and the world tipped, went black, then came back with a vengeance of tearing hands and pummeling fists. And the reality that Victoria was still here.

The sword was gone; he'd dropped it, and he was at the mercy of the undead.

She hadn't listened. After what he'd done, what had been sacrificed, she hadn't done the one thing she needed to do.

Hands were clawing at him, fangs gleaming, red eyes burning. They dragged him to his feet, brought him to stand in front of Nedas in the center of the stage.

At any moment the vampire prince would order him beheaded, or allow the undead to tear into him. They'd never touched him before, even when they weren't sure whether to trust him, because of Lilith's marks. That dubious protection wouldn't save him this time.

And once he was gone, there would be no one to help Victoria.

He looked squarely at Nedas's nose, taking care to stay away from those enthralling eyes.

"How did you know?" Nedas's voice was deceptively smooth and soft. The auditorium had grown silent, watchful. The only sound was Max's rough breathing. "I am the only one who knows how Akvan's Obelisk might be destroyed."

Max dared not look up, though he burned to know where she was, what she was doing. If she had gained her sense and left. He wanted to shout at her to run, to escape. He wanted to shake her until her long white neck snapped.

Instead, he had to focus on Nedas, distract him for as long as he could.

"But it has been destroyed, and not by you." Max's voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. He drew in a deep, fortifying breath and added, "You have obviously miscalculated."

Nedas's hand shot out and closed over Max's throat. Long nails bit into the tender skin on the sides of his neck, and Max felt them puncture his flesh. "Who told you?"

"Was not my presence back with the Tutela a gift to you?" The grasp around his neck made his voice raspy. "Perhaps you ought to look toward the one who offered it."

It took a moment; then Nedas understood.

" Lilith ?" The vampire was so shocked he released Max with a shove, and his head whipped back painfully. "My mother sent a spy to destroy Akvan's Obelisk?"

"Why else would she gift a son such as you?" Max mustered a mocking smile. "She bears as much love for you as you for her. Apparently she has not forgiven you for the incident in Athens."