Колин Глисон - Rises the Night

To Mom, for absolutely everything

As always, I'm thankful to be able to work with such a wonderful, talented, and supportive group of people who believe in the Gardella books.

Many thanks to Marcy Posner, for holding my hand and always believing in me and my work, and helping to make my dreams come true.

I'm so grateful, too, to be working with Claire Zion on this and other books—thanks for always "getting" what I'm trying to do, no matter how clumsy it might be, and helping me make it better. Also, big thanks to Kara Welsh for believing in this series and supporting it, and to Tina Brown for always being so patient. I'm so appreciative of everyone at NAL for everything behind the Gardella books, especially the art department, for creating the most fabulous covers ever, and the marketing and sales staff, who help to get my stories out there.

Once again, I have big hugs for the women of the Wet Noodle Posse, who are always there to celebrate the ups and downs of this business, and to Holli and Tammy for plodding through each chapter and watching me tear my hair out. Thanks also to Jana, Janet, Delle, Mary, Christel, Kelly, Larry Y, Danita, and Bam.

And, finally, much love to my family.

One month after she lost her husband, Victoria took to the streets of London.

In the darkest part of night, whilst the rest of the city was safely tucked away and the bulk of Society had repaired to the country for hunting season, Victoria Gardella Grantworth de Lacy, Marchioness of Rockley, strode alone through the slum known as Seven Dials.

Dullness permeated her bones. Dispassion and numbness, laced with deep, gnawing grief and rage, caused her limbs to move soldierlike, one foot in front of the other. It was not only in deference to her status of mourning that she wore black from head to toe, but also to allow her to meld with the shadows, in and out, to be seen if she wished to be seen; to become one with the darkness if she did not.

She wore men's clothing for ease of movement and because they smelled like her husband. She also wore them as a silent protest against the strictures of Society that demanded she sit in her dark-swathed home and do nothing for a twelvemonth. Her lips curled humorlessly at the thought of what the ton's matrons would say if they only knew.

The beaver topper, tall enough to tuck her thick braid up into, had also been Phillip's. She had smelled his rosemary-scented pomade on it when she first placed it on her head. Now the comforting, familiar, painful scent was lost in the stench of horse droppings, human waste, and other refuse that littered the streets of one of London's worst neighborhoods.

These streets were narrow and close, with buildings built barely a man's width apart. Windows were fairly nonexistent, and every other structure had hanging shutters or sagging doors, or both. Carriages and even hacks were a rarity, especially in the early hours of the morning, when it was still dark and the ruffians and thugs were on the prowl for an unsuspecting mark.

Victoria knew she would not find vampires to hunt tonight. They had all fled the city with their queen, Lilith, a month ago.

No, Victoria did not expect to find an undead to stake tonight, but she wanted to. Oh, she wanted to. She needed to.

She needed to feel the blood coursing through her body again, the blood that felt as though it had slowed to a crawl and sat, stewing, like a scum-covered pond, in her veins. She needed to move, to exert, to feel again. She needed revenge.

She needed absolution.

Victoria turned the corner and immediately ducked into the shadow of the old brick building she skirted. Across what passed for a street in this area of London, she saw two figures.

One, a tall, burly man. The other, a slender young woman; a girl, really, for she barely reached the man's armpit. The half-moon stippled light over the street and illuminated them quite well. Victoria could see that the girl was frightened, pleading, struggling… whilst the man, using the ease of his bulk and height, manhandled her against the wall, holding her by the throat as he groped her breasts, tearing away the bodice of her dress. Her small hands pulled and scratched at his hairy arms, alternately trying to cover herself, pull his hand from her neck, and bat his other hand away.

Victoria glanced around as she let herself into the light, easing from the shadows. There was no one in the vicinity; whether the girl had been brought here by the man, or whether she'd become lost on her own, it appeared as though there was no one to help. She whipped off Phillip's hat and let the long braid fall along her spine. She wanted him to know a woman was going to bring him to his knees.

Ignoring the stake in her deep inside coat pocket, and disdaining the knife she had strapped to her thigh, Victoria walked up behind the man, silent as a cat, and gave a powerful kick to the base of his back.

With a cry of rage he spun, his meaty hand still closed around the girl's neck… until he saw who'd accosted him. He released the girl, who slumped to the ground, and reached for Victoria.

She was ready for him. The blood was moving in her, her hands poised, her knees bent to give her stability, just as Kritanu had taught her. The rage she'd swallowed for weeks bubbled to the surface. Her breathing quickened.

The man spared her a nasty smile, then lunged. Lithe and swift, Victoria waited until the last moment and sidestepped him, grabbing his outstretched arm and using the force of his weight to propel him around, her braid flying. The tiny vis bulla she wore gave her the same superior strength and speed as the undead she was used to fighting, and enabled her to slam a man thrice her weight face-first into the brick wall.

He crashed into it with a satisfying "oomph," but Victoria was not finished with him; she was not ready to contain her exploding emotions. Ignoring the wide-eyed look of the young girl, who'd slunk off to the side and away from the activity, she whipped the would-be rapist back around. Her nerves zinged with energy, her breath came in deep, drawing gasps, her vision edged red as she slammed a fist into his cheek. He stumbled, but righted himself and, with a guttural cry of fury, swung an arm that was thicker than her thigh.

Victoria blocked him with one strong, slim limb, and used her other fist to smash toward his face. His expression blared surprise and shock, but he ducked her blow and bent, spinning, then rose with a blade in his hands.

The world slowed to a crawl and raced ahead at the same time.

Victoria remembered smiling, remembered the feeling of contentment that settled so calmly over her as she reached for her own knife. She recalled the ease with which she withdrew it from the garter on the outside of her trousers, the feel of it in her palm… not so unlike the weight and thickness of a stake. An ash stake.

It was like coming home. It was like being released from some deep, dark confine. She burst free.

She thrust and sliced and slashed. Images burned in her mind as she flowed in and out of the positions Kritanu had taught her, the ones that had become second nature to her in the last months. The memories—of Phillip, of Lilith, of the myriads of red-eyed vampires she'd fought—all melded, intermingled with this attacker's face, still frozen in shock and then pain… and then emptiness.

Emptiness.

It wasn't until she raised her arm to strike yet again and saw the dull red streak of blood over the tendons of her hand that Victoria came back.