She didn’t respond for a moment, and perhaps he sensed her weakening—after all, it was merely a kiss…and she would keep her stake poised and ready. And if his lips were on hers, that meant his fangs weren’t at her neck—or delving into any other area of her flesh. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d kissed a vampire.

“One kiss,” she said at last, feeling the slam of her heart. “And I keep my stake between us.”

“If it will make you feel better,” he said, stepping toward her almost before she was ready.

His strong fingers closed over her shoulders, his head with the silvery blond curls bent toward her, the shadow in his cleft chin deepening. She rested her candle hand over his shoulder, kept the stake between them, and lifted her face, closing her eyes.

She started at the strangeness when his mouth touched hers, when she felt the bizarre sensation of one warm, soft lip and one cold, firm one closing over her own. Cool and hot, slick and soft…the myriad of sensations flooded her, and her head tipped back even more.

The hand holding the stake between them was smashed between their torsos; Beauregard’s hand slid up from the back of her neck, which was still freezing cold, and his fingers worked up into the base of her simple braid. Victoria was kissing him back, tasting the warmth and wetness, feeling the slide of lip to lip, the pull between them, the pressure of her mask’s edge cutting into her cheek. He moved, pulling slowly away, and suddenly she felt a scrape, a tingle over her lower lip, and then the warm iron of blood.

Beauregard had her head cupped in his hands, and he held her there, his mouth fixed on hers, the gentle sucking at her lower lip tugging through her body, spiraling down into her middle, curling warmly between her legs. She twisted her face, tearing away, bringing her stake hand up as he released her, stepping back.

His chest was moving up and down, and he looked at her, his fangs gleaming like blue-white daggers. “By Lucifer’s blood,” he murmured.

She would have lunged toward him, but he held up a hand. “I will give your message to Sebastian.” Then he eased into the shadows. She heard the last remnants of his voice as it faded: “It has been a pleasure, Victoria. I look forward to doing so again.”

She was alone.

Instead of turning her back on the place where Beauregard had disappeared, she edged along the plaster wall of the alley, back the way she’d come, keeping her attention behind and in front of her while she tried to pull her heartbeat back under control. Blood still dripped down her lip from the little nip he’d given her. If there were any other vampires nearby, they might sense the blood and come looking for its source.

She’d be ready.

She came to the end of the alley and saw, in the distance, the yellow glow of the moccoletti oozing onto the walls of the next block. The back of her neck was still cold, but not frigid, not as if a vampire were very close. But there were some in proximity, perhaps a few streets away. She wondered where Zavier was, if he’d found some undead. One thing was certain: She’d never find him again tonight. She was on the hunt on her own.

But as she moved away from the protective shadows of the alley, she realized someone was watching her. Slipping her hand into her deep pocket, she closed her fingers around the kadhara’s handle and walked briskly back toward the Corso. It must be near midnight, and with the new moon the Corso and its surrounding streets would soon be dark and full of drunken revelers.

Ripe for a vampire’s plunder.

The crazed noise of the festival seemed to have, if it was even possible, grown louder during Victoria’s absence from the candlelit streets. As she rejoined the crowd, she no longer needed the taper in her hand, for she was surrounded by soft light again, and then drawn into the flow of revelers and their shouts of “Senza moccolo!”

Wading through the crowd, Victoria felt isolated. She blew out her candle, and she alone was silent and watchful as the rest of Rome, or so it seemed, shouted and pushed about her. Positioned in the midst of the throngs, she stood apart, alert for danger or the emergence of malice on a night of festivity, alone in the knowledge that there was much more to their world than these others could comprehend, more than even the evil of their mortal counterparts.

A Venator—one who would never wholly be part of that world again.

The sudden deep tolling of bells from every church in the vicinity startled Victoria, for though the crowd was deafening, the funereal sound rose above the shouts. With the tolling of midnight, the street went from raucous and glowing to silent and dark in an instant.

The tapers were duffed with such immediacy it was as if a great wind had blown through the Corso and doused them all in one forceful breath. And with the light went the last bit of gaiety.

Suddenly the street was filled with silent people, leaving in quiet droves so that the avenue emptied more quickly than Victoria could have imagined. The Corso became ghostly. The back of her neck prickled with chill, and she heightened her attention, watching for the glow of red eyes, still trying to shake that feeling of being watched.

She walked along the street, her fingers around the handle of her dagger, still deep in her pocket. Then she remembered her mask and pulled it off. She needed it no longer. The festival had ended; now started the forty days of Lent. The days of dancing and revelry were over until Easter Sunday.

The raucous city had grown quiet, bereft of even the murmur of voices or the scuffle of footsteps. Here and there a pair or trio or small cluster of people walked quickly, as though hurrying to their homes now that the fun had ended.

A movement out of the corner of her eye was accompanied by a waft of cold over her neck. Slowing her walk, Victoria began to pick her way along the street, making herself an enticing target for the undead behind her. She felt rather than heard him move toward her, and deep in her pocket she changed from dagger to stake before turning to meet him.

Her. It was a woman with long dark hair and glowing red eyes, and she gave a surprised squeak just before she disintegrated into a cloud of ash. She must have been one of the young vampires Beauregard had disdained earlier.

Whom had she called master, Regalado or Beauregard?

South along Via del Corso, away from the piazza, Victoria walked purposefully, but in no great hurry. It was many hours yet until dawn, before she would return to the Consilium or home.

More than once she felt that sense of being watched, but her neck didn’t chill again, and she heard nothing. Smelled nothing. Fewer and fewer people were about, and she’d walked two blocks without hearing the sound of carriage wheels bumping over the street.

Soon she passed the slender bell tower of Santa Francesca Romana, and she approached the curved, jagged wall of the Colosseum. It loomed ahead, its countless arches deeply shadowed.

The world was silent. Even the last of the revelers had gone to their beds, ready to start the stark weeks of Lent. She was alone.

Then she felt someone behind her. Close behind her.

She pulled the dagger from her pocket, whirling around.

And though she hadn’t even raised her arm to strike, he caught her wrist with strong fingers and said, “Not quite the greeting I’d expected.”

Six

Wherein Victoria Encounters a Stubborn Chin

“Max?” Victoria’s free hand automatically grabbed his arm, jolting him toward her, as if to be certain it really was him. “It’s you!” Relief and a wave of gladness washed over her as she felt the solidness of him under her fingers. He was alive. He was back.

“Perhaps you were expecting Sebastian Vioget,” Max added, releasing her wrist and stepping away from what was as close to a welcoming embrace as she’d ever given him.In truth, she had expected it to be Sebastian—now that she’d sent the message through Beauregard.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her heart still hammering from the surprise of his unexpected appearance. She looked up at him as if the answer would be in his countenance. And perhaps it was.

Even in the mediocre light from a smattering of stars and the occasional lantern on the street, she could see weariness there in his face, and a sort of hesitancy. His cheeks seemed more pronounced, his thick hair more out of place than usual, his sharp jawline set and harsh and with at least three days’ stubble. Max’s dark clothing, although never as perfectly stylish as Sebastian’s, was rumpled, and there was no sign of a mask, costume, or moccoletto anywhere on his person.

“It’s been almost four months, Max. Where have you been?”

“I’ve been in various places of no import.” He stood back from her, but could not seem to remove his attention from her face. “You don’t appear to have suffered any great mishap during my absence.”

Victoria realized how she must sound—needy and uncertain, and as though she and the Venators could not function without him. She straightened, becoming more aloof to match his style. “Have you been following me? Or perhaps you were looking for someone else tonight.”

Max’s handsome, angular countenance appeared even sharper than usual in the bluish glow of night. Because he was so tall, when he looked down his long, straight nose at her, his eyes were little more than dark hollows in the shadows of his face. “Following you? I’d have no reason to do such a thing.”

“You certainly weren’t lurking about in the shadows trying to protect me.”

He paused, then replied in an odd voice, “You’d lost your vis bulla.”

“So you were watching to make certain I was safe? How very nice of you, Max. But I don’t know what you thought…”

…you might do to protect me without your own vis bulla.

Victoria quickly changed the subject. “You’ve cut your hair.” The last time she’d seen him he’d worn his hair clubbed back in a brief stub. Now it was too short for that.

“I couldn’t be more gratified that you noticed.”

She ignored the comment and responded with one of her own. “Is Sarafina lurking in the shadows? Why not invite her to join us? I didn’t get to speak with her last night.”