She and Victoria were Venators, born, trained, and blessed. A select few were asked, and even fewer accepted. There were only a hundred or so Venators in the world who had actually passed the test and wore the vis bulla.
And now Victoria wished to give it back. Eustacia opened her mouth to speak, but her niece interrupted.
“Do not fear, Aunt. I will take it again—when I can be certain I will not abuse it. I terrified myself tonight, b
ut I learned I’m not yet ready to hunt again. It’s one thing to kill an undead, an immortal evil being…but I do not wish to see human blood on my hands again.”
Eustacia grasped her niece’s bloodstained hands. This decision pained her and, at some deep level, it frightened her…but she understood. “There is no danger in London now. Lilith has taken her followers away, and although she will return, there is no imminent threat.”
Victoria’s eyes cleared. Her mouth tightened fiercely. “Never worry. I will have my revenge on Lilith for what she did to Phillip, I swear it. What before was a duty is now my personal accountability.”
+ 1 +
In Which Lady Rockley’s Weapon is Alarmingly Ineffective
* * *
Victoria tightened her fingers around the ash stake, more out of habit than necessity, and peered around the rough brick corner. It was dark and damp, as London was wont to be shortly after midnight, and the streets just past the safety of Drury Lane were strewn with refuse and scattered with the occasional thief, prostitute, and other such dodgy persons.
Unfortunately, none of said dodgy persons were wreaking any havoc, picking any pockets, or biting any necks.
A year had passed since Phillip died, and Victoria was back on the streets hunting for vampires for the first time since the night she’d removed her vis bulla. She’d spent the last twelve months practicing her fighting skills, and learning to control the rage and grief that had driven her to nearly kill the man in St. Giles. She wanted to be certain she would be able to temper those emotions before reinserting her strength amulet. The silver cross shivered in the hollow of her navel when she walked, and Victoria felt complete again. She was ready.
Which was why she’d taken to the streets late at night, stake in one hand, pistol in the other. Looking for something to do. Someone to save.
She would never stop looking for someone to save.
Victoria shook her head abruptly to dislodge the memory and chase away the guilt that still crawled along her nerves. Her temple scraped against the brick, sending crumbles of mortar dusting to the ground and a dull pain over her skin. And she returned her thoughts to the matter at hand.
Barth would be along shortly in his hackney to pick her up and take her back to the echoingly empty Rockley estate known as St. Heath’s Row, where she would continue to live until the arrival of the new marquess, who was somewhere in America and hadn’t yet been located.
Just then, the hackney in question rumbled around the corner and came to a rather slower stop than usual. It wasn’t that Barth’s driving had improved; it was that he’d been combing the streets, looking for Victoria.
As she climbed into the carriage, she made the decision she’d been putting off for a week. “Barth, I’m not ready to go home yet…take me to St. Giles. To the Chalice.”
And before he could protest, she closed the door.
There was a bit of a wait, as though he were considering arguing, but then she heard Barth cluck to the horses and she lurched as they started off at a smart pace. Victoria settled back in her seat and tried not to think about the last time she’d been to the Silver Chalice. More than a year ago.
It was well past midnight, and the streets of St. Giles were deserted. Only very foolish or very brave people ventured into this area of London during the relative protection of daylight. At night, even fewer would dare to trespass. As they rumbled along St. Martin’s Lane and crossed the intersection of the seven roads known as The Dials, Victoria cast her glance down one of them. She had not forgotten Great St. Andrews Street, nor even the block where she’d nearly killed the man almost a year ago. She could find it again in her sleep, for though she did not recall the actual event in all of its terrible detail, the location had imprinted itself on her brain.
Perhaps someday she would return.
Several streets later the hackney jerked to a stop, drawing her from her uncomfortable reverie. Anticipating the jolt, Victoria had already put out a hand to brace herself. Lifting the small lantern from its mooring on an interior wall, she ducked out of the vehicle and slipped away before Barth could speak or follow her.
Her feet were soundless on the cobbled street as they skirted piles of trash and stepped over small puddles left from an early evening rain. The stench no longer bothered her, nor did the weight of eyes peering from the shadows.
Let them come. She was ready for a fight.
Across and down the street she walked, head held high, hand on her pistol, the legs of her men’s breeches swishing faintly against each other, the lantern light slicing through her shadow. A welcome summer breeze lifted the smell of rotting carcasses and animal waste back to her consciousness, then brushed on away. The back of her neck cooled slightly under the beaver topper she wore, but it was from the wind rather than a sign of approaching danger.
Victoria stood in front of what had been the doorway to The Silver Chalice.
She had not visited the place since the night she came looking for Phillip, and found, instead of her husband, the smoldering ruins of what had been an establishment that served vampires and mortals alike.
Did she imagine it, or was the oaky smell of ash still in the air? It couldn’t be, all these months later…
But the chill had returned to the back of her neck.