ck braid over her breast, and the crisp white lawn of her simple gown served only to show how pale she was. A blue-veined hand rested on her stomach, and another prominent vein lined her face from temple to jaw.
When they came in, Ylito looked up from his examination of Victoria and met Wayren’s eyes.
“She needs more blood,” he said quietly. “I don’t know that it will do any good, but Hannever wishes to try. ”
“Will she drink?” Max asked, a flash of metal in his hand. He had a knife at his wrist and would have sliced into it before Wayren grabbed his arm. She sensed a viciousness, a recklessness there that boded no good.
“Wait. It must be Gardella blood,” Ylito said.
Sebastian was already rolling up his sleeve to bare a muscular arm. “Give me the knife, Pesaro. ”
Max turned away and went to stand against the wall, watching. His arms hung at his sides, his shoulder against the wall in a deceptively casual stance. His face was expressionless.
The tension in the room was heavy and solid, and even Wayren, who usually wasn’t affected by such energy, felt stifled and on edge.
Hannever came in the door at that moment. “Blood. Now. ” He was carrying a tray with a stack of cups on it, two small vials, and other accoutrements, and he put it down on a table. Next to the stake that lay there.
Without another word he moved to Victoria and made a small cut on her arm, squeezing a drop of the dark blood into a small bowl. The room was still and silent and tight, nearly choking in its intensity.
Anger, guilt, terror, madness…all simmered and swelled.
When Hannever turned away from Victoria, Sebastian offered his arm, and Hannever made a small incision, forcing the blood into one of the bowls. Drip, drip, drip…The sound was like little explosions in the tiny room.
“What good will it do?” Max’s voice was sudden and harsh.
“No good, I think. But she needs it. We must try,” Hannever said, busy with one of the vials. He put a tiny drop of a liquid into Sebastian’s blood and used a slender reed to stir. “No. Not this. ”
“Try Max,” Wayren said. She met Ylito’s eyes.
Max’s wasn’t right either, according to Hannever.
“We have to get her some blood!” Sebastian said, his teeth tight around the words. He was already moving toward the door, opening it.
“Zavier,” Max said. “Let Zavier try. ”
Their eyes met, and then Wayren looked at Ylito. Yes. It was fitting. He’d want to.
“We must have his permission. ”
Wayren nodded. “He’ll give it. Let us go and I’ll ask him. ”
Twenty-four
In Which There Is a Chilling Draft
Victoria murmured, shifting restlessly, moving for the first time since they’d come into the room. Sebastian brushed the hair away from her forehead, the soft, lush curls that had been captured in a braid that lay in a thick line past her breasts. Her skin was damp and clammy, and still so pale.
This would be the last time he’d touch her. Sebastian looked at her lips, at the curve of her jaw, remembering how strong it could be—how defiant when she lifted it and pretended she didn’t want him as much as he wanted her. Now he would have no one to taunt in a carriage, no one to tease and tug and coax into his arms.
His wound from her stake still ached, oozing blood, and he remembered again why she was lying there, and how she had found Beauregard’s lair. Who had led her there, and why. How Beauregard had manipulated them both.
He’d sat there—it had been hours—since he and Pesaro had been allowed to enter after whatever Hannever and Ylito had done with Zavier’s blood. Somehow they’d fed it into Victoria using some sort of tube, but it hadn’t seemed to do any good. The back of his neck still prickled and chilled, and she still lay there, cold and pale.
She moaned again, and Sebastian looked up. He met Pesaro’s eyes from across Victoria’s body. There was no hope there, nothing but grim determination. A stake sat on the table near Pesaro; Sebastian had no doubt he’d not hesitate to use it.
A cold one, he was.
Wayren and Ylito had found a small corner of the room where they both sat reading or studying some old text. The sight of them brought to Sebastian’s mind the fact that the page he’d stolen from the Consilium was still in Beauregard’s lair.