“Before I tell you my story,” she said, moving into the house and closing the door behind her, “is Max well? Is he still . . . here? How long have I been gone? Did anyone— George and Sara—anyone try to attack?”
“This is the second morning after you left. There were no attacks here,” Kritanu replied. His face had sobered when she mentioned Max, and she felt a thrill of apprehension. “Max is . . . the same. ”
“The same?” Victoria went cold. “He is unconscious? For two days?” She started to dash off, but the older man grabbed her arm.
“No, no, he is awake. Has been. I meant to say that he is where you left him. ” The accusation in his face was unmistakable. “As you ordered. Victoria,” he said, his voice turning harder than she’d ever heard it, “you are Illa Gardella . . . but never ask me to do such a thing again. ”
“You didn’t release him. ” She wasn’t certain if she was relieved or terrified that Max was still safely where she’d put him.
“I was prepared to do so if you had not returned today. ” His eyes carried concern and admonishment. “You should never have done that. ”
“I’ll release him now,” she said, turning away. It had been for the best. She didn’t expect Kritanu to understand; he didn’t carry the same burdens she did.
For all of her hurry to get to the sturdy wooden door surrounded by silver crosses and blessed with holy water, Victoria found herself frozen when it came time to lift the bar that had blocked Max in. What would he say? What would she say?
She took a deep breath. The heavy slab of wood had been wedged tightly in its brackets; a sign that someone had violently shoved at the door, and its moorings creaked as she forced it from its place. Automatically, she stepped back, half expecting Max to come blasting out.
Nothing happened, so with cl
ammy hands she opened the door.
He was sitting on the bed, his long legs spread out in front of him.
“Max. ”
At the sound of her voice, he moved. With the grace of a jungle feline, he swung his feet onto the floor and stood, then strode toward her. Not particularly quickly, nor casually. But with general purpose.
Victoria braced herself for the onslaught—the railing, the anger, the accusation.
He walked past her and out into the hallway without a word, without an acknowledgment.
“Max,” she said again, turning after him.
He didn’t pause, but continued on his way down the hall.
She would have thought him deaf or blind if it had not been for the expression in his eyes: dark and angry.
The hackney lurched to a violent halt, and Victoria heard the clatter and subsequent roll of a wooden stake by her foot. She looked across the dark interior, catching Sebastian’s eye. “Shall we?” she asked.
“Most definitely,” he replied, bending to retrieve his weapon. There was relish in his voice and amusement in his eyes, and she knew that the carriage ride home would be far more interesting than the one they’d just completed. Perhaps, at least then, he would keep his stake well in hand.
The pair slipped silently from Barth’s vehicle, well hidden by convenient shrubbery that lined the wall of St. Heath’s Row most distant from the house. Shadows, in concert with the sliver of a waning moon and dark clothing, made them invisible.
Victoria led the way along the wall to a particularly dark corner. A robust oak spread its shadow over the area, and blocked any view from the rear of the house. Sebastian stood flush against the tall stone relief and she climbed up to stand on his shoulders; then, once atop the wall, she reached down to pull him up.
Once over the cross-studded wall, she led the way to the second servants’ entrance, where she knew the door would be unlocked. Verbena had been playing match-maker with the lower footman at Grantworth House and the belowstairs maid at St. Heath’s Row, both of whom were taking a postmidnight stroll through the gardens at this very moment.
Verbena had assured her mistress that the footman and the maid would be much too busy examining the night-blooming pink primroses to notice any trespassers. She had also ascertained, when arranging the assignation, that the Marquess of Rockley was expected to dine at home that evening and intended to remain in residence that night.
He had, in fact, declined any invitations for dinner or parties since the ill-fated carriage ride during which they’d gone to view the night sky.
When Victoria had returned from her brief captivity this morning and begun to attend to matters other than Max, it had been with great skepticism and suspicion in regards to James. Either he had been fully aware and involved in her kidnapping—which would make him a vampire or, at the least, a member of the Tutela—or he had been ignorant of it, as he claimed.
According to Kritanu, James had called on her home the morning after the nighttime carriage ride, explaining that there had been an accident, he’d been knocked unconscious, and when he came to, Victoria—Mrs. Rockley, as he’d called her—was missing. According to Kritanu, the marquess had appropriately wrung his hands and paced the parlor as he accepted the blame for whatever had happened to her, begging that word should be sent to him the moment there was any news.
Victoria listened to Kritanu’s description of the man’s agitation with a skeptical ear, and decided that, instead of returning his call or sending word of her return, she would find out the truth her own way tonight. Unlike Max, Sebastian had been delighted to see her, and more than delighted to join her in the excursion.
Max she had not seen since he stalked past her, and she had no need for his company anyway. She’d kept herself busy the rest of the day, and had sent an urgent message to Wayren by pigeon. She prayed that the wise woman would have some advice or information about Lilith’s prediction.