Carefully he tore the page from its leather moorings, trying to keep the wax cover from cracking, and taking care to make it as unnoticeable as possible. No one would see that a page was missing. Then he returned the journal to its position.
Slipping out of the laboratory as quickly as he’d eased in, he began to hurry along the corridor. This was the trickiest part now, as he traveled back up to the area where he was more likely to come across Wayren or Ilias, or, God forbid, Victoria.
Once he thought he was caught, but he managed to duck into the dark corner of an intersecting corridor in time to keep from being seen. Good thing, too, for Victoria strode by in an angry swish—he could almost feel the fury blasting from her. Fury and something else.
But she didn’t see him, and she was gone in an instant.
With a relieved breath, he slid out of the darkness and followed her. For she was leaving the Consilium, and, now that he’d retrieved what he came for, so was he.
By the time Victoria reached the fresh air of the street above the Consilium, she was out of breath. Her throat was tight. The need to vomit lingered in her belly. But damned if she was going to shed tears again.
There’d been too many.
Her last conversation with Wayren, having begun with an air of desperation and determination, had ended with Victoria stunned speechless with disbelief and grief, and then great fury.
Max too?
She was filled with such blazing anger—at Beauregard, at Zavier, at Sebastian, and Max and even Wayren and Phillip and Aunt Eustacia—such blinding and numbing emotions that she blundered out onto the street several blocks from Santo Quirinus, exiting from the entrance on Tilhin that she’d used only once before. At first she didn’t know where she was.
Only when she tripped over a broken step in front of the empty building she was skirting did Victoria gather herself together. She stopped and hugged herself under the coat she wore, blending into the shadows between two buildings to lean against the plaster wall…and mentally she pulled her thoughts, her scattering emotions, and her wayward instincts into line. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and asked for guidance.
It was a while before she opened them, and she forced herself to focus. These were not the actions of Illa Gardella, this shattering of concentration, of instinct. She was glad no one had been there to see these moments of insecurity and loss.
She already knew what she had to do. And she’d hoped, planned, for Max to come with her.
But Wayren had told her it was likely she’d not see him again.
She explained that his memory of her, of them, along with his Venator powers, were gone. He’d had to do it to free himself from Lilith, and he would slip into the rest of the world to live out the remainder of his life.
He hadn’t wanted to see her.
Perhaps that was the biggest blow of all.
Victoria didn’t understand why…and yet perhaps she did now, as she drew in long, steady breaths and focused her attention on the smattering of stars above her.
He was so proud. So arrogant and proud and confident that he didn’t want her, or anyone—she needn’t take it all on herself—he didn’t want anyone to see him weak or confused.
In spite of her anger with him and his high-handed ways, she understood, after a fashion. For if she had to give up part of herself in that way, she, too would be lost.
Being a Venator had become the largest part of her. Perhaps the only part.
Victoria felt her mouth twist bitterly as she remembered how blithely she’d attended balls and soirees, fending off suitors, flirting with Phillip, alternating her courtship with him and her nighttime adventures of staking vampires. Now being a Venator defined her. Almost wholly.
There was very little left of Victoria Gardella Grantworth, debutante miss, wife—and now widow—of the Marquess of Rockley.
If she had to give that up, who would she be?
So, yes, she understood.
Now, there in the cool evening, she understood and she wept and she grew angry and determined again.
She looked up when a shadow went by, hurrying along the street in front of her.
He didn’t notice her, for she was backed into the shadows in the dark, but she saw him and recognized the smooth movements, the elegant stride. She knew the tousled, curling hair and the sweep of that well-tailored coat.
The nasty feeling swirled again in her belly, making the back of her throat dry and scratchy. He’d come from the same direction as she—from Via Tilhin, on which sat the abandoned building that gave access to the Consilium. So she hadn’t been mistaken when she thought she saw a flash of movement in that deserted corridor.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d been back there again. Not tonight.
Not after what had happened to Zavier and Lady Nilly. Not after what Beauregard had done.
Firming her lips, she followed.
The moment Max stirred Wayren put aside the delicate, curling manuscript she’d been studying. She slipped it into her ancient leather bag, followed by her square spectacles, and waited.
She didn’t know how long it would be until Max woke, but since this was the first time he’d so much as altered his breathing, she knew it wouldn’t be long. She knew she had to be on hand when he became aware. The only thing that had taken her away was when Zavier’s unconscious body had been brought to the Consilium hours ago, and then Victoria’s subsequent arrival.
Wayren wasn’t given to sensitivity, but the recollection of Victoria’s face when she’d seen Zavier, the shock, anger, and fear that had passed over her beatific countenance, would long be in her memory.
Such anger.
It worried her.
Max groaned softly, drawing her attention again. The golden disk lay on the table next to him, its chain coiled around it in serpentine fashion. He shifted again, becoming restless, his large hand rising as though to ward off something, then falling heavily onto the table, sending the lamp and the earbobs that had belonged to his sister jiggling.
Hoping to calm him, Wayren took his warm hand in her smaller ones, noticing scraped fingertips and cracked nails that looked as if he’d tried to climb a stone wall.
She knew many things of past and future, of possibility and truth, of good and evil…but she did not know whether Ylito’s plan would succeed. She wouldn’t know until Max awakened, and she used the golden disk into which she had collected his memories.
As if she’d called him to waken, his eyes fluttered open, suddenly clear and dark. He looked around. She released his hand, watching as he curled his fingers closed.
“Max.”
He looked at her, half sitting, the blankets falling to his hips. “Yes. Where am I?”
The bites were gone, she saw. His neck was smooth and clean, sweeping gracefully into powerful, broad shoulders. But he recognized his own name, seemed comfortable with his body.
“You’re safe, Max. I’m Wayren.” She waited.
He nodded, but she knew he didn’t remember. “Wayren. What am I doing here? Have I been ill?”
“In a fashion, yes. Please. Drink this and let me talk to you.” She handed him a metal cup filled with another of Ylito’s concoctions.
He hesitated, sniffed at it. Hesitated more.
She smiled. “If I wanted you dead, I had ample opportunity while you were sleeping.”
He nodded and drank.
When he looked back at her, she had the golden disk spinning eerily in her hand. She began to murmur again, calling down the power of the Spirit, asking for help, and watched as his eyes were drawn irrevocably to the flat pendant.
Wayren knew the moment he remembered it all…a tightening of the face, a tension in the shoulders, a return of the sharpness to his eyes. He reached for the tiny, delicate vis bulla. Closing his fingers around it, he picked it up, shuttering his eyes, and drew in a slow breath.