“You said you wanted him out of the way,” Beauregard said in her ear.
Victoria slammed her head back and felt it crash into Beauregard’s nose, at the same time trying to twist away from his strong grip. But he held on tightly and slipped his other hand around the front of her throat, pulling her back against him.
The hand tightened, cutting off her air, sending her struggling in his arms, stomping her foot down, slamming back with her free hand to jab her elbow into him, kicking, trying to breathe….
And then suddenly she was released with such force that she stumbled against a chair; then her hand clashed onto the keys of the harpsichord. She turned in time to see the door close, leaving the room silent but for the last echoes of discordant notes.
Silent, but not empty.
Her neck was cold; her fingers were trembling. “After all he’s done for you?” she said in a shaking voice that she abhorred.
Beauregard, who bent to pick up the paper she’d dropped, placed it on the table and looked at her. “Is it not what you expected from me? No loyalty? Manipulation? Where do you think Sebastian learned it?”
“You wouldn’t kill him. He’s worth too much to you.”
Beauregard looked horrified. “Kill him? Of course not. I merely assisted him in complying with your wishes. You should be grateful, for now we can converse without his interference. Now, shall we get to business? You were going to kill me. Or attempt to.” He looked pointedly at the stake that had fallen from her hand and rolled across the floor. “But I think that will have to wait. You have something of mine.”
“And you have something of mine.” She would play his game for the moment. Until she had the chance to cut the bastard’s head off.
“It was only one page,” he said, lifting the paper from the desk. “And you mustn’t blame Sebastian. The man would do anything for me—loyalty is his great flaw, much as I’ve tried to teach him otherwise. But I’m all he has, and he just cannot abide the thought of me burning in the fires of Hell for all eternity.” Beauregard gave a genteel shudder. “It’s not a particularly pleasant thought to me either. And so when at last the door to Palombara’s laboratory was reopened, I was understandably interested in obtaining not only my missing armband, but also this particular page.”
“So, will you tell me what is so important about that page?” Victoria kept her tone easy, unconcerned, even as she divided her attention between the details of the room, any potential weapons, and the undead himself.
His eyes were pink when they looked at her, and she turned her gaze firmly away.
“I think you can guess, if you put your mind to it.” His voice was soft and seductive, and she felt the tendrils of his thrall reach out gently and brush over her skin as if he’d actually touched her.
“It’s a plant. It must have something to do with your immortality…or your destroyed soul, if Sebastian was willing to help,” Victoria replied. She heard her voice as though it were in a tunnel, far away and hollow, and she blinked and took a step. Her fogged ears cleared, and she felt steadier.
She couldn’t forget the image of blood soaking Sebastian’s shirt. Blood she’d drawn.
“It’s a very useful flower,” Beauregard told her, “to the undead, in particular, and, if one believes the work of the alchemist pilgrim who came to Palombara, to mortals as well. But it grows rarely only once or twice per century. I needed the page to identify it, for this year is a year it’s expected to bloom. And with your aunt’s death, I knew the key to the workshop would be more readily available.”
He smiled. “You must appreciate my brilliance. It was my intent all the while to divert your attention to Akvan as he and his worthless followers tried to find the keys. I made sure he knew about the journals and about the keys, and I even made certain the key Palombara had kept—which I, of course, had stolen from him that last night—was found by one of Akvan’s servants. I knew once the door was opened I could retrieve my armband—one way or the other.”
Victoria kept her gaze far away from him and his pink eyes. She moved so that the desk remained between them and she was a good distance away. She wasn’t frightened; she’d been in worse situations before, much more overmatched. But if he called for help again, as he’d obviously done when he moved behind his desk earlier, she would find herself in the same situation as Sebastian.
Or worse.
“You wanted Sebastian to steal the key, didn’t you?”
He inclined his head. “He didn’t realize he’d actually had the key in his possession until much later, when you described it to him.”
“But you allowed me to use it.”
“He refused to steal it, if that is what you’re asking. But it didn’t matter to me—once you got the door open I could get what I needed. Except that you and that bloody Pesaro were too quick and he went off with it.”
“And you actually thought that by mutilating and nearly killing one of my men that you would get what you wanted from me?”
“You’re here, are you not?”
She didn’t like his smile. Didn’t like the way she suddenly remembered his mouth covering hers, sucking the warm flow of blood from her lip.
“Of course you would come to avenge your friend. Your fellow warrior. What else would you do?” he said, his voice alluring and coaxing, as if he were trying to lull her. “You are a Venator.”
What else would you do?
It was as if he’d read her mind and her private thoughts earlier. She was a Venator—only, wholly, and without reservation. Of course she would come to avenge the death—or near death—of one of her own.
What else would she do?
Nothing.
“I want my armband.” He’d moved closer to her, and she tensed.
“I don’t have it with me.”
He smiled. His fangs were long and sharp and brushed his lower lip. His silvery-blond hair curled becomingly about his handsome face, and his pink eyes gleamed. “Of course you do. I can sense it.”
She dodged and spun away, scooping her lost stake off the floor. “Come and get it.” She bared her teeth and crouched, waiting. She’d finish him now.
He looked at her, then turned back to the desk, his back toward her.
And that challenge, that careless dismissal, was her ultimate undoing.
Victoria, bold and angry, ready to end the standoff, launched herself at him, stake outthrust in her hand, poised to drive it into his chest. He turned, caught her wrist, and with a snapping movement used her momentum to jerk it behind her, slamming her body full-force into his.
He looked down at her with burning eyes, and she closed hers, turning her face away, tilting her head back, and then bashing her forehead into his chin before trying to spin away.
He was strong, and she barely pulled free of his grip, but he was after her in an instant, grabbing at the hem of her man’s coat and hauling her back. She pulled, twisting, and its three buttons burst off, scattering to the floor. For a moment she was trapped, the sleeves capturing her hands behind her as Beauregard pulled the coat off. But she shrugged quickly out, spinning away, leaving the length of coat in his hands, and managing to keep the stake in hers.
The sudden release sent her stumbling, but she righted herself quickly and turned back around, stake ready, pulling the crucifix she wore from beneath her bodice so that it hung in plain sight.
He flinched when he saw her pendant, cowering back, and she jumped toward him, the blood racing through her body with the thrill of the fight. But he managed to dodge at the last minute and avoid the stake. It slammed into his shoulder in the same place she’d struck Sebastian, easily and harmlessly. Pain jarred her arm as the stake went through and into the stone floor, but Victoria recovered, finding comfort in the weight of the cross thumping freely on her bosom.