As they faced each other, the desk between them again, she realized with a start that he still held her coat…that he was turned away from her and her necklace, fumbling with the fabric, feeling for the pockets.
Before she could lunge toward him to rip it away, he removed his hand from the folds, holding the copper armband he sought. “Ah,” he said, still holding back, but satisfaction rang in his voice.
Victoria somersaulted across the table, kicking him aside as she landed on the opposite end, and he pulled her to the floor with him. The cross bumped up against him, and he gasped, recoiling in pain, but held on to her nevertheless as they rolled on the floor. Then the cross slipped up and over her shoulder so that it fell behind her, out of sight.
With a quick jerk he snapped the chain and the necklace broke at the back of her neck, leaving the cross under her as they shifted over the floor, grappling furiously with each other. His fingers closed over the wrist with the stake, squeezing, while she fought to reach the armband he held in the other hand. She didn’t know why he wanted it, but it was for nothing good.
Their legs were tangled like lovers’, and he rose over her, hips pressing into hips, suddenly releasing the wrist and letting her plunge the stake down. Beauregard rolled away and the stake whistled past him, grazing his arm, jarring Victoria as she smashed it into the floor. Her arm was still reverberating from the blow, and she tried to flip herself away when she felt hands closing around her other wrist, pulling her back. She kicked out, but it was too late—something smooth and cool latched into place on her left wrist.
And then a soft clink and her arm felt sluggish. She felt stopped, slowed, heavy.
She raised the stake again, rolling toward him where he held her arm, but he caught her blow in midair and they were locked, straining, face-to-face.
“And so it is,” he said with great satisfaction.
Panting there next to him on the floor, she looked over at her right wrist.
The copper armband clasped her flesh.
“At last I have you where I want you,” he said, looking at her with glowing pink eyes.
“No…you…don’t!” she cried, fighting to look away, whipping her stake arm about with all of her strength, struggling to snap his hold.
They were at an impasse for a moment, hand to hand, he squeezing, she fighting to drive the stake down, lying on the floor next to each other with her braceleted arm, extended by his grip, above them.
She felt her heartbeat begin to slow to match his. Their breath mingled, and everything seemed to ebb into a fog, or an underwater, slow-moving world. The copper on her arm felt warm, as if its weight burned into her flesh, and she couldn’t move it without dragging his hand with it. The relentless pressure on her other wrist had numbed her fingers as he fought to loose the deadly weapon.
With a last scream of exertion she bucked her whole body and pulled her arm free, the stake slipping from her numb fingers as her hand slammed harmlessly onto his chest. She heard the stake rattle to the floor, the dull sound as it rolled away, somehow so loud in her ears that it drowned out everything.
“Now…at last…” Beauregard said, yanking her closer. His pink eyes captured her, and she couldn’t breathe. His face moved closer, blocking out her view as she struggled to break free of the thrall…of his hold…of the sluggish, wanton feeling that moved through her.
He bent toward her, his mouth closer, darkening her vision as she lost her own breath and her heartbeat became one with his.
Twenty-One
In Which Max Befuddles a Contrary Demon
Akvan was just as Wayren had described him: ungainly, horned, and tailed. His body was a solid trunk with thick arms and legs, both of which ended in curved claws. His face was jowled and porcine, with tiny eyes, puffy cheeks, and a large pug nose. Fangs protruded from his mouth like small tusks, and his skin had a bluish cast.
The stench of rank evil hung in the air as Max was ushered fully into the room where the demon was holding court. The room was large and simply furnished. Perhaps ten people were standing about, clustered loosely in front of a low dais on which the demon sat. Max couldn’t identify exactly which ones were vampires any longer, but he recognized some of those present as members of the Tutela, and knew that there had to be at least a few undead among them.
On the dais next to Akvan was a slender stone table, hip high, and on it was a cluster of obsidian shards.
Briyani had been made to stand at the doorway, but Max was allowed to step forward into the center of the chamber.
“So you demand to see me?” Akvan boomed from a large chair. With his return to earth he had taken human form, but in a horrific, distorted manner in that every aspect was exaggerated and awkward. And, by any definition, horrifically ugly. He was much larger than any man, easily half again as tall as Max himself. “And who are you?”
“I am who called you back to this earth,” Max told him, facing him boldly.
“He is a Venator,” came a voice he recognized all too well. “A powerful one. You are right to keep him at a distance.”
“Sarafina,” Max said, turning as the blond woman he’d nearly married appeared, pushing her way through the small throng from the side of the room. George Starcasset was close by her side. “I see you have wasted no time in finding another companion.”
“Do not be jealous, Maximilian…no one could replace you.” She smiled in a manner that was much less naive than any expression she’d worn when he’d first met her, more than a year ago. The glint in her eyes reminded him of the one he’d seen when he’d been unable to extricate himself from a shopping trip with her: sly and covetous. “I’m delighted to see that you’ve returned to us. I was quite annoyed to find you missing after our visit. Is it perhaps too much to hope that you’ve seen the error of your ways and have come back to the Tutela?”
“A Venator?” Akvan’s low, grating voice drew Max’s attention back to the matter at hand. “No Venator can harm me—it is written in the Shah-Nameh. Let him approach.”
“But he is the concubine of Lilith,” Sara, ever the gossipmonger, insisted. She was moving toward him as if she owned the chamber, not Akvan.
“You know nothing,” Max said, turning away from her. “Be still.”
“Hold him,” she ordered, gesturing sharply at four of the others, “and I shall prove it, Master Div.” She gave a short, almost insolent bow to the demon as the guards she’d summoned swarmed toward him.
Max’s skin crawled as four pairs of hands grasped his shoulders and arms, but he stood stoically as Sara’s delicate little fingers pulled at his shirt, opening the collar to show the new bite.
“See? She has marked him, and the bite never heals…and no undead dares to touch him for fear of bringing her wrath down upon them.” Her hands were warm and smooth over his skin, brushing his neck and dipping down beneath the fabric of his shirt as if she owned him. “And here—Hold him, I said!” She yanked on the ties of the shirt, and then the two halves, opening it over his chest, flicking her finger over the vis bulla that hung uselessly from his areola. “How I’ve missed this,” she murmured cannily, giving it a tug—without noticing that it wasn’t his.
It was painful, but he kept his face blank and his breathing steady. He hadn’t expected Sara to be such an asset to his plan, to move things along so quickly and easily. “Tell your fiends to release me,” he ordered Akvan. “I came of my own will.”