When she reached the patio again, she came upon a scene that could only be described as Hell. The house was in orange and red flames, throwing eerie shadows threaded with a dancing golden glow over the figures standing at the horizon of light and darkness. Smoke poured through the eaves and chimney, through upper windows open to the summer air. The ballroom, which appeared to be the last room on the lower level broached by the fire, was filled with black smoke. Flames ringed the far wall, making their way relatively slowly through a room that was fairly empty of fuel.
Releasing her burden gently to the ground, Victoria turned back and saw that the last pair of vampires, unengaged in battle and seeing that their companions had been vanquished, had turned tail. They bounded into the darkness, slick and dark and fast, and Victoria couldn’t resist. She preferred that there be none to tell the tale to Lilith, or any other creature who might be there.
But as she dashed into the shadows again, heedless of the now-tattered gown and the slipping silver brooch on her shoulder, she heard a loud noise behind her. Faltering in her chase, she turned just in time to see the house’s roof fold in on itself. The sound of screams, dulled by the roar of fire and distance, reached her… and urged Victoria to return.
She let the vampires escape, realizing, suddenly, that she hadn’t seen Gwendolyn. Had she made it out of the house? Were there others trapped inside? Max?
And what about George and Sara? There and at that moment, in the middle of the melee, Victoria realized how this whole tragedy had been executed-and why.
Panting, Victoria sped back to the clearing in time to hear the tolling of the fire bell as the wagon arrived. It was impossible to pump a large volume of water fast enough to keep the fire from destroying the house-it was too hot and too strong of a blaze. But at least the nearby buildings and fences could be dampened to keep it from spreading.
But now that the threat of the undead was gone and the house was evacuated, Victoria knew she needed to find George and Sara. It was obviously no accident that vampires had been waiting in the walled garden when a blaze forced a group of rich-blooded partygoers outside. As invited guests with access to the house, and members of the Tutela, George and Sara had obviously had a hand in this.
She scanned the crowd of people who’d quieted down and were now merely staring with soot-streaked faces- some even unaware they were still wearing their masks. Shadows of light and dark danced over their smoke-tinted costumes and faces. Many of them spoke quietly to each other, shock turning stoic facial expressions into long, drab ones. The household staff clustered off to one side, some of them still in their glittering livery; others, in plain dress, watching their home and livelihood eaten alive by flames.
Victoria didn’t see a Romeo or Juliet anywhere, nor an unmasked George or Sara. Nor, come to think of it, did she see Gwen.
Or Max.
Her heart thumping hard, she hurried forward, realizing she was limping from the gash on her leg. She shoved through the crowd of people to get between them and the house-the only way she could see their faces and recognize anyone. Sebastian came up next to her. A slight sheen of sweat glistened on his face in the flames, and he put his arm around her, pulling her close.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his face in her hair.
“I can’t find Gwendolyn,” she replied, pulling away. “Or Sara or George. Have you seen Max?”
He shook his head. “No, none of them.”
Victoria looked around and left Sebastian. She walked along the inside of the ring of people, looking sharply at the clusters of faces turned to each other. Some were being embraced and others were crying. But there was no sign of Max. Or Gwen.
“Have you seen Gwendolyn Starcasset?” she asked, at last coming upon a matron she vaguely recognized as being an acquaintance. She recalled that she had an odd fascination with science and chemistry, and often spoke endlessly about things that Victoria didn’t understand.
Mrs. Debora Guyette-Foster had tears running down her face, making glistening white lines in gray ash streaks. Her costume appeared to have been that of a gypsy, but her flowing scarves sagged, and her rainbow-colored frock was dark and torn. Glitter sparkled weakly in her straight, dark hair. “She’s not here. She left before-before-” The woman’s sobs obliterated her words, but Victoria had heard enough to feel easier about Gwen.
But Max.
He would tower above most everyone here. She stood on the empty patio, close enough that the heat of the fire from the house blazed against the back of her legs and her one bare shoulder. Looking for the tall dark head.
A deep unease flowered inside her as she searched in vain. He had to have gotten out of the house.
But it would be just like him to be a hero, trying to rescue someone.
Damned man.
Why couldn’t he be a hero by staking vampires?
Then she remembered the vampire that had dragged off the Crusader. Maybe Max had seen him, and gone after him.
Ignoring the people around her, who seemed to be coming out of their daze and once more were talking in full sentences, she ran into the dark garden again. This time she drove to the left, away from where she’d rescued Miss Keitherton, and found herself abruptly against a tall hedge.
She smelled blood. Tasted it in the air.
Victoria could have followed the hedge around, but impatience and need won out and she plowed right through it, heedless of the nasty branches. When she stumbled through to the other side, she landed on her knees next to a sprawled dark figure. The blood-iron essence filled her mouth and nose and she found herself struggling to breathe normally.
Groping frantically at him, for it was a man, she shoved him onto his back and saw vaguely that the dark red tunic of the Crusader merely looked black in the low light, with the dirt and soot and blood.
Her hands were wet with it, the cooling lifeblood of the man who would never wear another costume, ride another horse, eat another meal. Victoria pushed the hair from her face and pulled to her feet. There was nothing she could do for him. And she knew faintly that she had to leave him and get away from here. Her vision clouded darker in the night as saliva pooled in her mouth. The blood’s essence tugged at her.
Her heart pounded, ramrodding through her body so that her fingers trembled and it felt as though her whole chest was moving. Time churned sluggishly.
All at once, she realized she was not alone.
Victoria looked over. Three figures had come around the bushes and stood clustered together as though afraid to move any closer. She felt their shock and fear, and her heart pounded more strongly. She swallowed.
“He’s dead,” she managed to say. Gestured to the Crusading knight. “There’s nothing to be done now.” She thought her words came out normally. But no one replied. They watched her, and she noticed that one had a gun. It wasn’t pointed at her… but he had a gun.
A shout drew her attention. Her name. It was as though her ears were stuffed with cotton. She turned to see Sebastian. Slowly. The blood was so thick, it clogged everything. Even her movements.
“Victoria.” He came toward her, and she recognized the expression on his handsome face: worry, relief. He was soot-streaked and his hair was sticking out in thick waves. Before she could protest, or even think, he pulled her away from the small clearing, back toward the blazing house.
“Victoria,” he said as soon as they were far enough away, almost to the patio. She could breathe now. The blood-smell was gone and her head was a little clearer. The fire had quieted a bit, though the golden light flickered through the trees. The muted sounds from the crowd reached her ears.
Clarity.
She sank into his arms, felt them wrap strong around her, buried her head in his sweaty neck. “So much blood,” she whispered. “I couldn’t think.”