The stake fell from his hand as everything ceased. The world stopped, darkened, became nothing but a desperate fight to pull a breath back in. Even the strong hands at his shoulders… the hand pulling roughly, jerking his head aside to bare his neck… they were barely more than dreams as he struggled… to… breathe…
Pull… it… in … God…
The pink eyes came close. Fangs gleamed, Max couldn’t move. His lungs wouldn’t move. The fever made his body shake weakly even as it fought for air. The pink eyes burned, beckoning, trying to lure him in.
Then Max gasped a bit, and with a sudden whoosh, the oxygen flooded his lungs, and renewed strength swept over him. The vampire lunged down, and Max whipped himself around, twisting to the side and using his momentum to bring the vampire with him. Slamming him to the ground, Max twisted and reached for the streaming blood on the vampire’s hand.
But instead of blood, he found only dirt. He leapt to his feet, bracing himself to face the vampire once again.
They squared off against each other, breathing heavily. Max tried to ignore the floor tilting beneath his feet, the trembling in his fingers and knees, the heat burning through his body, the shimmering lights before his eyes.
But the fever sapped his strength even more, and he found it difficult to draw breaths.
He was not going to bloody die.
What the hell was he doing?
Sebastian had seen more than five missed opportunities to slam the stake into that vampire’s chest… but Pesaro hadn’t taken any of them.
Instead, he swiped at him. Swiped. At the face, the arm, the hand.
Was he trying to die?
Sebastian divided his attention between Pesaro-who, for all his obvious weakness, still showed more skill than he would have expected-and Victoria, who sat like stone next to him.
If Sebastian was wondering what had addled Pesaro’s brain, she had to be thinking the same. Or worse.
And Sebastian realized he didn’t know whether he wanted the man to succeed or fail.
Now Max’s stake lay on the floor of the shallow ditch, out of reach, and the vampire was barely wounded, flinging blood with his every movement.
Sebastian felt his own heart racing, energy surging through his own veins as man and undead clashed again. The room was silent but for the slap of flesh against flesh, of grunts and groans, and the occasional dull clang against the iron grate.
Pesaro made a sudden move and shoved the vampire off him, then followed with a well-placed kick. Sebastian watched, waited for him to scoop up the stake and slam it into the open chest, but again, instead of doing so, Max moved forward with his bare hand as though to touch the undead.
He staggered away, his hand red with vampire blood, and the undead surged toward him again. Pesaro blocked him, but the creature came after him again and slammed him to the ground. They fell in a tangle, Max’s head crashing into the iron bars as they tumbled onto the floor with an ugly thud. Sebastian heard the dull clang, and an uncomfortable chill washed over him when Pesaro didn’t move.
The vampire struggled to his feet, and Max shifted slightly. His eyes opened. Sebastian saw those dark eyes look toward them for the first time; he saw the way they moved over Victoria. She tensed next to him; he could feel her gathering herself up and he heard the soft gasp. She read Max’s expression as well as he did.
It all happened so quickly after that. The vampire moved, fangs bared and eyes burning pink; Pesaro lay still, one hand splayed over his chest as though to protect it and the other curled up behind and beneath him. His stake lay out of reach against the wall.
Sebastian knew what was going to happen-he knew it, but couldn’t believe it-and he did the only thing he could do.
As the vampire launched himself for the fatal strike, Sebastian pulled Victoria toward him and smashed a kiss onto her lips.
Fifteen
In Which Our Heroine Finds Herself Between a Rocky Wall and a Hard Place
By the time Victoria extricated herself from Sebastian, it was over.
She shoved him away, stunned and furious, and terrified by what she’d missed. In the back of her mind, she knew what he’d meant to do-to distract her from seeing the final blow, shield her from the last strike.
But how could he?
Brim and Michalas had moved while she was disengaging herself from Sebastian, and now they stood between her and the iron grate. Her knees felt weak, but Victoria rose and made herself move forward. Because of that, because she simply couldn’t believe it was over, it took her a moment to recognize the smell.
Ash. Undead ash.
Then the iron grate clanged, and suddenly there was Max.
Standing on his own, sweaty, bloody, scraped, but standing. On his own. Tall, imposing, blood-streaked… and without a hint of the exhaustion she’d recognized the moment he walked into the room. Thank God.
The vampire had disintegrated, its dust tufting in the air, and Max held a stake in his hand. Not the long black one he’d carried in, but a shorter one.
The one that had obviously done the job.
Relief and a blaze of joy surged through her, and she pushed between Brim and Michalas to reach Max’s side.
But he didn’t look at Victoria except when his eyes accidentally skipped over her on their way to Wayren.
“You succeeded,” the older woman said to Max. “Congratulations.”
He nodded, and a smile, tinged with relief, lit her face. She handed him a jug from which he drank, long and deep.
Victoria watched a slender rivulet of water trickle down Max’s jaw and throat and over the ridges of his bloody, sweaty chest. When he stopped drinking, he handed the jug back to Wayren and accepted a cloth.
He wouldn’t look at her.
Victoria stood there, right in front of him, and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Wouldn’t even allow his eyes to skim over her.
She stepped back, all of the relief and joy at his success dissipating into confusion and hurt. Her mouth went dry, and her fury with Sebastian rose anew. He’d eased away, sort of behind the others, as though ashamed of his actions. As well he should be.
What had Max seen, as the final blow of the vampire came toward him? Her in Sebastian’s embrace-whether willing or not, he wouldn’t have known. It would have been the last thing he’d seen. What did he think? That she’d rushed into Sebastian’s arms the moment it looked as though all were lost?
Victoria felt a surge of annoyance with him. With both of them.
Max wasn’t smiling, not quite, but the lines around his mouth and eyes had relaxed a bit, and even though he wouldn’t look at her, Victoria recognized the strength emanating from him, and a sort of rightness about his person. She could see, without being told, that he’d regained his powers, that the vis bulla empowered him again.
But he hadn’t finished the Trial. How could that be?
Her silvery hope filtered away. He still had to undergo the last part, dipping the vis into holy water, then vampire blood, and then reinserting it.
But she realized Max was talking to Brim and Michalas, explaining. “Ylito agreed that I should try to wipe the vampire’s blood on the vis during the battle, and it worked.”
“I saw that you put holy water on the vis just before,” Brim said, nodding. “I didn’t realize it was for any other purpose.”
“Your abilities and powers are restored?” Michalas asked.
Max nodded. “Fully restored.” He poured a healthy slug of water onto his head, wiped his darkly stubbled face, then took the rest of the jug and dumped it over his chest. All without sparing a glance at Victoria.
Despite her confusion and annoyance, she bit her lip and felt that familiar fluttering in her belly. She watched as he toweled himself off, removing much of the dirt and blood. Muscles flexed and shifted smoothly, and now they glistened with water.
As he accepted the clean shirt Wayren offered him, there was again the accidental, sketchiest of impersonal glances over Victoria. His gaze barely touched her, and they weren’t even the flat black eyes that she’d expect him to have after seeing her and Sebastian in an embrace…
Impersonal. As if he didn’t know her.
Not angry at her defection. But as if he had no feeling whatsoever.
A sudden flash of worry coursed through her, and she didn’t speak after all. When he’d lost his Venator powers a few months ago, Max had also lost his memory. With the help of Ylito’s foresight and planning, however, he’d regained his memory almost immediately.
But was it possible that now that he’d restored his powers, some of his memory had gone away?
No. Of course not. He seemed to remember everyone else.
Victoria almost stepped forward, her pain turning to annoyance. She was Illa Gardella. She could say something to him, make him respond to her… but in the end, she didn’t.
Not here, in front of everyone, would she take on the possible razor edge of his disdain. Her unsteady fingers and queasy stomach told her she wasn’t strong enough right now.
So, rocked off balance by Sebastian’s actions and Max’s cool impersonality, she settled into herself and remained uncharacteristically quiet as they left the abandoned building.
The moon rose high and fat, casting its blue-silver glow over the creamy buildings, darkening the red roofs to black once they were back on their horses. Victoria rode alongside Brim and Sebastian while Max and Wayren lagged behind, speaking quietly. Michalas brought up the rear.
Somehow they made their way back to the inn in which they’d let rooms, all without Victoria speaking to Max, or even having more than the chance to watch him, to confirm that beneath the grime and blood he truly was recovered.
But she didn’t really have any question… She’d seen it in his eyes, in his bearing. Yet the base relief she felt at his success waned into dismay. Had Sebastian’s actions sent her relationship with Max back to where it had been only two weeks ago?
The dismounting and stabling of horses happened smoothly and quickly, and beneath her swirling thoughts, Victoria got the impression that plans to eat, drink, and celebrate-and the need to leave early the next day for Muntii Fagaras-were being discussed. She didn’t care. She merely moved silently as they made their way across the small yard to the entrance, trying to decide if she should be furious, joyous, or simply hurt.