“No…” He started toward the bed, and to his horror Beauregard didn’t try to stop him. That was the worst sign of all.
So then he knew.
“With her power and my blood, by Lucifer’s sword, she’ll be as powerful as Lilith.”
“Damn you.” Everything slowed again, but this time Sebastian was focused on his grandfather. The stake, the weapon he’d disdained for more than a decade, felt light and useless in his hand after the guns and swords he’d taken to using in hunting and fencing. But it was lethal, and he would use it.
By God, he would.
Beauregard stopped the blow, blocking Sebastian’s wrist with the flat of a sword that seemed to come from nowhere. “Sebastian, you are overwrought,” he said with a calm that burned Sebastian. “I’ll share; I promise you this. And now, with the page you obtained from the journal, we’ll have the power—”
With a grunt Sebastian reared toward him again, caught his grandfather by the neck in his long fingers instead of in the chest, as the older man had expected. With a shove, with power long dormant and a strength he’d forgotten he had, he slammed him back against a tapestried wall. The bed curtains next to them brushed their legs as Beauregard struggled, dropping his sword with a clatter, and trying to pull Sebastian’s hand from his throat.
“Damn you,” Sebastian said, readying his stake.
“You cannot do this,” Beauregard wheezed, his fingers still pulling at him. His sharp nails tore into the tender flesh on the back of Sebastian’s hands. “After all I’ve…done for you.”
“You took her from me.”
“She was pulling you from…me. I did it for both…of us.”
Sebastian tightened his fingers, ignoring the blood that was streaming down onto his wrist. He steadied the stake. One plunge and it would be done.
“I raised you…when no one else…would.” His eyes were no longer pink; his fangs had retracted.
“Because my father was taken by your lover!” Sebastian spat. “She mauled him, remember?”
“She was…jealous…of him.” Beauregard’s throat convulsed under his hand as he coughed. Sebastian wasn’t fooled. He couldn’t strangle a vampire; this would merely slow him down, cause him pain enough to hold him until he could stab the heart. “And he…like any Vioget…could not resist…a beau…tiful…woman.”
Sebastian became aware that the sounds of struggle behind him had ended. He glanced back and saw nothing but the signs of their battle. Brim was nowhere in sight.
They were alone.
“Don’t, Sebastian. Don’t do it.” Beauregard’s breaths were stronger now. His hand wrapped around Sebastian’s wrist instead of pulling at it, scratching at it. Gentle. Imploring. “You’ll regret it. You know it. You’ve lived with it for—”
“Stop.” Sebastian felt his fingers cutting into the flesh beneath them, tearing into his grandfather’s throat. He lifted the stake. “I do love you.”
The door burst open at that moment, and Pesaro charged in. His arms and shirt were streaked with blood, his face hardly recognizable in its intensity.
He didn’t hesitate but went straight to the bed, and Sebastian watched as he yanked back the blanket with a bravery he himself hadn’t had.
Victoria murmured, moved sinuously, and her eyes fluttered, then closed completely. The hair fell away from her face when Pesaro lifted her, her head falling back to show the bites and blood streaks on her throat and shoulders. Her lips curved in a sensual smile, and a quick trickle of blood spilled from the corner of her mouth.
“Christ Jesus,” Pesaro breathed. He lifted his face, and Sebastian was struck by the loathing there. The stark fury. The same madness he knew was on his own face, grinding in his own gut.
Everything else fell away, and Sebastian plunged his stake.
The soft poof resonated, the ashes scattered, and he heard the tinny clatter of the copper armband as it fell to his feet.
Twenty-three
In Which There Occurs a Bedside Vigil
“There’s nothing we can do.” Wayren looked around the room. The Consilium’s fountain rumbled behind her, all of its sparkling, blessed water of no help in this instance. “Do you not feel it? You can sense her, even here.”
She knew they recognized the presence of an undead—a destroyed one of their own, brought into the sacred and secret halls of the Consilium; she knew because of the stark hopelessness on Sebastian’s handsome face, the self-loathing and guilt that certainly churned inside him.And the murmurs and exchanged glances of Michalas and Brim, who, though injured and knocked unconscious during their battle with the undead, still stood strong at the back of the room.
And Max, whose face was devoid of expression. Who couldn’t sense it any longer himself, but who knew. Who kept in the dark alcove as if he would separate himself from them all.
Perhaps it was best if he did, now that Victoria was gone.
“I’ll wait with her until she awakens. Ylito, too. The rest of you”—Wayren glanced at Sebastian, and then Max—“can do as you wish. It won’t be sundown for hours.”
She turned from them, from the dark, hopeless faces and the simmering undercurrent of rage. She hoped, prayed that it wouldn’t be directed at Sebastian—for as much as Max wanted to place the blame there, and as much as Sebastian himself did, Wayren knew it was not that simple.
Sighing, she passed by the portrait gallery. There would be the need for more paintings, for Zavier would expire soon. And Stanislaus’s had not yet been completed. And Victoria…
Footfalls drew her attention, and she turned to see Sebastian in her wake. “I want to be there when she wakes,” he said. Gone was the charm, the light, flirtatious manner. There was deep sorrow and angry regret, but determination as well.
He would be a good Venator. His time had come at last.
“Do you intend to fully join us now?” she asked, making way for him to walk abreast with her.
“I have no reason not to. If I had…I’ve been foolish and irresponsible.”
He had been, but she understood, as she was wont to do. He, as Max had done, would find his place here, and learn to grow beyond his faults and mistakes.
“You dispatched your grandfather. Don’t think I don’t know how difficult that was for you. You will grieve.”
Sebastian looked at her, his face set and haggard. Despite the weariness and pain there, he reminded her, as he always did, of the great Uriel—but with an extraordinary sensuality she didn’t think Uriel would appreciate. “Is there truly no hope? Nothing that can be done?” he asked.