The Bleeding Dusk by Colleen Gleason

crowd, Victoria felt isolated. She blew out her candle, and she alone was silent and watchful as the rest of Rome—or so it seemed—shouted and pushed about her. Positioned in the midst of the throngs, she stood apart, alert for danger or the emergence of malice on a night of festivity, alone in the knowledge that there was much more to their world than these others could comprehend, more than even the evil of their mortal counterparts.
    She was a Venator—one who would never wholly be part of that world again.
    The sudden deep tolling of bells from every church in the vicinity startled Victoria, for though the crowd was deafening, the funereal sound rose above the shouts. With the tolling of midnight, the street went from raucous and glowing to silent and dark in an instant.
    The tapers were duffed with such immediacy it was as if a great wind had blown through the Corso and doused them all in one forceful breath. And with the light went the last bit of gaiety.
    Carnivale was over. The sobriety of Lent had begun.
    Suddenly the street was filled with silent people, leaving in quiet droves so the avenue emptied more quickly than Victoria could have imagined. The Corso became ghostly. The back of her neck prickled with chill, and she heightened her attention, watching for the glow of red eyes, still trying to shake that feeling of being watched.
    She walked along the street, her fingers around the handle of her dagger, still deep in her pocket. Then she remembered her mask and pulled it off. She needed it no longer. The days of dancing and revelry were over until Easter Sunday.
    The raucous city had grown quiet, bereft of even the murmur of voices or the scuffle of footsteps. Here and there a pair or trio or small cluster of people walked quickly, as though hurrying to their homes now that the fun had ended.
    A movement out of the corner of her eye was accompanied by a waft of cold over her neck. Slowing her walk, Victoria began to pick her way along the street, making herself an enticing target for the undead behind her. She felt rather than heard him move toward her, and deep in her pocket she changed from dagger to stake before turning to meet him.
    Her. It was a woman with long dark hair and glowing red eyes, and she gave a surprised squeak just before she disintegrated into a cloud of ash. She must have been one of the young vampires Beauregard had disdained earlier.
    Whom had she called master, Regalado or Beauregard?
    South along Via del Corso, away from the piazza, Victoria walked purposefully, but in no great hurry. It was many hours yet until dawn, before she would return to the Consilium or home.
    More than once she felt that sense of being watched, but her neck didn’t chill again, and she heard nothing. Smelled nothing. Fewer and fewer people were about, and she’d walked two blocks without hearing the sound of carriage wheels bumping over the street.
    Soon she passed the slender bell tower of Santa Francesca Romana, and she approached the curved, jagged wall of the Colosseum. It loomed ahead, its countless arches deeply shadowed.
    The world was silent. Even the last of the revelers had gone to their beds, ready to start the stark weeks of Lent. She was alone.
    Then she felt someone behind her. Close behind her.
    She pulled the dagger from her pocket, whirling around.
    And though she hadn’t even raised her arm to strike, he caught her wrist with strong fingers. “Not quite the greeting I’d expected, Victoria.”

+ Six +
    Wherein Victoria Encounters a Stubborn Chin
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    â€œMax?” Victoria’s free hand automatically grabbed his arm, jolting him toward her, as if to be certain it really was him. Relief and a wave of gladness washed over her as she felt the solidness of him under her fingers. He was alive. He was back.
    â€œPerhaps you were expecting Sebastian Vioget,” Max added, releasing her wrist and stepping away from what was as close to a welcoming embrace