“Will I . . .” she began, then had to start again. It was better not to think of herself . . . but to keep the thoughts removed. “A vampire who drinks from a mortal is damned for eternity. Will you ensure that I . . .” Her voice clogged. All of a sudden, her future was becoming real to her. The possibility that she’d forced away, refused to consider, disbelieved . . . its reality was reflected in the expression of Wayren’s eyes and in her thinned mouth.

“Victoria.” The other woman’s voice, stern and sharp, penetrated the fog of pink that threatened the edge of her vision. “You cannot let the power of evil slide into you. You cannot succumb.”

“But vampirism isn’t a choice; it’s not something that can be fought off. I know that.”

“No,” Wayren said. “It isn’t. Once the vampire blood is ingested, it overtakes the mortal blood in the human and . . . you know what happens. The person becomes undead. But that didn’t happen with you, Victoria. Against every odd, and every expectation, it didn’t happen.” Her eyes were serious. “Why?”

“Because of the two vis bullae.”

“That’s what we suspect, yes,” Wayren replied. “But we don’t know for certain. Ylito and I have discussed your situation, and there is no real explanation for it, other than the two vis bullae, and the power and strength—both physical and mental—that goes along with them. That’s the only thing it could be. But there’s something else to consider, and this is why I think there could be more hope than you think.”

Victoria was almost afraid to ask, so she remained silent.

“Normally when one is turned undead, when they awaken, as you did, the vampire blood has already taken over the entirety of the body and made the mortal immortal. But when you awoke, that wasn’t the case. You were still mortal. You’d been spared. But now, that vampire blood is still within you, fighting to take over. That is what makes your situation different, Victoria. You’re awake, and aware, and the battle for your soul is waging within you. The two strength amulets you wear have bought you the time . . . time for you to fight the urge to become immortal, and evil. Both physically and in your soul. Your mind.”

Victoria shivered. “Is there a chance, then? With this evil growing inside me . . . is there a chance?”

Before Victoria knew it, Wayren was next to her on the seat. She grasped her shoulders with strong, slender fingers and looked deeply into her eyes. “Every mortal has the portent for evil deep inside them. Every man and woman makes choices for his or her self, for self, Victoria. It is only when those decisions outweigh all others; when they become the driving force, the normal state for that mortal, does evil win. Self-service drives all malevolence—but it will only succeed in winning if you allow it. Do not allow it.” She gave her a little shake, and the red mist faded. “I believe you can fight this away . . . physically. And spiritually. Do not allow it to take over, Victoria. I believe you can stop it.”

Despite her nebulous information, Wayren showed no indication that she meant to leave London. In fact, she told Victoria that she’d sent for two of the other Venators, Brim and Michalas, to come immediately to London from Paris, where they’d been investigating some heightened demon activity. Victoria knew the two men well, and rather than being annoyed by the wise woman’s presumption, she was relieved that she’d done so. They should arrive within a week, and would be able to provide extra support in light of Lilith’s presence in London and whatever her plans were.

And although Wayren took her own quarters when she stayed in London, she remained with Victoria into the evening and they dined together with Kritanu. They had just finished dinner when Sebastian was announced, and, despite the fact that the Venators rarely paid attention to the rules of polite society, Victoria and Wayren met him in the parlor.

If Wayren was surprised at the way Sebastian greeted Victoria—with an embrace and a lengthy, well-placed kiss on the back of her hand—she gave no indication. Even when he took his place next to Victoria on the sofa, as if he were a love-struck swain—which was so far from Sebastian’s persona that Victoria chuckled to herself at the thought—Wayren didn’t appear to notice.

“I’ve just recalled something that I believe you will find very interesting,” Sebastian told Victoria.

She sipped from the blush-tinged sherry she had poured, feeling the comfort of his warm thigh brushing next to hers. “What is it?” she asked, throwing aside the gloom that had threatened her since Wayren’s arrival. “Have you found a new way to tie a neck cloth?”

“But of course not,” he told her lightly . . . yet there was a bit of real affront in his voice. That surprised her, and she looked more closely into his tigerish eyes. A prickle began to worm its way down her spine. He’d been more . . . sensitive? serious? . . . as of late, and while Victoria had been deft at keeping their kisses to little more than kisses, and her corset fastened, she knew something was going to change. Soon.

She felt as if the decision had been made for her that afternoon, when she confirmed their engagement to her mother.

After all, he loved her. Or claimed he did . . . there was still a niggling suspicion about Sebastian; she’d refused to trust him for so long.

The only problem was the uncertainty of her future. Victoria felt a chill wash over her, and the unpleasant roiling return to her belly. She took a bigger gulp of the sherry than she’d intended, and realized that Sebastian had continued.

“When George Starcasset was in Italy this last year, not only did he make the acquaintance of Queen Caroline . . . but he became one of her favorites.” He raised an eyebrow and gave Victoria a complacent smile. “It’s more than a bit convenient that he and Sarafina Regalado have returned to England at the same time the queen has . . . after having been fairly banished for years.”

Understanding burst over her, and she caught her breath. “And how telling that she should return from her self-exile in Italy just in time to see her husband crowned King of England.” They looked at each other, and Victoria grasped his hand.

That was it. It had to be Lilith’s plan: to invade the coronation of the king, where all of the most powerful men in England, the most powerful country in the world, would be gathered at one time.

But why?

Twenty-one

Wherein Our Heroine Takes a Swim

If Lady Melly found the evaporation of Victoria’s reluctance to attend the coronation odd, she was too well-bred to say anything in regards to the change of heart. Most likely she assumed her sage motherly advice had achieved the appropriate influence. Moreover, her attention was taken up by the equally sudden disappearance of her favorite candidate for son by law.

Victoria, of course, remained mum on the topic of James Lacy, except to promise her mother that if the man attended the coronation, she would allow Lady Melly to finagle a seat for her in the presence of the marquess. And that she would be her most charming.

She felt that was a safe promise to make.

While Melly and her cronies dithered and dressed, gossiped and coiffed, Victoria was making plans.

She’d seen no sign of Max this last week, and although she almost missed his arrogant, all-knowing comments related to her plans, she realized she didn’t need him there at all. Her feelings were bruised and raw, but there was little she could do but focus on now, and then the future. She reminded herself that, although Max had walked away from her and the Venators in the past, he had done so only temporarily. He’d always returned.

But this time, she suspected he would not. He had no reason to; he was no longer a Venator. And he’d made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Victoria in any respect. And apparently, with Kritanu and Wayren’s blessings—if their reticence in discussing the subject was any indication.

Wayren, Sebastian, and Kritanu had talked with Victoria about their suspicions and what the threat could be, and how it might be carried out. They’d all agreed it was likely not so much a plan to control members of the crème de la crème of England, as to kill some or all of them. Queen Caroline (who, Victoria suspected, based on her interaction with George, was either a member of the Tutela or a vampire herself) certainly hated her husband enough to do so. Perhaps the queen had offered Lilith protection. After all, that was the purpose of the Tutela, was it not? To protect, and serve, vampires.

But nothing was certain, so all they could do was be in attendance at the festivities, and be prepared for anything.

The day of the coronation was a hot, sticky one, as is common in July.

Victoria abhorred the fact that she was expected to dress as befit her station instead of in something more comfortable for fighting vampires or other threats. At least she wasn’t counted among the king’s closest advisers and compatriots, for they were required to follow his majesty’s example and dress in the style of his predecessors, the Tudors. They would be wearing heavy brocaded and laced ensembles with sleeves slashed to show different fabric beneath, neck ruffs, and abominably wide and stiff farthingaled skirts. Not for the first time, Victoria wondered how her ancestor, Lady Catherine Gardella, could ever have been an effective Venator with such fussy and heavy gowns.

Yet Victoria’s own dress had to be not only fitting to her wealth and title, but also serviceable in the event that she had to be more active. In this case, Verbena had come to her aid by supervising the creation of a frock that had a skirt split into wide trousers. The trouser legs were full enough to be mistaken for the bell of her skirt, and there were two flaps of fabric in the front and the back that fell like aprons over the split of the gown. They looked like embroidered decorations, they blended so cunningly with the rest of the dress. If necessary, Victoria could remove them to give her greater freedom.

“It’s a shame that Brim and Michalas haven’t yet arrived—Wayren expects them any day now—but I don’t expect anything to happen at the coronation itself,” Victoria said to Sebastian and Kritanu in the foyer of the town house. She pulled on her gloves and checked to make certain the several stakes were arranged on her person. Her kadhara knife she slipped into its sheath under her skirt. They were waiting for the carriage, which would take them to Westminster Abbey. “But it’s best if we’re prepared in any case.” She glanced at the crossbow Kritanu carried, and counted more than a dozen wooden bolts in the quiver he would wear under a cloak.