The Bleeding Dusk Read Free

a Venator. He could choose it again. He’d willingly go through the life-or-death test to regain any powers he lost.
    As if reading his mind—perhaps it was as simple as her sensing the change in him—Lilith continued: “But, of course, since you are not of Gardella blood, my bites that you so disdain have tainted you and your blood. As such, you will not be able to pass the test to regain your lost powers. They would be gone from you forever. But never fear—along with the loss of your strength, you will be relieved of any memory of our times together and of your time as a Venator. It will all go away.”
    â€œI will recall nothing of the Venators, of the vampires?”
    â€œNothing. Your ignorance will be your bliss.”
    He could forget what had happened. Live a normal life.
    â€œYou’ve done your duty, Maximilian. Beyond your duty. You’ve done everything that’s been asked of you, and more. I would miss you, of course….”
    Then he understood. “And, of course, I would be ripe for your plucking.”
    â€œOh, no, Maximilian. You would be just like any other mortal man. No longer a challenge. No longer exciting, a mixture of pleasure” —she stroked a hand over his cheek— “and pain” —and slipped her hand down under his shirt to brush against his vis bulla. And then she jerked away with the shock, and a breathless laugh. “I would have no further interest in you.”
    His heart thumped quietly. “Why?”
    Lilith placed both hands on his chest. “I would no longer have to contend with my greatest threat: you as a Venator.”
    He took her wrists—the first time he’d ever touched her of his own volition—and forced them away.
    â€œSo what shall it be, Maximilian? A free, ignorant life…or the vis bulla and me?”

+ One +
    In Which Our Heroine is Rearmed
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    On the west bank of the Tiber, in Rome’s fourteenth none, lay a small quarter known as the Borgo. Beyond its narrow streets, farther to the west, perched the Basilica of Saint Peter, and just to its east was the massive fortress of Castel Sant’Angelo. But within the small crisscross of borghi, a peaceful collection of hostels, shops, and churches attracted pilgrims from all over the world, the rosary makers, or comnari ,had shops intermingled with osterie —the small eateries that offered meat and pastries—alongside the homes of artisans who worked at the Vatican.
    Down one of the narrow borghi, near enough to smell the unpleasant aroma of oiled silk from the umbrella makers, was situated the unassuming church of Santo Quirinus. Made of yellowing plaster with curved terra-cotta tiles for its hipped roof, it was barely large enough to be considered a church rather than a chapel. In the shadow of the brilliant St. Peter’s and the low but imposing presence of Santa Maria in Traspontina, Santo Quirinus attracted no more attention than might a Roman cockroach.
    But hidden deep beneath this tiny, simple church was a large, circular room. In the center of the secret subterranean chamber rumbled a fountain that spilled into a red-veined marble pool about the size of a bed. The water that tumbled from a slender column of pink marble was pure and clear and shimmered as though mixed with diamonds.
    The chamber itself was accessible through a well-hidden spiral staircase. It acted as the hub to other rooms and galleries, reached by hallways that shot off like spokes through arched entryways, each flanked by two columns of black-and-gray-streaked white marble.
    Lady Victoria Gardella Grantworth de Lacy, who back in her homeland of England was also the Marchioness of Rockley, stood at the fountain. Two tiny silver crosses dangled from her fingertips. The silk skirt of her long navy-and-black gown brushed up against a table behind her, where a piece of parchment that tended to curl back into itself was kept open by the weight of an