Beyond those crackling medieval texts, he found, were more pages of cramped writing in a different hand. Each one signed with a large, ornate R .

Here Sebastian paused. His hands hovered over the page, and he felt compelled to stop and read.

Feeling Wayren’s interested gaze on him, he looked up and saw understanding there. “Rosamunde’s writings. Of course. Would you like a copy of your own?” she asked.

Sebastian watched as Wayren reached into her ever-present rugged leather satchel and shuffled around inside. At last, she withdrew a sheaf of papers. Not nearly as aged as those he held on his lap, but crinkling and loosely bound with a leather thong stitched up one side.

“Perhaps you will find what you are looking for in here,” she said, offering them to him.

Sebastian carefully closed the Bible and reached for the papers. When he touched Wayren’s hand, a peaceful warmth slipped along his arm and settled inside him.

“Perhaps I shall.”

Victoria slept alone the night before they left for Prague, and, of necessity, the nights following.

The journey left little time for sleep. Once they crossed the Channel, she, Max, and Sebastian sat a-saddle from sunrise until past sunset. Wayren did not ride, but she had her own methods of travel and would join Brim and Michalas in Rome and then the rest of them in Prague.

In fact, Victoria was relieved that Wayren would not be traveling with them. Knowing that she’d been a target of the demons once before left her uneasy, and she thought it would be best if Wayren were safely in the Consilium.

“But I will be there in Prague for Max’s Trial,” the blond woman told Victoria, after agreeing to go to Rome as quickly as possible. “I must be there to ensure that all goes well, and to make certain that he is well prepared.”

Victoria had no reason nor desire to argue. She felt confident that Wayren would be safe now that she was on her guard against the demons, and until they could meet again in Prague. She wanted Max to be ready for the life-or-death task ahead of him as well, and she vacillated between begging him not to take the chance and understanding why he must. He felt it would help to protect her-as well as himself. She couldn’t argue with that logic or sentiment.

In fact, after her conversation with Max in the carriage back in London, Victoria had little time to speak with him privately. His bleakness and underlying anger left her cold and uncertain… and frightened.

It wasn’t a matter of him not caring for her, loving her.

It was a matter of him caring for, and loving, her too much. So much that he could be tempted away from his duty if her life was at risk.

At last she understood why he resisted being with her. Making her a part of his life. He was afraid she would affect his decisions, his honor, his duty.

And perhaps… perhaps she should be as thoughtful and hesitant.

But she could not. She’d found what she wanted, and if she had to live the life of Illa Gardella-a life of sacrifice and danger, duty and necessity-she wanted Max to be part of it.

The night before they left for Prague, after she left Sebastian in the small sitting room with Wayren, she’d had one last private moment with Max in the kalari room.

The broad, mat-carpeted chamber housed a variety of weaponry as well as piles of cushions and pillows. Kritanu used them for protection when he worked with Victoria, training her in the martial art of kalaripayattu and on the Chinese fighting method of qinggong , the half-flying, half-gliding ability that Max had mastered.

Victoria and Max had used the generous cushions for a wholly different purpose only a few weeks ago.

When she opened the door, Victoria found Max standing at the slender weapons cabinet that held Kritanu’s extensive collection of blades.

Despite the fact that she moved silently, he turned when she came into the room. He held an odd-looking sword that curved from blade through hilt, and with his bare feet, thick dark hair, and swarthy skin, he reminded her of a fearsome pirate. His expression supported the comparison.

“Three days of fasting?” she asked, imitating his habit of getting immediately to the point as she walked across the room to him. “And then what?”

“Three days of fasting and prayer, while you and Vioget obtain the Ring of Jubai,” he corrected her. “I know time is of the essence, but the process is not unlike that of the knights of old when they were ready to take their vows. Three days on my knees, and then locked in a room with an undead. Only one of us will survive that meeting.”

Victoria felt the ground shift beneath her feet and the walls tip.

She’d heard about the Trial before, but never having had occasion to witness it, she hadn’t known the details other than that it was a life-or-death proposition. Max would never have spoken of it, and no one had attempted the Trial since she became a Venator. It was an exercise that Wayren, not Illa Gardella, managed-and now that Victoria understood who Wayren really was, it made even more sense.

“You have to fight a vampire after no food or sleep for three days? In a closed room?” Even she, with her two vis bullae , would be hard-pressed to succeed in that.

And even though they were in a hurry to close the portal, a one– or two-day delay in Prague wouldn’t make much of a difference if they had Max back with them in full strength. Especially when it came to facing Lilith and finding her lair.

But what if he didn’t succeed? Oh God. Then they would be without him… She would be without him. After all of this. Victoria swallowed and looked up at him. “Max,” she began, trying to find a way to speak her worries that he would understand… and not find insulting, but he interrupted.

“Did you think it would be a simple task?” he asked derisively. He replaced the khukuri knife and latched the cabinet. “Only four others have ever succeeded.”

“But, Max…”

“Stop with the histrionics, Victoria. It’s not becoming to Illa Gardella. Do you think your aunt Eustacia begged Daclid not to take the Trial?”

“Who?”

“Before she loved Kritanu, when he was merely a young man sent to train her, Eustacia loved a man named Daclid who believed he could wear the vis bulla . He attempted the Trial and did not succeed, as have many others over the centuries.”

He didn’t give her any relief; his face remained closed and hard. “There is no guarantee of my success, even this second time.”

Victoria struggled to gather her thoughts, which seemed to have splintered into uncollectible shards with these revelations. The last time she’d felt so taken off guard, so out of her realm, was when she witnessed Eustacia’s beheading by the man who stood before her. “How do you get the blood if you stake the vampire? What is that for?”

“We get the blood prior to the battle-I’m allowed assistance with that because that isn’t part of the Trial,” he added with self-deprecation. “Just enough blood to soak the vis bulla in it.”

He stood in front of her, so close her skirt brushed the tops of his narrow feet. “But that doesn’t come into play unless I succeed in leaving the room alive. That part of the Trial, incidentally, comes from the battles in the Colosseum. You know of the men thrown to the lions for sport… but after dark, they might be thrown to vampires instead. A crowd of Tutela and vampires would watch for their enjoyment.”

Victoria didn’t want to think about what Max would have to face. Not with him standing there, close enough that she could see the individual whiskers starting to emerge from his chin, and the steady pump of heartbeat in the side of his throat. But nor could she be ignorant of it. She had to know. She was Illa Gardella. “And if you leave that room alive?” she prompted.

“The blood-soaked vis bulla is pierced through my skin-just as it was yours. The difference is that I, not of the Gardellas, take it drenched with undead blood as well as holy water. That’s the final test. I either live, and have the power of the vis , or I die from the combination of evil and holiness piercing my flesh.”

And then Victoria understood it all. “If you succeed in any of it-all of it-it’s by… by divine will.”

“Of course. Just as your calling is.”

“Max, you-”

“Don’t.” He spoke through teeth clamped tightly.

So she didn’t. She surged into him instead.

His arms came around her with a fierceness she hadn’t expected, a strength that told her he wasn’t as dispassionate as he pretended.

She felt, for the first time, an edge of desperation in his touch, and knew that the same fear echoed in her own actions. The faint tremble in her fingers as she dragged him as close as she could, the way he pressed his temple against hers in a singular, frozen moment as their hearts beat together, their breaths mingled. The way they dragged the other to the floor seconds later, pulling haphazardly at clothes, lifting, shifting, yanking them away so that they could be flesh to flesh again.

They came together with ferocity, without finesse or hesitation. And when they finished and found themselves in a sweaty heap, limbs and fabric tangled and twisted, Max opened his eyes and looked down at Victoria.

Her heart seized up, began to flutter and swell, and she opened her mouth to tell him how much she loved him, how she couldn’t bear it if something happened… perhaps even to beg him not to attempt it.

But he spoke first, sending all of her flowery thoughts scattering. “Stay away from me until after, Victoria. I need no distractions. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her head cradled in his large, warm hands, the weight of his body gentle against hers. She moistened her lips, drew in her breath to argue… then nodded again.

The corners of his eyes crinkled the slightest bit, just enough for her to know that he recognized her struggle to acquiesce.

They rose, righted their clothing, left the room, and went separately to their chambers.

And the next morning, they left for Prague.

Eleven

In Which a Vampire Is Taken in by a Pretty Face

Max found it infuriating that he couldn’t shake the dreams. Nearly every morning, the remnants lingered throughout his first waking hours, leaving his stomach tight and hands shaky, and the images swimming in his memory.