Max Stops the Presses Read online

  “Our guest is quite the wit,” Max said, noticing the way said guest’s eyes followed Victoria as she made her way to a chair. He flattened his lips grimly. Old habits.

  Vioget bared his teeth, including a hint of fang. “Indeed.”

  “Now, now, gentlemen.” Victoria hesitated, then began the awkward process of lowering herself into a chair. Even though he was standing next to her, Max knew from experience it was best not to offer assistance.

  “Your husband tells me I’m the only vampire who’s darkened the streets of London in a long while,” Sebastian said, settling back into his chair.

  “Since we returned from Muntii Faragas.” Victoria was still adjusting herself in the chair. “Since Lilith was slain. England, for the time being, seems to be quite rid of the undead. What was your experience in Rome?”

  Max listened with half an ear as Sebastian proceeded to respond to her question, but not precisely answer it. Prevaricating was a skill at which Vioget had always been quite accomplished. But as he listened, Max was also combing through his own range of knowledge and information, wondering what it was that had caused Vioget to darken their door. Surely it must be some tangible threat.

  “Oh, my. Look at the time. Alas, I must be on my way. Unfortunately, dawn comes much too soon for me nowadays,” Sebastian said, rising.

  “So soon?” Max said blandly. “What a shame.”

  Vioget gave him a measured look, then turned his attention to Victoria. “I have other things to attend to in London whilst I’m here. I shall most likely make a visit to The Leaning Hen. I understand they have an excellent whiskey, and they happen to be conveniently close to Smithfield.”

  “Smithfield? Oh…” Victoria’s lilting voice faded as she comprehended. The cattle market, where there would be plenty of fresh, non-human blood on which a vampire could subsist. “Oh, Sebastian.” Her voice choked a little, and Max saw her throat work as she swallowed hard. She blinked rapidly, clutching the other man’s hand as if she dared not release him. “Are you—”

  “Now, be certain you send word the minute our newest Venator makes his—or her—appearance,” Vioget said, neatly interrupting what appeared to be the beginning of an emotional appeal or apology. “I shan’t leave town until I hear from you.”

  Above Victoria’s head, the two men exchanged brief glances, and then Vioget was gone.

  “Oh Max,” Victoria said, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes. “I still can’t believe he’s…” She shook her head, flattening her lips into a taut line. “Poor Sebastian.”

  “I know, darling.” The poor devil. Max couldn’t completely deny his own stab of guilt as he gathered his wife close and led her upstairs. “But he did what he had to do. For Giulia—and for you.”

  Just as I would, if it meant saving the woman I love.

  + + +

  A short time later—still well before dawn—Max strode into The Leaning Hen. Tonight it had been more difficult than usual for him to leave Victoria, slipping away from their bed in the dark.

  With her belly so large she had trouble sleeping now, and Max was relieved that tonight she seemed to ease readily into repose, especially after seeing their visitor. But before leaving, he paused at the side of the bed to look down at her. The pale moonlight frosted her beloved, stubborn face with silver, and the masses of long, dark hair spilled over her pillow and blankets. One hand was curled beneath her chin, and she had an extra pillow propped beneath her belly and upper leg. She appeared so damned innocent and fragile in sleep. Yet Victoria was everything but.

  What did I ever do to become so damned fortunate?

  He didn’t bend to kiss her cheek, knowing she’d awaken at even the slightest touch. Instead, he took one last look, then left the room like a shadow.

  Armed with a stake, a dagger, and a pistol, Max eschewed a carriage and instead made his way on horseback to the rendezvous with Vioget. Once inside the pub, which was known for its heavy, dark ale, it took Max only a moment to locate his quarry.

  “I do hope you’ll get to the bloody point this time,” he said, sliding into the seat next to Sebastian. At the same time, he waved impatiently for a mug of Leaning Hen Ale, noticed a bar fight just about ready to start up in the far corner, saw a whore lift a money purse from her mark, and counted the number of occupants, windows, and other exits in the pub.

  “Always so damned impatient, aren’t we, Pesaro? I thought you might enjoy a night out, since you seem to be so tied down to the homestead and the little wife, and—”

  “Goddammit, Vioget, if it’s not Iscariot, then who?”

  “George Starcasset.”

  “Who—what? Starcasset?” Max barked a laugh of incredulity while continuing to observe his surroundings. “Christ. What the bloody hell have you been drinking? Even if the bastard was turned undead—which he’s at least smart enough to resist—that pansy wouldn’t be a threat to a damned child.”

  “He’s writing a book. Or, more accurately, has written a book.”

  Max turned slowly back to him. “A book.”

  His companion nodded, his expression shifting from mocking to sober. “About the vampires. About the Venators. About—”

  “About my wife.” Max erupted from his chair so quickly the approaching barmaid shrieked and lost the grip on her tray. He ignored the ensuing mess and loomed over Sebastian. “Where is he? And more importantly, where is the damned book?”

  The man looked up at him, shrugging with all of his characteristic insouciance. “That I cannot tell you. But I have no doubt you’ll find out, and in short order. You are, after all, Max Pesaro.” The irony in his voice was heavy as a stone.

  For the first time in his life—or at least in recent memory—Max didn’t immediately know what to do. His initial urge was to plow a fist into the handsome, mocking face of his former rival and nemesis. But Max was, if nothing else, practical and efficient. In this case, efficiency won out, for Vioget happened to be the most convenient source of information about George Starcasset and his bloody damned book. And if he were an unconscious, bloody pulp on the floor…

  And so Max reluctantly sat down. “What do you know? I want everything.” He gritted his teeth at the knowing smirk Sebastian gave him, but leashed his impatience and settled back to listen.

  + + +

  Max peered through the window.

  There he was, George Starcasset—the current bane of his existence—snoring peacefully in his bed. Alone, of course.

  The poor sot wasn’t going to know what hit him.

  Moonlight reflected off the window glass, but in the distance, the eastern horizon was beginning to turn pale gray. The impending dawn had been Vioget’s excuse for demurring when Max invited him to accompany him to hunt down Starcasset—not for companionship and certainly not for assistance, but merely because it seemed only fair to extend the invitation, since the other man had brought the information.

  Generally, Vioget liked a good fight as much as Max did—at least, as long as his neckcloth didn’t get rumpled.

  But tonight, apparently, Sebastian was in no mood to fight.

  Max, however, was. He flexed his fingers, hovering in front of the window three stories off the ground, and his lips settled in flat smile. His qinggong skills were just as sharp as they’d always been, despite the fact that he’d hardly had to employ them recently. With all the vampires gone from London, life had become less demanding—and far less dangerous.

  Not that living with Victoria wasn’t demanding. Or, hell, dangerous. His smile softened. And within days, he’d be living with Victoria and their child—which surely would turn his world upside down even more.

  With nimble fingers, Max opened the window and climbed inside, neatly avoiding the cloves of garlic and the silver cross arranged over the sill. He snorted. Damned fool.

  Silent and smooth, he looked around the shadowy chamber, noting the locked door, the wooden stake on the bedside table, and the large silver cross on a chain around Starcasset’s ne
ck. Then, snagging a walking stick from a nearby chair, he poked the slumbering man in the gut.

  His eyes flew open and he sat up in a whirl of bedclothes.

  “Good evening,” Max greeted him.

  “You! What—what are you—how did you get in here?” Starcasset gaped, looking around the chamber and toward the door—which was, of course, still bolted from the inside.

  “How did I get in here?” Max replied, lifting one of his brows. “Perhaps you aren’t as well-informed about Venators and vampires as you think.” He pressed the walking stick into Starcasset’s belly a little harder and the blonde man squirmed. “Definitely not well-informed enough to be writing a bloody damned book about them.”

  “Oh.” Starcasset’s eyes were wide enough that white circles ringed his irises, yet his hand inched toward the wall. “I…”

  “Don’t even think about ringing that bell.” Max’s voice was very pleasant. “That would be nearly as foolish a decision as writing a book about my wife.”

  “I—”

  “You took precautions to protect yourself from the undead, but you should have been more concerned about me.” Max bared his teeth and removed the walking stick. Starcasset heaved a great sigh of relief and plunged his hand under the pillow next to him. “However,” Max continued, “I’m a reasonable man. And if you so much as touch that pistol, I’ll throw you out the window.”

  Starcasset snatched back his hand and glared up at him. “If you’re so reasonable, what do you want?”

  “There. Much better. I simply want to know where the book is.”

  To his surprise, Starcasset chuckled. “The book? You’re too late for that. It’s already been printed and bound. Three hundred copies, to be exact.”

  Max went cold. “You published the book? There are three hundred copies? By God, I ought to throw you out the window anyway.” He grabbed Starcasset by the nightshirt and yanked him out of the bed. The man shrieked as he slammed against the wall so hard the mirror fell. It shattered into silvery shards around their feet. “Your bad luck is just about to begin.”

  Just then, Max heard the sounds of shouts and pounding feet from below.

  “No, Signore Pesaro, I’m afraid your bad luck has just begun.” George Starcasset’s smile was a trifle tense, but it was present nonetheless. “Due to the sensitive nature of the book’s topic, I’ve been expecting a visit from either the Tutela, the undead, or one of your ilk. I’m prepared for any eventuality.”

  The door creaked and heaved beneath the onslaught of whoever was on the other side. Max glanced at it, then curved his hand around Starcasset’s throat and squeezed. “Where are the books?”

  The man gurgled beneath the powerful hand, his legs shifting and twitching against the wall even as the door groaned in protest. “I…”

  Max jerked his head toward the splintering door. “Speak quickly, or I’ll demonstrate on them what will happen to you if even one copy of that book finds its way to the public.”

  “They’re…uhm…”

  The door caved in and Max turned to see four large men pouring over the threshold. They were armed with stakes…and pistols.

  Bloody hell.

  + + +

  Victoria wasn’t a fool.

  She recognized the exchange of glances between Max and Sebastian, and felt her husband slip from the bed when he thought she was sleeping.

  And because she wasn’t a fool, she merely sighed, smiled that her hovering, irritating husband was going to have something interesting to do tonight at least, and shifted her pillows and ungainly self around to try and get some sleep.

  But the twinges in her belly were growing stronger and more regular—much stronger and more regular than she had indicated earlier to Max.

  She dozed fitfully, jolted from her light sleep with every contraction as they grew more uncomfortable and then more regular.

  And then, just as dawn began to filter through her window, she felt a sudden gush of liquid from between her legs.

  The baby was coming.

  She rang for Verbena and Tiana.

  + + +

  Max flung Starcasset into the cluster of men, and they all crashed into each other like milk bottles. In the melee, one of the pistols discharged, sending a small puff of smoke into the chamber, and someone clipped Max in the hip.

  But before his victims had a chance to recover, he yanked a firearm from one flailing hand and aimed it at Starcasset. The man—whose knobby knees were revealed by a too-short nightshirt—froze, hands raised.

  “Next time, you might engage more competent help,” he suggested as his quarry squeaked out a desperate command for his men to freeze. At the same time, Max felt something wet and warm where he’d been hit in the hip. Dammit. That stray bullet had got him. His eyes bored into Starcasset’s. “Tell me where the books are.”

  “Duntwhistle…and Ferngloss printed them,” Starcasset said reluctantly. “But they’ve been packaged up for shipping. They might even be gone by now.”

  Once again, Max gave him a humorless smile. “You had better hope they aren’t.” He lazily turned his attention to one of the four goons who’d come through the door. “Stop right there or I’ll blow off your kneecap.” He extricated his own pistol, the sight of which proved to be sufficient motivation for the man to freeze.

  Still holding both firearms, Max leaned closer to Starcasset, pushing the barrel of one gun into his chest. “I suggest you forget everything you know about me, my wife, and our vocation. No more books. No articles. No lectures. No interviews. If I ever find out you’ve done something so foolish again, I’ll kill you. Next time, I won’t ask questions.”

  “Under…stood,” breathed the other man.

  Max eased back toward the window, still keeping his dual pistols trained on the group of them. “Good night, Starcasset. It will be in your best interest not to remain in London. Find your way somewhere very far from England. The New World. Australia. Somewhere where I won’t run into you by happenstance.”

  With a nod of farewell, he tossed the extra pistol into the chamber and vaulted out the window, feeling a shaft of pain in his side.

  Just as he glided easily to the ground, he heard a voice waft through the night, “Gor… Oo th’ devil was that?”

  + + +

  Duntwhistle and Ferngloss was a small print shop three blocks off Bond. By the time Max was able to learn this information, dawn had broken, and a pale yellow light filtered over the shadowy city. He pressed a hand against the wound in his side. Damn thing irritated him for a variety of reasons, but he didn’t have time to tend to it now.

  He was scoping out the dingy storefront, considering his next move, when a pearl-gray pigeon fluttered in front of him. Myza. Max held out his hand and the delicate bird landed lightly on his palm. On her leg was a tiny tube.

  His fingers were unusually clumsy as he extricated the message and unrolled it. There were a mere two words on it, written in Kritanu’s precise printing: It’s time.

  A rush of heat followed by cold fear swept over him. And then he smiled, albeit crookedly. Today, or perhaps tomorrow—for he’d been warned these things took time—Max would be a father.

  He looked at the print shop and set his mouth grimly. Now he had even more reason to destroy those books. If the secrets of the Venators—not to mention the identity of Victoria, himself, and the others—were made public, it would be a disaster.

  “Go back,” he said to Myza, tossing her gently up into the air. When the bird returned to Grantworth House without the message, Kritanu would know his note had been received and understand that its recipient had no way to write back at the moment.

  His decision made, he went around to the back door of the print shop. No one was here so early in the morning, so this wouldn’t take long.

  He’d be home and bandaged up before Victoria broke a sweat.

  + + +

  “Where…the blazes…is Max?” Victoria gasped.

  Her face dripped with sweat, and her
belly seemed to have a mind of its own—rippling and undulating crazily. A strong contraction caught her off guard, and she stifled a groan as she tried to pant her way through the rolling discomfort.

  “There you are,” said Tiana when the pain subsided, and her patient relaxed for the moment. “You are doing very well, Victoria.” Her dark hands were small and cool, and her voice calming. She wore her sleek hair in a long blue-black tail, and round glasses perched on her nose. She had serious black eyes that became almost hypnotic when she fixed them on Victoria’s, helping her to focus through the contractions.

  Tiana appeared more like a child of thirteen or fourteen than a midwife and physician of twenty years. And she certainly didn’t look like a Comitator—one who protected and helped to train the Venators in their martial arts. But Victoria trusted Kritanu and, so far, everything seemed to be going well.

  Except for the fact that Max was gone.

  And didn’t that just figure? After his hovering for weeks, now that she wanted him nearby, he wasn’t.

  Mid-morning sun streamed through the window of her bedchamber. It was approaching noon. He should have been back by now…shouldn’t he?

  She wasn’t precisely worried. After all, it was Max. And of course, he was meeting up with Sebastian. But where the blazes was he? Kritanu told her he’d received the message from Myza, but still nothing.

  Someone knocked on the bedchamber door and she shifted upright, her heart leaping…but Max wouldn’t knock. Max never knocked. Never in all the time she’d known him had that man knocked on a bloody door.

  It was Verbena. “Ain’t no word from his lord, my lady. But Mr. Kritanu sent that bird off with a message to Mr. Vioget.”