Max Stops the Presses Read online

  Just then another contraction swept Victoria, and when her face tightened with pain, the maid came over to hold her hand. Verbena had been delivered of her own child only a month ago.

  “Oh, lady, you are very close,” said Tiana when the contraction had passed. “The babe will come very soon. Much sooner than I thought.” She smiled warmly. “And I think…well, we shall see.” The corners of her eyes crinkled—the only thing betraying her age—as her smile widened and she exchanged glances with Verbena.

  “Soon?” Victoria panted. She might have said something more, but felt herself gearing up for another undulating pain. She automatically reached for one of the two vis bullae that hung from her ears. During the late stages of her pregnancy she’d had to remove them from her navel, and now they merely looked like earrings. Touching her Aunt Eustacia’s vis was comforting—almost as comforting as having Max present.

  Where the blazes was he?

  + + +

  Of all the bloody damned luck.

  Max strained to see in the dark, easily turning a flicker of panic into irritation. What a bloody mess. Literally.

  His hand was crusty with blood from where he’d been holding the bullet wound—which insisted on continuing to bleed—his eyes were gritty from smoke and ash, and his head hurt. But most of all, he was damned furious.

  It had started off easily enough: it was child’s play to gain entrance to the empty print shop from the back alley. Just as simple to find the storage room, and then to identify the crates containing The Venators.

  Damned boring name for a book. Nevertheless, Max slipped one in his coat pocket. Surely it would prove to be entertaining reading.

  All three hundred volumes were accounted for—assuming Starcasset had told him the truth about the number of books printed. They were still packaged up, ready to ship to a number of stores (addresses in London, as well as Paris, Roma, and Prague—he was going to murder George Starcasset after all), which would make them easy to destroy in one fell swoop.

  Realizing this, he couldn’t help but wonder how long Vioget had known about this project. The timing was suspicious.

  Max did a quick but thorough search through the shop and upstairs to make sure no one was inside, then he went about setting the crates on fire. The walls of the shop were brick, and so a blaze wouldn’t spread, although the floor was covered with wooden planks. And he stifled any guilt he might have had—after all, a man had to protect his family. Aside from that, he’d make sure Duntwhistle and Ferngloss were reimbursed for any damage. Anonymously, of course.

  Hovering in the shadows, Max watched as the contents of each crate became engulfed in flames. The smoke was getting thick and he knew it was time to leave—there were warning shouts in the distance—when he saw a streak of movement beyond the fire.

  What the hell?

  It was a damned cat—and it would be trapped by the inferno.

  Damn and blast.

  Max vaulted up and over, toward the feline. As he landed on the other side of the fire, the weakened floor beneath him gave way…and the next thing he knew, he was falling, and then tumbling down a long, deep incline.

  At last he ended in a heap on a damp stone floor, and pieces of fiery wood crashed down on top of him, raining onto his head. One of them caught him just right, and everything went black.

  When he opened his eyes, Max had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. The air was choked with ash and smoke, and a few pieces of wood still glowed, giving off the only illumination in the darkness. The oozing bullet wound was hot with pain, and his head ached.

  As he prowled about the small space, he realized he was in some sort of deep, stonewalled area about the size of a well with no way out but up. Way up.

  Bloody damned hell.

  Even his qinggong wouldn’t help him. The space was very narrow, making it difficult for him to glide from side to side. But more importantly, his head was too out of sorts from the blow and loss of blood to allow him to concentrate on lifting his feet from the ground.

  He was well and truly trapped.

  He was quite possibly bleeding to death.

  And his wife was giving birth.

  Max cursed, and for the first time a trickle of real panic seized him. He forced it away, but the agitation sat there, picking at the back of his mind as he felt the walls surrounding him, trying not to imagine what Victoria was going through. Whether she was in pain. Whether the baby was safe. Whether she was worried about him, instead of concentrating on taking care of herself.

  Dammit.

  His head swam as he prowled the small, dark space, every so often pausing to listen for the sounds of humanity. But he remembered sliding down some sort of chute, then dumping straight down. He realized he could be anywhere beneath the city, near any of the underground canals or sewer tunnels.

  That was, he supposed, the only good thing about his current predicament: he hadn’t landed in a mucky sewer.

  But at least if he’d done that, Max might have been able to find a way out.

  With a growl of rage, he threw himself up and at the stone wall, leaping as high as he could. His fingers sought a hold between the stones as his feet scrabbled against the uneven masonry…but there was nothing to curl into, and he tumbled back to the ground, landing heavily on his side. The effort cost him, for a sudden rush of warmth there told him the damned wound was bleeding heavily again.

  He had to get out of here. He had to get back to Victoria. Now the trepidation was overtaking his cool head, assisted by frustration, pain, and blood loss, and he tried jumping up again. This time, he hit his head when he fell, and Max lay there for a minute, breathing heavily through lungs that rasped with smoky grit. His world spun, and he felt cold and clammy, and terribly weak. Frighteningly weak, and out of sorts.

  Was this how it was going to end for him? Max Pesaro, master vampire executioner? In the bottom of a goddamned well while his wife was having their baby…most likely, surely, attended by Sebastian Vioget?

  Oh, hell, no.

  No.

  But the darkness was closing in on him and he could no longer keep his eyes open.

  + + +

  “Push!”

  Victoria pushed for what seemed like the hundredth time, and then at last, she felt the baby slide free. A loud squall filled the air and she blinked hard, tears of joy and exhaustion trickling down her cheeks.

  “You have a daughter, my dear,” said Tiana, her voice filled with pride. “A healthy one, by the look—and sound—of her.”

  “A daughter?” Victoria gave an exhausted, delighted huff. Max was right again. She smiled and collapsed back onto her pillow, then lifted her head up abruptly. “Max! Is he here?”

  Tiana placed a wrapped bundle—Victoria’s daughter!—in her arms and said, “You may hold her for a moment, but we aren’t finished quite yet.”

  Victoria nodded and looked down at the scrunched-up, red face. “She has a lot of hair.” Thick and black, like her papa’s and mama’s. She was beautiful. “Where’s Max?” she asked again, then gasped as another pain shuddered through her.

  “I’ll take her,” said Verbena, and Victoria was barely aware of relinquishing the infant as the contraction absorbed her whole concentration.

  “What do you mean, we aren’t finished?” Victoria managed to gasp once the wave of pain ended.

  Tiana’s soft, mysterious smile returned. “There is another babe.”

  At that, Victoria burst into tears.

  + + +

  Water streamed over him, and with effort, Max dragged his eyes open.

  It was pouring in, like a waterfall. He was already sitting in several inches.

  Max pulled to his feet, wincing from the pain in his side. The rush was coming in fast; it would be up to his shoulders in no time. Then he’d either rise with it and find a way out…or not.

  A flicker of panic tried to worm its way into his consciousness, but he shoved it back ruthlessly.

  He’d survived Lilith
. By God, he’d get out of here to see his child.

  His daughter.

  Nothing was going to stop him from that.

  Max drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The water churned and swirled about him—up to his knees already!—but he ignored it. He emptied his mind the way he’d been taught in the art of qinggong.

  He imagined himself weightless. He knew he was weightless. Such was the key. The knowing. That was the earliest lesson: walking around the rim of a basket, knowing he was in the air.

  He was floating. Swimming…on air, not the water that rose incessantly around him. His feet lifted and he bumped into the wall, then lost his thought and slipped back down into the rising water.

  Now his coat was floating around him, the book surely soaked, his pistol useless. He reached beneath his shirt and touched the vis bulla pierced through his areola. His eyes closed, his body drawing in the power, and he suddenly remembered the time he’d forced Victoria to touch him there, to absorb strength from his holy amulet.

  She’d been horrified when he grabbed her wrist and pulled it to his bare chest. She was furious with him—she’d loathed him, and rightly so, for she’d just witnessed the horrific act he’d vested upon Eustacia. Nevertheless, the brush of her fingers, the pressure of her palm against his torso had stolen his breath. It wasn’t merely the draining of power and strength from the vis bulla to her. It was her touch.

  Because he’d known even then.

  Even back then.

  Max closed his eyes and fought to clear his mind.

  She’d chosen him, and by all that was holy, he’d return to her.

  + + +

  “Once more, Victoria! You must stay with me once more!”

  Victoria was exhausted, but the calm, encouraging voice kept her focused. She drew in a breath and pushed.

  “And here it is!” cried Tiana as a lusty bawl filled the chamber. “What a lovely, precious darling.”

  A sudden loud sound from below caused Verbena to give a startled shriek, but Victoria was too exhausted to care. She sagged back onto the bed as the two infants were tucked under her arms, so tired she didn’t even hear what Tiana said.

  Pounding noises, loud voices…Victoria smiled.

  Max was home.

  + + +

  “Surely you don’t intend to go up there like that.”

  Max found his way upstairs blocked by Vioget. It was with great effort that he managed to keep from decking the bastard. “Out of my damned way.”

  “Max.” Kritanu stood at the bottom of the stairs, also standing in his path. He wore a determined expression that brooked no disobedience, and Max wondered fleetingly if he’d learned it from Eustacia. “Victoria is fine. All is well. But Sebastian is correct—you cannot go up there looking like that. You’re wet and filthy and you’re bleeding. Everywhere.” Kritanu’s voice rose a trifle as he looked at the waterlogged blood that had already begun to puddle on the floor.

  “Where the bloody hell have you been, anyway?” Vioget said, lifting his nose at the mess. “Surely George Starcasset didn’t get the best of y—”

  Max growled and Vioget was smart enough to close his mouth. “The books are destroyed. All three-bloody-hundred of them.”

  Kritanu, who acted as his valet, had already called for a footman to bring a bath. “You aren’t going up there. We’ll tend to you in the kalari.”

  A quiet gasping sound drew Max’s attention, and for the first time, he noticed Victoria’s mother, Lady Melly, standing in the parlor doorway. She gaped at him, her eyes wide with shock and probably fear—which was nothing new. Lady Melly didn’t know what to make of her son-in-law. Fortunately, that meant she didn’t come around Grantworth House very often.

  “A word with you, Vioget,” Max snapped as he followed Kritanu to the kalari, trying to hide the unsteadiness of his footsteps. His head still pounded, and felt as if it were floating at the same time. And his hip burned like fire. “And someone tell my wife I’m here.”

  “She knows,” said a voice from the stairs.

  Max paused and looked up, his breath halting. “She’s…well? And the baby?”

  “They are all fine,” said Tiana. “All three of them.”

  Three?

  Max stumbled. “Three?”

  “Yes indeed, signore. You are the father of twins.”

  + + +

  “Max. Where have you been?”

  Victoria drank in the sight of him. There’d been a time, a dark time, during the unending waves of pain and pushing and exhaustion, that she feared she’d never see him again.

  But here he was, his broad shoulders and arrogant personality seeming to fill the chamber as usual. His longish dark hair was damp, leaving little droplets on the shoulders of his shirt, which was untied at the throat. He wasn’t wearing a shirtwaist or coat, he needed a shave, and he was moving…oddly. Without his usual feline grace.

  “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  He didn’t respond. He just stood there for a moment, looking at her, then at the babies, unmoving.

  “I can’t…” He drew in a long, unsteady breath, and blinked rapidly. Max pinched the bridge of his nose, gave a half-smile, and said, “May I?” He gestured to the bed.

  “Of course. Max, what happened to you? You’re hurt. And I thought…” Victoria swallowed hard, forcing the burning in her throat away. She was not going to cry. All was well. He was here. The babies were here. He was acting odd, but he was here.

  Max sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, and before she could speak, he was right there, kissing her. With the softest, most tender, sensual kiss she could ever remember receiving. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed.

  “Oh, Max,” she said, kissing him back—which was difficult to do with two babies gathered up in her arms.

  He eased back, holding her gaze with his own, which glistened uncharacteristically. Then he looked down. “They refused to tell me anything but that there were two. I didn’t even let Kritanu shave me.”

  “So that was what all the roaring was about down there.” Victoria smiled. “Your voice carries, you know.”

  “I know.” He was still looking at the babies. “Two. I can’t believe it.”

  “I can’t either. And you were right, Max. She is a girl.”

  “Which one?” For the first time, he reached to touch one of them, lightly tracing his finger over the top of a dark-haired head.

  “Both of them. We have two daughters.” Then she laughed at his expression, for it was one of utter shock and dismay.

  “My God,” he muttered, running a finger over the identical head of the second baby. “Two of them? Two little Victorias running around? What did I ever do to deserve that?” But he was relaxed and laughing, his dark eyes soft with love and affection—a very different Max than the one she’d nearly staked more than three years ago.

  A happy, content, only slightly arrogant Max.

  “Which one is Stacia?” he asked. They’d always intended to name a girl after their beloved mentor.

  “The first one. This one.” Victoria shifted her arms in gentle indication. “We’ll have to have different-colored blankets so we can tell them apart.”

  “And the other? Do you have a name in mind?”

  “I thought…well, since we meant to call a boy Zavier, and there is no good female version of it, perhaps you’d like to name her after…after your sister.” She wasn’t certain how he would feel about being reminded of her, for Giulia’s tragic end had inadvertently been his doing.

  But Max nodded slowly. “I think…yes. But…Juliette. Let’s call her Juliette.”

  Victoria smiled. “It’s a beautiful name.”

  “And so we have Stacia,” he said, touching the first baby, “and Juliette.” He brushed his elegant finger over a tiny, curled hand. Then he looked up at Victoria with more than a trace of smugness in his eyes. “And of course I was right. I knew it was a girl. And it was—two girls. Not even one boy. I couldn’t have been more rig
ht.”

  Victoria rolled her eyes. “Enjoy it now, Max, because with three women in the house, this will probably be the last time that will ever happen.”

  + + +

  +

  + + +

  Once again, I hope you enjoyed this little peek into the lives of Victoria, Max, and Sebastian after the formal end of what I call The Victoria Chronicles.

  I anticipate other short stories to come in the future. Of course we must see if Max is ever right again, living in a house with three women, and whether he and Victoria have any other children—and which, if any, are called to be Venators—and whether he succeeded in destroying all of the copies of The Venators (hint: he didn’t).

  If you enjoyed this story and would like to be informed of future shorts, as well as any other new book releases and news, I urge you to sign up for my newsletter. Not only do I award the monthly prize of an e-gift card to a subscriber, but all of my newsletter subscribers had FREE access to this short story, as well as to any future Victoria Gardella short stories.

  You can find the signup on my website at ColleenGleason.com, or you may click here to be taken directly to it.

  And if you are curious about whatever happened to the remaining copies of The Venators, you might check out my latest release Roaring Midnight, the first in a trilogy about Macey Gardella, set in Roaring Twenties Chicago.

  In addition, that mysterious tome makes an appearance in a new series I am launching in September 2013. The first book in the series is titled The Clockwork Scarab, and it’s about Sherlock Holmes’s niece and Bram Stoker’s sister—who happens to be a descendant of Victoria Gardella.