Max Stops the Presses (A Gardella Vampire Hunters Short Story)
Author: Colleen Gleason
Date: 2013-07-02 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: victoria gardella; max pesaro; gardella vampire chronicles; sebastian vioget
Description: A Gardella Vampire Chronicles Short Story. This story occurs after As Shadows Fade, the 5th and final Victoria Gardella book. Please note: there will be spoilers for the entire Victoria Gardella series in this short story. If you wish to read the full series, it goes as follows: The Rest Falls Away Rises the Night The Bleeding Dusk When Twilight Burns As Shadows Fade
Publisher: Avid Press, LLC

Max Stops The Presses: A Gardella Vampire Chronicles Short Story

© 2013 Colleen Gleason

All rights reserved

To the Reader

I cannot tell you how many emails, letters, and verbal pleas I’ve received in the last four years for more about Max, Sebastian, and Victoria. I am humbled by your love for these characters, and I thank all of you for your insistence for more. You inspired me to write this short piece, and I hope this story does your love for them justice.

Please note that if you’ve somehow stumbled upon this short story and haven’t read the first five books in the Gardella Vampire Chronicles, Max Stops the Presses will have little meaning for you. In fact, I urge you not to read it until you’ve read The Rest Falls Away and the four other volumes that follow.

Again, to the fans of Victoria Gardella: I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to assuage your curiosity, and I hope you enjoy this little clip of a scene her life after As Shadows Fade.

With love and affection,

Colleen Gleason

June 2013

+ + +

+ In Which Max Stops the Presses +

“That chit is the new Venator?” Max lifted a brow. He lowered a glass of very fine brandy and turned to his mentor Eustacia.

The elderly woman, whose jet-black eyes still gleamed with the intelligence and ferocity of a warrior, looked up at him archly. “Yes. And as you well know, she is my great-niece. So take care what you say, my dear boy.”

Eustacia was the only person who’d dare call Maximilian Pesaro “boy,” and the light in her eyes told him how well she knew it. Nevertheless, he wasn’t the least bit chastised, and he lifted the brandy to sip.

The young woman in question was no more than twenty, and, dressed in a pale, frothy pink frock, she looked as if she’d blow over in a strong breeze. She had thick, dark hair piled high at the back of her head, and it looked much too heavy for her long, elegant neck. Jet beads and pink pearls were woven through her curls. The gown’s bodice was cut low, as fashion dictated, and displayed over the generous expanse of bosom was a necklet of rosy pearl and quartz. A heavy silver crucifix nestled just above the rise of her unarguably lovely breasts.

She conversed, laughed, and flirted with a variety of young men, her diaphanous gown shifting and flowing with each movement. She looked as if she hadn’t a serious thought in her head, other than the filling of her dance card—which she produced with a girlish flourish for some fop he thought was called Rockley.

Her name was Victoria.

Max was aware of an odd sensation as he observed this latest, much-anticipated addition to the Gardella family of vampire hunters. At first, he couldn’t identify it. Not necessarily interest, but not necessarily ambivalence. Disappointment, certainly—for how was a cloud-headed, delicate, young woman like her going to combat Lilith…let alone lead the contingent of Venators?

Perhaps his reaction was more like chagrin. After all, Eustacia was past eighty, and soon—hopefully not too soon—her role as Illa Gardella would be vacated.

“How the blazes does she expect to stake a vampire in that bloody gown?” A good thrust with a stake, and one of those fine breasts would pop right out of her bodice. If she didn’t get wrapped up in her skirts and land on her arse first.

“She’s a Gardella, Max. She’ll manage.”

“Bloody hell, I hope she’ll do more than manage.” His attention wandered to Felicity Daniels, the newly turned blonde vampire. He’d escorted the undead to the debut of Miss Victoria Gardella Grantworth into London Society—and what would also, thanks to Max, be her first encounter with a vampire.

Felicity, who had no idea of the role she was meant to play this evening, or that she’d been escorted by the infamous Max Pesaro, was eyeing with bald interest the bare neck of a young woman who had large blue eyes and bright red hair.

Max glared at the clock. “How long do you think it will take for your niece to realize there is a vampire present?” The sooner he was gone from this stuffy gathering, the sooner he could get to the Silver Chalice and find out what the devil Vioget was up to.

“I suspect she already knows, Max. Kritanu says she has excellent instinct.” Eustacia laid a soft, wrinkled hand on his sleeve. “Regardless, I trust you won’t interfere.”

“Why the hell would I interfere? If she can’t stake a vampire under these conditions, she has no business being a Venator.” With a brief bow, he excused himself and went to corral Felicity before she lured the redheaded chit into a salon or parlor. He’d loosen his collar and suggest a walk in the gardens—and perhaps Miss Victoria Grantworth would put aside her dance card for long enough to follow them.

Or perhaps she wouldn’t, and there would be no reason for him to ever see the chit again.

But, alas, that hope was short-lived…for not ten minutes later, the blasted girl tried to stake him.

+ + +

More than three years later, Max sat in his study at Grantworth House sampling yet another glass of most excellent brandy and considering how radically things had changed.

In the time since her debut, not only had Victoria proved herself an incomparable Venator—stunning even Max with her intelligence, fortitude, and determination—but he had also married the blasted woman.

Together—and, admittedly, with some help from Sebastian Vioget—Max and Victoria had driven most of the vampires out of London. She’d slain Lilith—a fact for which Max felt overwhelming gratitude every bloody damned day—and since then, their lives had quieted into something resembling normalcy.

A loud thud, followed by a crash, had Max bolting from his chair with a curse. The sounds had come from the kalari—the spacious room where he and Victoria practiced their fighting skills…and occasionally other physical activities. Since his wife was nine months pregnant, she should most definitely not be practicing anything but sitting and resting. Which, for Victoria, were tendencies that didn’t come naturally.

Max flung open the door to find her standing there, surrounded by a variety of weapons. Swords, cheruvadis, scythes, kadharas, and, of course, wooden stakes of all sizes—along with the shelves on which they’d been displayed—were scattered all over the floor. Victoria spun toward him, guilt and irritation plastered all over her face. Little wisps of black curls were loose around her temples, and her cheeks were flushed—though he wasn’t certain whether it was from effort or chagrin at being caught out.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” He swallowed his heart back into place and stalked over, picking up a kadhara dagger as he went. “By God, Victoria, don’t tell me you were trying to get the damned urumi down again.”

She glowered up at him. “My blasted belly got in the way. I couldn’t quite reach—”

“And what, precisely, were you trying to reach that particular sword for?” He fixed her with a dark look, trying not to be distracted by the lushness of her pregnant curves. The urumi was not only long and sharp, but it had a flexible, ribbon-like metal blade—which made it particularly difficult to handle properly.

She pressed her lips together and glared up at him in mute frustration. Her arms were crossed between belly and breasts, which had the effect of lifting her cleavage in a most enticing manner. Even though she was wearing only a loose tunic and fighting trousers, she looked beautiful.

With effort, he kept his attention on her face. “Victoria, of all the bloody damned weapons you could be practicing with in your condition, the urumi is the worst candidate.”

“I’m bored, Max. I’m not used to sitting around.”

“And so you decided to play with a whip-like sword? Here.” He handed her one of the cheruvadis—a long wooden pole—and proceeded to roll the urumi’s sharp blade into a proper circle. Setting the sword aside, he added, “If you insist on thumping around in here like an—er—at least use something less likely to wrap around your legs—”

“Thumping around like a what? Like an elephant? That’s what you were going to say, weren’t you?” She tossed the pole away and curved her arms around her massive belly—one Max could hardly believe hadn’t caused her to topple over yet. “I’m definitely as big as one. And about as graceful as a—as a potato.”

Max barely contained a laugh, covering it up by folding his ungainly wife into an embrace. “You’re pregnant, darling.” He pressed a kiss onto the top of her head. It was particularly warm, and so was she, indicating she’d already been doing some sort of training.

Victoria struggled to free herself from his arms, but Max held firm, greatly enjoying the feel of all those soft, generous curves, and the smell of her hair, and the knowledge that she was here, with him, safe…and that he would be damned if he’d let anything happen to her while she was carrying his child. Or ever.

He still woke sometimes, erupting into a sudden, terrified fear that she was once again Lilith’s captive.

A soft sniffle and the dampness seeping into his shirt told him she wasn’t yet over her pique. A non-pregnant Victoria would rage and storm about, her eyes flashing and her hands throwing things, but as he’d discovered, things were different at the moment.

“Shh,” he murmured. “It won’t be long now, and before you know it, you’ll be back in here trying to flip me onto my arse.”

“Trying?” She bristled in his arms and he smiled against her hair. “You know bloody well I can get you on your back any time I want to.”

“You certainly can,” he said, his voice dropping low and dusky as his thoughts went elsewhere. He slid his hands down over her pert bottom and ducked to kiss her in that special place she liked, behind the ear.

“Max…” She sagged against him, giving a little tremble. “Don’t be…”

Just as she lifted her face to meet his kiss, he felt a definite nudge from her round middle. They both stilled and waited, belly pressed to belly, as the baby kicked and shifted inside her. A particularly sharp, hard movement had Max’s eyes widening at the sheer force of it.

“He’s going to be a fighter just like his papa,” Victoria said, easing back.

“No…she’s going to be a quiet, sedate little girl, unlike her mother,” he said. Then Max was suddenly terrified at the very thought of a little Victoria toddling about his house…running his life…looking up at him with big hazel eyes…getting into trouble. Christ…climbing into carriages with handsome, rakish men like Vioget. Bloody hell. I’ll never sleep again.

“A girl?” said Victoria. “If it’s a girl—which I’m quite certain it’s not—she’s going to be just like me. Not sedate in the least.”

“By the devil, I’ll be gray before she’s three,” he said, laughing down at her, relieved that she seemed to have gotten past her tears. But then her face pinched. “Victoria? What is it?”

She grimaced and rubbed her belly. “Nothing. Just a little twinge. I get them occasionally, which just means the time is getting closer. And don’t even think about telling me to sit down and put my feet up. Tiana told me that moving around can help make the baby come. Which is why I was in here.”

Tiana was the midwife, and Kritanu had found her for them. He’d assured the soon-to-be-father the woman was not only experienced and excellent with baby deliveries but was also a Comitator—a Venator trainer—like Kritanu himself, which left Max as comfortable with the situation as possible.

The irony of the possibility of losing his wife not to a vampire, but to the very natural event of childbirth, had occurred to him more often than he’d ever admit. Which was why he’d hardly left the house in the last two weeks, even to patrol for undead.

Speaking of which…just then, Max felt a familiar, slightly nauseating chill waft over the back of his neck. He and Victoria turned toward the kalari door at the same time.

He scooped up a fallen stake with one smooth movement and glanced at his wife. “Get that sparkle out of your eyes. You’re in no condition to be even thinking about—”

“Oh, hush, Max. It’s just Sebastian, not an army of undead.” Victoria was already lumbering toward the door.

Just Sebastian? Max didn’t bother to stifle a derisive snort. There was no “just” about Vioget. “How the bloody hell do you know it’s him?” He lowered the stake, but tucked it into his coat pocket. Just in case. “He was in Roma last I knew.”

“He sent word earlier today, and I told Kritanu to let him in—ah, Sebastian.” Her voice lifted with pleasure as she disappeared into the hall.

“Cherie.” That was Sebastian of course, his rich voice filled with affection and warmth. He barely looked up when Max came into view; he was too busy ogling his host’s wife. “And look at how lovely you are, Victoria. All ripe and lush and delicious, like a sweet peach.”

It was a credit to Max’s contentment and ease that he didn’t snarl when the Venator-turned-vampire swept Victoria up into an embrace, ending with a charming kiss on the back of her hand, which then somehow turned into a lingering buss on the mouth.

“Vioget, remove your damned lips from my wife.”

“Greetings, Max. You’re looking stiff and disgruntled—and terribly out of fashion—as usual. Apparently pending fatherhood hasn’t done a thing to remove that pole from up your—”

“What brings you back from Rome, Sebastian?” Victoria smoothly interrupted. She beamed up at the visitor as she curled her arm around Max’s bicep. The three of them began to make their way back to the study, moving more slowly than usual due to her bulk.

“I wanted to make certain I was returned in time to offer my felicitations on the new arrival, of course,” said Vioget. “From the looks of you, surely it must happen any day now.”

“If it doesn’t, I vow I’ll go mad. And Max has been simply hovering all the time. I feel as if I’m being smothered.”

“Hovering? Max? My, how things have changed.”

Max detected a hint of strain, and something else unfamiliar, in Vioget’s voice. Torment? “I’m not hovering,” he informed Victoria. “I’m making certain you don’t do anything foolish. Like trying qinggong with a urumi.” Qinggong was a type of martial art in which one floated, flew, and skimmed above the ground—while employing a lethal weapon. It was a skill at which Max was sleekly proficient and Victoria…not.

Sebastian made a shocked sound. “Devil take it, Victoria. You wouldn’t—”

“Of course not. He’s exaggerating. I can’t do qinggong in this condition.”

“She doesn’t have the patience to learn the practice in any condition.” Max gestured them into the study. “I’ll ring for Kritanu.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Victoria said, extricating herself from his arm. “I need to…er…freshen up.”

“Very well. We’ll be here.” Sitting and chatting like old friends…or enemies.

He cast a glance at Vioget. By all rights, there should no longer be tension between them. After all, if it hadn’t been for Sebastian, Max wouldn’t be here with Victoria, more happy and content than he’d ever imagined being.

If it hadn’t been for Vioget’s sacrifice, offering himself to Lilith in exchange for Max’s freedom, it would be Sebastian sitting here, waiting for Victoria to birth Max’s child. Sharing her bed. Creating a partnership against the evil undead. Building a life together.

Yet, after more than a decade of enmity and distrust between the two men, it was difficult to set those sensitivities aside. Particularly since the last time he’d seen Vioget, the man’s fangs had been just about ready to tear brutally into Victoria’s throat.

“Brandy?” Max asked.

“Only if it’s from the reserve. I can still taste, you know.”

There it was again…that underlying despair in his tone. And for once, Max didn’t know how to respond. A twinge of guilt made his movements stiff as he poured. He changed the subject as he handed Vioget his drink. “I find it difficult to believe you’re back from Roma simply to witness the birth of my child.”

The other man took the glass and gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. “As much as I look forward to meeting the infant, you’re correct. There is another reason.” Vioget glanced toward the door as if to ensure Victoria wasn’t within earshot.

“What is it?” Max put his drink down, untouched. Lilith is dead. There is no one else who could be such a threat…. Then he stilled, a chill beyond the one prompted by Vioget’s presence settling in his gut. “Iscariot.”

Once again, Sebastian inclined his head. “Excellent guess, my dear Max. But, no, thankfully, Nicholas Iscariot is still confined in the mountain prison Lilith created for him. Though I suspect it won’t be long—oh, don’t concern yourself, I mean not long in vampiric years—before he finds a way to free himself. Now that his sister is dead, there’s no one powerful enough to keep him confined for many more decades. Mark my words, he’ll be free. Just, not soon.”

“Then what is it? I’ve not sensed an undead—present company excepted—in London for six months now.”

“And it must be rather boring for you, mustn’t it? You appear to be becoming quite domesticated. Lovely wife, pleasant study…I’m sure you’ve even been involved in preparing the nursery, haven’t you?”

“If you don’t get to the damned point, I’ll show you how bloody domesticated I am.”

Vioget flared his eyes at him, revealing the unholy glow of red that lingered behind his amber irises. “You forget who I am now, Pesaro. Even you would be unmatched against me.”

Max laughed.

“The two of you sharing a joke? Surely Lucifer’s Hell must be freezing by now.” Victoria had returned, and that blasted Vioget had managed to fritter away the opportunity for a private conversation. Both the men stood automatically as she lumbered in.

“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 neck. 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.”

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 right.”

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.

Once again, thank you for your support and love for the Gardellas. I love to hear from readers. Please feel free to contact me via my website or Facebook page.

Best regards,

Colleen Gleason

Table of Contents

- Max Stops the Presses: A Gardella Vampire Chronicles Short Story

- Midpoint