Max Stops the Presses

  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 tw
inge 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.