The Vampire Dimitri

1 Wherein Lord Corvindale Is Reduced To Analyzing Handwriting

One hundred thirteen years later

London

Who in Lucifer’s bloody hell did Miss Maia Woodmore think she was, giving orders to an earl?

Dimitri, the Earl of Corvindale, glared down at the elegant script covering a piece of thick stationery. Feminine, perfectly formed, with only the occasional embellishment and not one ink splotch, the words marched across the page in ruler-straight lines. Even the descenders and ascenders were neat and properly aligned so that none of them over lapped. The stationery smelled like feminine spice and lily of the valley and some other intriguing note that he refused to expend the effort to define.

Naturally her demand was couched in the most proper of syntax, but Dimitri was obviously no innocent when it came to female machinations. Though he strictly avoided women—all of them, especially the mortal ones—he was well-schooled in the way they worked and in reading between the lines, so to speak.

And from what he read between the lines here, Miss Maia Woodmore was annoyed and filled with indignant self-righteousness, just as she had been during that incident in Haymarket three years ago. And she expected him to jump to her whim.

Lord Corvindale, it read, forgive me for contacting you in this untoward manner, but it is only upon the specific direction of my brother, Mr. Charles Woodmore, that I am doing so. (Here he could fairly feel her outrage at being ordered thus by her sibling.)

Mr. Woodmore (who I understand is a business associate of your lordship’s) left word that, should I not receive correspondence or communication from him within a fortnight after leaving on his most recent trip to the Continent (which would be by yesterday’s date, 18 July, 1804) that I must contact you in regards to the wardship of myself and my two sisters, Angelica and Sonia (the latter of whom is safely ensconced at St. Bridie’s Convent School in Scotland).

Dimitri paused in this, his third perusal of the letter, to blink and frown at the precise, if not overlong, sentence. And then he went on to roundly curse Chas Woodmore for somehow convincing him to agree to this madness. It had been more than six years ago that Woodmore had culled such a vow from Dimitri, who’d hardly given it another thought since.

Naturally he never expected Woodmore to do anything as imbecilic as he’d done, running off with Narcise Moldavi instead of killing her brother, which was what he’d gone to Paris to do. Narcise’s brother, Cezar, one must assume, would be livid.

But at least Woodmore had made arrangements for the safety of his own sisters, in the event Cezar Moldavi realized who was behind his sister’s abduction—or perhaps it was an elopement, not an abduction. He would have no compunction about taking out his ire on three innocent young women.

Cezar certainly hadn’t changed since Vienna. If anything, he’d become even more obsessed with power and control.

Dimitri returned to the letter, trying not to acknowledge the exotic perfume that permeated the paper. One of the many curses of being Dracule was his extraordinary sense of smell. Not terribly pleasant, when out and about on the streets of London, and even less so when trying to avoid scenting something he wished to ignore. Reluctantly he read on.

My brother impressed upon me the seriousness of this manner, and it is only because of his specific and unrelenting urgency that I dare send this letter.

I wish to assure you, Lord Corvindale, that the only reason I am contacting you is because of my brother’s express wishes. There is truly no need for you to concern yourself with the guardianship of myself and my sisters, for Chas has often been away on business trips and we have fared just as well during his previous absences with the chaperonage of our cousin and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Fernfeather.

He recalled that, based upon his single previous interaction with her, Miss Maia Woodmore was also this long-winded in person.

In addition, my upcoming wedding to Mr. Alexander Bradington will shortly put me in the position to act as chaperone for my younger sisters.

Dimitri realized he was crinkling the paper and he reminded himself that the written word, regardless of from whom it came, what language it was in, and what message it bore, was precious. Yes, he’d seen the engagement announcement in the Times some months ago. The news had been welcome to those who followed that sort of on dit—which certainly didn’t include the reclusive Earl of Corvindale.

At that time (Miss Woodmore’s perfect hand continued in its no-nonsense manner) your services as guardian to my sisters and myself will no longer be necessary.

In fact, (here her penmanship became the slightest bit thicker and perhaps even more precise) I see no reason for you to bestir yourself in regards to my sisters and myself at all, Lord Corvindale. Despite my brother’s concern, which I can’t help but believe is overly cautious and more than a bit exaggerated, Angelica and I shall fare perfectly well in London on our own until Chas returns.

I look forward to receiving a response at your earliest convenience.

Which meant, Dimitri knew, immediately upon receipt of the letter. Miss Woodmore was thus doomed to disappointment, for the message had arrived early this morning, when he was still asleep at his desk. Not that he would have jumped to respond to her anyway.

She signed her name simply, Maia Woodmore.

And there, for the first time, was a bit of feminine embellishment, just on the lower curve of the M and on the upper swoop of the W.

Unfortunately for Miss Maia Woodmore, Dimitri had already been…what was the word? Bestirred.

Indeed, he’d been more than merely bestirred relative to their guardianship. And, he snarled to himself, it was only going to get worse. He was going to have to bring the chits into this very household if he meant to keep them safe from Moldavi and his private army of vampire goons. Damn Chas Woodmore’s mortal arse.

Dimitri happened to know that Moldavi was in Paris with his nose permanently inserted in the crack of Napoleon Bonaparte’s arse—or perhaps this fortnight he was licking the new emperor’s bollocks—and it would take him some time to send his men after Woodmore and his sisters. But not very much time, despite the war between their two countries.

Which meant that Dimitri must move quickly.

He looked around his study, swathed in heavy curtains to keep out the sun. Books and papers were piled everywhere and shelves lined the walls, crammed full with even more tomes and manuscripts. An utter mess, Mrs. Hunburgh claimed, but she wasn’t allowed into the chamber at all except for a weekly dust and sweep. No one else was allowed in but for the occasional visit by Dimitri’s butler or valet.

And blast it, he’d intended to visit the antiquarian bookstore next to Lenning’s Tannery again today. He meant to ask the blonde woman, who dressed as if she were a thirteenth century chatelaine instead of a shopkeeper, about references—scrolls, papyruses, whatever—from Egypt in particular. He cursed under his breath. Now he wouldn’t have the chance.

Napoleon Bonaparte had brought chests and crates of antiquities back from his travels through and conquest of Egypt, and the objects were being sold and distributed throughout Europe. Surely there was something in the ancient world of pharaohs and sun gods that would help Dimitri banish the demon of darkness who’d lured him into an unholy contract decades ago. Even though Vlad Tepes, the Count Dracula, had made his agreement with Lucifer in the fifteenth century, Dimitri suspected that his ancestor hadn’t been the first mortal to sell his soul—and that of his progeny—to the devil. The legend of Johann Faust had become popular after Vlad’s agreement, but there had to have been others since the beginning of time. He’d studied manuscripts and writings of the Greeks and Romans, even some from Aramea and other parts of the Holy Land.

Perhaps there would be something he could glean from the Egyptian antiquities and hieroglyphs that would give him direction. Not that anyone had been able to break the code of the Egyptian alphabet yet, but Dimitri was determined to try his hand at it.

After all, he had forever to do it.

And now the stele that had been found in Rosetta several years ago by the French, and was currently in the possession of the Antiquarian Society here in London, looked promising for translating the hieroglyphs. Thus, Dimitri was hopeful. He would love to get his hands on the stone himself, but that would mean having to be around people and playing politics and listening to gossip and jests and having to avoid the sun in public company…and all sorts of things he’d much rather avoid.

He’d considered stealing—rather, borrowing the so-called Rosetta Stone for a time in order to work on it himself, but in the end decided against it. Perhaps he might break into the British Museum, where it was kept, and make a rubbing of it one night—if he didn’t have to spend his bloody time accompanying debutantes to masques and balls. His jaw hurt where his teeth ground together.

There was no way around it.

The two elder Woodmore sisters would soon be overrunning his solitude, upsetting his household and interrupting his studies. And, blast it all, so would Dimitri’s own so-called sibling, Mirabella—for naturally, he’d have to bring her into Town, as well. He’d adopted the foundling as his sister some years ago—and he supposed he’d put off her debut as long as he could. The very thought of three debutantes in his house made him grind his teeth sourly.

All of them would be disrupting his schedule and nattering on about parties and fetes and balls and whatever else they did. Squealing, laughing, atomizing perfume and spilling powder—and Luce’s dark soul, Dimitri would have to ensure no one had any rubies with them.

Bloody black hell.

But Dimitri knew that the worst of it was going to be the very proper, very demanding presence of Miss Maia Woodmore.

Here. In this house. Under his very nose.

If Chas Woodmore was still alive when they found him, Dimitri was going to kill the bastard.

Maia Woodmore was fuming—which was something she rarely lowered herself to do.

In fact, unlike her younger sister Angelica, Maia had forced herself to become a paragon of poise and containment and propriety. Except, it seemed, in the case of contrary, arrogant, annoying earls named Corvindale.

It was as if all of the men in her life—whether she wanted them there or not—had decided to go off all shilly-shally and leave her to pick up the pieces and manage their leftovers. A task she was, thankfully, more than capable of doing, regardless of whether she wanted to or not. After all, it seemed as if she’d always been in charge, forever trying to make things right, trying to keep her younger sisters safe, well loved and well cared for.

At least, since their parents died.

Included in Maia’s mental tirade, along with Corvindale, was her elder brother Chas, who was always haring off somewhere and leaving her to manage things—not an easy task when one was an untitled, unmarried, somewhat-rich young woman of the ton. It was his great fortune that she was not only up to the task, but efficient and capable of doing so.

And also included in her annoyance was her fiancé, Alexander Bradington, who’d proposed on her eighteenth birthday, and then went off on a trip to the Continent three months later. He’d been gone for eighteen months.

But the Earl of Corvindale was the absolute worst of the bunch.

Alexander had been engaged in Rome and Vienna for the past several months, delayed because of the war with France—which was hardly his fault, she allowed. But she missed him, and if he were here, they could just get married and chaperone Angelica and Sonia themselves.

Chas had once again gone off on some mysterious business trip, but this time, things were different. He’d left behind a note that made it sound as if the world was to end like it had in Pompeii, or France was to invade if he didn’t return within a fortnight. To Maia’s increasing concern, he hadn’t. She’d be blazingly furious with Chas for foisting her and Angelica on the dratted Earl of Corvindale if she weren’t so worried that something horrible had happened to their brother.

But Corvindale was here in London, and he had not only ignored her very polite missive—which had only been sent out of courtesy—but now, as she looked up at his dark, hawkish, arrogant face, he raised an eyebrow and eyed her as if she were some sort of crawly insect.

“Of course I received your letter,” Corvindale said. His voice was flat with boredom. “I am the only Corvindale, am I not?”

“But you didn’t deign to respond,” Maia replied, attempting, rather admirably she thought, to keep her voice level. Although, due to the fact that they were in the midst of a rather large crush at the Lundhames’ annual summer ball, she did have to raise its volume to be heard over the conversation and music buffeting against them.

She and Angelica hadn’t chosen to attend this event merely because they expected Corvindale to be here; in fact, she rather assumed he wouldn’t bother to show at the Lundhames’ any more than he had lowered himself to respond to her letter. Everyone knew the earl was a recluse who cared only for ancient manuscripts and scraps of parchment.

But here he was. Lifting that dark brow and looking down at her from his excessive height as if he couldn’t spare the time to converse with her. Well, she fumed, the feeling was quite mutual.

“I consider the fact that we are conversing a fair response,” Corvindale replied. “Particularly since, as I recall, we’ve never been properly introduced.” His dark eyes gleamed.

Maia’s face, blast her fair skin, went warm, and likely pinker than the roses on the shoulders of her cornflower-blue gown. No, indeed, they hadn’t ever been formally introduced. But she certainly knew who he was—the tall, imposing man whose very presence at any social event was cause for the gossips to strain in their corsets to get a glimpse of him…let alone happen to speak with the rude, prideful earl.

And he certainly knew who she was…and not just because he and Chas had been business associates for years, and occasionally they’d attended the same events. She’d hoped that Corvindale hadn’t realized it was she during that horrid night at Haymarket she’d come to think of as the Incident.

Maia held her breath so that the flush would dissipate and tried not to meet his eyes. Surely he wouldn’t be rude enough to mention the Incident if he did realize it had been she. But he couldn’t have recognized her. After all, she’d been dressed like a boy.

“Allow me to set your mind at ease, Miss Woodmore,” he said, the boredom having returned as he glanced at the cluster of people behind her. “I will send instructions on the morrow with arrangements for you and your sister to move to Blackmont Hall until your brother returns.”

He would send instructions? With arrangements? She folded her lips together in an effort to keep from telling him exactly how she felt about being told what she would do and how and when—without any consultation on her part—and by a man she had fairly detested on sight. Even three years ago.

How kind of you, Lord Corvindale to at least apprise me of your intentions. Just like every other man in the world, including her brother, he had no regard for her opinion or feelings. It was as if she had the mind of a china doll. If they only realized how much she handled on a daily basis, how much she knew and comprehended about their world and its history.

She certainly had no intention of leaving her home at the drop of a pin to live at his, but Maia didn’t have the time or the desire to discuss the “arrangements” with him further, for the prickling lifting the hair on her arms indicated that her headstrong sister Angelica was about to get herself into some sort of improper situation.

Unlike her two younger sisters, Maia hadn’t been blessed with the Sight from their half-Gypsy grandmother. Yet, she possessed a keen intuition for brewing trouble that often manifested itself in a simple sort of knowing.

The Sight works in strange ways. Her Granny Grapes had said that, more than once when Maia expressed juvenile envy that her sisters seemed to have acquired the Sight, but she had not. That was when she was young and childish and didn’t realize what a terrible burden it was for Angelica and Sonia.

So childish. But she’d long grown past that, realizing that her role was to protect and care for her more vulnerable sisters, particularly after the death of their parents. And she excelled at that, just as she did everything else. Except translating Greek, which she found a necessary evil, but the effort worthwhile.

And, she supposed, that sort of intuitive, prickling knowing when something was wrong, or odd, was perhaps her own version of the Sight.

“Very well, my lord,” Maia said, making her voice sound rather like a queen agreeing to an audience with her subject. “I shall review your correspondence on the morrow.”

She turned before he could respond, and immediately spotted Angelica in an intense, probably improper, conversation with Lord Dewhurst and his companion Lord Brickbank. Her sister was fresh and lovely in an Empire-waisted, butter-yellow gown, with her dark, almond eyes and gypsyish coloring. Not the usual peaches-and-cream coloring of every other female Londoner, like Maia herself.

And it took Maia only one good look to know that the Viscount Dewhurst was precisely the sort of man she had warned her sister about. A tawny-haired, golden god of a man with an insouciant smile, melting eyes and a neckcloth that had probably taken a dozen tries to fold properly, he was a rake of the first order, no doubt about it. The way he was eyeing Angelica as if he couldn’t tear his gaze away was enough to make Maia herself feel all warm and tingly deep inside.

If Alexander ever looked at her like that, Maia would probably melt into a pool of skin and bones at once. She already felt warm and heart-rushed when he kissed her and slid his hand around the neckline of her bodice.

But, interestingly enough, Angelica wasn’t speaking to Dewhurst. She seemed to be engaged in conversation with the red-nosed Lord Brickbank, who was staring at her in confusion.

“Angelica,” Maia snapped, moving toward her sister. It was beyond unseemly for her to be talking with two men that neither of them formally knew, and it was up to Maia to put a stop to it without causing an even greater scene. If she hadn’t been distracted by the earl, this wouldn’t even be a problem.

But before she could do so, Angelica gave a short little curtsy and took her leave of the gentlemen. Seeing Maia, the younger woman smiled saucily at her sister, then slipped off to dance with Mr. Tillingsworth for the new quadrille.

Well, at least the worst harm Mr. Tillingsworth would do to Angelica would be to put her into a catatonic state as he talked about his cats, ad nauseam. That was the benefit to dancing a country dance instead of walking through the garden or park with an uninteresting gentleman. At least during the dance, one was separated from one’s partner often enough that it gave one a rest from an uninspiring conversation, whereas when one took a turn about the room or the patio, one could hardly hope for such a reprieve.

Angelica thus engaged, that left Maia exactly where she wished to be: unencumbered, and able to relax her vigilance long enough to enjoy a dance set herself. Despite the fact that Alexander wasn’t even in England, there was no reason she couldn’t participate in one of the box or line dances.

Casting a quick glance at Angelica, who was just setting up in the new set, Maia checked her dance card and noted that Ainsworth was her next partner. At least he wouldn’t stomp on her feet, like Mr. Flewellington had done earlier.

As Maia bowed to Lord Ainsworth, she happened to notice Corvindale. He was standing in a secluded corner—a rarity in such a crush, but somehow he’d managed it—and was glowering. She couldn’t tell at whom he was glaring; it was a general scowl, directed, it seemed, to the room at large.

There were women, she supposed, who would find the earl’s dark, arrogant looks attractive—and would suffer his less-than-charming personality. He had a fine nose, long and not too broad, and a wide, square jaw. His cheekbones were high and sharp, giving his entire face the look of a stone bust finished with a large chisel rather than the finesse of a rasper or sandpaper. And since he tended toward dark colors in his clothing, his large shoulders and height were even more pronounced.

Maia lifted her nose and smiled at Ainsworth and tried very hard to push away the uncomfortable prickling of the fine hairs on her arms. The very last thing, the last thing, she wanted was to be living in that man’s house—guardian or no.

The chit had no idea how much danger she and her sister were in. If she did, she wouldn’t be lifting her pert little nose at Dimitri from across the room after telling him she would “review your correspondence on the morrow.”

He willed the annoyance away, waiting for his fangs to retract into their sheaths. And the pounding to cease rushing through his veins.

The last time he’d been this discomfited by a woman had been the day Meg told him she was leaving. This was, of course, a completely different case. But the fact remained: Miss Woodmore made his blood boil and his veins bulge.

And not in a good way.

If the ever-proper miss had any concept how quickly he’d acted since he’d learned of Chas’s disappearance, how thorough he had been in ensuring that the youngest of her sisters would remain safe at St. Bridie’s (what a ridiculous name for a convent of nuns since none of them would ever become brides) in Scotland, and the fact that since three days ago and unbeknownst to them, she and her middle sister had been under his protection, her haughty look might be deflated into something more grateful.

But probably not. The more cornered and surprised she was, the more indignant she became. After all, he’d experienced her sharp tongue once before when she was cornered and surprised. She simply didn’t remember it.

And aside of that, he saw no reason to inform Miss Woodmore of the danger lurking in the background. Chas Woodmore’s secret life was just that—a secret, just as the existence of the Draculia was also undisclosed to the world at large.

Dimitri remained still, watchful for any sign that Moldavi had acted sooner than he had expected. His arms were folded across his middle as he scanned the room. Filled with colors too bright and bold, too many people, and, worst of all, a veritable mash of smells—most of them unpleasant or too strong—the ballroom represented everything he’d tried to avoid for…oh, the last century or more.

Emphasis on the more.

Most of his acquaintances assumed that Dimitri’s avoidance of all things unrelated to his studies had to do with the fire in Vienna when Lerina died, but they would be wrong. Certainly, the event was a contributing factor, but his distaste for the life of a Dracule went much deeper than the loss of an investment and an accidental death. His discontent had started with Meg, twenty-four years earlier when he’d saved her life and first become Dracule.

But the culmination of his journey to the life he lived now—the rigid, solitary, ironically Puritan one—had been That Day. That morning, when he’d awakened to find that even a year of denying himself had not released him from Lucifer. It had, in fact, bound him to the devil all the more tightly because of his murder of the old woman whose name he’d never known. An old woman who’d simply tried to help him.

He’d not made the same mistake since. He now consumed sustenance, never allowing himself to become so desperate as to maul a person to death—as most vampires were able to do.

He simply no longer took the blood from living bodies, thus denying himself the pleasure and satiation of the past. There was hope that, perhaps one day, the self-denial would be enough to grant him release from a demon who thrived on selfishness and self-centeredness. In the meantime, he studied every ancient document he could get his hands on, looking for another way.

Any way.

And the ever-present ache from his Mark, radiating down and behind his left shoulder, was a constant reminder of Lucifer’s fury with him. The rootlike black marking extended from beneath the hair at the left side of his neck down over his shoulder and halfway down his back. It was a visible sign of his cracked and damaged soul, and the more annoyed Lucifer became, the more it throbbed and filled, rising up like twisting black veins.

The Mark twinged now as Dimitri edged against the wall to allow a promenade of three to mince past. They’d circled by thrice since he’d come to stand here, and he eyed them darkly. One of the women—the one in the center—met his yes boldly as they brushed by in a wave of at least five different floral scents, along with powder and body heat, and Dimitri acknowledged her with a cold, uninterested look.

Women, especially mortal women, were the last thing on his mind.

Miss Woodmore was smiling as Ainsworth hooked her elbow and spun her in a neat circle before moving on to the next steps in the dance that separated them, and then brought them back, glove to glove. At least the dress she wore wasn’t pink or yellow, but an unassuming blue with discreet pink roses on the shoulders. It clung and slid along her hips and thighs like damp silk as she moved through the paces, and Dimitri wondered darkly if Chas had seen and approved of that frock.

A sudden waver in his vision and a heaviness in his chest had Dimitri removing his gaze from the dancers and focusing on a couple strolling past. The female half was wearing ruby earbobs and a matching necklet, which was the reason for his flash of light-headedness. But she was far enough away, and she didn’t pause, so the weakness passed almost immediately.

Yet another reason to avoid fetes and balls and dinner parties and Almack’s and court. And even, as often as he could manage, Parliament. How he hated sitting in the House of Lords and listening to those mortals natter on about postage laws or minting coins or other inconsequential things like tea taxes. It had been the worst during that mess with the Colonies and the stamp tax imposed on them.

Yes, one never knew when one might be accosted by a ruby, and since Dimitri had been unfortunate enough to acquire that particular gemstone as his Asthenia, he must always be on guard from that danger.

Each of the Dracule, along with gifts of immortality, speed and extraordinary strength, also had a specific weakness endowed upon him by their partner in the dark covenant: Lucifer. Since the ruby festooning Meg’s neck was the first thing Dimitri had seen when he woke from that fateful dream one hundred and thirty-eight years ago, his Asthenia was the bloodred gemstone.

Thus, other than a wooden stake to the heart or a decapitating sword, which would kill him, sunlight and rubies were the only things that would weaken or harm him. Despite that inconvenience, he could appreciate that his Asthenia wasn’t something as commonplace as silver.

Suddenly Dimitri’s eyes narrowed. By the damned bones of Satan, there was Voss again, sniffing around Angelica Wood more.

Despite his reluctance for the guardianship, Dimitri took his responsibility seriously. Thus he was out from his alcove in a flash and making his way smoothly across the room. He would appear unhurried to anyone watching him, but in reality, he moved faster than a breath. He made his way from one side of the room to the other, through and around and between the crush of people, in an instant.

It wasn’t so much anger as it was annoyance that burned through Dimitri as he approached the handsome, well-dressed man. Also a member of the Draculia, Voss, the Viscount Dewhurst, had just returned to London from somewhere in the New World—Boston, perhaps—after a decade of absence. Dimitri would have preferred him to stay away even longer than that, but one couldn’t always have what one wished, as was evident by a variety of events in the past few days. This was the second time he’d found Voss accosting Angelica Woodmore tonight, however, and that fact did not sit well with Dimitri.

If he had to guess, he would surmise that Voss had heard the rumors that the middle Woodmore sister possessed the Sight. And Voss, being not only a rake of the highest order, but also a man who dealt with the buying, selling, and otherwise hoarding of information, was likely intent on taking advantage of the absence of the chit’s brother—and what he perceived as Dimitri’s lack of interest in the girls—to see what Angelica could add to his inventory of knowledge.

As he drew closer, he heard Voss murmur something to Angelica about a waltz. And at the same time, Dimitri became excruciatingly aware that Miss Woodmore was approaching from the opposite direction. Her bronze-honey hair fluttered in wayward wisps about her temples as she bore down upon Angelica and her erstwhile suitor.

Dimitri turned his attention to Voss, and, coming up unnoticed behind the man, said, “Miss Woodmore will not be hastening anywhere with you, Voss. Most especially not to a waltz.”

He heard the man’s annoyed curse under his breath, but to his credit, he turned without hurry. “By Luce, Dimitri, have you not yet attended to that violinist’s flat string I mentioned earlier? It’s beyond annoying. I’m certain that a mere look from you would tighten it up perfectly.”

“I don’t know what you’re after,” Dimitri said, shifting between Voss and the spicy-floral-scented Miss Woodmore, who’d taken her younger sister by the arm and was towing her off in a different direction, “but I suggest that you remain far away from Angelica Woodmore unless you wish to find yourself in a most uncomfortable position. Neither Chas nor I will suffer your attentions to her or the other Miss Woodmore.”

Voss gave him that lazy, hooded-eyed look that worked so well to seduce the ladies—even aside of the hypnotic thrall that the Dracule utilized to get what they wanted, when they wanted it. “Of course. The last thing a vampire hunter like Chas Woodmore would tolerate is one of the very creatures he hunts sniffing around his sisters. Never fear, Dimitri,” he continued in that smooth, mocking tone, “there are plenty of other fish in the sea—or, as I like to think of it—lovely, narrow wrists, or slender, delicate shoulders to slide into. There’s nothing like that pleasure is there? The penetration…sleek and quick, and then the sudden flood of liquid heat, rich and full.” His voice had dropped seductively.

Then Voss worked up an ironic smile. “But, of course, you wouldn’t have any recollection of such a pleasure, limiting yourself as you do to bottles of cow’s blood from your favorite butcher.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “I cannot fathom for what purpose you’ve chosen the path of abstinence.”

“I’m certain you cannot,” Dimitri replied coolly. He didn’t even bother to display the tips of his fangs. “Such discretion would be beyond your sensibilities.”

“Discretion?” Voss’s laugh rang out. “Let’s call it what it is—self-flagellation, or even martyrdom. What a gray life you must lead, you emotionless bastard.”

“Regardless,” Dimitri said, “stay away from the Woodmore sisters. I’m fully aware of your penchant for taking whatever is offered—and seizing your desire when one is not forthcoming—and then leaving whatever remains as you saunter on to your next victim. Not to mention your carelessness and silly games.”

At last, Voss’s face darkened and his eyes burned with a dangerous red glow. “What happened in Vienna with Lerina was an accident, Dimitri, and well you know it.”

“That may be the case,” he replied, “but it’s clear that even tragedy hasn’t caused you to change your manipulative ways in the century since.”

Without deigning to wait for the other man’s response, Dimitri turned and stalked off. Angelica Woodmore had been taken away by her capable sister and Voss wouldn’t dare make another attempt to accost her. At least, not tonight.

Once the Woodmore sisters were safely home, Dimitri could return to his solace and uninterrupted studies for the last time in the foreseeable future.

Although…perhaps on the way home, he might walk through some dark, infamous street in St. Giles or along the river, just so he could be accosted by a gang of thieves or other blackhearts. He was in the mood for a good brawl.

Might as well enjoy as much of the night as he could, for tomorrow, his home would be invaded.