The Vampire Dimitri

7 Wherein A Choice Of Accessories Proves Disastrous

The carriage rolled to a stop at the rear entrance of the establishment Dimitri sought. Tren, the footman, had aligned the vehicle near enough the back entrance that his master was able to step out from the open door—which had been fitted with a fanlike cover that expanded as the door drew wide, blocking any sunshine—directly into the little shop.

The smell of age and wisdom, littered with dust, worn leather and fabrics…and yet something fresh, curled into his sensitive nose. The door closed behind Dimitri and he found himself amid tall, close shelves lined with books. Walls of wide, shallow drawers like those found in the British Museum were interspersed with the bookshelves.

The soft glow of lamps came from strategic places on the walls, but Dimitri didn’t need their illumination. He was well at home in dim light, and felt the familiar wave of peacefulness that always hovered in these surroundings. Merely stepping into the place eased his tension. Even the constant, screaming pain from his Mark seemed to ebb.

“Ah, you’ve returned.”

He looked up to see the shop’s proprietress emerging from between two stacks. A woman of indeterminate age, she blinked owlishly from behind square spectacles as if she’d just been awakened—or, more likely, pulled from whatever she had been reading. Yet her gray-blue eyes turned bright and she seemed pleased to see him. She wore a long bliaut that, along with the points of her wide sleeves, skimmed the ground. Around her waist hung a loose leather cord, to which a collection of keys to the many chests, cases and drawers was attached.

In one long-fingered hand was an open book that she appeared to have been perusing before his presence interrupted her. Her long pale hair was separated into two thick tails that fell behind her shoulders. A pair of finger-thick braids began at her temples and curved around to the back of her head. The fact that she neither showed the deference due an earl nor made use of the proper address he hardly noticed.

“No other customers again, I see,” he commented, reaching idly for a dusty book. “I find it a wonder that you remain in business, this little shop tucked away in the back mews of Haymarket.”

She smiled, replying, “’Tis a happy thing, then, that I have the patronage of an earl to keep my interests afloat.”

“I gave your direction to an acquaintance of mine some weeks past,” Dimitri said, glancing down at the excellent French translation of The Iliad, “but he couldn’t seem to find you. I told him you were next door to the old tannery, but he didn’t see the shop.”

She didn’t seem concerned about the loss of a potential customer. “Perhaps that was a day the shop was closed. Have you given any more thought to breaking into the museum and examining the stele from Rosetta?”

Dimitri didn’t recall speaking such a fantasy aloud, let alone to this woman, but he was never able to summon his customary abrasiveness whilst here. Thus, he responded, “I’m certain I could arrange to see the stone privately if I thought it would be help in my quest. I am Corvindale, of course.”

“That is, I’m certain, quite true. Are you in search of anything in particular today?” she asked. “There are some new scrolls I’ve received—perhaps you might take a look at them.” She gestured toward one of the corners of the dingy little shop.

“Nothing in particular. However, it’s rare that I leave without finding something to add to my library.” Dimitri had never told her of his quest. How could one explain to an ageless, absentminded woman about his desire to break a covenant with the devil?

She’d think him mad and close up the shop to him, as well.

The proprietress merely nodded, then absently returned her attention to the book she held. “If there is aught I can do to help…” And she wandered off.

Dimitri normally would have done the same, but today things prickled at him. Uncomfortable things. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. “Have you,” he began, following her. “Have you any old, very old, perhaps original, chapbooks of the Faust legend?”

She turned from where she’d paused at a table and looked up from her book. Satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. “Faust. And why would you be looking for a story you know so well?”

Dimitri couldn’t keep the jolt of surprise from blasting through him at—not so much her exact words, but the sharp, suddenly knowing look in her fathomless eyes. “What precisely do you mean by that, madame?” he asked, placing all of the chill and inflection of an earl’s power behind it.

“I think, Dimitri of Corvindale, that you know all of what I mean.”

He glowered in all of his earlness, and thought even for a moment of allowing some of his vampire glow to burn in his eyes. Yet, he said nothing, simply waiting for her to explain.

The woman closed her book without marking the page. And it was a very thick tome. “You and Johann Faust have much in common, do you not? Your pacts with the devil are quite different, and yet the same. That is what I mean.”

Instead of the thunderous rage that might have—perhaps should have—flooded him, Dimitri felt only a wave of shock. “How do you know this?”

She merely looked at him. “It matters not. However, might I remind you that your selections from here have ranged from Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis to Malleus Male-ficarum, as well as a wide variety of Bibles and kabbalistic literature. Even some from the Hindis. And you’ve even asked about moksha. All of them have had aught to do with recognizing demons or calling to them, or of the word and teachings of our God. And so,” she said, still holding him with her gaze, “one draws conclusions.”

Dimitri wasn’t precisely clear on how she’d drawn such a conclusion—albeit a correct one—based on his purchases, but earls didn’t lower themselves to arguing with shopkeepers.

Instead, he said stiffly, “There is one large difference between myself and Herr Doktor Faust.”

She nodded, as if she already knew and was waiting for him to speak it.

“Faust called Lucifer to him. I did not.”

She nodded again. “But he came to you when you were at your most vulnerable. That is how he works.”

“Who are you?” Dimitri demanded, suddenly flooded with the memory of that dark, hot night when Lucifer visited him in his dream. A night of fitful sleep, filled with smoke and ash and the heat of London’s Great Fire.

“My name is Wayren. This is my shop.” She spread an elegant hand around the space. Then she looked at him. “What do you seek, Dimitri?”

“I’ve been searching,” he said in a subdued voice he hardly recognized as his own, “for a way out. A way to break his hold on me.”

“You’re certain there is a way?” she asked, her eyes steady on him.

“No.” Despair washed over him. “I’m certain there isn’t. For if there were, I swear I’d have found it by now.”

Without waiting for her response, he spun on his feet, confused and unaccountably furious, and left.

Dimitri snarled at his footman as he opened the door to the carriage waiting in the moonlight.

Nearly four days since the invasion of his study, and he, Woodmore and Cale had been unable to locate Voss in London. He’d been there that night, the cocky bastard, in Angelica’s chamber…but somehow, he’d gotten away before Chas arrived. And since then, he seemed to have evaporated into darkness.

Probably with the blessing of Lucifer.

Dimitri would have suspected Voss had made his escape from London if he hadn’t received a terse message from him today. Voss’s message said that Belial was intending to attack the Woodmore sisters again tonight, and warned him to be on his guard.

As if Dimitri ever let his guard down. Voss knew better than that.

Chas was off tending to Narcise somewhere in London, keeping out of sight of anyone who might notice his presence while trying to find Voss. Dimitri didn’t know where he was, nor did he have any safe way to get the word to Woodmore that his sisters were in particular danger, although he did leave a message at White’s and Rubey’s, as well as the Gray Stag and a few other locations Chas might visit. Using blood pigeons—ones that the Dracule specially trained to fly by following a particular scent of blood to deliver the message—wasn’t secure enough, for Cezar had been known to intercept them.

Cale was spending the evening with the woman named Rubey. She was a mortal who operated an establishment catering to the pleasure needs of the Dracule, and she was also a friend of Voss, who could be contacting her—which was Cale’s official excuse for the visit.

But Dimitri was required to attend to the ladies tonight at some party for some lord or viscount or earl named Harrington, where, according to Iliana, who’d heard it from Mirabella who’d presumably heard it from the sisters, rumor had it that the guest of honor was going to make a proposal of marriage to Angelica Woodmore.

If Iliana hadn’t come down with some sort of sniffle and headache, complete with red, dripping nose and hacking cough, she could have ridden in the carriage with the young ladies and left Dimitri to follow in his own vehicle or even on horseback to ensure their safety along the dark streets.

But he dared not chance leaving them unattended in the carriage, and so he climbed into the blasted thing.

Assaulted immediately by perfumes and powders and acres of skirts and wraps and trailing-off giggles, Dimitri settled onto his seat with nary a word and hardly a glance at his companions. Silence had fallen, in fact, as soon as the door opened and he ducked in, as if his mere presence put a cork in their conversation.

One thing to be grateful for.

But as he adjusted his coattails and the carriage lurched off, Dimitri was assaulted by something else entirely. Something heavy and dark and crushing, over his chest and onto his lungs.

Rubies.

He looked up and around, already feeling slow and weak, already hardly able to breathe, trying to maintain an empty expression even as he felt his strength draining away. Where in the dark hell are they?

Then he saw them, dangling from Angelica’s ears. Ruby earbobs. Large ones, too. She was watching him, as if she noticed his sluggishness, and he pressed his lips together to hide the affliction. The gems were strong, but they weren’t enough to kill him or even to burn him…unless they touched his flesh.

But they made him feel as if he were deep in a pool of hot, red water…slow and murky, his limbs heavy. Before they came to Blackmont Hall, he’d made certain none of the women had rubies; all of his staff understood that no gems were to enter his home without approval from him.

How had Angelica come by these, then?

Miss Woodmore shifted at that moment and Dimitri saw that she, too, was wearing them. Ruby earbobs.

And then he knew precisely how they’d come about getting the stones, for his brain worked just fine even if his body was leeching into bonelessness.

Damn Voss to his dark hell.

He’d done it. Probably when he visited Angelica’s chamber that night. It would be just like the man to leave them for the sisters, mainly as a jest to Dimitri—to let him know that Voss had breached his residence and found a way inside.

He wouldn’t have expected them to all be confined in a carriage together, where the proximity made the potency of the jewels even worse.

“Lord Corvindale!” Angelica said, as Dimitri tried to fight back the fury at his realization, strangled and weak.

“Are you ill?”

All three women suddenly fluttered about him as if he were an injured child, and everything became a flurry of pastel skirts and perfumes and wide eyes. Which of course made the whole situation worse, as the rubies swung closer, and Dimitri angrier, resulting in an even more heavy strangling and crushing of his torso.

“A…way…” he tried to say, trying to push the girls and the four robins’-egg-size jewels away.

Then all of a sudden, there was a huge thump and a crash and the landau lurched to a halt. They all tumbled every which way, dislodged by the great force. Dimitri, still pinned in the corner, struggled to pull to his feet, getting a bit of a reprieve as the girls with the ruby earrings jolted away from him.

But before he could gather up his immense strength and master control of his ribbony limbs, the carriage door whipped open and he saw the flash of glowing red eyes. The next thing he knew, screams and scuffling and flying skirts filled the air and in the midst of the melee, Angelica was gone.

Taking, thank the Fates, half the paralyzing rubies with her.

Miss Woodmore was shouting orders and thrashing about on the floor of the carriage, tangled with Mirabella and Dimitri’s legs and shoes, and he barely managed to grab on to her ankle or she would have lunged out the ajar door after her sister.

He yanked her awkwardly back into the carriage in an effort to get away from her, the rubies and the mess inside, and to fumble his way out and after Belial. But by the time he managed to get free of the rubies’ hold and into the night air, it was too late. They were out of sight, out of scent, and any sounds from their flight were mingled with every other sound of London at night.

Damnation.

Tren, Dimitri’s groom, was lying on the ground, his face bloodied and his limbs unmoving. The horses had been cut free and were gone, leaving all of them stranded with the landau and no way to give chase. A small group of street urchins stood in the shadowy gap between two brick buildings, likely up to their ankles in the mucky waste that Dimitri smelled. They watched with wide white eyes. And behind him, standing in the doorway of the carriage, was Miss Woodmore, looking decidedly less fresh and smooth than she had moments earlier. And her mouth was moving.

Oh, was it moving.

Cursing, furious, still trying to shake off the last of his weakness, Dimitri blocked out his ward’s recriminations and questions and demands and checked on Tren—who was alive and likely to remain so, as evidenced by his eyes opening and the curse words spilling from his lips—and then looked over to the children watching in the dark.

None of them were able to give him a clear answer on where the vampires had gone, and despite the fact that Dimitri was relieved that Belial had only seen fit to take one of the carriage’s occupants, he was incensed that he’d been caught by surprise.

Yet another unfortunate event caused by Voss and his games and jests.

Frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t leave the women and go off after Belial immediately, Dimitri sent Tren off to find a hackney or some horses so he could get them home. Then he could start combing the city for Angelica and Belial. While the groom limped off, Dimitri circled the area around the accident, sniffing, observing, listening intently in the distance for any clue that would lead him after the younger Woodmore sister.

We have time. His mind was clear and calm. Belial would keep Angelica safe and protected until he got her to Moldavi, and getting a young woman across the Channel during wartime would be some challenge, even for the Dracule—but it could be done. If Dimitri could find them before they left London it would be best, but he knew exactly where Moldavi stayed in Paris and where they’d be taking her. So if he had to go to Paris and face down the damned child-bleeder, he’d do it.

With relish.

Cool and intent, his brain clicked through the steps to hunt down Belial and his victim, running through the possibilities—would they leave tonight, would they keep her somewhere until a boat was arranged, would they leave from the docks here or go by land to Dover—even as his eyes observed and he lifted his face to scent over and under the smells weaving in the world, searching for the one that belonged to Angelica.

When he realized she hadn’t stopped talking, trying to get his attention, and her insistence was interrupting his concentration, Dimitri turned and snarled at Miss Woodmore. To his surprise, she actually closed her mouth for a moment, looking up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

He drew in a deep breath, fighting to keep his eyes from burning red and from his fangs being exposed. And, staying his distance from the lethal rubies, as he met her gaze, he felt something inside him soften. She looked terrified and rumpled and, impossibly, as if she were about to cry.

“Surely you aren’t about to cry, are you, Miss Woodmore?”

His words had the desired effect, for she straightened her shoulders, which had begun to bow inside her silvery-blue gown, causing it to gap at the bodice. Her gaze flashed almost as hotly as Belial’s, except that it glistened with tears.

“Of course I am,” she said in affronted tones. One of the tears spilled over and ran down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily.

Dimitri clamped his mouth shut on the automatic response he’d intended to make after her denial and looked at her again. And then realized he really shouldn’t have done so.

That softening inside him started to twist and unfurl more quickly, like a sail gaining wind, and he couldn’t help but notice how lovely she was in her dishevelment…particularly now that her mouth wasn’t moving in demands and recriminations. The curve of her cheeks, soft and high, the point of her chin with its subtle dimple, and even in the faulty light, he could see dark lashes and brows enhancing the shape of her eyes.

And that mouth…his blood surged and he stopped himself cold from remembering the soft heat of it against his. And the cardamom-vanilla and sweet lily that wafted from her skin. Her hair looked silver-black in the moon, all of the nuances of color washed out and reduced to a simple chiaroscuro. Her coiffure was a bloody mess, but he found it much more interesting all tumbled about her temples and jaw and sagging along her neck around those earbobs than the way it had been forced into submission moments earlier.

“I should think that I’m entitled to a few tears,” she said in a voice that seemed…less hard. More bumpy, unsteady in its cadence. Firm, still, but with feeling. “I am a bit frightened and confused. After all, we’ve just been in a carriage accident, attacked by horrible, bloodthirsty vampir, and my sister has been abducted by them.” Now her voice began to rise. “And our very fierce guardian could do nothing to stop them. What was Chas thinking?”

The sail inside him lost its wind and Dimitri scowled. Damn her, she was bloody well right. Not that it was his fault that Voss had done something so foolish, presumably unaware of the potential consequences (which was always his excuse), but in all fairness, it had been Dimitri who allowed Angelica to be abducted.

And Dimitri wasn’t used to being at fault.

He opened his mouth to say something—likely something snarly and rude that would send her huffing off into the closed carriage, which was exactly what he wanted: her away from him—but he realized he had a mouthful of fangs, thrusting long and sharp and in no mood to be sheathed. It just didn’t seem to be the right moment for her to learn that he was one of those—what had she called them? Horrible, bloodthirsty vampirs.

At least she hadn’t said “murderous.” Although in the case of Belial and Moldavi, that would be more accurate.

Just then, Mirabella, who also looked as if she’d been tumbled down a hill and then dragged herself to her feet at the bottom, spoke. “Maia, where did you get those rubies?” She didn’t spare Dimitri a glance, but hurried over to Miss Woodmore. Tension oozed from her. “Corvindale despises rubies,” she said to her companion, under her breath presumably so that Dimitri couldn’t hear—but of course he could hear everything, including Miss Woodmore’s response.

“Rubies? The earl despises rubies? Why in the world should I care? He doesn’t have to wear them.” Her furious whisper broke at the end. “I want to find Angelica. We have to find my brother—at least he’ll be able to save her. He can kill those vampirs—”

“But you don’t understand,” Mirabella was saying, still in a low hiss, glancing covertly at Dimitri from over her shoulder. “The very sight of them make him furious. You must get rid of the earbobs, for he hates them.”

“What?” Miss Woodmore’s voice rose incredulously, matching Dimitri’s own surprise that Mirabella should know so much about his affliction. He’d taken great care to hide it from her, along with the fact that she wasn’t truly his sister but a mere foundling he’d brought into his home years ago. “Get rid of my rubies?”

Naturally the staff knew, but they were also exceedingly well-paid to keep their master’s secrets from everyone. Aside of that, none of them wished to risk the wrath of a Dracule, and, unlike Cezar Moldavi, Dimitri didn’t make it a point of turning every one of his servants Dracule anyway. Iliana didn’t have a loose tongue, either. She had her own reasons for keeping the secret.

“I’ll do no such thing,” his ward was saying, fingering her earbobs. She cast a sidelong glance at Dimitri, then leaned closer to Mirabella. “Why should mere jewels make him so angry? Was that why he seemed so odd in the carriage?”

By that time, Dimitri had turned away, annoyance and fury prickling over his shoulders. He refocused his attention on the scene of the kidnapping instead of wondering just exactly how much Mirabella knew about him, and where she had learned it. And the fact that Miss Woodmore seemed to have latched onto the concept of his dislike for rubies with her characteristic tenacity.

Just then, praise the Fates, Tren arrived with a hackney.

Dimitri wanted nothing more than to send the women back to Blackmont Hall and to get on his way, but he dared not relieve himself of their presence until he knew they were safe. So while they climbed into the hack, rubies and all, he settled onto the back of the conveyance, where the footman might perch, and allowed Tren to ride with the driver.

The ride to Blackmont Hall was without incident, and Dimitri went inside to ascertain whether he’d received any responding messages from Chas or Giordan Cale in regards to Voss’s warning—which had, in fact, been pertinent. He found word that they were waiting at White’s for news from him, causing renewed annoyance that the message had arrived too late to prevent Angelica’s abduction, not to mention the fact that the presence of the rubies in his household—let alone in the confines of a carriage—had endangered the safety of both Woodmore sisters. Voss’s irresponsibility was inexcusable. Dimitri armed himself with an ash stake and his thick walking stick. The bottom half of said cane was actually a saber that could come in handy if he encountered Belial.

Or Voss.

And then he shoved a pistol into his pocket and slipped out of the house before Miss Woodmore could accost him again. The intense relief that he’d managed to do so was beyond annoying.

Moments later, he arrived at White’s, the well-known gentleman’s club where the Dracule had private, subterranean apartments hidden in the back. Ironically the club, which catered to the most powerful and rich members of the ton, had been influenced by Dimitri’s own establishment in Vienna; however, the Dracule who frequented it rarely visited the main chambers—except to enter a bet in the books.

Famously there’d been an incident when Beau Brummel and Lord Eddersley—a mortal and a Dracule, respectively—had sat in the front, bowed window of the club and bet three thousand pounds on which of two raindrops would reach the bottom of the glass first.

Since Dimitri’s similar property in Vienna had gone up (or down, depending upon how one looked at it) in flames, he had lost his taste for such investments, although he had helped fund moving White’s from Chesterfield to St. James. Dimitri found it morbidly amusing that the de facto headquarters for the Whig Party was being financed by a Dracule, who had absolutely no regard for political parties, politics, or even patriotism.

His world was unaffected, for the most part, by the government or legal systems of his mortal counterparts. And, as one who’d lived through the Cromwell years and the return of Charles II to the throne before he even became Dracule, Dimitri had no qualms about his apathetic attitude. Government machinations meant nothing to him.

When Dimitri arrived, he found Chas and Giordan Cale in the private apartments at White’s. Other than the three of them and the two attending footmen, the chambers were empty. There weren’t many other Dracule in London at the time—not that there ever were, for Lucifer was selective in his choices for soul induction. Dimitri thought sourly that he wished the devil had been even more selective, and passed him by almost a hundred and forty years ago. He certainly wasn’t the sort of man Lucifer tended to gravitate toward.

At least, he hadn’t been before becoming Dracule. He’d been a quiet, studious young man who grew up in a Puritan household where books and God were revered and clothing was black, brown, gray or dun.

He’d been perfectly content with his studies, for, as the youngest son of five and thus unlikely to inherit the Corvindale title, he was attempting a professorship in physics at Cambridge. And even after Cromwell died and Charles II was restored to the throne, Dimitri continued in his simple life of studies. Until he met Meg.

“At last,” Chas said, looking up from the table. Tension had settled in his face.

“A drink, Corvindale?” Giordan asked as Dimitri strolled across the chamber. His neckcloth had been loosened and he was in his shirtsleeves. It appeared that he and Chas had been in the midst of a chess game.

Interesting, and hardly comprehensible, particularly since surely by now Chas was aware of the history between Giordan and Narcise. But then, if nothing else, Giordan was a gentleman, and well in control of himself.

Dimitri glanced at the board to see who seemed to be winning. It took him only a glance to confirm what he would have suspected: Chas was for the bold, brazen moves and Giordan more subtle and covert. Well-matched, but two different styles.

Interestingly enough, the queens had both been captured already.

Even more interesting than that was the absence of Narcise herself. The presumption was that Chas had settled her safely somewhere while he saw to the situation at hand. Perhaps with Rubey.

“Angelica has been abducted,” Dimitri said without preamble. Accepting the drink, he sat at the table with them.

“Voss?” Chas spat, rising to his feet. If he were a Dracule, his eyes would be blazing red and orange. “If he caused it—”

“No,” Dimitri said, taking a healthy swallow of whiskey, and then tersely explained what had happened. “We’re going to have to search the city and then to Dover if we don’t catch them.”

Chas settled back into his chair and nodded. His eyes were fierce and his jaw moved slightly as if being clenched. “We’ll have to split up.”

They’d just finished determining the most likely places Belial would have taken Angelica, and the best routes, dividing up the locations, when the door opened.

Voss stood there on the threshold, gripping the arm of a cloaked and hooded figure.

Dimitri started up, reaching for the stake in his inside pocket just as Chas whirled in his seat to look.

“Don’t be a fool,” Voss said sharply, flipping open his coat to expose a large ruby in the center of his neckcloth. “Did you think I would be so foolish as to come unprepared?”

Dimitri remained standing, settling his hand onto the table in a pool of spilled whiskey as he fixed Voss with a dark glare. The ruby was far enough away that its potency was weak, but certainly he couldn’t get much closer. Bastard. A smart, sneaky bastard.

Reluctantly he glanced at the figure next to Voss. It was obviously a woman, and Dimitri had a sudden, ugly feeling he knew who it was.

Impossible. Even she wouldn’t be so foolish.

But he couldn’t talk himself out of the certainty, and when she yanked off her hood and he saw Miss Woodmore’s accusing eyes and mussed golden-chestnut hair, he couldn’t hold back his exclamation of annoyance. “You.” He turned his glare onto her.

“Of course I wouldn’t come unprotected, knowing just how you feel about me,” Voss was saying to Chas, who had withdrawn his stake and had it ready in his hand. “Keep your distance, and no one will get hurt.”

“Maia,” Chas said, “are you all right?”

“Other than worried to illness for the safety of my sister, while the rest of you sit about and play games at your club?

Yes, I am fine. If it weren’t for Lord Dewhurst, I would still be standing at the door, arguing with the butler. It was he who helped me gain entrance.”

“How convenient,” Dimitri replied from between his teeth. He sank back into his seat, but he couldn’t control the blaze in his eyes as he returned his gaze to Voss. Meddling arse.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Wood more stiffen. She was looking right at him and he saw sudden shock and recognition in her eyes when she noticed the glow in his gaze.

She’d figured it out. At least he wouldn’t have to hide his fangs from her any longer, but that was small comfort. Naturally she’d rush off to tell Mirabella at the first opportunity.

He snarled under his breath. Damnation. He’d have to enthrall her and clear her mind of the knowledge if he was to have any peace.

“I cannot believe your incompetence, Dimitri. I sent you the warning,” Voss said flatly, drawing Dimitri’s attention from his misery. “And you, Woodmore. Another disappearing and then reappearing act? Are you here to take care of your sisters or not?”

Fury propelled Dimitri to his feet again, his eyes fairly burning with the heat of anger. “Oh, aye, I got your message—along with the pair of bloody ruby earbobs, you sneaky bastard.” He would have lunged across the room if Chas hadn’t thrust an arm out in front of him.

“Easy,” Woodmore said under his breath, holding his stake at a lethal angle. “He’s mine.”

Voss flashed his fangs, holding Dimitri’s glare. “It was a jest, nothing more. I warned her not to wear them in your presence.”

Like hell you did, you bastard.

“Damn your soul to Lucifer, it’s your bloody fault Angelica’s been taken,” Chas interrupted. Dimitri could feel the man gathering up next to him like a spring, even though his expression didn’t change and nary a muscle moved. “You and your cursed jests and games, Voss.”

Before Voss could respond, Chas leaped, tossing a chair out of his way and bounding up and over a table to slam the man into the wall. He was fast, but Dimitri was faster, fairly flying across the room to grab Miss Woodmore, snatching her out of the way just as the two men tumbled to the floor.

She weighed no more than a pin, just as she had three years ago and of course a few nights ago, as well. And, unlike the other night at the masquerade, she didn’t have yards of skirts and fabric bunching up and around them as he scooped her up out of the way, slamming her quickly against his torso to avoid being smashed by a flying chair.

It was probably best if she didn’t see what was about to happen to Voss Dewhurst.

“Release me, you idiot man!” She slammed an elbow that was as sharp as her tongue into his gut and Dimitri grunted, shifting her so that she didn’t have another chance at him. But she tried to kick at him and to yank away, even as chairs flew and tables upended. Chess pieces scattered. The bottle of whiskey crashed to the floor.

Addled woman. Do you want to get yourself killed? He whipped her out of the way just in time to keep from being crashed into by Chas and Voss, who were putting on a damned good show. If Dimitri weren’t so furious with the latter, he’d be watching the fight with interest. For being mortal, and not as strong or fast as a Dracule, Chas Woodmore was brilliant. One would never know that he was overmatched.

And perhaps he wasn’t overmatched with the vampires. Perhaps he was made that way—to hunt them. After all, God would have some sort of defense against the malignance of Lucifer’s makes.

Chas whipped Voss into the wall, following him with his stake raised. They crashed against the brick, and Dimitri stuck out his foot and sent Voss staggering away. Chas leaped, the stake in hand, ready to deliver the death blow as Miss Woodmore screamed. “Don’t! Chas!” she shrieked, burying her face in Dimitri’s shirt.

Naturally Woodmore ignored her as he plunged the stake toward Voss’s heart. The powerful blow fell, and Dimitri watched as the stake fairly bounced off Voss’s torso. What in the bloody hell…?

Some sort of armor, blast him.

Everything fell silent for a moment, except for the sounds of labored breathing from the two fighting men. And then, with a muttered curse, Chas pulled up and away from where he’d landed on his target, a splintered stake in his hand.

As the action waned, Dimitri was no longer able to ignore the bundle of femininity clutching his shirt with two fists, and her warm breath burning through the linen to his skin. Not to mention the very evident press of breasts against his belly. A rush of heat swarmed through him and he made the mistake of drawing in a breath, getting a good sniff of her hair. Lemon and jasmine, and an undernote of cardamom-vanilla. Flowers and spice.

He forced himself to release her slender arms and made his own fall to his sides. “I do hope you aren’t wiping your nose on my shirt, Miss Woodmore.” He had to work hard to make certain his tones were laden with disdain.

Miss Woodmore jerked back as if she’d been stung, and he saw very pink cheeks just before she spun away.

“Armor?” Chas was saying to Voss as he brushed off his shirt. He looked bloody annoyed.

“After a fashion. I warned you I’d come prepared—for all of you.” He glanced pointedly at Dimitri and Giordan, as well. “Now, if you would cease attacking me, I would appreciate the opportunity to assist you in retrieving Angelica.”

“Your assistance is neither wanted nor needed,” Chas told him. “Aside of that, I want you in no vicinity to any of my sisters. A different country would be preferable. Just because you were prepared this time doesn’t always mean that you’ll escape my stake.”

Voss’s laugh was short and sharp. “I didn’t believe you were that foolish, Woodmore. In fact, I’m the only one who can assist you in saving Angelica.”

Dimitri smothered a snort of disbelief and walked over to pour a new glass of whiskey. “Not bloody likely.”

Voss shrugged, and glanced at Miss Woodmore. “Very well, then,” he said coolly. “Best of luck to all of you.” He turned toward the door.

“Wait!” Miss Woodmore stomped her foot.

Dimitri resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Always the dramatics.

“Are you just going to allow him to leave?” She glared at her brother. “Without hearing what he has to say? Angelica’s in danger and all you care about is…is whatever insults you’ve given to each other in the past. I vow, the three of you are like little boys fighting over a ball.”

Dimitri opened his mouth to tell her precisely how addled she was when Woodmore beat him to it. “I don’t need his help.” His tones dripped with brotherly disdain.

“Perhaps the lady is right.” Giordan had remained out of the fray due to the fact, Dimitri presumed, that somewhere on Voss’s person was some essence of Giordan’s Asthenia since he didn’t appear to be in possession of an actual cat. And since Giordan obviously didn’t feel compelled to manage the annoying Miss Woodmore, he’d been in the enviable position of observer. “At least hear what the bastard—pardon me, Miss Woodmore—has to say. Then turn him out.”

“It’s because of me that you even knew they were to attack this evening,” Voss said, with a flinty look at Dimitri. Then he turned to Maia. “I was fortunate enough to cross paths with Belial, who is the vampir Moldavi sent to find your brother—or one of his sisters—who could be used as a hostage.”

Dimitri watched him as he explained to Maia how he came to overhear Belial’s plans. The man seemed truly overset, especially for Voss. Was it possible that he was sincerely concerned for Angelica? That it wasn’t just another bid for attention, or a jest? He narrowed his eyes and watched, even as disdain crawled into his belly.

Voss didn’t truly care for women.

He simply used them. Coaxed them and took what he could. While he meant no real harm to anyone, neither did Voss care about anyone else aside of himself and his pleasure.

Angelica Woodmore, a young mortal woman, would hardly be any different from the hundreds or thousands of others over the years. Willing and otherwise.

“When I arrived here to find her arguing with the butler,” Voss was explaining about Maia coolly, “rather than leaving her on the doorstep where she might have been otherwise noticed, I thought it best to bring her within.”

“They had ample opportunity to abduct her, as well as Mirabella, this evening,” Dimitri reminded him between clenched teeth. He was still enraged over the debacle. “They chose not to. It was Angelica they were after.” Moldavi could find any number of uses for the younger Woodmore sister’s Sight.

“Because they’d already identified her. I’m certain, for by now, Moldavi has heard of her unusual ability. Angelica wasn’t very secretive about it, at least among her friends. Not only does Moldavi want to use her to bring Chas into submission, but also to put her to work. He can force her to tell him what she knows about the person who owns any item he brings to her.”

“You’re wasting our time,” Woodmore said. “We’ve finished our plan to search the city and now you’ve set us back.”

“And where exactly were you going to search in the city?” Voss asked, lifting an arrogant brow. He removed a handkerchief and wiped his hands of a streak of blood as he glanced up at Dimitri. “Because she’s no longer in the city. They’re taking her to Paris. They’re already well ahead of you on a boat going down the Thames.”

Satan’s bloody stones.

Chas and Dimitri exchanged glances. They hadn’t expected them to use a riverboat to get out of Town. A ship or a stage, but not one of the small river vehicles.

Giordan nodded thoughtfully, and Voss continued, for he had their attention now.

“You didn’t think Cezar would risk himself to come here, did you? Belial is bringing Angelica to him. The good news is that she’ll arrive unharmed—for Belial won’t dare allow anything to happen to her. She’s going to be very valuable to Cezar. The bad news is…not one of you could expect to gain entrance to Moldavi’s residence in Paris, to get to Angelica. Except for me.”

Dimitri didn’t bother to correct him. Moldavi would see him, if only for the chance to slam a stake into his heart. In fact, he’d relish it just as much as Dimitri would to do the same.

“You forget about me. Moldavi will see me,” Giordan said. His voice was flat and his eyes empty. “I’ll go.”

“No, Giordan,” Dimitri snapped, looking at his friend in concern. Cale didn’t need to put himself through that again. There were other ways.

“I’ll go,” Voss said firmly. “Moldavi will see me. I’ve acquired some information he wants about Bonaparte. And I’ll be able to get her back.”

“How are you going to get to Paris? We’re at war!” Miss Woodmore interjected. “Mrs. Siddington-Graves has been trapped there for a year!”

Dimitri didn’t know who Mrs. Siddington-Graves was, and he certainly didn’t care, but he forbore to say anything. Let Woodmore take care of his sister while he was present, blast him.

“Why should I trust you?” Woodmore was saying.

“I returned her once before, didn’t I?” Voss pointed out.

“Complete with nightmares, frightening memories, not to mention marks on her skin. Not quite unharmed.”

Dimitri saw a flash of emotion in Voss’s expression that he would have described as chagrin, or even guilt, if he hadn’t suspected that those feelings were as foreign to Voss as sunlight. “As you well know, I’ve spent my life collecting information and learning the weaknesses of my associates and enemies alike. I know how to influence Moldavi,” he said steadily.

Glancing over at Miss Woodmore, Dimitri saw that she was following the conversation with interest. Hope and terror warred in her expression, and he thought it must have to do with worry for her brother. For, after all, if Chas never came back, she’d be under Dimitri’s wardship forever—or at least until she wed.

The very thought struck terror in Dimitri’s own heart and he focused in on the conversation, willing to offer up Voss first in the effort to retrieve Angelica. The man’s arguments, much as he hated to admit it, were logical.

Chas seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Very well, then. I’ll accompany you to Paris.”

“No! Chas! What if Moldavi captures you, too?” Miss Woodmore interjected in an unnecessarily shrill tone, confirming Dimitri’s suspicions. He winced, his ears ringing.

Her brother gave her an affronted look. “I am quite able to take care of myself, Maia. I’ve already evaded him once, and now I know exactly what I’d be walking into.” He glanced at Dimitri, then Giordan. “Narcise will have to stay here, of course.”

Damnation. Dimitri was not going to be responsible for another woman. Especially a Dracule who’d destroyed his best friend, and by all accounts seemed to be working on doing the same to his closest associate. Both of them were fools of the highest order.

Meg had nearly done the same to him.

“But, Chas…I still don’t understand. Why are you working with vampirs if you kill them?” Miss Woodmore asked, glancing briefly at Dimitri. She looked exhausted and confused, and he felt an unwilling softening in his belly again.

He ruthlessly hardened his thoughts and lifted his chin so he could look down at her from an even higher level. If she’d stayed home like any reasonable woman, instead of bartering her way into the most private apartments of an exclusive gentleman’s club, she’d be sleeping restfully by now.

And dreaming.

Dimitri yanked his thoughts away from that avenue and drilled his attention steadfastly onto Chas Woodmore, who was trying to explain to his sister why he worked for Dimitri when he was bound to kill those of his race.

It really wasn’t all that complicated, when one thought about it logically. Just as there were good and moral men, there were also members of the Dracule who were less inclined to live uneventfully alongside their mortal counterparts. People like Moldavi, who fed from children and left them to die. Or, when they wanted something, they’d burn a house down and watch people perish.

Or they’d feed on injured soldiers on a field, prolonging their agony just for pleasure.

Just as there were mortals who hunted game, killed it neatly and quickly and used it for nourishment, and there were others who tortured the animals just to watch them twist and cry and squeal…there were also Dracule, who fed expediently and took just what they needed from mortals, and quite often from willing ones, and there were Dracule who fed until the mortal was bled nearly dry. And left for dead.

As there were mortal men who hungered for power until it became all consuming, there were Dracule who did the same.

There were Dracule who merely lived lavish lives, filled with luxuries and pleasure, but who were content to simply enjoy the sensuality of it, without desiring to control everyone around them.

And then there was Dimitri, who no longer did any of those things. Whose Mark blazed with constant pain for precisely that reason: because he denied the pleasure, the very covenant that Lucifer had given him.

And searched for a way to renounce it.

Thus, instead, he lived in solitude and darkness, seeking an escape from an eternity of hell.

“At any rate,” Chas was saying, “I’m going to Paris with Voss and we’ll bring back Angelica. That’s all you need to know at this time, Maia.”

Voss interrupted, shaking his head sharply. “If you want to jeopardize my chances, then you may come. Otherwise…follow if you will, but some days behind me. There can be no hint to Moldavi that we’re working together.”

Dimitri snorted in agreement. “Even if he saw the two of you shaking hands, he wouldn’t believe it.”

Voss shot him a look of pure dislike. “Precisely.”