The Vampire Voss

8 In Which Lord Dewhurst Suffers A Poor Vintage

Angelica barely made it down the stairs without falling. Her knees shook, threatening to give way and send her tumbling, and she felt as if she were about to toss up her accounts at any moment. Yet, it was concern not only for Ella but for Voss as well that kept her upright and intent on finding help.

She got to the bottom step and as she followed the path of destruction—crooked wall pictures, an upended vase, a streak of something dark on the wallpaper—down a short corridor, she met up with Rubey.

The older woman looked a bit disheveled, but not as if she’d been attacked or fought off intruders. No blood nor claw or tear marks. Her expression was tight and shocked, and her first words were, “You’re unhurt? What about Ella?”

Angelica shook her head and peeled her tongue off the roof of her mouth. “Voss is seeing to her. He sent me for help.”

Just then, the sound of heavy footsteps had Angelica spinning in alarm. But it was Voss. He filled the corridor, his face just as taut as Rubey’s, his stride purposeful.

“There’s no help for the maid,” he told Rubey without looking at Angelica.

“No,” Rubey whispered. “Ella?” Her face loosened with pain and shock. “Damn you, Voss, for bringing this here. Your greed and games.”

Voss’s expression tightened further and he inclined his head as if in acceptance. Still without acknowledging Angelica, keeping his eyes hooded and on Rubey, he said, “We haven’t much time. Where is he?”

Apparently the older woman could decipher his code, for she stepped back and gestured down the hall. “Still in there. Pretending to be injured.” Her eyes flashed lightning blue as they met Voss’s, once again making Angelica feel as if she were missing something important. “Do what you will.”

Before she could ask, Voss glanced at her, his eyes scoring down over what she belatedly realized was a scandalously flimsy shift and then her bare legs and feet. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to truly care.

“If you could dress her, and get that damned foot bound up, I would greatly appreciate it.” He was speaking again to Rubey, again as if Angelica wasn’t there, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from demanding petulantly that he acknowledge her.

Fool.

Then he brushed past her, the sleeve of his coat dislodging a lock of hair from her shoulder, and disappeared down the hall.

“Come. I’ll see to you myself,” Rubey said wearily. “You can’t stay much longer. And I’ve got to leave, as well.”

Angelica resisted the urge to stare after Voss. A little prickle of nervousness ran up her spine. Do what you will.

Whatever Rubey had meant, Angelica suspected it wasn’t to the good.

She followed the older woman’s brisk pace and realized for the first time that the cuts on her foot were deep and painful. Fortunately the bleeding had slowed to an ooze, and as soon as they reached their destination, Rubey made her sit down. Moments later, she gave a damp cloth to Angelica to wipe away the blood.

As she bathed her cuts, noticing that the one in her heel was split and would likely take some time to mend, she realized that this was an exceedingly well-appointed home. A smallish residence, but furnished richly and with elegance. It dawned on her that this must be where Rubey lived, and that possibly her place of business was elsewhere. The chamber to which they’d come was clearly Rubey’s private one, and it was decorated in rich gold and all other shades of yellow.

It also occurred to Angelica, as Rubey dug through a large, polished wardrobe across from a very decadent and well-pillowed bed, that the fact that two vampirs had invaded the home and killed a maid didn’t seem to shock her hostess. Certainly she was aggrieved at the loss of Ella, but she didn’t seem to be as stunned and paralyzed as Angelica felt.

This realization coupled with the fact that Ella had had what most certainly were bite marks on her neck, and Angelica began to feel light-headed again. Light of head, and confused. Were these horrific creatures—which she’d had no idea existed beyond Granny Grapes’s imagination until only last night—more common than she could have imagined? Did these violent, rapacious monsters live among them like normal people?

And what was Voss’s connection to them?

Rubey moved with the same efficiency and spare movements as Ella had, insisting that Angelica don a clean chemise, and even loaning her one of her corsets. Although she didn’t attempt to do anything with the mass of wild hair except pin it up loosely again, Rubey tugged and laced and buttoned Angelica into a pretty pink frock in short order.

Just as Angelica was rolling silk stockings up over her knees and aligning borrowed slippers (which were a bit too large) for her feet, Voss strode into the chamber. Uninvited, and clearly comfortable being there.

“We must go,” he said to Angelica. She sensed wildness about him, some restrained energy beneath his movements. “Straight away. We’ve a carriage waiting.”

“What of Edouard?” Rubey asked, her lips pinched together.

“Belial paid him well—and he’d already been made Dracule, Luce take it. How the fool didn’t think we’d figure him out, I can’t imagine. I threw him outside and he’s burning in the sun now. Won’t see him again.”

Rubey made a sound of distaste and turned away. “Blast it, Voss. Every bloody time you come here, you leave a mess.”

“That’s why you charge me so much,” he replied. But this time, there was no humor in his voice, no lilting charm. “And why I always settle up.”

“I cannot charge you enough to make up for this,” Rubey said. Her eyes were red now. “Ella was… She was…a friend, as well.”

“My sincerest apology,” Voss said. He sounded as if he meant it, and he reached to touch Rubey’s arm as if to emphasize. “Truly. I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

“Never will be soon enough,” said their hostess. And she sounded, at that moment, as if she meant it, too.

Voss turned sharply. “Miss Woodmore, we must make haste. You’re no longer safe here.” Formality and command replaced the empathy in his voice.

Angelica allowed him to lead her from the bedchamber and down the corridor. His strides were long and fast, and she felt awkward trying to keep up with him. But her fingers, glove less, were clasped in his big bare hand, and he steadied her as they hurried along.

The carriage had been pulled up very near the servants’ entrance; to climb in was no more than a step out the door and up into the vehicle. The conveyance was parked in a narrow mews between two tall buildings, which made the space dark and shadowy despite the fact that it was several hours before twilight.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Angelica entered a carriage to ride with Voss. Alone.

“Where are we going this time?” she asked as he stood at the doorway, his hand on the edge of the door, his feet on the stoop of the house.

“Somewhere safer,” he said. His eyes seemed to glitter with heat as he looked up at her. “Somewhere where they cannot find us.”

There was something about the way he said those words that gave her pause. An odd combination of desire and unease prickled inside her.

“Why do you not take me back to Blackmont Hall? Surely it’s safe there,” Angelica said, remembering the stone wall that surrounded the small plot of land on which the mansion sat. Maia must be sick with worry, too. And what if there’d been a message from Chas?

“I’ll not take you back to Corvindale,” Voss said flatly. “Not quite yet.”

And then, to her shock and surprise, he slammed the door closed, leaving himself on the outside. The sound of the latch catching solidified the realization that he didn’t intend to join her.

Angelica whipped the heavy curtains away from the windows just in time to see Voss—she thought it was him, at any rate—heavily cloaked and with a low-riding hat settle on the small stoop at the back of the barouche where the footman would normally stand.

He was choosing to ride outside of the vehicle instead of inside with her? What did that mean?

The sudden jolt of the vehicle starting off nudged her against the padded wall. Voss hadn’t moved, but she could see his gloved hands holding on to the handles next to the window. He looked like a black wraith, his cloak flapping as they went on and his face in shadow, his profile turned away and down.

Angelica, exhausted, still more than a bit horrified at the day’s events, and now filled with annoyance, settled into her seat and folded her arms over her middle.

“This is a fine kettle,” she said to herself. Locked in a carriage, being taken who knew where.

But she wasn’t frightened. At least, not of Voss.

There were much worse threats to her person than the tawny-haired man with the hot gaze.

Perhaps he meant to protect her reputation by not riding about London during the day alone in the carriage with her. Not that anyone could see inside the heavily curtained windows.

Or perhaps he thought it would be safer if he rode outside, where he could watch for other attacks.

Or perhaps he didn’t wish to be near her any longer. Now that he’d been with Rubey for the afternoon.

For it had become starkly clear to her that he and Rubey had been otherwise engaged when the invaders had come into the house, and had somehow avoided a direct attack. The thought of what they were doing made her feel suddenly quite ill again.

Miserable, she settled into the corner of the carriage. The plush velvet walls and cushions embraced her, and she rested her head back and tried not to think about what a disaster her life had become.

She had to admit it, then. That she’d come to truly fancy Voss in the few days that she’d known him, in the fleeting moments of conversation and in those moments when their eyes had met… Well, she must admit it. She had believed, hoped, that he’d fancied her, too.

Foolish purring kitten, as Granny Grapes would say. And she’d jab her finger at Angelica just as Maia was wont to do. Yer seeing what yer want to see.

Voss—she really ought to think of him as Dewhurst again— was merely being gentlemanly in taking care of her and taking her off to safety. Protecting her, or any woman in danger, as any man would do.

Yes, they’d had some compelling conversation. And indeed, when they’d talked just this morning whilst she was still abed, Angelica had felt as if the silken thread of a connection had been strung between them when she looked into his eyes and saw something deeper there.

And, yes, there’d been that kiss…

Angelica’s toes curled up inside the too-large slippers as she remembered that kiss, that melting, mind-shattering kiss. And then she forced her thoughts away from it.

Yes, that kiss. But it hadn’t been her first kiss, and certainly not his. A kiss didn’t have to mean anything. Just because it made the ground shift beneath her feet didn’t mean it did the same to him…and even if it did—there was Rubey.

And thus and so went her thoughts, circular, dark, confused and focused on everything but the fact that her life was in danger and that she’d been attacked for the second time in less than a day.

That was simply too dark and terrifying for her to think about.

Angelica opened her eyes when the carriage made a sharp turn and for the first time, she noticed a glove tucked into the cushion of the seat across from her. Was it Voss’s? By all indication, this was his carriage.

Angelica bit her lip, looking at the crushed beige glove. She was tempted. Oh, so tempted…

Before she could consider any repercussions, she slid over to pluck it from its spot. Too large to belong to a woman, as she’d suspected, the glove had small, tight stitches and was soft as butter. When she brought it close to her nose, she found that the scent that reminded her of him clung to the silk lining.

And there on the edge of the underside was a monogram. VA, with a large, stylized D in between the initials. Voss Arden, Lord Dewhurst.

Angelica glanced guiltily out the window of the carriage. But although his hand still grasped the handle and his dark figure stood steady on its small platform, his face was buried in the dark recesses of his hat and the collar of his cloak.

Angelica looked down at the rich leather.

Did she dare?

Did she even want to know?

But the man fascinated her and she needed something other than fear on which to focus her mind. And so she closed her eyes, crumpled Voss’s glove in her hand and opened her thoughts.

Voss shifted with each movement of the carriage so that his face—the only exposed part of his skin—would remain out of the sunlight. An inconvenience at the very least…but much less trying than sitting in that small space with Angelica.

For a moment, he lost his thoughts, sliding back into the red haze that had engulfed him when he entered the chamber to find her being attacked by Trastonio and some other gutterwipe make. Bloodscent filled the air—that of the destroyed maid, and another, sweeter, much more compelling one. From Angelica.

He’d never forget the image that greeted him, penetrating through that sudden, hot fog of desire. Even now, as his leather-clad fingers gripped the handle protruding from the rear of his carriage, in his mind he saw Angelica—wide-eyed, white-faced, huddled in the corner of the chamber. Terror blazed in her exotic eyes, her hair straggled wild and dark around the sagging neckline of her shift. Two white feet and bare calves beneath the hem, streaked with crimson…and her fingers around a piece of wood, her mouth tight with concentration as she prepared to defend herself.

Lucifer’s brittle bones. He’d nearly lost her. And lost his chance.

And then to see, and scent, her blood…a most intimate part of her. The thought of it, the sense of tasting it, hot and heavy on his tongue…her lips parted in pleasured sighs and her lush body opening to him…. It made his desire uncontrollable. His fingers had dug into the edge of the window as he sent her away before he lost the ability to curb his actions.

Voss thought they’d have more time at Rubey’s. He hadn’t expected one of her own footmen to betray them to the likes of Belial—but then, of course, men like Edouard did strange things for the chance to become immortal.

Too bloody bad for the man who was now frying in the deadly sun. Voss was certain Belial hadn’t told Edouard about that particular drawback of being a made Dracule.

Just as Lucifer hadn’t told Voss about that and a variety of other inconveniences as part of their unholy agreement, including the Mark that now throbbed and ached with the devil’s own annoyance. Every twist and turn of the carriage as it avoided street urchins or piles of refuse in the street, dogs or even other vehicles, made his shoulder stretch and caused a renewal of pain. When he’d sent Angelica away from the chamber with the dead maid instead of tearing into her flesh, the agonizing sting from his Mark had left him breathless.

Lucifer was never pleased when one of his Dracule thought of someone other than themselves.

The pain had lessened only a fraction since then, and Voss wasn’t certain how much longer he could fight it. Closing his eyes, resting his temple against the sun-baked side of the carriage, he drew in a deep breath of summer afternoon in London: warm, close and filled with the smell of rotting food, human and animal waste, choking coal smoke and, faintly, summer lilies. Very faintly.

The unpleasant aromas did little to distract his thoughts from the paralyzing burn at his shoulder. He couldn’t understand how Dimitri lived with the pain his inflamed Mark must inflict on him at all times. Surely it wasn’t worth the self-denial and he could rid himself of the suffering for a moment at the least. But still Dimitri denied himself, after more than a century…since that night in Vienna.

The evening in question began innocently enough. Dimitri had invested in a private men’s club being built in Vienna— a large, Baroque-style home that was one of many in the new architectural fashion since the great Turkish siege had ended—and had invited several acquaintances, most of them Dracule, to visit for an evening of cards and women and other entertainment.

Voss had thought it would be the perfect opportunity to confirm his suspicions about Dimitri’s Asthenia and add the information to his book of notes. Having played cards with the stone-faced Dimitri in the past and having observed him carefully on several other social occasions in London and Paris, he’d noticed that the man never accepted jewelry as tokens for bets, nor did he interact with men or women who wore ostentatious accessories.

Thus, in the guise of offering his host a gift, Voss had had a series of a dozen special goblets made. Each one had a different jewel hidden in the bottom of the cup’s base. The cups were identical except for the different gems, and the type of gem was identified by a mark on the bottom of the cup and the slot in which it rested in their velvet-lined case.

When Voss arrived at the club, he, along with every other entrant, was required to leave any weapons—particularly swords or wooden canes that could be sharpened—as well as any valuables, locked in private chests at the front of the club. That, of course, included jewels and other accessories, and served only to enhance Voss’s suspicion about Dimitri’s weakness.

He managed to bring the goblets in, for they were made of hammered metal and appeared very plain and unassuming, just as he’d intended. When Voss entered, he had the chest of cups with him and found a corner behind a heavy curtain in an alcove in which to secrete it. His plan was to offer one to Dimitri filled with his best blooded-brandy as a gift, and then secretly swap the goblets out one by one throughout the night. That way he could determine which gem affected Dimitri without the other man knowing what he was doing.

This type of elaborate ruse was just the sort of thing Voss reveled in. He enjoyed not only the planning, but the execution as well, and considered that a trap had only been perfectly sprung and a puzzle solved when he managed to do so without the victim realizing what was happening.

But in this case, things did not turn out as he’d intended.

He and Dimitri, along with several other guests—mortal and Dracule alike—sat in the main parlor of the club. Windows dark with heavy curtains allowed only a swatch of moonlight to filter through, and a violinist played in the corner. Lovely women, a rarity in men’s clubs at least in London, offered trays of drink and slender ivory wrists or shoulders.

The very essence of the place was hot and lush, stemming not from its colonnaded design but from the scent of warm blood and rich wine, along with the haze of hashish smoke filtering from another chamber. The chamber exuded hedonism, complete with food and drink and the most sensual of furnishings—both of the inanimate and mortal type.

Dimitri had planned his establishment well, and even though Voss meant to use the evening to observe and learn from his host, he found himself lulled by the strains of music and the feminine company—and young, hard males as well, for those who tended toward that preference. He confessed to having tried that once, early on after realizing he was to live forever, and when he was very drunk. But in the end it hadn’t appealed, and he returned to the lush flesh of women instead of the hard muscle of men.

The most lovely of the women was named Lerina, and she was clearly Dimitri’s current mistress. Her elegant shoulder, bared by a low-bodice gown, bore several sets of bite marks on the right side. Every Dracule in the place recognized Dimitri’s scent on the woman, and even if they hadn’t, the way she watched him with her pale blue eyes would have indicated her allegiance.

Dimitri accepted the first goblet from Voss, and sipped the brandy as Lerina traced her fingers gently over the back of her lover’s neck. His dark eyes scanned the room, as if watching for trouble or merely surveying his domain, and he hardly seemed to notice the woman’s touch.

That was where Voss and Dimitri differed, as well. Even if Voss was only planning to bed the woman that night, he plied her with attention and charm. When he was finished with her, he was finished…but until then, she was the recipient of all of his attention.

As he sipped from his own cup, Voss observed his host, who was drinking from the goblet with a garnet in the base. He noticed nothing untoward. He’d added a bit of a favorite of his enhancements to the brandy as well, in hopes that it would lower Dimitri’s natural defenses even further. The salvi wouldn’t weaken Dimitri—although it would drug a mortal to sleep almost instantly—but combined with the brandy and blood, it would increase his intoxication to an even deeper level.

Voss partook of the same drink, with the same enhancement, and divided his attention between his host, the lovely Lerina, who seemed desperate for Dimitri’s spare notice, and other amusements in the room. Voss had all night to enjoy himself, and fully intended to do so.

He’d refilled Dimitri’s goblet a third time—and had swapped for a third gem, the topaz, which had taken the place of a pearl—when everything went to hell.

It started when one of Dimitri’s stewards approached swiftly, carrying a chest. As he came closer, Voss recognized it as the box that held his collection of goblets, along with the salvi. Damnation.

“My lord,” said the steward, showing Dimitri the chest. “I found these in the front alcove. Hidden behind the curtain.”

Voss’s stomach sank, but he fixed an insouciant smile on his face as Dimitri glanced at the goblets, lined up in their spots with the chemical symbol for each gem marked on its slot in the box. Of course, one slot was empty—for the one cup he held in his hand. He turned a frigid glare onto Voss, who lifted his own glass in salute.

“A gift for my host,” Voss said in an effort to bluff his way through the situation. “A collection of a dozen of the finest craftsmanship.”

“So that’s what you’ve done,” said Dimitri. His eyes burned red and his mouth flattened into an unpleasant expression. “I wondered. And you expected to trick me thus?”

Voss noticed that his hand trembled, and that the man’s face appeared taut and tense. His breathing altered, slowed.

Voss had been right! It was a gemstone. Something in the chest. Something that wasn’t large enough to cause him great weakness, although in combination with the salvi and blood-brandy it had obviously affected him. But there was no way of knowing which one it was, for all dozen were present.

“I would throttle you but I’m afraid I have more imminent concerns to deal with,” Dimitri said flatly, and Voss realized he’d shifted his attention from him to something beyond his shoulder. He had an arrested expression on his face as he looked across the room. “But you are no longer welcome here, Voss. See that he leaves,” he added to his steward.

Voss stood, knowing when he’d pushed things too far. He didn’t see any reason to cause a fight and muss his clothes, so he gave a short little bow of acquiescence. But Dimitri was no longer paying him any attention.

Instead his focus was on a group of men who’d just entered the room.

Cezar Moldavi and five of his companions.

At that time, Voss knew little about Moldavi except that he didn’t care for the man. Perhaps it was the way the vampire carried himself, as if there was a large block on his shoulder that he dared anyone to knock off. Or perhaps it was the manner in which he spoke to everyone, as if he were better than they. Which was a hard thing to account for, since Cezar Moldavi wasn’t the tallest of men, and he wasn’t particularly pleasant to look at. He wasn’t even half as rich as Voss. In the company of other Dracule, what exactly did he think was so special about himself?

“Who allowed that child-bleeder entrance?” Dimitri snarled, seeming to forget about the goblets. “I gave strict instructions—”

“Dimitri,” said Moldavi, sweeping toward them boldly. Voss could tell immediately that he knew he wasn’t welcome, and that he didn’t care. His five companions pushed their way through as if they were the club’s owners, rather than guests. “Your place is quite accommodating.”

“I hardly expected to see you here, Moldavi,” Dimitri replied, looking at him from his chair, as if he couldn’t be bothered to rise. But Voss assumed it had to do with the fact that the man was weakened by the presence of some gemstone as well as the salvi. “There aren’t any children about.”

As the steward escorted him toward the door, he glanced at Moldavi. The man didn’t seem offended by the comments, and in fact returned Dimitri’s expression with a bold and challenging one.

“More’s the pity,” said Moldavi. “They have the sweetest, purest blood.”

Even Voss couldn’t contain his revulsion at that point, and despite the way the blood—and salvi-laced brandy had lulled him while heightening his senses, he felt his belly lurch. So it was Cezar Moldavi who’d left the young boy’s body in the farm fields. Bled nearly dry, the boy had been eight and left to die in the sun. All of Vienna had heard about it, and the horror had rushed through the mortal population as well as the Draculian underpinnings.

It was one thing to feed on a mortal, to take sustenance. Even from one who had to be coaxed or otherwise enthralled. But to leave one to die, and a child at that…

“I wouldn’t know,” Dimitri replied. Despite the fact that he hadn’t moved or hardly flickered an eyelash, he looked as if he were about to squash a large gnat. His fangs barely showed, and his eyes had banked the red-orange glow of fury. But the sense of suppressed fury fairly radiated from him, even though the chest of goblets still remained in the vicinity, apparently forgotten. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation, Cezar.”

The other man smiled unpleasantly. “I was certain it had been an oversight. You’ve always been so inclusive of all of us. Which is why I brought a gift for you.” He stepped aside and revealed a cloaked figure behind him.

It was a woman, Voss saw, and immediately, his blood surged and his breathing quickened as someone drew away her cloak. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She had smooth, ivory skin, startling blue eyes and ink-black hair that fell in long, lush waves over her shoulders. She wore a vibrant purple gown that clung to a tall, slender body in the most unfashionable manner, but that left every curve outlined: her breasts, their erect nipples, the swell of her belly and the bones of her hips and even the swell of her mons.

Her only other adornment was a curious bracelet with a feather dangling from it.

“I have no interest in your leavings, Moldavi,” Dimitri said. His attention had barely flickered over the woman. “Especially your sister. Although,” he said as if an afterthought, “she’s not precisely your type, is she? You prefer to let others partake while you sniff out other amusements.” A bit more of his fangs showed.

Even from a distance near the door, Voss saw and heard the rumble of surprise from Moldavi’s companions. Apparently they weren’t used to their leader being insulted by the implication that he couldn’t bed a woman. And neither was he, if the expression on his face was any indication. Surprise and hatred flashed there, and then it was gone.

Voss turned his attention back to the woman. So this was Cezar Moldavi’s vampire sister, Narcise. Even with dull, blank eyes, she was an incredible beauty. Enough to make any man, mortal or Dracule, weak in the knees and hard of the cock. How could Dimitri resist? Voss would have accepted her in a moment, and in fact, if he weren’t being so unceremoniously escorted from the place, he would have tried.

But that wasn’t going to happen, for he realized belatedly that Narcise Moldavi didn’t seem to have any freedom of her own. She didn’t speak to anyone, and other than a single, brief flash of life in her eyes, she remained little more than a statue at her brother’s side. Clearly under his control.

The same couldn’t be said for Moldavi, for after Dimitri’s dismissal of Narcise, the man’s eyes burned brilliant red. “You dare to insult my family?”

“On the contrary. The insult was directed to you alone,” Dimitri replied, clearly bored.

By that time, Voss was at the door and he had no choice but to leave, even though he had a feeling that things were about to get interesting.

He didn’t find out until months later what exactly had happened that caused the great loathing between Moldavi and Dimitri to become even deeper and more permanent. According to other witnesses, after Voss left, Moldavi pretended to do the same. But instead, he remained in the club and somehow lured Lerina into a dark corner with him.

When Lerina reappeared with Cezar’s marks on her left shoulder and his scent on her, Dimitri had had enough. Intoxicated from the salvi and likely still weakened by the presence of his Asthenia, he was obviously impaired. Moldavi pulled out a small wooden stake—which he clearly had not left at the door—and lunged at Dimitri. In their struggle they knocked over a lit candelabra.

No one noticed at first because of the ensuing battle, and the fire started quickly, eating into the lush upholstery and furnishings in the chamber as Dimitri grabbed Cezar by the throat. Fueled by fury, he lifted him into the air, throwing him across the room. Cezar landed in a heap amid his followers, beaten by a vampire who was unarmed, not to mention intoxicated and weakened. Completely and utterly humiliated.

Of course, Voss wasn’t there to witness the details of the fight, but it was clear from the stories that were told that that night cemented a hatred between the two men even deeper than the discord he’d invited by bringing the goblets.

To add even more injury to Dimitri’s insult, the fire not only destroyed his new club, but it also caused the death of Lerina, who had been unable to escape the fire.

In one dark evening, Dimitri lost his mistress, a valuable piece of property and made himself a lethal enemy by humiliating an immortal madman in front of his peers. And had nearly been tricked into revealing his deepest secret. It was, Voss reflected grimly as he clung to the back of his carriage, no wonder the man blamed him. If he hadn’t put the salvi in the brandy, things might not have happened the way they had.

Or perhaps they would have.

After all, as Dimitri had warned Voss after Brickbank’s death, which couldn’t have been avoided despite Voss’s precautions: if one was destined to die, there was nothing that could be done to prevent it.

Voss blinked and rubbed his head against the back of the carriage that held Angelica, bringing himself back from more than a hundred years ago to present-day London. The carriage had navigated through shoppers and street hawkers on busy Bond Street, then along Piccadilly toward Fleet, and at last turned along Bishopsgate. Now it pulled into a narrow opening between two buildings.

Voss knew they’d reached their destination when the smell of the river and all of its accompanying stench melded with that of vomit and stale ale. The Billingsgate Fish Market was two blocks away, and here in the narrow, crooked streets crowded public houses frequented by the fishermen and mongers. The particular establishment to which he had directed his groom had a sign on the front naming it The Golden Lion, but was known as Black Maude’s to those who frequented it.

Now that they’d arrived on the eastern side of town amid close, tall buildings, Voss was able to raise his face without fearing it would be seared by the light of the sun. That heavenly body had sunk lower, which meant that Belial and his forces would be out in full force in short order.

Voss was one of the few Dracule who could go out during the daylight, as long as he kept any direct sunbeams from touching his skin. Even on some rainy, very cloudy days, he could walk about without covering for a short time. Tolerance for the sun varied by each individual, but there were some who dared not venture into sunlit air at all—covered or not. Nevertheless, full and direct exposure would kill any Dracule.

Just as Lucifer lived and thrived in the dark, relying on shadows and night to hide his deeds, so were the Dracule made. Sunlight exposed too much.

Voss considered himself relatively fortunate in this matter, which had made his escape from previous sticky situations much easier. And, in this case, it gave him the freedom to remove Angelica to a safer location.

The carriage had come to a complete stop in the back alley behind Maude’s, and Voss released the handle, stepping lightly onto the ground. A sharp glance around confirmed that the shadowy passage was deserted. He moved quickly to unlatch the carriage door, more than a bit apprehensive about Angelica’s reaction to being abducted in such a manner.

When he opened the door and looked in, she didn’t move except to spear him with a cool gaze.

At least she didn’t fly at him in a rage as another of his consorts had done when he’d subjected her to a similar mode of transport. Of course, India had been a fiery-haired and tempered vixen even when she was at rest, and that situation had been markedly different than this one. For one, he’d been abducting her from her husband. For another, he’d already shared her bed on more than one occasion.

His mouth dried and the sheaths around his incisors tightened as he realized how soon he’d be doing the same with this young woman.

“Shall I disembark, or are you planning to join me?” Angelica asked in an even voice. Her hair was still pooled around her shoulders, and her slender hands were settled in her lap. The uneven light spilled over the curves of her collarbones and breasts. Voss’s breath deepened as he gripped the door frame. She was so very lovely.

But…her eyes. It was her eyes that captured him: clearly annoyed, beckoning, intelligent. And wise.

It was the wisdom there, the peace, that tugged at him.

“I thought you might wish a bit of refreshment,” he said. “We’re going to stop for a bit.”

“Is it safe?” she asked, and that peace edged away to be replaced by wariness. Worry.

She still trusted him enough to ask.

“I won’t allow anything to happen to you, Angelica,” he said, offering her his hand. At least, anything that you won’t enjoy.

She murmured something that sounded annoyed, but she rose from her seat and took his hand with her bare fingers. “Does this belong to you?” she asked, showing him one of his gloves.

“I wondered where it had gotten to,” he replied and took it as she alighted from the carriage. “Thank you for finding it.”

She merely gave him an inscrutable look and lifted the hem of Rubey’s frock so that it didn’t drag on the ground.

Voss, feeling unusually put-off by her reticence and calm (he had expected to be confronted with a harridan when he opened the door), and the odd way she was looking at him, opened the grimy door of the building. No sooner had they stepped inside the back entrance, dark with dirt and soot and sticky with grease, than his carriage rumbled off for a change of horses. The groom would return after and wait for them in the alley.

Inside Black Maude’s, Voss led Angelica down the dark passage to the private rooms with which he was well familiar. As was expected, no one greeted them in this rear corridor. It wasn’t until he unfastened the latch on the third door (the only one with the red string hanging out, indicating that the chamber was empty) and entered the small chamber that he spoke again.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, turning to lock the door behind them and to pull its red string inside. There was another door on the opposite side of the chamber through which he would communicate with the proprietress.

It was all very discreet but, unlike Rubey’s, this particular establishment didn’t cater to Dracule members. Most of the patrons here were mortals with very specific tastes that they dared not allow to become public.

Angelica stood in the center of the room, looking as if she were afraid to touch anything. Voss couldn’t blame her; for although the bed was neatly made, its cleanliness appeared dubious at best. There were two chairs and a small dining table, along with a screen in the corner and a chamber pot. On the table was an unopened bottle of whiskey along with a collection of glasses. And, to his annoyance, in what sounded like the very next room, a woman was trying to sing to a piano that was ridiculously out of tune.

“Your choice of accommodations seems to be deteriorating,” she said, gesturing to the space. But a bit of a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, taking some of the petulance away.

“The chair is likely the safest place,” he said, sweeping off his smothering cloak. He settled it over the nearest chair and indicated for her to sit.

And all of a sudden, he felt awkward. He was in a bedchamber, with a woman he desired.

And he felt awkward.

“Is something amusing?” Angelica asked. Despite the sensual disarray of her hair, she managed to look and sound very proper. Even her bare hands were folded neatly in her lap.

A knock at the door interrupted any reply he might have made, and Voss went to slide open its small, inset panel. He ordered food and drink for Angelica, and then closed the sliding door.

“I neglected to ask earlier,” Voss said, resisting the urge to pace, and firmly ignoring the painful nudge at the back of his shoulder, “if you were hurt. Other than your…foot.”

“Hurt? No, ’tis only a little ache. But frightened?” She lifted her chin and fastened him with her gaze. “Yes, I am quite frightened, Dewhurst. Frightened and confused.”

“I prefer you to call me Voss,” he said, taking care to allow a bit of huskiness into his voice.

She merely looked at him, and again, he felt as if the ground was falling away beneath his feet. This was a woman he couldn’t quite understand…and couldn’t control. She didn’t make demands, she didn’t throw her delicious body at him— but nor was she a shy and retiring virgin, exactly. And she was a woman who saw, and lived, death every day.

How could she bear it? How could she have such peace in her eyes?

Voss would never understand what made him speak at that moment, to ask the question that suddenly, unexpectedly, jumped into his mind. But he did, and later, he found that he didn’t regret it. “Do you know when you are to die?”

Her eyes widened a fraction and he heard the subtle intake of her breath. He thought she might ignore the question, as she had done earlier when he asked if she’d known about her parents’ death before it happened.

“No,” she said softly, rising from the becloaked chair. “I attempted it once, holding one of my gloves and concentrating upon it…but I could see nothing. Perhaps it is for the best.” She’d taken a few steps and the hem of her dress dragged on the floor. It pulled the neckline of her gown awry and he couldn’t help but notice. “I know enough.”

“Did it make your childhood very difficult?” he asked, wondering why he didn’t simply grab her and drag her up against him, sink inside her. Everything about her filled the room.

He turned away and opened the whiskey. A quick sniff told him it was only marginally better than the rotgut he’d had during a brief trip to Kentucky, but it was something.

He poured a glass and sipped. No, it was even worse than the Kentuckian drink they called moonshine. He managed another sip and restrained a grimace. Perhaps the wine he’d ordered would be better.

“Granny Grapes wouldn’t allow me to dwell on it. She helped me to learn how to set things aside. How to accept.” Her slippered toe dug into a hole in the rug braided of rags. “I have no doubt I’d be a different person if it weren’t for her wisdom.” She hesitated, digging her toe deeper. “May I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?”

Yes. But…why? Why him? Something inside his chest swelled, warming him. The Mark burned in warning. “I would be honored,” he said, ignoring it, “Angelica.” He set the glass down.

She gave him that odd look again, a wry sort of expression. “So it is back to Angelica once more. What has happened to ‘Miss Woodmore’? Or is she about only when we are in the presence of your Cyprians?”

The layers of meaning in her words assaulted him, but Voss was a master at paring through to the core of a woman’s speech, whether it be murmured pillow talk or screamed demands. “In truth, I think of you as Angelica, regardless of what I might say. Angelica.” He said her name, drawing it out slowly like a verbal caress.

“Is that so?” she said. But her voice was rough and he saw that her cheeks were flushed tawny pink. Then she drew herself up and he recognized tension settle over her. “Were you with Rubey when those…vampirs attacked us?”

Once again, he understood what she was truly asking. He couldn’t find it odd or even flattering that she should assume that he and Rubey had been intimately engaged. Not only was it a logical assumption, even for a sheltered young woman and especially after what she’d been exposed to, but Angelica had already proven she had a facile mind.

“We had left to go to her place of business. To settle my accounts. My pocket is now that much lighter.” The light tone he’d adopted faded. And Rubey, whom he had considered a friend, had all but exiled him from her place. “If I’d had a glimmer of suspicion that Belial’s men would have found us and attacked in the daylight, I would never have left. But neither Rubey nor I had fathomed she might be betrayed by one of her closest employees.”

“The daylight. So that part is true? That they cannot go about in the sun?”

Voss nodded, wishing he’d left out that bit of detail. She seemed to know too much already. “I’m relieved that we returned in time to keep anything worse from happening to you. One of the chambermaids managed to get out of the house and to come after us.”

“But you weren’t in time to save Ella.” There was reproach in her voice, and Voss realized he’d forgotten about the dead girl.

“No,” he said. Although it had been more than a century since he’d been the cause of a mortal’s death—from reckless feeding—he’d also come to accept that it was a casualty of the Draculia and its need to feed on mortal blood. One could learn to control the blind need and leave the victim alive, as Voss had learned to do early on, but many of the Draculia had no concern about doing so. They had no reason to care any more about the lives of the mortals upon which they feasted than a butcher was concerned with the slaughtering of his cow or pig.

This was by design of Lucifer, of course.

Yet, Ella had been the victim of a particularly vicious vampir, and Voss had seen tendons and torn muscle beneath the ravaged skin of her shoulders and bosom. And blood, so dark and plentiful that it was nearly purple. The snapped and protruding collarbone and the awkward angle of her neck. He went still.

It could have been Angelica.

“How much longer am I going to be hunted by them?” she said. Her voice was thin. “When will it stop?”

“Moldavi won’t rest until he gets his sister back, or until he has revenge on your brother for taking her.”

“Chas took a vampir’s sister? Do you mean he kidnapped her?” The fear was replaced by surprise and confusion. “What on earth do you mean? How many of those creatures are there?” Panic stretched her voice.

“To be quite honest, I’m not certain whether he abducted Narcise…or whether they—er—eloped. It’s all conjecture, really, but I do know that Moldavi is looking for your brother because Narcise is with him. Or was last seen with him, in Paris. Moldavi is rather closely associated with Bonaparte and has been staying there for some time. And until he gets Narcise back, or until he finds Woodmore, you are in danger because Moldavi will want to use you as bait or ransom for Narcise’s return. And if your brother is dead—”

“He’s not dead.”

Voss stilled. “You know this?”

But she wasn’t listening; it was as if she were having her own conversation. “Are you suggesting that my brother has eloped with a vampir? How could you even fathom such a thing? Chas would have nothing to do with monsters like that. Or is she not one of those horrible creatures, but just the sister of one?” Her eyes blazed with shock and accusation.

“Narcise is one of them, yes,” he replied, feeling as if he were walking on a very delicate sheet of ice. And once again, he wondered why in Luce’s name did he even care if he fell through. At least if he did, there would be no reason to wait any longer. His blood surged at the thought.

“Does she bite people, too? With long teeth and claws? Tear into them like paper dolls?” Tears had gathered in her eyes and as she lifted a hand to her mouth, he saw that her fingers trembled violently. “I cannot fathom such vile creatures who take from other people and leave them to die. They drink their blood. They take.”

Voss reminded himself that she could have no idea that she was sitting in the same room with one of those horrible creatures—who wanted nothing more than to do the same to her, among other things—but for some reason, her words stung. “Angelica,” he began.

She swiped a tear away and kept talking. “I thought it was all stories, a legend that my granny told us. But they’re real. And my brother is all sorted up with them. He could be in danger. He is in danger. He’s gone into hiding, I’m certain of it.”

“Everything I know about your brother says that he knows how to take care of himself,” Voss told her. “Did you not just say he isn’t dead? Do you know this?”

“I’m sure he’s not dead. I—”

A knock at the door interrupted her, and Voss, smothering a curse as she fell silent, walked over. A low opening at the bottom of the door allowed for a tray of wine, cheese and bread to be slid beneath—again, keeping the anonymity of the chamber’s occupants intact.

“I cannot eat,” Angelica said, holding a hand in front of her belly. “I don’t know that I shall ever eat again, with those images in my mind. Poor Ella.” She looked even more pale-faced than before, and her eyes seemed to have sunken into their sockets in the last few moments. “I cannot believe it of Chas.”

Voss put the tray on the table and poured a glass of the wine. “Perhaps you are thirsty?”

“What is that?” she asked, pointing to his glass, likely forgetting that ladies didn’t point. “Whiskey? Brandy? Something else that’s meant only for men?”

Some of his discomfort slid away. “If you wish to try it, I won’t tell anyone.” No indeed.

“There are many things about these last two days that I hope you shall not tell anyone,” Angelica said. The look she gave him was not one of a coquette, teasing him for more, but one of a woman very aware of her situation…and it was disconcerting.

She took the glass and drank, then, predictably, began coughing uncontrollably. But despite the fact that her eyes watered, she raised the glass for another taste. This time, she was a bit more cautious and the sip went down much easier. “It tastes terrible.”

Voss smiled. “I know. The wine isn’t much better quality, but you might prefer it.”

“It’s warm,” she said, drinking again. “I mean to say, I feel warm. It makes me feel warm.”

“That is not the only way you’ll be feeling if you drink too much of it,” he said despite the arc of pain that shot through him. Let her drink, the devil told him. She won’t fight it. He thought it prudent to change the subject. “What were you going to tell me, earlier? Or have you changed your mind?”

She sank down onto the cloak-draped chair, whiskey still in hand. Half the generous dollop he’d poured was gone and her movements were already looser. “I’ve never told another person this. I’m not altogether certain why I should want to tell you, Dewhurst.”

“Voss,” he said. “Call me Voss.”

Angelica frowned and he wasn’t certain if it was because she’d taken another drink or because of his suggestion. “Rubey calls you by your given name. That bespeaks of a very intimate relationship.”

“I have just asked you to call me by my given name, as well. Do you and I have an intimate relationship?” The words, practiced and easy, slid from his flirtatious tongue. He brought out his smile, the warm one whose allure never failed, to curve his lips. His sisters, his mistresses, the wife of his mathematics teacher, and so many others… None of them had been able to resist.

The smile that told her just what sort of relationship he wanted.

“No, we do not,” she replied primly. Oh, so primly. “But if I don’t get back to Blackmont Hall or at least to a chaperone soon, my reputation will be ruined on the grounds of mere suspicion and assumption. ’Tis nothing to take lightly, my lord.”

So it was “my lord” now. “And then…?”

“And then I’ll never make a good marriage. No respectable gentleman will want to wed me.” She sipped again. “Chas has made it very clear that I need to make a match this Season. He has little patience for chaperoning us about.”

Yes, there was the concern of Chas being more than annoyed that Voss had ruined his sister. And of course, marriage to a Dracule was out of the question—for a variety of reasons in Chas Woodmore’s eyes, the least of which was the immortality issue. Not to mention the pact with the devil. Thus, Chas would be incensed if his sister was ruined by Voss, or any other Dracule.

But Voss was fully confident in his ability to evade the vampir hunter. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Angelica continued talking, the whiskey having done a nice job of loosening her tongue. “But perhaps after Maia and Mr. Bradington wed, she can be my chaperone and Chas can go about his business. Sonia won’t be out for another two years.”

“Is there a respectable gentleman whom you wish to wed? Is there one who might have his hopes dashed if you do not return? Or if you return…in a questionable state?” Voss wasn’t altogether certain why he pursued this topic, but he didn’t seem able to control his tongue. Perhaps he ought to try a sip of the whiskey himself.

No. He had no reason to subject himself to that horror.

“Perhaps. Lord Harrington is quite agreeable.” Her expression wasn’t one of sly flirtation, but rather as if she’d just realized some simple fact such as that the sky was blue.

Voss thought he recalled the man in question—the slender dandy who’d waltzed with her at the masquerade. The one whom he’d put the fear of the devil into with a mere glance while visiting in Angelica’s parlor. He smothered a snort. Harrington was probably the sort who’d been thrown in the privy and had had his clothes tossed into the coal pit.

“Agreeable is such a flavorless word. I don’t believe I should appreciate being described as merely agreeable by a woman such as yourself,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

“That is no surprise,” she replied. “I suspect you would aspire to descriptors like ‘charming’ and ‘handsome’ and ‘witty.’ And ‘wealthy.’”

Voss was enjoying this exchange and, from the glint in her eye that he thought was only partly from the whiskey, she seemed to be, as well. The slender ivory column of her neck shifted in and out of shadow as she moved and drank and teased. “Mmm,” he said, his voice rumbly. “Perhaps. Or maybe I should simply like to be considered interesting. Or exciting.”

She snorted. Definitely, it was a snort. A ladylike one, but nevertheless. “Why would you need to be any of those things when you are a man, and a rich one at that? And not terribly difficult to look upon, either,” she added with a sudden saucy look that took him by surprise. “The choice is yours, and your wealth assures you a vast selection to choose from.”

If only it were that simple. Despair—such a foreign emotion that he wasn’t even certain he recognized it properly—rushed in. Marriage was something in which Dracule members had no reason or desire to indulge.

But it was something that Angelica and those of her class aspired to. It was the focal point of her life, in fact. Marriage, an heir and one to spare, perhaps a daughter…a household that didn’t need to be uprooted every few decades because nothing bloody changed.

And yet…everything one knew or cared about was eventually left behind. Aged. Died. Turned to dust.

Voss succumbed and took a drink of the wine, which turned out to be thinner than rainwater. Was it too bloody much to expect that Maude have something palatable, considering the fees she charged?

And couldn’t the woman in the next room find a high C without going flat?

“Or perhaps you have no intention of marrying,” Angelica said, drawing him back to the moment at hand. Her voice had gone as flat as the singer’s.

Voss opened his mouth but found he had no response to that. Instead he replied, “You were going to tell me something you’ve never told anyone before, Angelica. Have you changed your mind, then?”

She sipped again. Her cheeks were flushed and her almond-shaped eyes bright. “I’ve told no one of this, Dewhurst.”

“You’ve said that,” he replied, unaccountably irked by the fact that she continued to call him by his title.

“If I tell you, you must tell me one of your secrets. Will you?”

He smiled, gave a low, rolling laugh and gestured to himself from head to scuffed-up toe. “But I have no secrets. Whatever it is you see here is all there is to know of Lord Dewhurst.” He gave the little flourish of a bow.

But when he rose back to full height, her eyes speared him. “Pardon me, my lord, but I can see that isn’t true. It’s in your eyes. There’s something there—some fear, a horror, some grief or perhaps a memory—that you hide.”

He froze and they stared at one another for a moment. Even the insistent burning in his shoulder faded because there was nothing at the moment but Angelica. “There is nothing,” he said at last.

She tilted her head as she rested the glass on the scarred table, then took a deep breath. “I don’t believe you, my lord. But—”

“Call me Voss.” Blast it.

She shrugged, still watching him, and the shadows in the dip of her collarbones shifted temptingly. His gums swelled, ready to push the incisors free and he swore he smelled her blood again. Somehow.

Was it she who was becoming foxed, or he?

She shifted then, pulled her gaze away and spoke suddenly and in a rush. “I know when my sisters and brother will die,” she said. “I’ve read their futures and I know how it will happen…and when.”

“You know how your brother will die?”

How could he be so very fortunate? This was a most valuable, serendipitous bit of information. He hadn’t even thought to ask for it directly, and now it would be handed to him just as the puzzle of Dimitri’s Asthenia had. Voss smiled complacently.

Moldavi would pay handsomely to find out when the feared vampire hunter Chas Woodmore was to die, as would Regeris, who rarely ventured from his beloved Barcelona since Woodmore had staked him in the belly as he tumbled from a tower into the ocean. Two inches higher, and the man would be living with Luce in hell instead of having to swim for miles to safety.

The question would be which of them would pay more— and what a delightful problem to have. And the information would cost Voss nothing to obtain; she was offering it up to him freely. The last bit of hazy sweetness evaporated from him, and he focused on the realization of his goal. “You know how he will die, and when, as well?”

“Yes. I’ve known for years. I’ve lied to them and—”

“But he is not dead now. You are certain of it?”

“No, Chas is not meant to die until he’s very old,” Angelica told him. “That’s why I have not been so very worried about his disappearance. But Maia has been pacing the chambers and I found her teary-eyed in the garden two days ago.”

“Not until he’s very old?” Voss considered the implication. Regeris wouldn’t be pleased to hear that the vampire hunter would be searching for him for decades longer, and that anything he might do to destroy Woodmore would be in vain. But Voss couldn’t be held accountable for fate. Just for supplying the information, and who would have believed he could have come by that tidbit?

And from such an impeccable source.

He could likely sell the information several times over, in fact. There were more than a few Draculia members who would like to see Woodmore dead—or at least to know how much longer they needed to look over their shoulders and sleep with proper protections. Other than Dimitri, with whom Woodmore had long allied himself for some inconceivable reason, and some of his comrades, their brethren across the Channel weren’t quite as friendly with their enemy.

Not that Voss needed the money, of course—he had plenty to spare from his other ventures—but it would be quitefascinating to see how and what sort of remuneration he could cull from the parties interested in his news.

Always the game. It was the game that kept things exciting and challenging.

“And Maia.”

He realized she’d been talking as he counted his compensation, and he looked over. Now her eyes were bleary, and one of them glistened with a tear.

“You see?” she said, looking at him, waiting for an answer, her voice high and tight. “You knew he was going to die, and yet you could do nothing.”

A chill rushed over Voss as he realized she was speaking of Brickbank. He couldn’t reply so he took a drink instead. Brickbank was dead and now he faced whatever judgment awaited.

Judgment.

“How would you feel if you lived with that knowledge, waiting for the day to happen? Knowing that one day, she or he would be wearing the clothes, and look the same, and the season would be right…and you would know it was the day. The day of death.”

The day of death.

“I’ve known for years. And I can’t tell them. I won’t tell them. Do you see? Do you understand why?” Her tongue was loose and the words spilled forth and Voss could only listen.

A tear rolled down her cheek and she stopped. Her chest heaved from suppressed sobs and she simply looked at him. He sensed that she needed something. From him.

Somehow, through the never-ending pain that numbed his body, he managed to speak. “You’re a very strong woman,” he said. “To have that knowledge and to keep it to yourself. To live with it.”

He thought of the knowledge he had, that he’d tricked and lied and deceived to gain over decades. Longer, even.

How he’d used it. How he’d profited from it.

How he’d hurt with it, ruining marriages and reputations. Pitting man against man. Friend against friend. Making money.

And that was even before he’d turned Dracule.

If there was a strong person in the room, it was not him.

Was that why Luce had chosen him?

“Strong?” She laughed bitterly and surprised him. “No one thinks of me as strong. Maia is strong. She’s smart and beautiful and she knows just what she wants, and she has managed to get all of it. And soon, a handsome husband who loves her. And she’s still a lady. Everyone likes her even though she’s bossy. And me… Well, I am the silly one, the one who cannot be serious. The one who must be told everything to do for I cannot determine it myself. Sonia is sweet and kind and pretty. She’s the youngest. But I…I’m nothing but a jest.”

“I suspect,” Voss said, groping for words, “that if Maia had lived through what you’ve seen and done in the last day, she would not have fared nearly as well. Did you think I hadn’t noticed the wooden stick in your hand earlier today? You meant to defend yourself instead of crying and hiding in the corner.”

Angelica smiled, swaying a little, and her lashes swept down over her eyes. For a moment he thought she was going to slump into unconsciousness, but she straightened and gave him such a heavy look that heat exploded in his chest.

“Thank you,” she said and rose to her feet. Her movements were slow and deliberate, heavy with whiskey. His blood surged. His mouth dried.

Now.

She looked at Voss suddenly, directly, and drew in her breath. Then she spoke in a rush. “It’s odd, being here with you. Alone.”

With those innocent, emotional words, full awareness burst over him. Searing pain blasted anew inside his shoulder, radiating down his back and leg and along his arm in stunning agony.

Do it.

He must have gasped, for she moved toward him. “What is it?”

“No.” He reacted without thought, turning away to hide the flame in his eyes and the swelling in his mouth. His cock shifted, filling. He imagined her naked, filling his hands with her. Tasting her.

It blazed on him, taking his breath and his voice. Pounded. Squeezed.

“Vo—my lord,” her voice was panicked. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, forcing the lie from between clenched teeth with lungs that wouldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. There was nothing but white-hot, searing agony blazing through his body, seizing his mind. Take, take, take.

It wasn’t the need to feed, to drink. It was her. All of her.

He felt her hand on his back, through the two layers of clothing against his Mark. Spinning away, he stumbled into the chair and table. He heard it fall and the clink of glasses and bottle. The smell of whiskey and wine, of Angelica and the layers of men before them in this room filled his nose, suffocating him.

Now, now, now.

She had her hands on him, she was half sobbing and shaking him, trying to get him to look at her and he knew, somehow, that if she saw his face, his eyes…

Her image filled his mind as his hands grasped the wooden planks of the floor. The pain. The pain was…impossible. Nothing like it.

Have to stop it.

His fangs thrust long and sharp. His cock hard and throbbing. His eyes hot and burning.

He knew. How to stop it.

He knew how to turn the agony into red pleasure.

His lungs worked again, deep and harsh. The floor was there beneath his knees, so close he could see the mouse dung, the dirt filling the cracks, a button, a thread caught on the splinter beneath his palm.

“My lord,” she cried again, penetrating his concentration. “Voss.”

She tugged at his shoulders, and he nearly snarled in response. His arms trembled with effort.

He had to stop it.

Angelica pulled at his shoulder, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath. “Voss,” she said again, using his Christian name in an effort to get through to him. What was wrong? “Where’s the pain?”

What sort of fit was this? The whiskey had dulled her senses, slowed her mind, but she pushed through it, sliding her hands over his shoulders, trying to tug him up.

At last, he moved, rolling aside, a forearm covering his face as he staggered to his feet, still half turned. She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell if he was still in pain—

“Angelica,” he muttered, and turned, reaching for her.

She went into his arms and they closed around her. Tight, strong, comforting. His coat smelled like him, and she could feel his heart racing beneath the shirt under her cheek. His body overwhelmed her with its height and power, his face pressed into the top of her head. She felt him vibrating beneath her touch, his foot moving between hers, then his leg pushing into her skirts. His chest rising and falling as if he’d been running. His warmth.

Too warm. He felt feverish, and she tried to pull back to look up into his face, but he wouldn’t release her, his hands moving to grip the back of her head.

“Angelica,” he said against her temple. His lips moved there, kissing her hair. His hands tightened, fingers curling up into her loose curls. He drew in a deep breath that she felt shudder throughout his body, as if he were preparing himself for some great feat.

“Are you all right?” she whispered. “What was it?”

He muttered something unintelligible, something like Stop.… The next thing she knew, he was kissing her. His full, warm mouth moved along her temple to her cheek, and then suddenly covered her lips. Not gentle, not tentative, but as strong and certain as he was. The world circled and she clung to him, meeting his mouth and feeling the give of her lips against his, the intimate movement as they fit together and shifted and crushed. Hot and slick, his tongue slipped into her mouth and she allowed it, the rush of heat and sensation surprising her.

This…yes. Yes.

This was what she’d felt, she’d wanted. This was what his hot eyes had promised, this sort of deep, tingling pleasure that shot into her belly and tightened her nipples and spiraled lower. Lower, to where his leg pressed, hard and strong beneath her skirts. The pressure, the shift there in that most private of places. She swelled and filled and a soft little gasp escaped, just against his mouth.

Angelica closed her eyes and flattened her hands against his chest, her fingers just over the tops of his shoulders, sliding beneath his coat. The chair bumped behind her legs. She half stumbled, half fell into it, lost in the whirl of sensation. The whiskey and Voss were a potent combination, but she knew what she wanted.

He moved away, surprising her, leaving her in the chair and she sat up, dizzy and confused, and then felt his hands on her. He was standing behind the chair now, his palms sliding down the sides of her face…warm, strong, deliberate.

She tipped her head onto the back of the chair, and found that she looked up at him and the smoke-blackened ceiling. She saw the underside of his chin, long and curving and just becoming dark gold with stubble. A hint of his nose, and the tips of his thick hair, gilded by the low lamplight. He stood behind her, his hands easing to her shoulders, his fingers curving under her chin, his thumbs on the sides of her neck, his face, too, turned to the ceiling.

“Voss,” she murmured, wondering why he’d moved away. The kissing had been delicious…but she wanted more. She was cold and bereft and curious about what lay beneath his shirt.

His fingers tightened over her skin and she felt each one of them imprinting on her throat, then they slid down…down over her collarbones and the hollow of her throat…into the bodice of her gown. Angelica gasped and tensed, but she found herself arching her shoulders back, the base of her skull resting on the top of the chair as she pushed up into his elegant hands.

He gave a soft, surprised laugh and bent to her temple, his lips warm and moist, intermingling with her hair as his fingers slipped down inside her corset and shift. They curved around her breasts, the corset tightening around her from behind, a gust of cooler air slipping over her encased flesh. Angelica closed her eyes against the revolving room and let herself feel.

One thumb shifted, brushing over a tight nipple and she gasped and her eyes flew open, but his other hand moved and he gently squeezed her breasts. His fingers, long and sure, slid and caressed, and his thumbs…they moved around and over the very tops of her nipples. Her body tightened beneath his touch, tightened so hard it was nearly painful…yet she couldn’t deny the ripples of pleasure that streaked down to her belly, over and over again until she realized she was moaning and sighing there in the chair.

“Voss,” she muttered, reaching up to close her hands around his wrists, pressing them against her breasts, wanting something else…something more.…

His mouth was hot against her cheek and she felt him change, something shift. He muttered something she couldn’t understand, something like a curse.

Then, a soft groan, his fingers tightening too much over her flesh, and then swiftly he moved again, yanking free. Suddenly he loomed in front of the chair, over her, dark and wild, his knee shoving into the seat next to her hip.

She looked up at him, saw his beautiful face dark and taut with pain. His hair, rich golden-brown, falling in his face, his lips parted, his eyes…burning.

Glowing.

Angelica gasped, but he surged down, gathering her close, burying his face in her neck, pulling her up by the shoulders with desperate hands. His mouth was hot and insistent, his lips hard, drawing on her flesh in that sensitive spot that made her shift and shudder as waves and ripples of sensation flooded her limbs. She clutched at him, feeling the strength of his leg next to hers, crowding her into the chair, let herself spiral into the lull of intense pleasure and then suddenly…pain.

She froze, tightening and bowing beneath him, her hands landing futilely on his powerful shoulders as she tried to twist away.

Like a prick, a smooth slide, and then the burst of heat.… Hot liquid surged from her skin, exploded from her vein. She felt him sigh and settle against her even as she froze, unable to move as he drank from her. A scream strangled in the back of her throat.

No.

She pushed at him, even as the warmth drained from her, tears filling her eyes, horror paralyzing her. Betrayal. Fear.

Not Voss was all she could think. No. Dimly she let herself go and prayed he wouldn’t kill her.