The Vampire Voss

13 The Aftermath Of A Jest Gone Awry

“I must speak with the Earl of Corvindale,” Maia said firmly. She shoved the toe of her slipper between the door and its frame.

The main entrance to the infamous White’s—a place she’d heard of but had never even seen before tonight—was on St. James. Its white brick façade was well lit by two lanterns, but this obscure rear door was the one she’d seen the earl employ. Despite the fact that it seemed abandoned and unused, she’d made her way up and rapped on the door.

“It is imperative that I speak with him. I’ll not be turned away.”

“The individual of whom you speak is not in residence,” said the man with a supercilious sneer that was clearly visible in the stream of light coming from inside. “Aside of that, individuals of the feminine persuasion—” and he said this with even more disdain as he raked her with a glance of distaste “—are not allowed admittance into this structure. Ever.”

But Maia had dealt with people of every sort, including slick men of business during the times Chas had been absent. She was not cowed, especially when her sister’s life was at stake. “As it happens, I saw the earl walk into this structure with my own eyes. I know he’s here and it is of great necessity that I speak with him. Now, if you please, you may either find him and relay my message, or I shall do so myself.” She pushed at the door with her gloved hands.

“Indeed, madam, I will not—oh, good evening, sir.” The sneer evaporated from his face as he looked up and behind Maia. “I do apologize for—”

“What seems to be the problem?” came a deep, smooth voice at her ear.

Maia turned to see Lord Dewhurst looming on the porch behind her. She wasn’t certain whether her first reaction should be one of apprehension or of gratitude. After all, yes, he had abducted Angelica and taken her to that horrible place where she and Corvindale had retrieved her…but he also had actually sent for them and relinquished her sister. Angelica had been unharmed.

Relatively unharmed—except for four little punctures on her neck, Maia amended mentally.

Yet, Angelica had dreamed of him, in nightmares, sobbing and thrashing about…calling his name. Voss.

She wondered what more had occurred between the two.

And whether a vampire could ever be trusted.

“There is no problem,” the butler was saying. “May I assist you, my lord?”

Dewhurst looked at Maia. “You seek Corvindale? He’s within?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes. Despite what this individual says, I saw him enter with my own eyes.” Only because when he thought he’d left her with Mirabella back at Blackmont Hall after the attack on the carriage, she’d gone to look for him in his study and had been just in time to see him leave.

Of course she’d followed him, the vile man, using her own footman and carriage. How dare he leave without answering her questions and telling her the plan.

“I’ve been in search of Corvindale, as well,” Dewhurst said. “Just as urgently.”

This surprised Maia, considering how angry Corvindale was with Dewhurst.

She didn’t know what specifically he did to make the butler shift out of their path and open the door, but a few words exchanged between the two men and Maia was inside with Dewhurst.

As was true for any other proper lady, she’d never been in any gentleman’s club before, although of course she’d heard of this famous one, and as Lord Dewhurst gestured for her to precede him down a dark corridor, Maia took it all in with her gaze. Despite the fact that this seemed to be a deserted area of the club—perhaps a servants’ entrance—the decor was just what she would have expected of a haven for the male gender.

Heavy, dark paneling rose from floor to ceiling. Intermittent sconces sent small half spheres of light glowing yellow-orange against the oiled, dark wood. And…heavens! The painting of a woman dressed in nothing but transparent gauze!

Along with a variety of pictures, the corridor was studded with several doors, and as they passed along she heard masculine voices rise in laughter, argument and other forms of joviality. But they stopped at none of the doors until the hallway turned.

Dewhurst, who’d disdained the butler and left the man behind them, came to the end of the hall—a dead-end—and turned to look at her. For a moment, Maia’s heart leaped into her throat as she realized she was here, alone, in an empty corridor at a club where no one knew she’d come, trapped with a vampire who’d attacked her sister. Foolish, foolish!

“My apologies, Miss Woodmore,” Dewhurst said in a surprisingly gentle voice, “but you’ll need to don this hood if you wish to go any further.”

Maia’s eyes grew wide as he plucked a heavy velvet hood from a set of hooks on the wall. “You’re mad,” she said. “Why would I trust you?”

He shrugged with easy indolence. “As you wish. But I haven’t time to wait for your compliance. Either do as I ask, or you’ll wait here until I—or Corvindale—return. And it could be some time. I am under the assumption that Moldavi’s men have succeeded in abducting Angelica.”

“Which makes this the second time she’s been abducted,” she told him pointedly.

“I warned Corvindale, blast it.” His lips twitched slightly, but then flattened and she fancied she saw a flash of anguish there. Or not.

Maia took the hood, fingering its heavy softness and with a huff of annoyance, pulled it over her head. She couldn’t imagine what her hair looked like after the attack in the carriage— which had been only an hour ago, hard as it was to believe. She was still wearing her party frock and her slippers were stained with mud and goodness knew what else…but there was no time to waste.

Once the stifling hood was in place, Dewhurst took her arm and led her…she wasn’t certain where. If she’d thought she might see down beneath the hood and trace their steps via a peek of the floor beneath it, she was disappointed. The hood had so many folds and was so long that she could see nothing and had to rely fully on the man next to her. The concern that she might be recognized should they encounter any other member of the club was moot, for the hood obscured her identity.

Their rapid journey included turns and the opening and closing of at least two doors that seemed to slide rather than swing open, and there was a set of stairs (stone or brick, unlike the rest of the flooring, which had been carpeted) down which they tread…and then another door.

The loud voices on the other side of the door stopped abruptly, and Maia fancied it was because of her appearance on the threshold of whatever chamber they’d entered.

Some loud and violent noise sounded as if someone stood, shoving away a table or knocking over a chair, and then there was the sharp symphonic clink and clank of, perhaps, glasses or bottles on a table that might have been bumped or moved, and an abbreviated scuffle.

Dewhurst didn’t release her arm, and she felt his fingers tighten as if in readiness. “Don’t be a fool,” he said sharply. She knew he wasn’t speaking to her. “Did you think I would be so foolish as to come unprepared?”

Impatient, she yanked off the hood and found herself standing at the entrance to a small, windowless room that boasted less than half a dozen occupants. Before she could identify any of them other than—oh dear—Chas, an aggrieved sound drew her attention.

“You.” Corvindale, of course. He was half-seated at a table with one hand flat on wood shiny with some spilled liquid, and a few glasses. One was on its side. He was staring at her with a mixture of shock, fury and disgust. Chas stood just to his right, and Maia thought she recognized the other gentleman, but it wasn’t Mr. Cale. The female vampire Narcise was nowhere in sight; the remaining occupants were men who appeared to be footmen or other servants and they seemed to melt into the shadows as if to remain unnoticed.

Dewhurst tugged Maia closer, her hem brushing his trousers, and she saw that he’d shifted the flaps of his coat. A large ruby winked in the center of his neckcloth. He smiled coolly at Corvindale, who looked as if he were about to fly across the room, but had been halted in midtrajectory.

“Of course I wouldn’t come unprotected, knowing just how you feel about me,” Dewhurst was saying. He nodded at Chas, who, Maia noticed, was holding a stake in his hand, and then Mr. Cale. “Keep your distance, and no one will get hurt.”

“Maia,” Chas said, his voice sharp and steely. “Are you all right?”

“Other than worried to illness for the safety of my sister, while the rest of you sit about and visit at your club? Yes, I am fine.” She made no effort to hide the bite in her voice. “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,” Corvindale said. He sank back into his chair, but his gaze flashed, burning at the man standing next to Maia, and all at once she lost her breath.

Impossible.

She stared at the earl, her heart pounding hard and her head light. Impossible, but…it rather made sense. His eyes had burned. Red.

How could she have been so blind?

It was no wonder he wanted all of the curtains drawn, even in his study. Why his sister hardly knew him, and even in moments of great urgency called him by his formal name. And why he had been chosen by their brother to take care of them in his absence.

Who better to protect his sisters from a vengeful vampir than another vampir?

“I cannot believe your incompetence, Dimitri. I sent you the warning,” Dewhurst was saying as Maia came back to reality. His voice was cold with fury; no longer smooth and rich as it had been before. “And you, Woodmore. Another disappearing and then reappearing act? Are you here to take care of your sisters or not?”

No. She didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t believe it.

They were the wards of a vampir? My word, were they everywhere?

And…her brother worked for him? A vampir hunter was the associate of a vampir? Her head began to hurt.

“Oh, aye, I got your message—along with two bloody pairs of ruby earbobs, you sneaky bastard.” Corvindale had stood again, and a vein at the side of his temple throbbed so hard she could see it from across the room. He would have lunged if Chas hadn’t thrust an arm out in front of him.

Dewhurst shifted a bit, then thrust his chin belligerently and this time Maia saw a flash of—dear God, fangs? “It was a jest, nothing more. I warned her not to wear them in your presence.”

“Damn your soul to Lucifer, it’s your bloody fault she’s been taken,” Chas said. “You and your cursed jests and games, Voss.” The stake shifted and the next thing Maia knew, the tension in the chamber snapped, and the place was in an uproar.

Something strong and powerful whipped her off her feet, gathering her up and spinning her away as Chas flew toward Dewhurst. The two men tumbled to the floor as Maia fought in vain to pull away from the strong hands that held her.

“Release me, you idiot man,” she said, jamming her elbow into the vicinity of Corvindale’s belly. She must have missed, for whatever she hit was solid and hard and made her gasp with pain. And he didn’t release her, merely holding her firmly away from the fray and muttering vile things under his breath.

Her brother and Dewhurst were on the floor, and then back on their feet, squaring off, facing each other, half crouched and wild-eyed. Chairs flew, crashing onto tables and sending glass flying. Dewhurst’s eyes blazed with fire, and Maia could, for the first time, clearly see the jut of his fangs. He seemed to favor his right shoulder, unable to lift his right arm as high as his left, wincing with pain when Chas flung him into the wall, cradling that arm. Dewhurst stumbled and tripped over Corvindale’s outthrust foot, somersaulting into the wall.

The stake rose and Chas followed and Maia stifled a gasp as it whipped down toward Dewhurst’s torso, hiding her face even as she cried, “Don’t! Chas!”

There was a loud noise, a scuffle and then…silence. Followed by the sound of a muttered curse. Maia realized suddenly that her face was buried in a broad, cotton-covered chest, warm and solid and very, very wide. It smelled fresh and sharp and like some pungent herb. A sudden vision of that very same chest, dark and bare and muscular, half covered beneath his bedclothes, rose in her mind.

At just about the same moment as the blast of embarrassed heat rushed over her face, Corvindale said, “I do hope you aren’t wiping your nose on my shirt, Miss Woodmore.”

The realization that, while she was still clutching him, he was no longer holding her added to her mortification and Maia spun away. She opened her eyes, fully expecting to see the bloodied corpse of a staked vampire on the floor.

Did vampires bleed?

But Dewhurst stood, brushing easily at his own shirt and Chas faced him, menace in his eyes, stake in his hand. Not a drop of blood in sight, and both men panting as if they’d been running.

“Armor?” Chas said, looking chagrined. He shoved the stake into some interior pocket or sling.

“After a fashion,” Dewhurst replied. “I warned you I’d come prepared—for all of you. 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.”

Dewhurst gave a short, biting laugh. “I didn’t believe you were that foolish, Woodmore. In fact, I’m the only one who can assist you in saving Angelica.”

Corvindale snorted and walked over to stand next to Chas. He picked up one of the glasses. “Not bloody likely.” The earl sipped.

Dewhurst made a sound of great exasperation. “Very well, then.” He shrugged and glanced at Maia. “Best of luck to all of you.” He turned toward the door.

“Wait!” Furious, Maia stomped her foot. “Are you just going to allow him to leave?” she demanded, glaring at Chas. “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.”

“I don’t need his help,” Chas said, puffing up his chest and giving her a dark, older-brother look. She ignored it and opened her mouth to speak.

“Perhaps the lady is right.” The calm voice came from the corner and Maia whirled to see…Mr. Cale. He appeared so comfortable in their presence that she could only assume that he, too, was a vampire. Although he’d remained out of the fray, now he was the recipient of a frigid glance from her brother. “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,” Dewhurst said, looking at Corvindale meaningfully. He glanced at Maia and once again, she thought she recognized real concern or even anguish in his eyes as he spoke to her. “I was fortunate enough to cross paths with the vampire Belial, who is the one sent by Cezar Moldavi to find either your brother…or someone else that could be used as hostage. One of the serving girls at the Gray Stag complied with my…request,” he added, flashing his burning eyes, “and got him talking and bragging about his plans for tonight. I assumed a warning to you would be sufficient, Corvindale, but apparently not.” He cast a brief, pointed glance at the earl and then gestured lazily at Maia. “When I arrived here to find her arguing with the butler, 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,” Corvindale said from between clenched teeth. “They chose not to. It was Angelica they were after.”

Dewhurst nodded. “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 her brother 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 time,” Chas said. “We’ve just about 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?” Dewhurst asked. His lean stance was lazy, as Maia had come to expect, and his voice easy—but under it all, she recognized tension simmering. He felt the urgency just as much as she did. Perhaps more. “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.”

Paris? How? They were at war, the French were collecting troops just over the Channel. Impossible.

Maia was prepared for the other men to scoff at the viscount, but to her surprise, they remained silent. Mr. Cale even gave a brief nod as if to instruct Dewhurst to continue, which he did.

“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 Cezar will want to use her for everything he can. And Belial won’t dare allow anything to happen to her. 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.”

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

“That’s not necessary,” Dewhurst replied, just as Corvindale snapped, “No, Giordan.”

“I’ll go,” Dewhurst said firmly. “Moldavi will see me. I have 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!” Maia asked. But it was as if she weren’t even in the room. “Mrs. Siddington-Graves has been trapped there for a year!” Which was why her husband had become much less discreet about taking his mistress to the theater.

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

Dewhurst shrugged. “I returned her once before, didn’t I?”

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

Dewhurst’s jaw moved but he kept his voice steady. “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.”

Chas gave a sharp nod. “Very well, then. I’ll accompany you to Paris.”

“No! Chas! What if Moldavi captures you, too?” Maia interjected as Dewhurst frowned, shaking his head.

Her brother looked at her as if she’d just offered to hold his hand and tuck him into bed. “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 Corvindale, then settled on Cale with an unfathomable expression. “Narcise will have to stay here, of course.”

“But, Chas…I don’t understand. Why are you working with vampirs if you kill them?” Maia asked. Her head had begun to pound harder now.

Her brother made an impatient gesture. “It’s all rather complicated, and I’m not about to explain it all right now. The simple answer is—there are evil vampires and ones that are… well, not so much of a danger to us mortals. I work to rid the world of the evil ones. At any rate, I’m going to Paris with Voss and we’ll bring back Angelica. That’s all you need to know at this time.”

But Dewhurst interrupted. “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.”

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

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

Under normal circumstances, Voss would be delighted with an excuse to visit Paris. Culture, food, wine and the most flamboyant of women made the city one of his favorite places.

But this visit was to a Paris in flux, with its revised imperial government, new emperor, soldiers in uniform everywhere, talk of the war with England and general government upheaval. Voss recognized in the city an unusual aura of disarray—whether it was from preparations for a coronation still months away, or the sense that things had not quite settled since Napoleon Bonaparte managed to manipulate himself from First Consul to Emperor mere weeks earlier.

Aside from that, of course, Voss wasn’t in Paris for anything related to pleasure or leisure. Despite the unrelenting pain in his shoulder, he’d traveled quickly—on horseback at night to Dover, and then below deck while crossing the Channel during a ridiculously sunny day—then back on horseback again across the French countryside to Paris. He took care to avoid the camps at Boulogne, where armies prepared for their invasion of England.

The fact that soldiers and armed guards were more prevalent than the last time he’d been to Paris concerned him not at all. Not only did he have no interest nor stake in any political upheaval (why should he?), Voss had speed, night vision and stealth. Plus, he was impervious to bullets.

It was simpler than seducing a whore to get where he needed to go without being intercepted.

Despite his claims to Woodmore and Dimitri, Voss wasn’t altogether confident that Angelica would be unharmed when he found her. Certainly Moldavi would want to utilize her Sight…but what exactly would he do to ensure that she complied?

Thus, he’d been in a state of tense urgency since leaving White’s with the reluctant approval of the other Draculia members. Remembering the horror in Angelica’s face, the loathing when she spoke of vampires, Voss could only hope—for he didn’t pray—that she’d be untouched. The small bite, the bare nibble he’d taken from her a week ago was nothing in comparison to Moldavi’s and his cronies’ proclivities.

Thus, Voss rested little, except while on the sun-drenched boat. As it was the first time in more than a week that he’d slept without being drenched in whiskey, bloodscent and pleasure, he had expected easy slumber.

He was wrong.

Even now, as he strode through the busy arched galleries of Paris’s Palais-Royal and its sprawling gardens, Voss couldn’t banish the dark images that had swept into his dreams two days ago. An agonized Brickbank. A terrified, and yet sensual, beckoning Angelica.

And Lucifer. Again. Silent, smiling, but his fingers—long, slender, white—curving over Voss’s shoulder. Holding him. Invading his dreams and turning them to nightmares.

You cannot change. You are bound to me.

When Voss had dragged himself back into the reality of day, the imprint of the devil’s fingers on his shoulder still burned…as if he were with him still. Even now, as the moon rose, no longer quite full, in the starry sky, he felt the weight of those dreams and wondered why Luce had visited him yet again after more than a century of silence.

Moving quickly along the walkway, Voss avoided the eyes of a particularly friendly prostitute—ahh, the French!—and slipped between a group of jovial men and one of the gallery columns. Louder and more contained than Vauxhall, the jardins at what had once been the residence of Cardinal Richelieu abounded with shops, brothels, cafés and theaters—anything for the gentry in search of pleasure. The Café des Chartres, where, according to Moldavi, Napoleon and his new empress, Josephine, had been known to tryst, was tucked into a corner of the palais and next to it sat a popular wine bar with revelers spilling onto the stone colonnade edged with lilies and lavender.

As he hurried along, a pale, slender figure caught his eye. She was leaning against one of the columns, and when he saw her, Voss nearly stopped in surprise. It couldn’t be. Their eyes met and a shiver rushed through him. It was the blonde woman he’d seen at the Gray Stag. Had she trailed him to Paris?

As then, she was wearing a long, outdated gown that looked as if it belonged on a medieval chatelaine rather than a Parisian shopkeeper, or whore, or whatever she was.

Her pale eyes caught his as he walked past, and she gave a little nod. So you remember me this time.

He heard the words in his mind, as if she’d whispered them in his ear—but she hadn’t moved from her position against the column.

Good, Voss. You give me hope. Are you ready yet?

He paused and looked at her from across the street. I don’t know what you mean, he thought, sensing that she’d hear him.

She nodded, and revealed a bit of a smile. Even from a distance, he felt warmth. You’ll know when the time comes.

A mass of people walked between them, and when they passed by, she was gone.

An uneasy feeling settled over his shoulders, and the rage of his Mark reminded him why he was here. He put it out of his mind and prepared himself for what was certain to be a tenuous, if not deadly, meeting with Moldavi.

At last Voss found the shop front he sought. The spicy sage and rosemary scent of Corcellet’s renowned sausages didn’t have to fight hard to be noticed above the other smells of patisserie or cigar smoke, although the sweet and overbearing gillyflower perfume of the whore who stumbled into Voss gave it some competition.

“Pardon, madame,” he said, walking past her into the little epicerie. The patés and sausages were of little interest to him, of course, although the scent of blood was heavy in the space and his mouth watered a bit.

How long had it been since he’d fed?

The thought hadn’t occurred to him until now, startling Voss as he pushed through the crowded little shop. For it was rare that he went more than a day or two without at least a bit of pleasurable sucking, drinking and fucking. And along with that, perhaps once a week he needed to find three or four willing participants to completely replenish his fluids.

“Monsieur,” said the gentleman behind the counter even as he wrapped a package for one of his customers, and gestured sharply to an employee to assist another. The dull roar of shouted orders and animated conversation muted his greeting.

Voss merely nodded and met the proprietor’s eyes over the throng of men. A bit of a glow, a flash of fang, was all Corcellet needed to ascertain Voss’s requirement. Despite the claims on his attention, he eased from behind the counter and gestured for Voss to follow him.

Moments later, he slipped a generous handful of sous into the man’s hand and was given admittance to the presumed cellar. He’d been here several times in the past, but it had been nearly a decade since his last visit.

Nothing had changed, however. The air was cool and dank, and smelled of peat and mold along with the spices from above. The large oaken door still led to stairs that spiraled down into one of the old Roman quarries, now little more than tunnels beneath the city. In some areas, skulls and other human bones now literally covered what had been walls carved into stone—a result of overcrowded cemeteries being emptied in the latter part of the previous century. But no one had yet dared breach Cezar Moldavi’s subterranean hideaway with such macabre decor.

Not that it would have bothered Moldavi to have stacks of skulls and femurs lining his walls. It was just that no one but a select few knew of this particular entrance and set of tunnels through Corcellet’s.

Voss checked the deep pockets of his coat as he followed the familiar route. The packets were there—flat, odd-smelling items that would seem inconsequential to Cezar Moldavi if he bothered to check. They were his ace in the pocket, and, he hoped they’d be as effective for him as they had been for Chas Woodmore. If he had a chance to use them.

He strode quickly, passing three other doorways, until it swept up to a higher level and at last ended in a fourth door. Behind that door, he knew, was a space set just below the ground. Narrow windows, placed right at ground-level, offered natural illumination that was sketchy enough to be safe for even the most sun-sensitive of vampires and kept the chamber from being dark and gloomy.

Draculia members spent much of their effort looking for ways out of dark and gloom. With the exception of Dimitri.

Voss paused when the guard sitting in the shadows moved into better view. Hmm. He didn’t recall there being one the last time—but then again, he’d been drunk on blood-whiskey and a variety of other influences, and some of the details had been lost. But…a guard. With a sword, and very, very wide shoulders.

“Voss Arden, Viscount Dewhurst,” he said to the wall-like man, clearly a made vampire—and likely a newly minted one at that, if the way he tried to sneer around his fangs (awkwardly) was any indication. Voss smiled back, easily, without puncturing himself with his own show of fangs, and made his eyes burn. “Tell Moldavi I’m here.”

And all at once, Voss smelled her.

He had to steady himself. The scent was so rich and so strong, filtering unerringly to his nostrils that he was certain it had to be from blood. Spilled blood.

Please. No.

Until now, he hadn’t allowed himself to think too closely about his mission, other than general urgency. Just: Get there. Get there.

He hadn’t dwelled on what it meant. What he might find. Why he really was there. But now… Suddenly his heart pounded like a cavalry cresting a hill. Angelica. “The voivode is not to be disturbed,” the guard said.

“He’ll want to see me. I must insist that you announce my presence,” he replied, keeping his voice charming with an effort. A great effort. Angelica was…just there. Behind that door.

“I think not,” replied the guard. “You can wait. Until tomorrow. When Voivode Moldavi is finished.”

Voss moved quickly, smoothly, and had the guard against the wall before the bloody bollocks-sucker could react. “I’ll see Moldavi now.” His fingers closed over the man’s windpipe even as the guard’s sword clanked ineffectively against the wall behind him. “Trust me. He’ll want to see me.”

Of course, there was no strangling a Dracule—even one not invited directly by Lucifer—but it did weaken the bloke enough to make his point. A quick jerk of Voss’s powerful hand slamming flat-palmed over the man’s ear and the guard jolted, stunned, head-spinning and half deaf, beneath Voss’s fingers.

That was all he needed to wrench the sword from the guard’s weak fingers and press the blade against his neck.

“Now,” said Voss, “shall I see Moldavi with your assistance, or without?” The wiry, ropelike Mark on his flesh seared hotter in warning, but he ignored it as the blade he held made a thread of blood over the vampire guard’s throat.

His bloodscent was thin and immature, filled with fear and a low-class essence. Despite the fact that he hadn’t fed for nearly a week, it attracted Voss even less than the ale at the Gray Stag.

“Assistance,” the man gurgled.

Voss released him, but kept the sword in his hand and his fangs long and visible. “Very well.” He smiled as if he’d just requested a different neckcloth from his valet and had been rewarded with the perfect choice.

The guard stumbled over to the door, opened a small window and spoke within. He turned, looking more cowed than a vampire had the right to be, and asked, “What was yer name again?”

“Dewhurst,” Voss said, trying not to inhale the smells coming from that little window. Angelica. Burning coal. Blood. Wine. Angelica.

Focus.

Moldavi wasn’t a fool, but he wouldn’t expect any trickery from Voss, and therefore, he would have no reason to be on his guard. That was the benefit of Voss having cultivated the persona he had: everyone knew that he had no allegiance to anyone but himself, therefore he was of no threat to anyone unless he was threatened first. Above all, he was known for being a well-compensated informant who sold his information to the highest bidder, regardless of who they were, and a man who enjoyed his pleasures with whoever cared to share them with him.

And that was precisely why he had been the best person to come to rescue Angelica. Moldavi would never suspect him of bestirring himself for anyone else.

Voss was gratified when the pronouncement of his name gained him immediate access, and he resisted the urge to ram the sword into the guard’s belly simply because he could. Instead he returned the weapon to the man knowing that Moldavi wouldn’t allow it in the chamber, and relying on the fact that the guard would likely employ it to keep any others from interrupting what was to follow.

And he walked in.

Into a veil of bloodscent. Angelica. His fingers curled into the edge of his coat.

The room, the chamber: Voss focused on that immediately after glancing at Moldavi. He had to take it all in before allowing himself to look at Angelica.

For he saw her out of the corner of his eye; the impression, the essence of her. In the corner. Unmoving.

The chamber. Moldavi. He focused again even as he strode in and said, “Right, Cezar, I see you’ve changed things up a bit since my last visit. Being in the emperor’s pocket has been a boon for you, no?”

Swathed in royal blue and emerald-green silk, the primitive stone walls shimmered in firelight coming from a large enclosure—a necessary evil for a subterranean chamber, even on a summer’s evening. Two other doors stood at opposite ends of the chamber. Paintings made shadows and wrinkles in the fabric wall coverings. A strip of moonlight beamed through one of the high, narrow windows. Lamps lit every corner of the square chamber, and the chairs and chaises were upholstered in dark brown and blue, with heavy walnut tables.

Beneath his feet were furs. In that breath of a moment, Voss identified a Siberian tiger, white with black stripes, and two others that he supposed were from India—yellowish-orange and black. A brown bear, and a large number of minks stitched together to make a quiltlike rug in front of the chair on which Moldavi sat. A bit too exotic for Voss, but other than that, Moldavi’s taste wasn’t terribly ostentatious.

The man in question laughed at Voss’s comment. “Being in the emperor’s pocket? I’m not certain whose pocket is carrying whom.” Like his servant, his voice was slightly sibilant and, though it had been centuries, still carried a bit of Transylvania in its accents. Voss knew—because it was his business to know such things—that part of the reason for the faint hiss was that Moldavi’s jaw had been broken when he was young, and his teeth hadn’t grown back in properly.

Still taking care not to look overtly at Angelica, despite the fact that his very being pulled in that direction, Voss strolled in and slid the toe of his boot across one of the furs as if in admiration. He used the opportunity to glance sidewise over toward the corner and caught the impression of continued stillness. His nostrils twitched, the scent of blood strong and sweet and of Angelica filling them.

In here, he had no need to keep his fangs sheathed, and allowed them to touch his lower lip as he pushed his needs away. Something burned over his shoulder. The fingers of the devil.

“If I had to wager,” Voss said, “I should guess that each of you find the other useful…after a fashion. For one, the emperor’s propensity for battle and casualties has certainly kept you well fed, and easily so.”

“I have been known to sample the convenient buffet of a battlefield, to be sure. You are correct that we both serve the needs of the other.”

Voss’s expression remained bland. Moldavi’s Asthenia happened to be something so common in the world of mortals that he would forever be limited in his own power. Otherwise, Napoleon Bonaparte would be merely a note in the realm of Cezar Moldavi instead of an associate. “Indeed,” he replied. “The new emperor is fortunate to have your skills and brilliance.”

And if Voss actually knew what Moldavi’s weakness was— other than the fact that it kept him fairly sheltered from the mortal world for fear of being accosted by it (silver? gold? paper? ink? an apple?)—he would have a greater chance of extricating both himself and Angelica without it getting messy. As it was, thanks in part to Chas Woodmore, he had a better than average chance of making it anyway.

“Well, then, Voss, what brings you here? Belial claims you were in London only days past.”

“I was, but it’s such a bore. With the trade cut off, there’s not a decent bottle of champagne or Armagnac to be found. The women don’t waltz. And the fashions are… Well, need I say more?” He gestured to his attire, clothing he’d worn in America and donned for the purpose of this meeting to make his point. “So I thought to come to the source.” He smiled and selected a chair near Moldavi, half facing Angelica.

Voss was acutely aware that he’d seen and sensed no movement from the bundle of woman in the corner. While he was pleased that she’d made no reaction to his presence—for it was imperative that he keep their acquaintance secret from Moldavi—the very fact made his skin prickle with fear.

“I did see Belial in London,” Voss added, and as Cezar stood to walk over to a large wooden cabinet, he chanced a glance over at Angelica.

She slumped in a chair. Her eyes were closed and neat tendrils of blood trickled from her nose. Her neck, throat, shoulder…all seemed untasted. Her gloveless hands were curled, white, in her lap.

Sleeping. Voss hoped, hoped with such fervor that Lucifer’s spectral fingers tightened on his shoulder so that he couldn’t contain a gasp, hoped that she was sleeping. Peacefully.

The door on the opposite side of the room opened and two men walked in. Dracule, Voss assumed, but one couldn’t be certain until one saw fangs or glowing eyes. They could be mortal minions of the emperor. Either way…blast and hell.

The fewer the people in the chamber while he tried to manipulate Moldavi, the better. He furtively felt for the packet in his pocket, and with the other hand adjusted his coat so that he felt the weight of Bonaparte’s watch chain. One or both of them would need to be employed.

“And what was your business in London? Sniffing around the Woodmore sisters, I presume?” Cezar said, bringing a glass bottle back to his seat. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable, Voss.”

The bottle was dark purple, the color of eggplant, and had a golden wax seal which broke as Moldavi twisted off the cork. “We were just about to celebrate with a special toast,” Cezar said.

“As to my interest in the Woodmore chits—anything to annoy Woodmore, of course,” replied Voss easily, even as he felt a wave of…something…odd. “But I hardly saw the girls. Dimitri is keeping them tightly locked up in Blackmont, as I’m certain you’re aware.”

“Not as tightly as he meant to,” said one of the new arrivals with a low laugh. Voss recognized him as one of Belial’s companions at the Gray Stag and at the masquerade ball as well. The other man gestured to the corner where Angelica lay.

“Indeed? Is she one of them?” Voss now had permission to look overtly at the girl, and he took the moment to do so. Her chest rose and fell in shuddering breaths, and one of her fingers twitched. An uneasy sleep.

Or an unnatural one.

Fear seized him more tightly as he returned his attention to Moldavi. A horrible thought—one that he’d tried to ignore since London—rose in the front of his mind.… A thought that made all feeling leech from his body.

It would be just like Moldavi to do it.

“Ah…the reason for the celebratory toast, I presume.” Voss forced his voice to remain steady. No.

What would be the best revenge for Moldavi to have on Chas Woodmore, vampire hunter? The man who’d stolen his own vampire sister from him?

Why…to turn Woodmore’s own sister into a replacement for Narcise. And all of the Draculia knew what Narcise was to Moldavi: his sister, his slave, his whore.

To humiliate Chas Woodmore as Chas had humiliated Moldavi.

Voss’s fingers were chilled, and he struggled to cut through the burn over his shoulder and the explosion of thoughts…and that odd sensation of helplessness that seemed to be growing. He vaguely noticed Moldavi pouring four drinks from the aubergine-colored bottle and when the man offered him one of the glasses, he took it.

At that moment, he knew. As if he were punched in the gut and his ears were boxed simultaneously. His lungs tightened. Harder to breathe, more difficult to control the grip of his fingers around the glass. Hyssop.

Here.

He looked around the wavering room. Where? The other two vampires had drawn nearer. There were no plants, no food seasoned with the herb. Nothing that could explain his sudden weakness.

The room swirled and tipped and Voss felt as if he were sliding into a pool of water, slogging and slow. Somewhere.

“A toast,” Cezar was saying, lifting his glass. He looked at Voss, who, with difficulty, managed to raise his to just below his shoulder.

Steady. Steady, focus.

He fought the weakness creeping over him, warring with the pain in his shoulder and his mental capacity. “What is it?” he asked, finding it nearly impossible to move his mouth in speech. Slowly he lowered the glass to the table next to him. Where is it?

He needed to get away. His head felt light and the room tried to spin, but he fought it still.

“Absinthe,” Cezar replied. He smiled with genuine pleasure, showing a fang studded with a tiny sapphire. “A bottle of the best French absinthe, which I have been saving for such an occasion.”

Absinthe. Not brandy or whiskey.

Lucifer’s nails… It was in the drink. Hyssop syrup. Of course.

“Drink, Voss,” Cezar told him. Looking at him oddly. “You must join us in the toast. I shall at last have the Woodmore bastard crawling on his knees. And Dimitri to follow.” The others had raised their own glasses.

It could kill him. Did Moldavi know? Could he know?

Voss had guarded his secret so closely. It was impossible for the other man to know. No. No one knew.

It was a horrible, awful coincidence.

Moldavi was looking at him strangely now. With suspicion. His eyes dark and piercing, the faintest warning of red glowing at the rims of his irises.

Voss couldn’t allow him to suspect, to question. He swallowed, tried to wade through the roaring in his ears, the tunneling of his vision as it narrowed and darkened. His hand trembled. Even Angelica’s alluring scent had faded.

“Drink, Voss,” said Moldavi. The glint in his eyes had gone beyond suspicion to something akin to delight. The fang’s sapphire winked and hypnotized and Voss realized that, for the first time in his life, he had wholly miscalculated.