The Vampire Voss

14 Wherein A Stumble Creates A Great Diversion

When she heard a familiar voice, Angelica opened her eyes in narrow slits. At first she thought she was dreaming.

Voss was here?

Immediately her heart swelled and a flush of relief and hope washed over her. Oh, God, thank you.

But then, just as suddenly, the warmth evaporated, leaving her cold and frightened again. If only Voss were the man he’d been…before. The one she’d begun to have feelings for. An actual man.

Knowing that, she was filled with trepidation as she watched him settle into a seat with Cezar Moldavi. Much too friendly. Much too companionable. What did he want? Had they been working together all along?

Chas. Where is Chas?

She’d been pretending to be unconscious for some time now. Chas would be after her as soon as he learned what had happened, and her hope had been to stall for time. So far, she’d been successful…but she’d only been here for a day. Perhaps not even that long.

Voss looked over at her and she held herself still, trying to keep her breathing steady. Despite her slitted vision, she could see him clearly and although she hated him, Angelica couldn’t deny that he was so handsome it made her heart hurt. And he seemed so capable and confident.

His honey-brown hair was ruffled around the collar and fell in a curling lock over one eyebrow that would have been endearing if she could trust him. Love him. His jaw, so masculine and chiseled, and those lips…and his fangs. This was the first she’d really seen them, fully exposed. They were wicked looking, long and lethal and in the fog of her weary, frightened mind, she remembered Maia waxing on about how she’d dreamed of being bitten by incisors like that.

If only… She snapped her eyes closed when he seemed to stare more closely at her. If only.

Something burned behind her lids and Angelica tried to squeeze them tighter so that the tear wouldn’t trickle down and give away the fact that she was conscious. Oh, Voss.

As she struggled to control her emotions—and it was no wonder she found it impossible, after what she’d been through in the last few days—Angelica realized that the mood in the chamber had altered.

“Drink, Voss,” Moldavi was saying. He was not a large or imposing man, for all of his feared reputation—but it was his eyes that bespoke of the perfidy and malevolence inside him. He had swarthy skin and an abnormally wide, square jaw. His hair was the same dark brown as his thick, straight brows, and he had hands as large as dinner plates. Large rings flashed on seven of his fingers. Now his eyes blazed red-orange and he was focused on Voss with an intensity that had Angelica opening her eyes fully.

Something was wrong.

Voss seemed…odd. She was across the chamber, and couldn’t quite understand it, but he was acting not unlike Corvindale had in the carriage just before they were attacked. As if he were having trouble breathing, and moving.

And then…ice washed over her. She recognized his clothing. Odd, dull and ill-fitting. More out of fashion than anything she’d ever seen Voss wear. Except in her dream.

The dream she’d had the night before she’d been abducted from Lord Corvindale’s carriage in London.

The dream in which…he’d died.

Angelica gasped and all eyes turned to her before she could figure out whether she’d done so purposely or not. Burned into her mind was the image of Voss, splayed on the ground in that awful dun-colored coat and purple and red neckcloth. Dead.

“My guest has awakened,” Moldavi said. He smiled a hateful smile and Angelica saw the flash of a blue gem in his fang. “Just in time to join us in our toast to her presence.”

So far she’d managed to keep him from biting her, although he’d been inordinately interested in the blood that erupted from her nose during her attempt to fight off one of his companions. She shuddered at the memory of him swiping his finger over her upper lip, and pulling it away, glistening with blood and then sliding it into his mouth. Watching her the whole time with glowing yellow eyes.

Angelica shifted, pulling herself up into a more stable position, and allowed herself a glance at Voss. His eyes met hers, and she was shocked by a blaze of awareness when their gazes clashed. Oh, Voss.

Her heart felt crushed, her breathing impossible. Why did you have to betray me?

She pulled her attention away and found Moldavi looking at her. “Perhaps you would care to join us in a toast, Miss Woodmore?” he asked. “It is in your honor, after all.”

The tone of his voice clearly indicated sarcasm, and Angelica wasn’t certain what to do. But before she could decide, there was a clatter, and the crash of breaking glass.

Moldavi gave a sharp exclamation and leaped to his feet. Voss did the same, but his movements were sharp and jerky and he seemed to be clutching the side of his chair for support.

The glass that had been in Voss’s hand had shattered on the table, and the dark liquid spread in a pool, draining onto the fur rugs below. The other two men in the room had moved immediately to flank Voss, and in spite of herself, Angelica’s heart lodged in her throat.

One of them wrenched Voss’s arm behind his back and she saw that he had begun to reach into his pocket, but was arrested in midmove.

“Did you not care for my choice of liqueur, then, Voss?” Moldavi said. His face had settled into a complacent smile that bespoke evil. “Absinthe doesn’t appeal?”

“Take your hands from me,” Voss said to the men. “You’re… mussing my coat.” His voice sounded weak to Angelica, and his face still seemed drawn. He’d shifted away from the chair and table during the little melee, moving farther from the furniture where they’d been sitting and nearer to the fireplace.

He looked at Moldavi. “You didn’t care to ask for the purpose of my visit,” he said. “If you had…you’d know that I come to do you a service. So if your men will take their hands off my person…our discussion can commence. Or…I can see what Regeris is willing to pay to find out when Chas Woodmore will die.”

Angelica managed to hold back a gasp of fury. He was using her information? Giving it to Moldavi? And then his words penetrated, and she realized that Voss didn’t actually know when her brother was going to die—for she hadn’t told him. And even if he did know…it was to be decades from now. Her tension eased and she waited to see what would transpire.

Moldavi must have moved or given some sort of signal, for Voss was released—but not until after his pockets were searched. “Indeed?” Moldavi sounded bored.

Voss stood, his fingers still curled onto the back of a different chair, his face still taut as the contents of his pockets were flopped onto the table. A small pouch of coin, two small cloth-wrapped packets tied with string, a pistol and a knife. A handkerchief.

“What, no passport, Lord Dewhurst?” Moldavi said. “No identification papers. What a surprise.”

“If you don’t mind,” Voss said, and began to carefully scoop the items back into his pockets. “Do you wish to know… the purpose of my visit…or do you wish to sit about sipping women’s liqueur?” His speech was slow and careful.

“Personally I prefer the…women’s liqueur, as you call it. I rather appreciated the gray expression on your face when you smelled it.” Moldavi stood and came toward Voss.

By now, Angelica’s heart was beating furiously. Although she couldn’t tell what precisely was going on, she knew that something was not as it appeared. Was he hurt? Ill?

Did Moldavi have some sort of power over him?

Other than that brief connection of their gazes, Voss hadn’t acknowledged Angelica at all. Surely if he’d come to abduct her—or to save her—he would have at least made reference to her presence.

Moving only his eyes, Voss glanced at Moldavi, then at the other two vampires. His actions were still slow and careful, and he’d tottered backward so near the fireplace that Angelica had a sudden jolt of fear that he’d fall into it. He seemed labored, and Moldavi seemed to be enjoying it.

“Or was it the glass? Cut crystal?” asked Moldavi, turning back to lift his own glass from the table, his rings clinking against its stem. “Perhaps it was this particular sort of cork?” His eyes narrowed in delight, giving Angelica the impression that he was a cat playing with a mouse.

“I am in possession of…information,” Voss said. He raised his hand to his forehead as if to wipe it off, then his fingers slid weakly to settle on his chest, curling into his shirt and tucking under the edge of his coat.

Voss. What is it?

“What sort of information?” Moldavi asked lazily. He swirled his glass and looked at the dark purplish liquid inside. “The only thing I want to know about Woodmore is that he is dead.”

“Then…about your emperor’s…future.” Voss tripped and Angelica gasped, barely catching herself from leaping out of her chair as he grabbed the edge of the massive fireplace…just missing falling into the blazing flames.

As he did so, and made an awkward little spin, something slipped from the hand behind him. The small packet tumbled into the fire. Then Voss looked directly at Angelica, held her gaze with purpose. His lips moved; he seemed to be counting: three, two… Suddenly, with effort, he pushed himself off the edge of the fireplace and rolled along the wall away from the enclosure.

Boom!

Angelica screamed just as an explosion of smoke erupted from the fireplace. The room was enveloped in a billowing, ugly, purple cloud, and the last thing she saw before the space became dark was Voss’s silhouette, hugging the wall.

Shouts and curses and coughing filled the air, but over it all, she heard him call out her name.

“Angelica!”

She didn’t think about all of the reasons she shouldn’t—she simply moved toward where she’d seen him last. Voss was an infinitely better option than Moldavi.

Thick smoke filled her nose and eyes, and she breathed its heavy air that was unlike any smoke she’d ever smelled. Fingers grasped at her in the fog, low and weak, and she knew it was Voss. “Angelica,” his voice was near her ear. She grasped at him, felt the hard muscle in his arm and clung to his solid figure. Voss. Yes.

The sounds of rage, of furnishings crashing and grunts and exclamations of pain told her that Moldavi and his men were furious and intent on finding them. Something crashed above—a window breaking to release the smoke.

Someone bumped into her from behind. She stifled a gasp and skittered away, grasping Voss’s arm tighter, as he staggered and half ran with her.

He seemed to know where he was going, and pulled her down, jerking her along in a crouching stagger rather than a run. She stumbled after him, with him, tripping, bumping and jolting, and then there was a pause as he slammed an arm into her, shoving her back against the wall. The smoke had lessened enough that she could see his eyes glowing through it. Smoldering red-orange, close to Angelica, intense and frightening…but soft when he turned them on her.

Suddenly they were moving again, out of the smoke and into some other space. She heard the door close behind them, found that they were in a narrow, dark hall. She could see, and breathe, and there was Voss, grabbing her hand with more strength than moments before…and they ran.

Angelica stumbled and Voss steadied her. She could tell that whatever had weakened him—if it hadn’t all been a ruse—was no longer in effect. He was fast, so fast, strong, and she held on to him for dear life. In fact, her feet hardly touched the ground after he slid his arm around her waist.

He navigated them through a twisty corridor, up and down steps and suddenly they were going through doors, slipping into chambers, shops and even a pub. All at once, they were outside, under a dawning sky, bursting from the building onto a street.

No one on the walkway seemed to notice their sudden appearance, and Angelica couldn’t have hoped to find her way back through if her life depended on it. Nor did she have any idea where she was, other than a shop-filled rue in Paris.

“Quickly,” Voss said, when she paused to catch her breath. He let her feet slide to the ground, and released her except to hold her fingers in his warm ones. “The sun is rising.”

Right. The sun was no friend to vampires.

Perhaps it was because he didn’t wish to draw attention to them, but now Voss walked more slowly along the street. Since it was just beginning to dawn, revelers were stumbling home after a long night, and early shopkeepers and porters were out preparing for the day.

Voss had removed his coat and carried it under his arm and, with a flirtatious smile and a lightning-quick exchange of coin, he induced a tawdry-looking woman to part with her cloak. He draped the heavily sweet, smoke-scented wrap around Angelica’s shoulders, covering her tattered evening frock, and hurried her along. She noticed he stayed close to the buildings, obviously trying to avoid direct beams from the emerging sun.

Angelica had no idea what he’d planned, but certainly she hadn’t expected to be hustled along to a very proper, very expensive-looking hotel—La Maison—as she was. Voss breezed in through the main door as if he weren’t dressed in the most outdated trousers and his face wasn’t marked with dirt and smoke. Hers likely was as well, Angelica realized, and remembered the blood from her nose. She ducked her head to hide her face, mortification flushing her cheeks. What was he thinking?

Without pause, he directed her up a flight of stairs to a third story, produced a key and flung the door open to a well-furnished chamber. Light from the new sun poured through three tall windows, cascading over two chairs and a chaise, a screened-off corner next to a footed bathtub and a small fireplace. And a large bed. Her body went cold, and then warm, and then shivery. She did not look at him.

“Blasted chambermaid,” Voss muttered, still standing in the entrance. “Told her to keep the curtains drawn.” He looked at Angelica almost sidewise, his lips pressed flat as if he were trying to be casual…yet perhaps a bit discomfited. “If you don’t mind?”

She walked into the chamber, a bit dazed, but realized with a start that he meant for her to close the drapes so that he could enter. Angelica walked over to do so, opening the windows to allow the summer breeze access. One of them was actually a glass door leading to a small balcony, and she walked out onto it to look down over the creamy buildings of Paris. Then she came back in, pulling the light under-drapes closed and leaving the heavy over-curtains pulled back in their original position. Still, the room was much dimmer than when they’d entered.

It occurred to her at that moment what an awful, dark life a vampir must lead.

It also occurred to her that, with the sun rising, they would be safe—at least for the day—from any pursuit by Moldavi’s vampirs.

She turned to look at Voss, who’d come into the room now that it was safe and closed the door behind him. The snick of a bolt told her he’d secured the door, and her heart stopped.

Was he locking someone out, or locking her in?

He stood in the shadowy alcove of the doorway, his dirty white shirt tight over broad shoulders and a V of golden skin showing from where it had come undone at the throat. The purple and red neckcloth she’d recognized from her dream hung loosely around his throat. He was so handsome, a creature of every shade of gold and honey. So warm and rich. Her mouth became dry and she had a flash of the memory of those full lips closing down on hers. He still held the dark bundle of coat in his hands, and she saw him clasp it closer to his belly in a short, quick jerk.

They stared at each other for a moment, their eyes meeting, holding. Even the flare of light in his golden-green ones didn’t send a warning bolt rushing through her.

“Angelica.” His voice was little more than a breath, yet it sounded as if he were in pain.

“Thank you,” she managed to say and broke away from his gaze. What now? What did they do now?

“Are you hurt? At all?” He remained where he was, across the chamber. But his eyes scanned over her as she dropped the cloak, and she felt the weight of them as if they were his hands.

Angelica shivered. If only… “I’m not hurt.” She remembered her bloodied nose, and knew she had bruises elsewhere on her from the horrible horseback ride and her vain attempts to escape. But she supposed her fate could have been much worse at the hands of Moldavi.

“Well, then. A bath might perhaps be in order,” Voss said suddenly, briskly. He turned away, but not before she saw a flash of white at his lips. Fangs.

Angelica swallowed again. Had she left the frying pan and fallen into a blazing fire instead?

But, yet…this was Voss. Hadn’t he ordered her away from him when he sneaked into her bedchamber? If he meant to attack her, he could easily have done it then. Nor did he have to send for Corvindale when he took her to Black Maude’s, when he stopped his own attack.

No. It was clear that Voss didn’t intend to hurt her.

He didn’t intend to hurt her. But the look in his eyes…

“A bath… Oh, yes, please!” she replied, looking down at the once-beautiful rose-pink gown. She’d been wearing it for nearly a week. Torn, stained, the ruffles and trims flattened… The frock would never be the same. She hadn’t had the courage to glance in the mirror, for fear of what she’d see.

“Right,” said Voss, pausing as he dug through a satchel. “I was speaking of a bath for myself…but of course, ladies first.”

She looked over at him, surprised at his lack of chivalry— and then saw that he was smiling in jest. Her mouth softened. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice low. “Truly.”

He looked away, and his face settled with what was surely pain. “I shall call for a bath and leave you to your privacy.”

“No,” Angelica said before she could think. “No, I don’t want to be left alone. Please. I’ll forgo the bath…if you can stand me unwashed.”

Voss laughed this time, and although he moved stiffly, seemed easier. “Not only do I not wish to ‘stand’ you unbathed, but I also wouldn’t dream of imposing my own unwashed self upon you. I do believe it can be managed with a modicum of propriety, my dear. If you will trust me.”

Those last words hung in the air between them and, as if realizing what he’d said, Voss suddenly turned away. “There is a screen, you know,” he said, gesturing to the corner.

“Yes,” she replied.

He walked over to a row of four bell pulls, obviously each for different needs, and yanked on the second one.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Angelica asked, noticing that he’d continued to favor his right side. He’d hardly been able to lift it to reach for the bell pull, in fact.

Voss glanced at her. “Of all the questions you might have asked me, that’s the one you choose? Not, ‘Where did you come from, Voss?’ Or ‘How did you find me?’ ‘Why are we here?’ Or even ‘What are we going to do now, Voss?’”

Angelica smiled in spite of herself. She liked this man. “Ah, but I wouldn’t call you Voss,” she replied, her voice dropping in a way that made her flush.

Their eyes met again, stopping her heart, making her belly flip and flutter. Making her want…something.

His eyes were hot, so hot and so vibrant that she could sense the need from him even across the room. Even from that simple connection of gazes. He took two rapid steps toward her, then halted, spinning half away as if he’d been shot.

“It will be well-nigh impossible for me to remain in the same chamber as you,” he said. “Without wanting to… With out wanting…you.” His voice was low, very low, and not nearly as smooth as she was used to. “It’s part of the affliction…the need for blood. We have to have it to survive. But it’s not just blood,” he continued. “It’s you. I’m dying for the need of you, Angelica.”

Her breath clogged and she found herself hypnotized, not merely by his gaze, but his words, as well. Her hand crept to her throat, settling there before she realized it, offering nothing but weak protection.

“And so,” he said, his voice gravelly, his golden eyes burning hot. She even saw his nose lift a bit, as if scenting the air. He closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them. “I had my valet prepare something for you. To help. To help you trust me.”

He gestured to a flat, metal case no larger than the palm of her hand. It sat on the table in the center of the chamber; perhaps he had taken it out earlier, or just now when digging through his satchel.

“What is it?”

“Open it. Wear it,” was all he said, and then turned away, bumping into one of the chairs. He paused, his fingers closed around the top of it, whitening as they dug into the upholstery.

She did as he bid, opening the thick silver case. It was lined with lead. Inside, she found a chain intertwined with the stem of a plant. It was a necklace made from some herb, fortified by a gold chain so that it wouldn’t break.

“I don’t understand,” she said, lifting it, smelling the small, oblong leaves that grew in clusters from their stem. They had a faint, minty scent and some of them boasted tiny, fuzzy lavender flowers.

“Wear it and I won’t be able to approach you.”

Before she could reply, there was a brisk, businesslike knock at the door.

“That would be the bath,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to step behind the screen? And take that with you, if you please.”

He spoke in French, rapidly and yet with his customary charm, to the maids. It took some time, but the bath was moved behind the folding screen and filled with steaming water by a small army of chambermaids. A second, smaller tub was brought in for Voss to use, and Angelica couldn’t help but appreciate his consideration.

There was lovely, scented French soap and warm towels, along with a clean robe and shift. One of the servants assisted Angelica in peeling off her filthy, worn clothing. She had taken Voss’s suggestion and stepped behind the folding screen, and now she slid gratefully into the tub. The choker-like necklace settled around her neck, plastering to her throat and dipping into its hollow.

“Take these filthy ones,” Voss directed from beyond the screen, still in French but much more fluidly than Angelica could speak, “and bring back some clean clothing for the lady.”

She thought briefly about arguing—Maia certainly would. It wasn’t proper for a woman to accept gifts from a man, especially something as intimate as clothing. But how ridiculous it would be not to accept something so practical, and even more so to posture about it. Sometimes, propriety was so illogical.

So she said nothing, humming to herself to cover up the sounds of his own bath as she washed quickly. After, a maid assisted her in dressing in a loose lawn shift and long peignoir.

Her damp hair pinned up loosely, dripping occasionally down her neck or onto her shoulder, Angelica emerged from behind the screen to find that Voss had also finished his ablutions. Her humming stopped.

All at once, the maids were gone, and they were alone— now in a far more intimate environment of warm, damp skin that had recently been bare, the scents of lavender, lemon and orange in the air, and fewer layers of clothing.

“Explain this,” Angelica said, sitting on one of the chairs. She hooked a finger under the necklace and lifted it from her skin. Her fingers trembled but she kept her voice calm. Her belly was in knots.

Voss gave her a crooked smile. “Again with the irrelevant questions, my dear. All you need know is that it is a great deterrent to me.”

“To you? Not to anyone else?”

“I’m afraid not.” He turned away and Angelica gasped. The shirt he’d donned was not only worn so thin that it was nearly transparent, but the fact that his skin was damp and caused the fabric to cling made it easy for her to see the ugly, dark lines through it.

“My God, Dewhurst…what is that?”

He looked back, frowning. “What?”

But she’d already risen from her chair, moving toward him automatically, reaching for the shoulder where she’d seen something that looked like horrible scarring. Twisting black lines radiating from the back of his shoulder and along his arm, down past where the shirt no longer stuck to his skin. It was no wonder he could hardly move.

“Don’t,” he said, but it was too late…she’d already moved close enough to touch him.

Remembering the necklace, she stopped and stepped back a pace. “Does it pain you?” she asked, once again lifting the leaf-entwined chain, smelling its mint, now damp from her bath.

His face drawn, his lips flat, Voss nodded, then gave a shrug. “A bit.”

She stepped back again and saw that his chest moved in an easier breath. Odd, fascinating…and a bit frightening.

Angelica sat in a chair across from him, leaving what she judged was space enough for his comfort. “Is it the proximity? The smell? The sight? I thought it was silver that repelled vampires. That was the way Granny Grapes told us.”

Voss smiled and moved carefully to sit at the edge of the bed, leaving more space between them. “Your grandmother sounds like a fascinating woman. I wonder how she knew so much about the Draculia. That,” he added, “is what we call ourselves.”

“Her grandmother was my great-great-grandmother, the Baroness Beatrice Neddelfield, whose much-older husband died when she was merely twenty. The baroness fell in love with a blacksmith, who happened to be the son of a Gypsy from Romania. The way Granny tells it, they fell in love at first sight and Beatrice would have no one but Vinio for her husband. Since she was a widow, she no longer cared what Society thought, and they wed—living happily ever after.” Angelica shrugged, thinking, as she had done many times in the past, about the way some people seemed to find a strong, intimate connection to another person so quickly and easily without any explanation or logic. And how, for others, it was something that seeded, rooted and eventually blossomed.

And how some people seemed empty and remote for all of their lives.

“That explains it, then,” Voss said. “The Gypsy blood, the Romanian heritage…the first of the Draculia was Vlad Tepes, Count Dracula of Transylvania. And the rest of us are all descendants of his. For obvious reasons, if they choose to do so, Dracule tend to make very good marriages—albeit temporary ones, due to the immortality factor. Many of our antecedents wed titled members of European aristocracy. But the choice to become Dracule is only offered to some of us.”

“Such were my granny’s bedtime stories,” Angelica agreed. “Not of the variety commonly told to English children, however.”

“Thank the Fates for that, or how many more of them would grow up wishing to be like your brother.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Voss shifted. “Because you aren’t asking the ones you ought to, Angelica.” His eyes glittered and she felt warm and flushed again.

But no longer apprehensive.

“I’m certain I’ll learn the answers in good time. You obviously can’t leave the hotel during the daylight, so we are here for some time. And for now, I want to understand how this plant…whatever it is…affects you.”

He sighed. “It’s not something one discusses, Angelica. It’s of a personal nature. Incidentally,” he added with a bit of a rueful smile, “that’s precisely the reason Corvindale and Cale, and even your brother, are displeased with me. Because I make a point of learning about their…weaknesses. So to speak.”

“Lord Corvindale is one, too?” Angelica gasped. “And Mr. Cale?”

“Ah. Yes, indeed. I’m sorry to shatter your illusions. They are also Dracule.”

“And my brother…Chas works with Lord Corvindale? How can he work with the man he hunts?”

Voss shrugged. “I don’t know the details of the history between them, but as I told you before, there is bad blood between two Draculean factions—those of Corvindale and Moldavi. Aside of the fact that Corvindale has his own reasons for disliking me, I confess, I admire his situation. Having a vampire hunter on one’s side is a smart move on Corvindale’s part.”

“What about Mirabella? She can’t be a vampir, can she? For…well, she’s gone shopping with us.”

“No, it’s my understanding that Dimitri found her as a babe and raised her as his sister. I don’t believe she knows the truth of her origin, either.”

“How many of you are there?” She couldn’t help the distaste in her tone, and from the expression on his face, she saw that he noticed. His features flattened just a bit, just enough to let her know she’d insulted him.

“Not so many as it would seem,” he said. “We don’t generally reproduce.”

Silence reigned for a moment, and Angelica found that she couldn’t keep her eyes from him. The necklace gave her an unfamiliar, heady sort of power. Courage and even boldness. She no longer feared him.

And the fact that he’d thought to prepare such a talisman for her—to offer her a way to protect herself—gave her much to think about.

“Have you always been…like this?” she asked, rising to her feet. Her heart was pounding and her palms had begun to dampen.

Voss shook his head, his hair gleaming rich and bronze. His hand was splayed wide on the bed next to him, pressing deeply into a thick coverlet. She couldn’t help but notice the length and fine shape of his fingers.

“No, one isn’t born Dracule,” he replied. “One is… invited.”

Angelica raised her brows in question and realized she’d taken a step toward him.

“You wouldn’t believe me.… Well, perhaps you would,” he amended with a rueful smile. “You who have the Sight, and know that extraordinary things do exist. It was Lucifer. He came to me in a dream.”

“The preferred method angels use for communication,” Angelica said lightly, after a moment of shock. “Fallen from grace or otherwise.”

His lips quirked. “Apparently so. He offered power, strength and immortality. I was twenty-eight, at the prime of my manhood. It was a dream; it wasn’t real, but it was tempting. Of course I accepted.” Now his mouth flattened. “And neglected to ask what he expected in return.”

“Or perhaps the state of being in a dream wouldn’t have allowed you to do so.” Angelica had come to recognize his expressions by now, and what she saw was grief and pain. And yet…bravado. He would soldier on. Perhaps make light of it. “What did he expect in return?”

“Allegiance…not overt fealty, but he has ways of influencing one’s actions. And there is the understanding that, if bidden, a Dracule is meant to do Luce’s work, to be called up to arms, so to speak, if the day comes when we’re needed.”

Horror had begun to filter through Angelica as his words sank in. “The devil’s earthly army? To be called up at his whim?”

“I didn’t understand that part of it, or really, any of it, at that time,” he replied. His voice was testy and sharp. “If I had…”

What sort of a person would agree to such a thing? Angelica couldn’t speak. The knowledge that she sat here, with a man who’d sold his soul to Lucifer, was inconceivable. Chilling.

Worse yet was that she wasn’t frightened of him, and in fact…she felt connected to him. They, like Beatrice and Vinio, had had that instant, compelling connection.

She liked him—at least when he wasn’t driving his incisors into her neck.

“I woke up the next morning, the dream lingering like a nightmare. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a drawing on the wall of my father’s study—that was where I’d fallen asleep after too much drinking the night before. He had hung a collection of botanical watercolors, and the one I noticed was a picture of hyssop.” He gestured faintly toward her and she understood that was the name of the plant she wore around her neck. “To this day, I’m unaccountably grateful that it wasn’t the drawing of grapes that caught my attention first.”

He paused, ran a hand through his hair and looked straight at her. “It feels odd to talk about such things. I never have.”

“It’s a great burden you’ve borne for… How long has it been?”

“Since 1684.”

Angelica couldn’t speak for a moment. He was one hundred and…forty-three? Forty-two? Forty-five years old?

His bright smile had an edge to it. “Yes, I’m one hundred and forty-eight years old.”

Angelica had never been very good at arithmetic. “I find it inconceivable. Yet, I believe you. After all, I’ve seen…evidence of it.” She strolled around the edge of the small round table between the two chairs, trailing her finger on it, feeling herself wanting to move toward him. Despite all of it. “Recall that I, too, have told you my deepest secret. My own burden.”

“I was—am—very flattered. You carry a great strength about you, Angelica.”

Something unfurled in her chest. He made her feel something that no one else did. Important, worthy… She said, “You awoke, you saw the picture and how did you know that this…whatever it is…had happened?”

“When I walked outside that morning, into the sunlight… after realizing I wasn’t hungry for the eggs and ham that had been served. That was the last time I’ve been in the sun. Those brief moments I spent there were agony.”

“But you look as if you belong there,” she said, the words coming out before she could stop them. So she continued. “Your skin is so golden. And warm.”

Angelica. His lips moved silently and his eyes heated to pure gold. Her heart thumped and she took a step closer, leaving the table behind. His fingers moved on the coverlet next to him.

What am I doing?

He can’t hurt you. He’s said it himself. You’ve seen the proof.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, walking closer. “I don’t wish to hurt you, my lord. But…”

“It’s no great pain…just…as if I cannot breathe. I grow weaker, the closer you come.”

She stopped, took a step back, gauging his expression. “I don’t seem to be able to stay away.” Again, the words came without her permission.

“It’s no great thing.… I find I cannot breathe around you regardless.”

This made her want to smile and cry at the same time. “If I wear this, I can come close to you, safely…but you’re hurting.”

“The pain is only too great if the plant touches me. Take care.”

Take care.

Was he giving her permission to come to him? To touch him?

The answer was clear in his eyes.

Angelica’s palms were damp, her heart raced. What am I doing? His shoulders were so wide, and the shirt damp from his hair.

His breathing shifted, lowered and became rough. But his eyes focused on her, pulled, lured…

“What of the way vampires can hypnotize?” she asked, stopping suddenly, remembering more from Granny’s stories. Was that all this was? His manipulation? Was he tricking her, just as Lucifer had tricked him? “Are you tricking me?”

Voss managed a sharp laugh. “The Fates, no.” He drew in a breath. “Yes, the thrall—my thrall—is real. And very effective. Except with you. You seem…impervious to it.”

Angelica straightened and looked at him with interest. She was perhaps five paces from him, from the bed on which he sat like a rigid soldier. The corners of his mouth were tight.

“I? Impervious?” she asked.

He made a frustrated sound. “Blast it, Angelica, if you weren’t…well, you’d likely be able to call me Voss. And you wouldn’t be wearing that damned necklet.” He looked at her hotly, and the bottom dropped out of her belly. “You wouldn’t want to. I promise you that.”

The tips of his fangs were showing now, just beneath his upper lip, and the burning in his eyes shone like red-gold flames.

“What is that on your back?” she asked again. “May I tend to it?”

Again, a short, sharp laugh. “There is naught you can do.”

She was close enough that if she reached out, she could touch his face. Or shoulder. His breathing was rough, and she realized hers had become unsteady as well.

“If I come closer—”

“Please,” he said in a soft groan. Please, his lips moved silently.

She did. Empowered by the talisman around her neck, compelled by desire and curiosity, reassured by his need, she went to him.

His shoulders trembled as she rested her hands on them, lightly, taking care that he wouldn’t be in pain. She felt him vibrating beneath her touch, and understood that he was fighting, struggling against something.

Under her palms, Voss was warm, hot even. Solid. Broad. The ends of his hair brushed the tops of her fingers and she could smell the citrus and rosemary from his bath. His shoulders rose and fell in little jagged movements.

She looked down and saw his fingers curled up into the coverlet, wrinkling and gathering it into great bunches. His shirt gapped away from his strong, golden neck and she could see down into the back of it…the heavy black tendrils of scarring there on bronze skin.

“My God,” she breathed, and without thinking, she pulled the neckcloth away, pulled aside the opening of the shirt so she could see more of it. “What is it?”

They were like little purplish-black ropes, and seemed to pulse and throb as she looked down at them. Shiny, coursing…the pain must be beyond comprehension. They grew like roots from beneath the hair he kept long at the nape, down over the right side of his back, concentrated at the shoulder but spreading like cracks in his flesh past his rib cage.

“Mark…of Luce…ifer,” he managed to say. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple, and she saw that his skin had gone shiny and damp. “Please…Angel…ica…”

She thought he meant for her to move back, to give him relief, but when she began to shift away, he made a sound of negation. No.

Her hands trembled, and she was hot and shivery all over. Something fluttered in her stomach and Angelica felt something deep inside her curling, unfurling, swelling.

Take care.

She remembered his warning, so when she leaned forward, she bent carefully, holding the necklace tight to her skin so that it wouldn’t fall against him, her other hand on his uninjured shoulder. And she lowered her lips to his.