The Vampire Voss

16 The Ordeal

Voss didn’t know how long he lay on the bloodstained, Angelica-scented bed after they left. Hazy, dimmed beams of sunlight still streamed through the windows. A gentle breeze ruffled the curtains.

Damned Parisian summer day.

At least Moldavi wouldn’t be out, searching for them. Woodmore and Angelica would be safe.

He was forced to stir, to try to move his abused body when a knock came on the sagging door. At his bidding, a chambermaid entered, ironically carrying the new clothing he’d ordered for Angelica.

The pain had eased a bit; enough that he could rise from the bed, holding a pillow to the wound on his chest, and pretend that all was well. Even though it was certainly not. His body felt as if it had been stretched beyond its limit, as if it would never work the same again. The Mark continued to haunt him, to needle and slice. But now that Angelica was gone, Voss thought it might forgive him.

Eventually the pain might ease.

Because Luce would never let him go. He’d been foolish to even think it.

Voss noticed that the small metal case that had held the hyssop necklace while protecting him from its power still rested on the small table. But she’d walked out of the chamber still wearing the necklace. Thank Fate she’d kept it on during their—he stopped his mind, forced the images away—during it all. Or Woodmore would have had all the reason in the world to execute him.

Voss’s neckcloth was on the floor, that horribly unfashionable strip of fabric he’d forced himself to wear. He pulled on a clean shirt, but wrapped the neckcloth loosely around his throat, for it was the only one he’d brought. The awful dark coat he’d brought from America was a bit dusty and smelled like smoke, but he donned it anyway. He had traveled very light, and very quickly.

He’d done what he’d come to Paris for. Angelica was safe. Woodmore and Corvindale would see to it that she remained thus, and Giordan Cale, too.

The sun was too bright and strong for him to leave, though he was desperate to quit the room. Leave Paris and put it, and England as well, far behind him. He packed up the meager things he’d brought in his satchel, slowly, still weak.

At first he dismissed the strained cry. But when it was repeated, Voss paused to listen. It was coming from outside the open windows.

He ignored it for a moment, but it became louder. More urgent.

Someone was calling for help. Thin, frightened, young.

Frowning, he went to the wafting curtains, staying out of the bolt of sunshine. Peering around them, maneuvering in shadow, he looked out and saw nothing but dazzling light and a nearby tree.

Another cry caused him to look up, and then he saw two small feet dangling…from above. Nearly a man’s height away, and off to the side.

Luce’s dark soul, it was a girl! Hanging from the balcony on the higher floor, holding on by two dainty hands. The balcony wasn’t directly above his; the platforms were staggered for privacy. If the girl released her death-grip on the railing, she would fall three stories down.

He glanced around—down, up, behind. There was no one else about. No one to notice.

Odd. So very odd.

Something prickled over his skin. Something happened inside…a burst of right.

He hesitated only a moment.

Part of him knew it would kill him as he darted out onto the sunny balcony with its red geranium pots. Another part thought if it didn’t, at the least it might take away some of the impact of the swollen Mark, spreading the pain so to speak.

The blaze of sun on his bare skin was instant and excruciating, and it stole the breath from him, weakened him to a stumble. Voss held back a scream of pain as he reached up and over, keeping himself from being paralyzed by it.

Please…

Fire blazing over him, his flesh singeing and tightening, he staggered to the edge of the balcony and reached up. Couldn’t reach. Half-blind, unable to force his breath to speak, he grasped the railing of his own porch and steadied himself against the brick wall as he climbed onto the rail somehow sensing his way. As if in a dream. A nightmare.

When his fingers closed around the ankle of the girl, he couldn’t speak to warn her. He couldn’t see. He could barely sense what he was doing through the white pain…but somehow guided, he managed a good, hard, yank, and pulled her to him…

She screamed, high and childlike, and they tumbled back off the rail, onto the balcony, Voss miraculously managing to vault her into his arms so she didn’t flip face-first into the side when she fell. He felt her warm body, slight and struggling, as he collapsed onto the tile floor. The girl pulled away, babbling something that he couldn’t comprehend. But then, their eyes connected for a moment as time seemed to pause, and he was struck by familiarity there.

Peace and serenity in pale blue eyes. He’d seen them before.

And through the door and away, she was gone, suddenly, and he was alone. Paralyzed. Burning in the sun.

His Mark was going to explode.… He felt Lucifer’s fury filling, swelling, radiating like it had never done before…and he buried his face into the hard floor, grinding dirt and grit into his cheek and chest.

Stop it…stop…

The sun blazed down and he couldn’t move. The slender ropes on his back bulged, teemed with hot pain and he screamed in agony, dirt in his mouth and teeth, his nails digging desperately into the surface on which he lay.

And, at last, with one last silvery-hot blaze, he succumbed to the darkness.

But just before he did…there were those pale blue eyes… and a face.

The face of the blonde woman. She was smiling. You were ready.