The Vampire Voss

5 In Which A Squeaking Chair Intervenes

Angelica’s face flushed hot beneath her mask, and suddenly, her heart was slamming in her chest.

But before she could speak or even gather her composure, Voss had taken matters in hand.

“I do believe you’ve promised this dance to me, Mistress Fate,” he said, smoothly turning and somehow gathering up her arm to slip it around his crooked elbow—all without the slightest hitch. “A waltz,” he added, looking down at her.

At last, his eyes said, gleaming with satisfaction from above the cloth tied around his lower face. Between the heavy, slashing brows and the squat, boxy hat—and even with the whimsical curls peeking from beneath—he looked striking and dangerous. Dangerous in a manner that made her belly feel as if it were filled with butterflies, not leaden with stone.

Angelica had a fleeting moment of sympathy for Harrington, who had no opportunity to circumvent the tide of Lord Dewhurst. But no sooner had she bid him a hurried “Please excuse me” than Voss had taken her away and to the floor filled with other dancers.

As if he’d done it a hundred times, he spun her neatly to face him, his strong hand settling just so at her waist, and the other curving around her fingers as he lifted her left hand into position. He pulled her so close that the camellias at her waist nearly brushed the side of his cloak.

Angelica had already waltzed—twice!—that evening, but this was an entirely different matter. It was as if every part of her had awakened and now absorbed the slightest sensation. The swish of her gown flowing against and around his pantalooned legs. The imprint of each finger from the hand at her waist.

She was aware of the gentle tension in her raised and extended arm, and the warmth of his gloved palm against hers. The brush of air over her bare, upper arms as they spun with grace around and between the other dancers. The sleek shift of muscle and tendon in his shoulder beneath her hand. The bounce of her hair, the warmth and breadth of his body so close. He smelled foreign and spicy, very unlike the common pine and balsam scent Harrington favored.

Again, she wondered how she could ever have mistaken her attacker as Voss. The reality was so much more…more.

It was several moments before she realized that he’d not spoken a word since they stepped into the kaleidoscope of swirling couples, and that they’d made their way efficiently around and between the other dancers. She ventured the question that came to mind.

“Surely you haven’t been to Romania and back already? To take your friend’s body?”

“I bribed Eddersley to go in my stead.” His tone was clipped, and when he turned toward the edge of the group and slipped Angelica between two couples near the side, she realized he was leading her off the floor.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “The song isn’t over.”

He glanced down with dark, glittering eyes, and she felt as if he’d turned some great force on her. His hand had closed around her arm as he released her from their dance pose, but instead of leading her toward the balcony, which was on the other side of the large chamber, he was edging them toward the most shadowy corner of the room.

“My lord,” she managed to say, but her words were certainly lost in his wake, in the midst of the music and conversation.

He fairly towed her along behind him, toward a shadowy corner where a fountain stood between two potted trees. Dangling vines hung from pots on shelves high on the walls, providing a convenient curtain for those who might wish to dally in corners without being seen.

Voss swept away a handful of the vines, speaking sharply into the corner and scattering leaves and flower petals. Seconds later, Angelica was nearly trampled by a Romeo and a befeathered swan as they stumbled out of the alcove and away. Apparently, Juliet was elsewhere.

The next thing she knew, the wall was behind her and Voss was in front of her, very close, his fingers curved around her upper arms. He’d yanked away the mask covering the lower part of his face, and she could see, even in the low light, the flat line of his mouth and the pinch of his nostrils.

She tried to swallow, and felt a renewed rush of heat behind her mask. She wanted to tear the heavy velvet and lace confection away so she wasn’t so stifled, and suddenly, the very thought became reality as he stripped it up and off her head, tossing it aside. None too gently.

“What has happened?” he asked, closing his fingers around one of her wrists. His eyes penetrated hers, and for the first time, she felt a trickle of fear. They were glittering, not with fascination, but with…menace. “Tonight. What happened?”

In the closeness of that dim corner, Angelica felt the rise and fall of his breathing, and the racing pulse beating in her throat. It threatened to choke her.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

His breathing shifted and a delicate tremor rippled through his arms as if he were restraining himself. “I smell blood, Angelica. On you. All over you. I want to know where in the damned hell it came from.”

His words, uttered from between very tight jaws, nevertheless snapped like a whip between them. She couldn’t have said which startled her more—his use of her familiar name, the profanity or the fact that he somehow smelled blood. On her.

She moistened her lips, trying to dispel the sudden dryness in her mouth, and felt his hand tighten reflexively, crushing one of the flowers on the top of her glove. It was at that moment that she realized just how dangerous and powerful this man was.

This man, who blocked her into a corner, who had his body very nearly pressed against hers and whose gaze bored down into her like a weapon.

Her heart pounded so hard she was certain he felt it, too, and she tried to contain her nervousness. Fury rolled off him, but she didn’t believe it was directed toward her. If he meant her harm, he wouldn’t drag her into a corner where they could easily be discovered.

“I thought he was you. He asked me to waltz,” she replied when his fingers tightened again.

He drew back just a bit, loosened his grip. “You thought he was me?” A shaft of light settled on his face, illuminating one eye and half of his nose and chin. The illusion made him appear even more intimidating.

“He behaved as if we’d met, and he asked me about Chas right away. So I thought he was you,” she defended herself, feeling more in control now. Had his anger been worry for her, then? But, he’d smelled blood on her. Such an odd thing to say.

“And then we went out to walk under the stars and…and… he tried to…” Angelica was still a little breathless—from being trotted so quickly across the room, from reliving the fright of her assault, from the steady, dark gaze that continued to bore into her.

“What did he do?” Voss’s fingers tightened and she felt the tension riding along his arms, settling in the space between his brows and drawing them tighter. “Where did the blood come from? It’s not… It can’t be yours.”

She shook her head. “No. He— I stabbed him. With my shears. It’s his blood.”

His eyes widened and then his entire demeanor changed. The edge eased from what was visible of his expression, and his brows relaxed. He wasn’t smiling, but surprise—and perhaps relief—shone there. “Your shears?”

“I’m Atropos. You recognized me earlier, did you not? You called me Mistress Fate.”

His shrug was fluid, and now the crinkles at the corners of his eyes belied a near smile. “I didn’t know which of the three you were. The gown gave you away, despite the fact that you chose black instead of the common white. It’s fortunate for you, apparently, that you were Atropos, for I don’t believe a mere length of thread and a measuring rod or spindle would have been much assistance to you.”

Relieved that his intensity seemed to have eased, she gave him a demure look. “No, I do believe you are correct, my lord.”

But his face darkened again, the crinkles next to his eyes smoothing as the groove between his brows became more pronounced. “And the man who assaulted you? What happened to him?” He hadn’t released her, and in fact, she was aware of his shoes brushing hers. Warmth and awareness filled the space between them, and she realized her fingers had curled into the edge of his cloak. She loosened them.

“I don’t know. He ran off. He didn’t return to the party, I’m certain, for surely all the blood would cause comment.”

“The condition of your gown didn’t,” he reminded her.

“But no one can see it,” she said. “I don’t know how you noticed. You said you smelled blood?” She sniffed, but scented nothing but him. Spicy, masculine and arresting. Very close. She felt a bit light-headed.

His lips flattened. “Does Corvindale know?”

“No one knows but you. The earl isn’t here this evening.”

Now he smiled, but with that false edge. “As much as I’m certain you believe that, I know better than to assume other wise. He’s here.”

“As you wish, my lord,” she said, suddenly feeling lighter than she had since arriving at the ball. “I suppose we shall find out when the unmasking takes place.” She cast a look beyond his shoulder, through the filter of hanging vines. It was rather cozy back here in this little corner.

“But our unmasking has already occurred,” he said. Voss’s voice had dropped to a purr, and Angelica flashed a quick look at him. He was looking at her in a very different way than he had only moments before. Much like the way he’d been looking at her when their eyes met across the room.

Her heart pounded, hard, as he lifted a hand to skim a gloved finger along the side of her neck. Little prickles of awareness followed and Angelica found herself hardly able to breathe. She could be affronted at such a liberty, but the touch felt oddly chaste. Yet at the same time, the way he looked at her, leaning in closer, felt very intimate.

“I cannot decide whether to be annoyed or gratified,” he said, stroking along beneath her chin, holding her eyes with his.

“What do you mean, my lord?”

He withdrew his hand and adjusted a camellia on her shoulder. “Well, my dear, I could be annoyed and affronted that you mistook another gentleman for me. Apparently I hadn’t made enough of an impression upon you. Or I could be gratified that, thinking he was me, you agreed to walk in the moonlight with him. As unpleasant as that occasion might have turned out to be.”

A little stab of pleasure startled her. “Such a difficult decision, my lord. I cannot even pretend to assist you.” She looked away in all demureness, and realized with a start that she was well and truly, no doubt about it, flirting with Viscount Dewhurst. And managing quite well.

Maia would be proud. Or…perhaps not, if she knew it was Dewhurst and not Harrington with whom she was being coy.

“What is it that you thought might happen, walking in the moonlight with me?” he asked. His voice was very near her ear, smooth and low, its very timbre somehow discernable despite the dull roar of music, rushing water, and revelry around them. “Perhaps the experience of your first kiss?”

“Oh,” she said, her breath gone again at the dark light in his eyes. Yet, she managed to say, “I’ve already experienced my first kiss.”

Those glittering eyes narrowed with pleasure and he whispered, “I’m rather pleased to hear you say that. Now, let us see about making you forget it.”

He moved, his mouth covering hers as the wall reared up behind her. He eased—pushed—her back against it, his somehow gloveless hands settling: one, warm, to cup the back of her head, and the other sliding around her waist.

Angelica couldn’t have been prepared for the rush of heat and pleasure from the touch of his lips. Neither tentative nor rapacious, they fit to hers deliberately, without apology— molding and tasting, coaxing…demanding hers to respond. And she did, following his lead, aware of the bare touch of his fingers on the underside of her jaw, of the warm mouth delicious over hers and the heat of his body pressing her into the wall.

An explosion of pleasure rushed through her—warm and bold, tingling low in her belly and down…farther. Angelica needed to breathe but she forgot how, sinking into the sleek, sensual rhythm of mouth sliding against mouth.

His tongue surprised her, slipping briefly along the half-part of her lips in a heated little tease, and then his mouth crushed over hers again as his arm tightened around her waist. Voss’s breath buffeted warm against her skin as he shifted away, coming low and unsteady. Along her cheek he smoothed his lips, nibbling, pressing gentle kisses that left tingles in their wake.

She’d tilted her head back, unable to hold it up any longer, and the fountain of hair at the back of her head was smashed against the wall, the pins driving into her scalp. His hands drew her closer, his face buried near her ear, his lips moving along her hairline and down to the curve of her neck.

Angelica gasped and trembled; she was sensitive and a bit ticklish there, and the light movements of his nose and mouth buried in her neck’s crook made her want to squirm away at the same time as press him closer. She wanted him to kiss and nibble, to taste as he’d done her mouth—not to featherlightly touch, and she grabbed onto his cloak, pulling him closer, only half aware of what she was doing. She wanted more, something more.

“Voss,” she whispered to the ceiling, planting her hands on his chest, curling her fingers into the fabric, not sure what she was asking for. But she needed something to release the tightening inside her.

She became vaguely aware of the activity beyond the curtain of vines behind him, and that the music seemed to have started again. Or perhaps it was that the fountain had been turned off or had run out of water, and now the sounds of the jaunty three-step dance tune more easily reached her ears.

The dull roar of people laughing and talking filled the air, filtering through the music as the two of them stood in the dark corner. Her hands settled on his chest, his covering her upper arms, something stretching and shimmering between them.

Voss drew in a rough breath and pulled away. “Thank the fates,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Releasing Angelica, he fought to steady his voice, to keep himself from sounding breathless. And to keep his damned fangs from showing. God and Luce.

He wasn’t certain whom to call on for assistance, and in response, the Mark on his shoulder twinged with pain.

Good. Pain. Distraction.

His incisors retracted and he drew in a breath that sounded embarrassingly ragged.

“For what?” Angelica’s eyes were glazed and her swollen, crinkled lips parted. She’d sagged against him and he was certain she had no idea how lazy and beckoning she sounded.

With one side of the gown pushed half off her shoulder and her head collapsed back against the wall, she looked as if she’d been ravaged. He wondered what had kept him from doing just that.

One moment, he was ready to drag the glove from her arm and sink his teeth in—or, hell, right into her bared shoulder, in that soft hollow above her collarbone. Her sweet, ivory skin had been there, beneath his mouth, smooth and warm, sweet and salty against his tongue, her pulse racing madly against his lips…and the next moment, he was pulling away, setting her back from him.

Just as well he hadn’t. This wasn’t the place. She’d scream, there’d be a mess, he’d be found out.

The fact that Corvindale would not be amused was the least of the considerations. Dimitri could sleep on a wooden stake for all Voss cared.

It took Voss a moment to realize that Angelica was waiting for him to explain, looking up at him with shadowed, bedroom eyes. A delicious expanse of creamy bosom and throat was exposed by the off-kilter V of her Greek gown. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on everything else around them: the scent of gardenias attached to the hanging vines, the nearby roar of laughter and the spritely tune from the string quintet. The painful ache at the back of his shoulder and the dull throb of his cock. The pressure of his insistent fangs.

Everything but her.

He tried not to breathe too deeply, not to look at the smooth white skin in front of him. He fought to block out the lingering scent of blood—not hers, but it didn’t matter—and to keep his eyes from glowing. Too much.

“That bloody squeaking chair,” he said, having collected himself. And he stepped back.

She opened her eyes fully and looked at him. “Pardon me?” she said. “I don’t understand.”

He resisted the urge to reach over and adjust the shoulder of her gown. “One of the musicians is sitting in a chair that squeaks. I think it’s the violist, for his movement seems to match the squeak.” That, in part, had been what had dragged him from the depths of red heat and need. That incessant squeaking.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she told him, and cocked her head as if to listen.

He managed a bemused smile. “Most people don’t. It’s an affliction of mine. One of many, in fact.” He couldn’t wait to introduce her to some of the others. Voss held his smile in check.

“Indeed?” she replied, and the look she gave him—an unlikely combination of innocence and sass—made him want to grab her again.

But before he could respond, she said something that turned his body to ice. “Your eyes,” she said, looking at him closely.

“They were almost glowing, a moment ago. It must be a trick of the light, because his were, too.”

He forgot to be reticent and polite. “What? His?”

She shrank back a bit, but not as much as she could have. “The man from outside. His eyes looked like they were glowing or burning. It must have been the moon—”

A rush of comprehension blasted through him and he grabbed her by the arms. Satan’s black soul. “What did he say to you? You said he asked about your brother.”

Instinctively Voss turned, reversing their positions so he could see beyond the hanging vines. People were dancing, talking, laughing. The damned chair was still squeaking, the pianist fumbled a note.… “What exactly did he do to you?” he demanded as he scanned the room, looking for anything or anyone that upset his instincts.

A vampire had no way to sense or otherwise identify the presence of another vampire unless one came face-to-face with him, and even then, it was more of a feeling. Even among the Dracule, they couldn’t always identify each other merely by sight.

There were ways, of course…subtle comments that might be made, or a certain way of looking at one to test the waters, so to speak. It was almost like being able to tell when a man preferred another man in his bed, instead of the sweet bundle of female curves.

Angelica’s eyes had widened, all trace of sensuality and teasing gone. Now she looked frightened, and by damn, she should be. Voss flattened his lips, an ugly gnawing in his belly.

“He was insistent on going into the dark part of the garden, and when I hesitated, he pulled my mask down so I couldn’t see…then he picked me up—”

A shrill scream from beyond the alcove drew their attention and Voss reacted immediately, shoving Angelica back into the corner and positioning himself in front of her. Damn and the devil. Already? Another scream, cut off quickly, and then eerie, strained silence.

How could he have been so distracted? By the stones of hell, he should have taken Angelica out of there as soon as he found her instead of dallying on the dance floor and in the corner. But the blood…the smell had scattered his mind, dangerously diverting him.

Voss could see little beyond the vines, but he didn’t dare move them for fear of drawing attention. From between velvety white gardenia petals, he watched a faction gather on what had been the dance floor. Five of them, large and imposing. Eyes burning red. And then he smelled it. Blood. Saw it soaking the front of one of them, thanks to Angelica’s shears.

Luce’s balls.

Tension settled over Voss and he looked around for a weapon. The gun tucked into the deep pocket of his cloak would do nothing against the vampires. There was nothing else in the corner he could utilize for a weapon, either. He’d been a damned fool to not think Moldavi would move so quickly.

The crowd had edged back from the five menacing figures, but Voss knew they couldn’t go far. The doors would be guarded by more Dracule or at least their footmen armed with rifles and bayonets. Everyone was trapped…until the vampires got what—or who—they’d come for. And finished feeding.

One of the vampires swept out a powerful arm and grabbed a Roman emperor, jerking him to the center of the room. When the man attempted to fight back, the Dracule twisted his fist into the throat of his victim’s shirt and cloak and yanked tightly, lifting him off the floor as the man struggled to kick free.

Damn. This was going to get bloody messy.

And where the hell was Corvindale? Voss couldn’t handle five of Moldavi’s men plus their footmen, and protect the two Woodmore sisters…and the earl’s so-called sister, who must be around somewhere. Mirabella would also be a convenient and lucrative prize for Cezar Moldavi.

Damnation.

The vampire slammed his prisoner to the floor and shoved a heeled boot over the man’s windpipe, pinning him on the smooth wooden surface as he choked and gasped. No one moved. No one made a sound.

Then Angelica shifted behind him, just a little shuddering breath. Voss slammed a hand back, whirling to face her. “Hush,” he breathed into her ear. “Be still.”

“That’s him,” she whispered, and Voss saw two Dracule shift toward their hiding place, listening.

He put his face close to hers and lifted a finger, pressing it sharply against his lips in a fierce command of Silence! By Luce, those bastards could hear the slightest sound. Another benefit, or affliction, vested upon Dracule.

“Miss Woodmore.” The strained silence was broken by a low, commanding voice. “Show yourself.” Angelica jolted behind Voss, and he was vaguely aware that she’d clutched his arm tightly. He closed his fingers over her arm and shook his head once, briefly.

Be still.

It wasn’t Moldavi himself who’d given the order—no, he would be safely back in Paris, licking Bonaparte’s arse-crack. But Voss recognized the sibilant tone, and as the speaker moved into view, his identity was confirmed.

Belial, one of Moldavi’s makes.

A “made” vampire was a mortal chosen, not directly by Lucifer to fulfill Vlad Tepes’ familial bargain, but by a Dracule himself. The Dracule fed, draining the mortal of his blood. Then the Dracule turned the man into a vampire minion himself by allowing the mortal to drink from his blood, thus becoming the new vampire’s sire, or master. These “made” or “sired” vampires weren’t as strong and powerful as the ones chosen by the devil and personally invited into the covenant of the Draculia. It was a sort of hierarchy—the further removed the “made” vampire was from the original sire, the less powerful he or she was for the simple reason that each made vampire inherited the Asthenia of his or her sire, as well as acquiring their own personal one. And so on down the line.

In this case, Cezar Moldavi had made Belial, and Belial was only one of many who answered to Moldavi in payment for immortality and power. And any vampires that Belial sired would be even less powerful than he, and they ultimately answered to him—or, in his absence or death, to Belial’s sire, Moldavi.

Voss had encountered Belial in the past, and the only reason one of them wasn’t dead was that the sun had come up on them during a hand-to-hand battle, and they’d had to separate in order to take cover.

“Show yourself, Miss Woodmore. Or…” Belial’s voice trailed off as he nodded to one of his companions.

The man, another make who had silver-blond hair in a thick braid, moved with the lightning speed all Dracule enjoyed and snatched a gossamer-winged butterfly from the crowd. She screamed and struggled, but there was no help for her. The wig fell from her head, tumbling onto the man who lay still pinned in place by a boot heel.

Two men in the crowd lunged forward to intervene, but were caught instantly by two vampires and slammed to the floor as if they were gnats. A knife flashed and one of them screamed as he was pinned in place through his shoulder. Bloodheat infused the air. The other tried to roll away, and was kicked into the air, tumbling into the crowd. All during this time, the spectators had remained silent in shock.

“Miss Maia Woodmore,” Belial lisped in his eerie voice. “Or Miss Angelica Woodmore. Either of you can put an end to this.” He sounded polite and sincere even as he watched the silver-braided vampire put his hands on the butterfly.

Angelica tensed behind him and Voss edged backward to keep her in place, ignoring the flash of a pang in his shoulder. No. There was nothing she could do.

The butterfly’s gown tore easily, exposing a flimsy shift and white skin, frail shoulders and the delicate tendons of her neck and shoulders. Voss’s breathing began to deepen.

The Dracule held the girl’s two hands behind her back, and tore at her costume again. The shift fell away, clearly exposing two breasts that jounced and jolted as she struggled. Her pitiful screams were the only sound in the room, and when the vampire grasped her hair and yanked her head back, exposing her throat, Voss felt Angelica gasp behind him.

The fangs flashed briefly before they sank into the terrified girl’s shoulder. She choked, her body tightening like a bowstring and Voss felt his own blood rising. His fangs threatened, the scent of hot blood, frightened and desperate, beckoned.

Lucifer made them that way. To crave, to need not only the rich, warm life-giving liquid, but to revel in the fear and the fight when taking it. And the intertwined sensuality that came with it. The ache in Voss’s shoulder lessened as his breathing quickened and he knew that his eyes would be glowing faintly by now.

He closed them, drew in a deep blood-scented breath and focused on the other smells in the air, the sounds, even the woman behind him. Especially the woman behind him, her body stiff and frozen against his back.

No, that didn’t help. His blood pounded harder and he had to open his eyes again to push away the smell, the need. No, no. Not now. Not here. He steadied himself, breathed, focused.

When Angelica moved, he grabbed her before she could do something foolish. Yanking her close to him, he put his mouth to her ear and spoke short and low. “You can’t stop them. Stay here.” His heart thudded hard, his fingers curled around her warm arms. They were so delicate, slender. Smooth. He breathed her, he touched her, her hair curled in his face and smelled like summer.

Soon, my dear. Soon. He lifted his face away but didn’t yet trust himself to look down at her.

Voss knew from the way she trembled and the dampness she pressed against his cheek that she wouldn’t listen to his warning for long. He had to do something before she did, or his chance would be all over.

Where the hell was Corvindale? And Maia Woodmore? He knew she was here, too. She was headstrong enough to answer Belial’s summons. Why hadn’t she stepped forward?

Voss pulled Angelica close to him and looked down into her face, hoping his eyes wouldn’t give him away. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. No matter what, until I come back for you.”

He waited until she nodded, her face streaked with tears and her eyes wide and shocked. She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed his hand to her warm lips and shook his head sharply. No.

Then he slipped to the side, away from the corner, along the wall behind the fountain that had gone silent. When he’d gotten as far as he could from Angelica without being seen, he stepped out into the room.

“What a damned mess,” he said as all eyes turned to him. Steadfastly fighting the alluring smell of blood and fear, he curled his lip in disdain. “By Luce, Belial, can you not teach your dogs some manners?”

Belial turned, his eyes bright and orange, his fangs showing in a flash as he smiled unpleasantly. “Ah, Voss. I cannot imagine what you have found yourself doing here.”

As always, that low hiss of a voice made him want to twitch. The man sounded as if he had a too-tight neckcloth on.

“Looking for the Woodmores are you?” Voss said, strolling unconcernedly toward the cluster of Dracule and their victims. The girl was silent now, not yet dead, but wheezing damply as she hung from the vampire’s grip over her shoulder.

The thought of Angelica hiding in the corner enabled him to breathe without acknowledging the bloodscent filling the air. But the other members of the Draculia weren’t as in control. As Voss stepped forward, one of them lurched down to the man pinned by the knife to the floor. His fangs flashed then sunk into the man’s arm as the victim strained and screamed. Voss was certain he heard a sound behind him, and prayed—so to speak—that Angelica would stay put.

Still feigning ease and indifference, he tsked and looked at Belial. “Such animals. Is that how you and that dog Bonaparte train them? No manners.”

Belial crossed his arms. “Why are you here?”

“Looking for Woodmore’s sisters, just as you are.” Voss gave a little shrug. “They’re not here. And you’re disturbing my evening.”

“Disturbing your evening?”

Voss didn’t look at the vampire feeding in front of him, blocked the sounds of suction and desperate gulping and choking gasps. He focused on Belial and nothing else. “I do love masquerade balls. They allow much easier access. But I prefer a bit more subtlety when arranging my…er…liaisons.” He made an offhand gesture to the scene in front of him, making sure to keep his voice pitched so low that only Belial and his companions could hear him. “Much more enjoyable and less of a mess. My valet hates it when I come home with stains.”

“I should believe you that the Woodmore bitches aren’t here?”

“You don’t have to, of course. You can stay and waste your time, although I suppose you might enjoy the entertainment. But drawing too much attention to your proclivities is not the best means to get what you want.” Voss was careful to say “your” instead of “our.” “I’m certain you haven’t forgotten those harrowing weeks in Copenhagen. You nearly slept on a stake, if I recall correctly.” He gave a bland smile.

Belial gave a narrow-eyed smile, his orange hair shining as he pursed his lips. Covered everywhere with a wash of dark freckles, he didn’t appear threatening. Until the eyes burned and the fangs came out.

“Dimitri said the same,” said the silver-haired vampire as he released the girl from his fangs. She slumped to the floor and one of the other Dracule members swooped down on top of her. “The Woodmores aren’t here.”

Voss hid his annoyance. If Dimitri was here, what the bloody hell was he doing? Where was he?

“There’s no love lost between you and Dimitri,” Belial murmured, nodding shrewdly. “No reason for you to lie for him.”

None at all, although, Voss had to admit, if he had to ally himself with Cezar Moldavi or the Earl of Corvindale, he supposed he’d more readily suffer the latter’s cold self-flagellation over Moldavi’s indiscriminating violence. Everyone knew Moldavi was a child-bleeder. But either of them could fry in the sunlight for all he cared.

“I haven’t seen Dimitri,” Voss said, fanning the uncertainty in the vampire’s eyes. “And the chits aren’t here if they ever were. I was just about to leave when…well.” He gestured to the scene in front of him, exuding disdain. “You interrupted my courting.”

“Dimitri is a bit…preoccupied at the moment,” Belial said, gesturing vaguely to the front foyer. “We’ve already spoken.”

Despite his antipathy for the earl, Voss didn’t like the sound of that. He forced himself to shrug easily. “You can continue here. If Dimitri is otherwise engaged, then I’ve got other things to do.” He sniffed in disdain. “Don’t draw too much attention to yourself, Belial. I don’t want any damned trouble now that I’m back in London. Been too long in the uncivilized America.”

He turned, his senses high, his movements casual, and began to walk away. Doubtful one of them would come after him— there was no reason to do so, and every reason not to. But he wasn’t a fool. The back of his shoulders prickled and the only sound was the wheeze of someone’s fearful breath and the intense gulping.

There was no more Voss could do to dissuade the vampires from continuing their attack and working their way through the crowd of people, feeding, terrorizing, ravaging. He’d reminded Belial that these sorts of overt events didn’t go unnoticed. They often resulted in the spawning of well-equipped, wooden-stake-and-sword-toting mortals who called themselves Vampire Hunters—often to great effect. Chas Woodmore was one of them, and the most successful one in recent times. It was fortunate that he had associated himself with Dimitri and no longer went about arbitrarily staking any member of the Draculia he encountered. Dimitri had forced Woodmore to see that there were many Dracule who offered no threat to the mortal world.

Voss walked through the stunned crowd, noticing that they’d unmasked themselves and that they stepped back as he passed through. Just as he reached the main foyer—where three footmen stood with bayonets—he heard Belial behind him. Voss turned, ready, but the vampires were merely making their way out of the room in his wake. A strong testament to the control the leader had over his companions, and only one reason he was a formidable opponent and favorite of Cezar Moldavi.

“Since Dimitri is otherwise engaged, he won’t be there when we pay Blackmont a visit,” Belial commented as he passed by Voss. He glanced at the sweeping staircase, an amused smile twitching his thick lips.

Then, with a commanding jerk of his head, he thus gave the order for the footmen to fall in line behind him. “I’m certain the Woodmore bitches will be most happy to leave that black hole and find more comfortable accommodations.”

Voss shrugged. Dark soul of Luce, where the hell is Dimitri? Up there? He didn’t look at the stairs, but suspected he knew the answer.

“Best of luck,” he told the vampire-make with great insincerity. Belial would never get into Blackmont Hall. Present or not, Dimitri would make certain of that.

And, regardless, Voss knew that at least Angelica was safe, here with him. He resisted the urge to glance back toward the ballroom. She’d wait. He’d told her to.

One thing he’d learned about Angelica Woodmore: she wasn’t a fool.

Belial paused as he passed through the front door, the last to leave. “Do give Dimitri Cezar’s best. I regret that I forgot to do so.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Voss took to the stairs. As he flew up, his feet barely touching the treads, he heard the soft rumble of stunned voices begin below and then swell to a loud, shocked pitch. Running feet, slamming doors, general chaos.

He’d only be a moment up here and he hoped Angelica would have the sense to do as he’d warned and stay put. Even as he went after Corvindale, he wondered why the hell he should take the time when he could be getting Angelica out of there.

Perhaps the earl was dead.

It took Voss mere seconds to find the correct room; not because he could somehow recognize Corvindale’s presence but because he was quick. Down the hall, up another flight, and then…

“Dark soul of Lucifer,” he breathed as he walked into the room.

Corvindale lay on his back on the rumpled carpet in the center of what was a cozy, well-lit parlor or den. He wasn’t moving, but Voss could hear his breathing. Long, rough, labored. Bloodscent filled the room, Corvindale’s shirt was torn from his shoulders, his coat gone, his gloves missing, one arm crossed over his muscular torso.

“Well,” he said, walking over to stand above the man. “What have we here?”

He looked down and Corvindale’s gaze, dark and yet clouded, bored into him. Loathing filled his eyes and Voss saw his only movement: a faint twitch of fingers as if he were imagining curling them around his neck.

Or a stake.

It was immediately evident to Voss that Corvindale was paralyzed, in pain and otherwise encumbered. Which meant that—

Ah, there it was.

Voss had almost missed it because the man’s shirt was bunched up—but as he bent closer to admire the bastard in his immobilization, he saw it. The solution to the riddle he’d sought to solve a century ago in Vienna had just been handed to him. Draped over Dimitri’s neck, against the swarthy skin, was a heavy strand of large rubies set in gold links.

“So it’s rubies?” Voss said. “I knew it had to be a gemstone of some sort. But I had suspected emeralds or pearls all these years. Rubies. I do hope you checked the Woodmores’ jewel boxes when they moved in.”

The loathing burned stronger and hotter in Corvindale’s eyes, and those fingers moved again on his chest, trying to inch toward the poison that must be burning into his skin, seeping his energy and life. All it would take was the thrust of a wooden pike into his chest.

Death.

Voss swooped down and yanked the jewelry away, tossing it across the room. With a whoosh of breath and a strangled cough, Dimitri leaped to his feet.

Instead of launching himself at Voss, as he had half expected, Dimitri turned toward the French doors leading to the balcony. White shirt in shreds, flapping from his shoulders, the earl went outside. Before Voss could react, he was back, carrying a struggling figure draped in heavy cloth and followed by an angel carrying her own wings.

Voss would have choked on a derisive laugh at the extent to which Corvindale had gone to keep Maia Woodmore from showing herself and getting captured by Belial if he hadn’t noticed the man’s back. The destroyed shirt clearly exposed the rear of Corvindale’s left shoulder, and the sight of the rootlike pattern similar to that on Voss’s skin made his own tighten and ache. For, unlike Voss’s Mark, which occasionally throbbed and reminded him to whom he belonged, Corvindale’s threads rose in heavy, pulsing welts, shiny with what had to be agonizing pain.