The Vampire Dimitri (7 page)

“Naturally I spent the rest of the night doing the usual to hide the evidence of their visit,” Dimitri explained.

“I'll give you some assistance today if you still need to
close some holes,” Giordan offered. Dimitri nodded in acceptance, for despite his initiatives since the tragedy, there was still more to do.

Last night's strategy had included a few stories told about masquerade skits gone awry, a selection of his own rumor mongering, and a bit of memory altering at White's, Bridge & Stokes, and other mens' clubs afterward—all so that no one would know exactly what had happened to leave three people dead.

Their deaths were tragic enough—not to mention unnecessary—that the actual cause would only make the event even more horrific. That would only lead to the same sort of public outcry and uprising against the Dracule that had occurred in Cologne in 1755. Even more people would die if that happened—fools who thought they could actually hunt and kill the strong, fast immortals. There were few who could hope to take a vampire by surprise and best them in battle, and they had to be well-trained, thus Dimitri ensured that most members of his household staff were as well-equipped as mortals could be for an encounter with Dracule.

And in addition, Dimitri had long made it a practice to hire made vampires whose sires were dead for a variety of tasks, including acting as guardians and protectors of the Woodmore sisters. There were, despite the link to Lucifer, quite a number of Dracule who weren't blindly driven by the need for violence and power and sought only pleasure and immortal life.

Dimitri's scowl deepened and the familiar burn of disgust billowed in him. Vampires like Moldavi and Belial who routinely left a trail of violence and dead mortals in their paths repulsed him. Voss might be a creature concerned only with himself, but he didn't have the lack of respect for mortals
that Moldavi and his ilk did—leaving children bled dry and to die in the fields.

Moldavi particularly enjoyed the blood of young, virginal boys.

“Woodmore is here in England,” Cale said, surprising Dimitri. “He contacted me. The assumption is that he knows where Narcise is, but he didn't say that in the correspondence I received. He was careful. No one else would even know it was from him.”

“Moldavi wants his sister back and he'll do whatever he must to retrieve her—including coming out of his position licking the bollocks of Napoleon Bonaparte. Woodmore isn't about to take the chance of being found. He's too damn smart.”

“We're meeting at the inn in Reither's Closewell.”

Dimitri looked at his friend sharply, but Cale's face was carefully blank. Too blank.

Chas Woodmore couldn't know the history between Narcise and Cale if he was turning to the latter for assistance.
Satan's bloody bones.
If Woodmore would have been a bit more patient and waited for Dimitri's assistance on the mission to kill Moldavi, none of this mess would have happened.

“When you see him, tell Woodmore to get his arse back to London and see to his sisters. You can attend to Narcise,” he suggested.

“Over my damned dead soul,” Cale replied. “She's Woodmore's problem now.”

D
espite Dimitri's easy conversation with Giordan Cale, he was unable to dismiss the fact that somehow, someone knew of his Asthenia for rubies. That conundrum couldn't help but take him back to the night of the fire in Vienna, the night that had ultimately sent him back to England, and that had cemented his mistrust of Voss and the hatred between him and Cezar Moldavi.

He remembered the night as if it had happened yesterday, although it had been in 1690—more than a hundred years ago. He'd been celebrating the opening of the gentleman's club he'd had built in the city of Vienna, which was going through a great architectural renewal now that the Turkish siege had ended.

“If Cezar Moldavi attempts to enter,” Dimitri had directed his manager, “inform me immediately.” At that time, he held a glass of whiskey that he'd hardly yet sipped. It was an exceptional vintage, of course, for he would offer nothing less to the patrons, especially on the opening night.

There were other forms of libation, of the fresh-blooded
sort, too, of course. Dimitri did not stint on luxury, at least in his investments. The Puritan days of Oliver Cromwell were long gone.

But the one sort of vintage he didn't offer was that which Cezar Moldavi preferred: that of young children. Boys in particular, but either gender would do. Dimitri's mouth flattened with repugnance.

Only yesterday, word had filtered through Vienna of yet another child's body found in the woods. The girl's blood had been drained nearly away, and she'd been left to die.

She'd been eight.

The blame had been visited upon a group of Jews, as they were regularly accused of such a horror, but Dimitri knew better. Over the centuries, the Jews had been often accused of such blood libel—of taking blood from Christian or even Muslim children and using it for their religious ceremonies. But, in fact, it was certain members of the Dracule who not only murdered the children, but also perpetuated that myth. Just one of those ways Lucifer created chaos among the mortals.

That was part of the reason Dimitri had dissolved his partnership with Cezar. There were many things about the life as a Dracule that were violent, unsavory and base, but child-bleeding was one thing he wouldn't look away from. Once he'd learned of Moldavi's bloodthirsty propensity for children, he'd released him as an investor in the gentleman's club.

“We are to disallow Moldavi entrance for any reason?” replied Yfreto, the club's manager.

“Precisely. He's not been invited,” was Dimitri's reply, referring to tonight's festivities. “Naturally that won't keep the dog-licker away, so 'tis best to be prepared.”

“Of course, my lord. And, incidentally, we have more
than half the private chests still available in the anteroom for the guests.”

Dimitri nodded in approval. Everyone who entered must leave weapons—stakes and swords in particular, along with all valuables, including jewelry and gemstones—in a private chest. Each with its own key, which was then given to the patron. By placing such a wide moratorium on articles that entered the establishment, Dimitri would ensure that no rubies made it to his vicinity, while at the same time precluding any accidental stakings or other violence.

The Dracule were a particularly savage lot.

Aside of being savage, the Dracule were patrons of pleasure. Night after night, they drank and fed and fucked—in as many different ways as they could, for there was none to stop them or to say them nay. That was, Dimitri had come to realize, the reason Lucifer had offered immortality to his earthly minions. When one had nothing to fear, when one had any and all sort of pleasure easily at hand, one became even more self-serving, greedy and base. Just the sort of person Lucifer would appreciate, and the sort who would do his bidding when and if he required it. Rather like an army—or, perhaps more accurately, a society of agents—in waiting.

One could find such a superficial, hedonistic life unfulfilling, to be sure, so Dimitri had decided to combine business with pleasure. Thus, he'd thrown some energy and funds into a private pleasure house designed specifically for the Dracule.

It was either that, or return to England.

He'd been gone from that country more than twenty years. Ever since Meg—for whom he'd given everything—had left him.

During this, the opening night of his gentleman's club,
nearly every chair was filled with Dracule and a select group of mortals who were allowed to associate with them. Men played draughts, backgammon or chess. Groups of candle stands clustered in corners and on tables, along with a few shallow bowls, covered and filled with glowing coals for lighting the opium pipes.

“You appear displeased, my lord. Is there something you lack?” A slender hand smoothed over the back of Dimitri's shoulders and tickled the ends of his hair, bringing with it Lerina's familiar scent.

He looked up at her and lifted his whiskey glass. “I have all I need right here.” There might have been a flicker of affront in her eyes that she wasn't specifically included in his statement, but Dimitri wasn't certain. And he was sorry if it was the case. She was a beautiful woman, but she required more attention and care to maintain her happiness than he was able, or willing, to give.

Thanks to Meg.

The fresh bite marks on Lerina's shoulder were a testament to the attention and pleasure he'd given her—and, to be fair, she'd given him—earlier today. Lerina was one of those relatively rare mortals who craved the touch and bite of a vampire, particularly when such feeding was accompanied by coitus. And Dimitri was inclined to oblige since a man had to get his pleasure from somewhere.

Yet…she hung on too much, touched him too much, talked too much, and when she did talk, it was of things he had no interest in: fashion and gossip and picnic outings. He never wore a wig, and had no interest in hearing about her trials and tribulations in finding a fashionable one. He didn't know if she'd ever read a book. Like most women, her knowledge of history—except for the most recent events here in Vienna with the Turkish siege—was dismal. And
once, early on, when he'd actually thought she might help him forget Meg, he'd expressed interest in obtaining a copy of Sir Isaac Newton's telescope to look at constellations, she'd suggested that he invest in real diamonds instead of the ones in the sky.

Lerina's laughter, becoming more high-pitched, had begun to grate on his nerves. She simply wasn't interesting or stimulating, and nor was she silent and forgettable.

Aside of that, she had been trying to convince him that he should turn her Dracule—so that they could live together forever.

Forever, Dimitri knew, was much too long to spend with any woman—including Lerina. And when he thought about it in that way, he was almost relieved that Meg had left him. Almost.

And so, tomorrow, when the sun came up and the last of the patrons left, Dimitri intended to bid farewell to Lerina. He'd send her off with a fat purse and three chests of fabrics, as well as the deed to a small house here in Vienna.

He looked up at that moment and saw Voss threading his way toward him. Voss had never been a particularly close associate of Dimitri's, for he was much more interested in seeing how many women he could feed on and bed, smoking opium, and generally drinking himself into a stupor, but they'd played cards together more than a few times in London and Paris. He was charming enough, and didn't grate on Dimitri's nerves as much as unintelligent people did, but there was one problem with Voss. It was that, while Dimitri found him an amusing companion, he didn't trust him.

“Charming place, Dimitri,” Voss said. He was holding a leather-wrapped parcel. “I've brought you a congratulatory gift.”

“That's kind of you.” He took the parcel and found a bottle of most excellent brandy wrapped up with a pewter goblet. The cup's craftsmanship was exquisite: detailed and yet masculine.

He would have set it aside, but Voss smiled. “Do taste it tonight. I've never had better. I thought perhaps you'd be able to tell me from whence it comes.” His eyes glinted with mischief.

Always agreeable to a challenge that exercised his mind, Dimitri agreed to the test. Holding his large, wide coat sleeve out of the way, Voss poured him a generous dollop in the pewter goblet, then, with a lifted brow for permission, poured himself a drink of the same in another glass.

Dimitri sipped from the brandy. It was excellent, indeed, and he fully enjoyed the warmth as it burned its way to his belly. Even Lerina's constant toying with the ends of his hair didn't detract from the pleasure of the excellent libation.

Voss had noticed, and had been admiring Lerina, of course, for a man would have to be blind not to notice her. But Dimitri saw that his admiration was merely objective, not possessive.

Aside of that, with Dimitri's marks, as well as his scent, on Lerina, no one would dare make an overture. It was a point of honor among the Dracule that no one fed upon—let alone coupled or otherwise interacted with—one who was marked. Whether it be mistress, servant, or other associate, a mark was a claim of possession not to be violated. Voss might be an arse, but he certainly wasn't stupid.

And the consideration that Voss might be interested in becoming Lerina's protector was rejected almost as instantly as Dimitri thought of it. The blond man wouldn't be interested in the obligation of maintaining one single woman. “Obligation”
and
“one” being the detrimental modifiers.

As Dimitri rolled a second sip of brandy around in his mouth, he realized with a start that it wasn't merely brandy. He swallowed, trying to place the additive. It wasn't blood, but it was nearly as pleasant.

“Have you decided on the location of its vintage?” Voss asked, watching him closely. “Spain.”
But there is something else.

His companion's brows raised. “Indeed. You do not disappoint me, Dimitri. But precisely where?”

“I'll have to sample a bit more,” he replied, moving now. Lerina's hands fell to his shoulder, but then she shifted onto the chair next to his and began to toy with the large, heavy buttons on his coat.

Dimitri was, thankfully, distracted for a moment by the approach of Yfreto, who needed his attention in the card room. By the time he returned to his seat after addressing the issue, Dimitri noticed that Voss had just returned, as well.

“Have you had enough time to consider now?” the latter asked, handing him the refilled goblet.

Dimitri sipped again, once again noting the additive.
“Salvi,”
he said. “You've added
salvi.
” It was an herb mélange that caused a heightened sense of pleasure and relaxation in a Dracule. For a mortal, however, it would put them to sleep in moments.

Voss inclined his head. “Indeed. I thought a bit of additional enhancement might make it all that more difficult for you, expert as you are, to identify the genesis of the drink. But you've yet to tell me—where in Spain?”

They were interrupted three more times during the course of their conversation, and the enjoyment of the very excellent brandy. Dimitri was feeling the effects of the
salvi,
and recognized the same in Voss's eyes. Just then, Dimitri's front steward approached, carrying an unfamiliar wooden chest.
As he looked up to greet him, Dimitri noticed Voss suddenly go very still.

And as the chest came closer, he felt it.

“My lord,” said the steward, opening the chest to reveal a set of pewter goblets, identical to the one Voss had given him, that Dimitri had drunk from and still held in his hand. “I found these in the front alcove. Hidden behind the curtain.”

With the coffer lying open, Dimitri was assaulted by the presence of a ruby. His chest became heavy, his breath thicker, his limbs slower. It took him only an instant to realize what Voss had intended. He'd been swapping the cups, refilling each new one with brandy, all in an effort to see which cup caused him to display some weakness. Fury rose inside Dimitri as he turned his attention to Voss.

The other man lifted his glass in salute. “A gift for my host. A collection of a dozen of the finest craftsmanship.”

“So that's what you've done,” Dimitri said. It took incredible effort for him to move and speak as if nothing was wrong, despite the fact that his companion was watching him closely. “I wondered. And you expected to trick me thus?”

It was just the sort of thing Voss did, purely for amusement.

Which was precisely why Dimitri had never fully trusted the man.

And why he would not, simply
would not
show any weakness. The ruby was far enough away, and obviously of an insignificant size, so that he wasn't completely paralyzed or weakened. Which implied, at least, that Voss meant him no real harm.

And then suddenly, Dimitri saw something else that drew his attention from the chagrined man in front of him.

Cezar Moldavi had just entered the chamber, surrounded by five of his companions.

Another problem to attend to, but one that much more delicate.

Silently Dimitri cursed Voss even more viciously. Not only was he impaired by a good portion of excellent brandy laced with
salvi,
but also by the presence of a ruby.

“I would throttle you but I'm afraid I have more imminent concerns to deal with. But you are no longer welcome here, Voss. See that he leaves,” he added to the steward, forcing the words out as smoothly as he could.

Voss stood and gave a short little bow. But Dimitri no longer had any interest in him.

“Who allowed that child-bleeder entrance?” he growled, still in his seat. Even Lerina shifted away, seeing the warning in his face as he looked around for his manager.
Where the bloody hell was Yfreto?
“I gave strict instructions—”

“Dimitri,” said Moldavi, sweeping toward them boldly. “Your place is quite accommodating.”