The Vampire Dimitri (8 page)

The other man was slight of build, but neatly groomed. His unwigged and unpowdered dark hair was combed straight down over his forehead in the old style of a Crusader. He had a wide jaw and full lips, and he carried himself as if expecting to need to defend an attack at any moment. His shoulders hunched slightly, but his eyes never seemed to rest in one place for long.

Dimitri merely looked coolly at him. He made no move to rise, nor allowed any inflection into his voice. “I hardly expected to see you here, Moldavi.” Especially since Dimitri had dissolved their business partnership over a year ago, buying out his would-be partner while the building was still in the early stages of construction. “There aren't any children about.”

“More's the pity,” said Moldavi. His voice had a bit of a sibilant hiss due to an accident wherein his jaw hadn't healed properly. Rumor had it he'd been beaten and left for dead by a band of his schoolmates. “Children have the sweetest, purest blood.”

“I wouldn't know,” Dimitri replied, still concentrating on his breathing. The chest with the goblets was still on the floor nearby, but he would not give Voss—who was taking his time leaving the chamber—the satisfaction of confirming the man's trick. Revealing one's Asthenia was akin to acknowledging a flaccid cock or any other private weakness. Not to mention dangerous. “I don't recall sending you an invitation, Cezar.”

The other man smiled unpleasantly, and a tiny gold fleck glinted in his left fang. “I was certain it had been an oversight. You've always been so inclusive of all of us. Which is why I brought a gift for you.” He stepped aside and revealed a cloaked figure behind him.

Dimitri had never met Cezar's sister before, but there was no mistaking her, for her beauty was legendary among the Dracule. Narcise Moldavi was easily one of the most striking women living—or immortal, as she happened to be. Her skin was smooth and ivory, and she had violet-blue eyes that were disconcertingly empty. Long, shiny black hair fell in lush waves over her shoulders. And her violet gown was made of some material that clung to her as if molded in the wind, revealing taut nipples, the jut of her hip bones, and even the swell of her
mons venus.
Other than a bracelet encircling her upper arm with a feather dangling from it, she wore no other adornment.

It wasn't because of Lerina—or even Meg—that Dimitri was unmoved, however. “I have no interest in your leavings, Moldavi,” he said. Despite the lure and lull of the
salvi,
there
were a variety of reasons Narcise's presence had no impact on him, including the emptiness in her face. Although he'd seen the brief flash of shame and anger in her eyes, Dimitri saw that it was clear she was under her brother's control. “Especially your sister. Although, she's not precisely your type, is she? You prefer to let others partake while you sniff out other amusements.”
Such as hard cocks and little children.

“You dare to insult my family?” Moldavi's eyes burned with fury. His companions closed ranks, showing their fangs.

“On the contrary. The insult was directed to you alone,” he replied. “Now if you'll excuse me.” He made it a statement, not a question, and turned away from the repugnant man. Dimitri didn't trust himself to stand, but he had no fear of putting his back to Cezar Moldavi.

At that moment, another of Dimitri's acquaintances, Lord Eddersley, approached, and took Voss's vacant seat.

“Is all well?” he asked Dimitri, eyeing Moldavi over his host's shoulder and then meeting his eyes.

Dimitri felt the shift in the air and the change in smell as Cezar Moldavi and his group moved on. He had no illusions that the man was actually going to leave the premises, but Dimitri wasn't inclined to make a scene. Not tonight.

He didn't need to prove anything, and Moldavi had obviously wished to make the point to his companions: that he could enter uninvited and disrupt Dimitri's evening. Engaging with the man would only fuel Moldavi's fire, and give him more attention than he deserved.

However, once Dimitri found out who'd allowed the bastard in, there would be hell to pay. “Just dealing with a nuisance,” Dimitri replied to Eddersley as Lerina excused herself.

“He's walked away, but he's not leaving.”

Dimitri nodded absently at Lerina as she turned to walk
off, her hand sliding along his arm. “As I assumed.” He picked up the bottle of brandy Voss had left, then set it back down. Perhaps it might be best if he stayed away from the
salvi.

A short time later, Dimitri happened to look over just as two figures emerged from one of the shadowy alcoves that had been built to provide privacy.

His body went cold, then hot with anger, when he recognized them both. Cezar Moldavi and Lerina.

He was still watching when Moldavi looked over and met his eyes boldly, sending a message of smugness.

Dimitri tensed, his jaw setting. Now he understood.

And as the two strolled closer, he saw the marks on Lerina's left shoulder. The one that had been pristine and smooth earlier tonight. Confirmation of his suspicions.

Fury suffused him and his fingers curled around the arm of his chair. Such blatant disrespect couldn't go unchallenged—for everyone in the place knew Lerina was marked by him. Dimitri rose to his feet.

The room swayed much more than he'd expected, and he paused to bestow yet another curse on Voss for tampering with his mental faculties tonight. The chest with the ruby-studded goblet had been closed and taken away, but the
salvi
was quick, deep and strong…and, apparently, very long-lasting.

His knees nearly buckled, but Dimitri allowed no weakness to show. With great effort, he kept himself upright and steady and focused his attention on Moldavi. In another moment, he'd walk over to the man and confront him…

But as it turned out, that wasn't necessary. Moldavi certainly knew what he was doing, and he released Lerina as he drew near Dimitri. Sparing only a brief, cold glance at his mistress—as of now, former mistress—Dimitri focused on
his past business partner. Now, he allowed his fangs to show and his eyes to burn.

Without either man saying a word, the room became hushed and tension stretched. Cards were laid on tables, drinks set down, chatter stopped. This was going to be a battle before witnesses.

“For one who arrived uninvited, you've gone even beyond that disregard,” Dimitri said, his voice calm and cold. His fist clenched and the room tilted a bit, but he was steadied by fury. “Your insult is inexcusable.”

Moldavi said nothing. He merely stepped closer, leaving his companions, including Narcise, to cluster behind him, watching. “Perhaps if you had placed more value on the lovely lady, it wouldn't have come to this.”

Dimitri flickered a glance at Lerina, and saw the combination of horror and shame on her face. What had likely begun as a petulant bid for his attention had turned into a grave mistake on her part, as well as that of Moldavi's.

He would deal with Lerina later.

“Leave,” Dimitri said to him. “Or I'll see that you do myself.”

Moldavi flashed his gold-flecked fang. “I should have been invited tonight. This was my investment as well, and your ridiculous sensibilities cost me a great amount of money. It's you who have made a grave insult. I merely repay you in kind, Dimitri.”

“I'll not do business with a child-bleeder.” Dimitri stepped toward him, and the next thing he knew, Moldavi was lunging.

With a stake in hand.

Dimitri dodged, still unsteady and fighting the spinning of the room, and then dove at his attacker. They bumped
into a chair and table, sending them tumbling, as Dimitri smashed a fist into Moldavi's face.

The stake arced toward him, and he caught the glimpse of a countenance tight with fury and desperation as a powerful arm brought it down toward Dimitri's torso.

A shift aside, and the weapon slammed into his rib cage, the point burying deep. Pain shot through him, but at least he was feeling it and not dead—which was what a stake to the heart would do to a Dracule. Instant death.

Enraged, Dimitri grabbed Moldavi's arm and yanked it, then whipped him across the room. The bone snapped as he released him and the other man tumbled into a heap.

Dimitri turned to see three of Moldavi's companions aligning themselves toward him, but before he needed to respond, Yfreto and four other footmen stepped in between them.

“Get out,” Dimitri ordered, taking a menacing step toward Moldavi.

Somehow, the room had righted itself…but he saw through burning eyes that everything was coated in red. The scents of fear and smoke filled his nose, and he turned just as someone screamed.

“Fire!”

It was all over after that.

Even now, Dimitri remembered the sudden hot blaze, the smoke, the rage of the flames.

The fire had been started during the altercation with Cezar—someone had knocked over candles or an opium bowl and the rich fabric had shot up in flames.

There was, of course, nothing that could be done except watch the place burn to the ground.

Dimitri and Eddersley discovered Lerina's body the next
day. She was burned so badly it was only a remnant of her gown that identified her.

Shortly after that, Dimitri left Vienna and returned to England. Glad for an excuse to leave, sickened by the loss of life and property, disgusted by the actions of his fellow Dracule, and by his own foolish acceptance of Lucifer's bargain, he decided he was through with it all.

He wanted out.

He wanted his mortal life back.

M
aia awoke with a start.

She hadn't realized she'd finally fallen asleep, worried as she was about Angelica and Chas, but she must have done, for the world had become dark and silvered blue with moonlight.

Her heart was racing, and her skin warm and damp. Sitting bolt upright, she reached to touch her shoulder, the side of her neck, her throat. Her pulse pounded furiously as she looked at her reflection in the mirror across the room.

Nothing. There was nothing there.

Her shoulder and neck reflected back at her, pale and almost ghostly, shadowed where her clavicle rose, but unblemished. The long braid of her hair hung over one side, making a darker stripe down over her pale pink night rail.

Maia's eyes looked like wide dark circles and her mouth a paler one.

It had seemed so real. The burn of his mouth, sliding over her lips, tasting and sucking on them…the heat had been intense, undulating through her so that the nightgown clung
to her damp skin. His lips moved to her jaw, to her ear, down to the soft, hidden curve of her neck…and then the flash of pleasure-pain when his fangs penetrated her skin and released the blood pulsing in its channel. She remembered the dream, remembered arching, sighing, feeling the shimmering warmth draining from her veins as his hot mouth closed over her skin, and sipped. Licked. Nuzzled.

She touched the side of her neck again, and pulled away, looking at her hand for the blood that wasn't there. Her fingers brushed over her lips in an echo of the kiss. Her heart still pounded and her chest felt flushed and full. And down low, an insistent throbbing, a hot reminder of the intensity of her dream.

It put her in mind of that shocking interlude with the Knave of Diamonds…so warm and liquid like. Intense.

Maia didn't need to throw back her covers; she must have kicked them off during the dream. She dropped her feet to the floor, relieved to feel the relative cool of polished wood beneath them. During the summer, she had no need of a rug to warm the floor. Her night rail fell in a light cloud to just over her feet, loosening and allowing a bit of air to relieve her heated skin.

She couldn't banish the dream; and in fact, Maia realized she clung to the memories that were now sliding into mere wisps. She'd never seen his face, the shadowy man who came to her, whose weight she'd sworn had been pressing her into the mattress only moments before. She still felt his imprint on her body. Heavy. Hot.

But she was clearly alone. Clearly the victim…or perhaps recipient was a better term…of a mere dream. A most realistic one, but a dream nevertheless.

And why she was dreaming about phantom vampires visiting in her chamber when she'd received such happy news
today, Maia couldn't understand. At last she'd gotten word that Alexander was coming home and should arrive within a week. Perhaps sooner.

Before she opened the letter from him, she'd been over come by apprehension. She'd nearly put it aside to open later, at night, when, if the news was bad—if he'd changed his mind or wasn't coming back—she'd be able to stay in her chamber alone with it for a bit. The last thing she wanted was for Corvindale to see her humiliation or grief.

She'd held it, looked at the crinkled envelope, folded and a bit dusty and stained from its long journey, and considered how she would react if it wasn't good news. What she would do to hide her pain. And then Maia had to wonder why she was so worried about it. Alexander had never given her any indication that he didn't hold her in high esteem. Certainly there'd been the faintest whiff of scandal attached to her after the Incident with Mr. Virgil, but she'd been so careful and had acted the epitome of propriety since. Alexander had come on the scene more than a year later and if he'd heard whisperings about it, the incident hadn't seemed to bother him.

But if he were to call off the engagement…Maia's stomach twisted. She'd lost her parents, too, and although this would be nothing like the pain she'd experienced then, it would be devastating. The announcement had already been made. It would be a scandal if her engagement was broken, for what ever reason. A terrible scandal.

When she opened the letter and read his brief note, her fears had ebbed.
I shall be home within the week. At long last.

That made it sound as if he'd missed her, didn't it?

Just then, she heard a new sound on the moonlit street below. It sounded like a carriage door opening, and Maia
rushed to the open window when she heard voices. Had Angelica returned?

She looked down and saw a hooded and cloaked female figure climbing up the front steps as the carriage rumbled off.
Please let her be Angelica!

Maia didn't hesitate. She slipped quietly out of her chamber, heedless of her bare feet and flowing nightgown, hurrying silently down the corridor to the stairs. But by the time she got halfway down the angular staircase, pausing on the landing at the second floor, she recognized the voices below.

Not Angelica.

A door closed on the lower level, and she heard the businesslike tread of solid footsteps coming from the corridor where the earl's study was located. The last person she wanted to encounter was Corvindale, so Maia turned and started to climb back up. Worry and disappointment replaced the momentary surge of hope, but then she heard something that made her pause.

“—from Dewhurst,” wafted up an unfamiliar feminine voice.

“What is the message?” Corvindale replied, his words rising clearly.

Maia crept back across the landing and started down the next flight, aware that her feet would be in view of whomever was in the foyer should they look up.
Don't look up.

“He bids you come retrieve the girl,” said the woman, who was obviously the messenger. “From Black Maude's.”

Corvindale's curse was sharp and vulgar. “She's at Black Maude's?”

Maia saw the top of his head as he whirled and started off, presumably back down the corridor in preparation for leaving.

“Wait!” Maia said, surging faster down the steps.

He turned up his face and their eyes caught as she hurried down, and for a moment, Maia felt the breath knocked out of her.
Him.

No, impossible. She forced herself to breathe, to pull her attention from his glittering dark eyes. He was dressed in a white shirt that sagged and a loose neckcloth, as usual.

“Miss Woodmore,” he said, but his voice wasn't nearly as cold as it usually was. “I presume you heard the conversation.”

“I'm going with you,” she said.

“No,” he began, but she interrupted.

“Yes. She's my sister. She might need me. Who knows…”

Her voice threatened to break, a combination of desperation and fear weakening it. “Who knows what he's done to her.”

Corvindale held her gaze for much too long and then snapped, “You have three minutes to dress yourself appropriately.” He turned away and stalked off.

Maia looked down, having momentarily forgotten her state of dishabille, and realized that the moonlight streaming over her had highlighted the flimsy fabric of her summer gown and her bare feet.

Three minutes wasn't nearly enough time, but she would manage it. She had no doubt that Corvindale would leave without her.

 

Dimitri hadn't expected the ever-proper Miss Woodmore to meet his deadline, so he was surprised and annoyed when, precisely three minutes later, she came tearing down the stairs. That was the thing about her. She was constantly surprising him with her stubbornness, and, much as he hated
to admit it, her wit. Even when he became his most earlish, she didn't back down.

A quick glance told him that she actually
carried
her shoes, and that some loose cloaklike garment was draped over a frock that he suspected wasn't completely done up, for Luce's sake, and he had a moment of serious regret.

If he'd given her a bit more time, she might not have presented herself partially clothed. Although whatever she'd donned would be an improvement over the transparent pink thing she'd been wearing earlier.

Without a word, he gestured for her to precede him out the side door where his footman was waiting with the landau. He'd chosen to be driven in the closed carriage rather than to drive himself for a variety of reasons—the least of which was the benefit of having another set of male hands if assistance was needed to procure Angelica—but now as he climbed into the very small, close space with Miss Woodmore and they started off, he regretted that decision. He should have had Iliana join them, for she was nearly as welcome a set of hands as a man. As well, she wielded a stake rather well for a mortal woman.

His companion, a very different sort of mortal woman than Iliana, but no less stubborn or intent, was busy putting her shoes on. The cloak had slipped from her shoulders confirming that, yes indeed, her dress sagged because it wasn't properly done up in the back. From what he knew of current fashion, it was unlikely that she'd had the time or ability to even pull on a corset and
that
was not a comforting thought.

Dimitri settled into his seat across from her and focused his eyes anywhere but
there.

The aversion of his gaze didn't help matters much, for in such an enclosed space the blasted woman's presence was not
to be ignored. The essence of a spice like cardamom or perhaps something even more exotic mingled with some sweet floral like lily of the valley, along with female musk and the crisp clean cotton of her frock, creating that potency he found impossible to dismiss. How in the bloody hell could a woman smell like a damned spice cabinet and a garden and still be so enticing?

Either slumber or her hurried dressing had mussed up her hair so that flyaway strands sprung from the braid that hung over one shoulder.

One ivory-blue shoulder, bared and pristine.

Elegantly curved. Brushed with a swath of moon, and then shadow, and then streetlight with the motion of the carriage.

Dimitri jerked his gaze away. He swallowed hard, felt the throbbing of his gums as he tried to keep his fangs sheathed and the rest of him from stirring. Satan's black bones, he was as bad as a green boy with his first whore. Even with Meg he hadn't experienced such a lack of control.

Pressing himself back against the seat squab, he angled his left shoulder so that the hard edge of the cushion frame dug into the throbbing, painful Mark on his skin, adding to the constant agony with which he lived. The deep, sharp response was a welcome distraction.

Yet…his thoughts would not be suppressed so easily. It would be nothing to reach across and close his hands over smooth, fine skin. Lower his face to hers again, taste her lips again, fill his hands with soft, silky flesh.
Heaven.
His nostrils flared automatically as she moved, sending a renewed waft of her scent into him and her gown shifting tauntingly.

With great effort, he kept his eyes from burning red and hungry. His fangs were extended, but still hidden.
It's been too long.

A hundred and thirteen years. Three months. Five days.

His Mark twinged sharp and hot.

It should have gotten easier. It shouldn't be this impossible to keep from
needing
something he hadn't had for so long—especially since he no longer made the mistake of starving himself. But the saliva pooled in his mouth and his heart thudded in his chest. His skin prickled and his muscles leaped beneath, as if coiling up and ready to spring.

It was her proximity. The fact that they were so close and intimate in this small vehicle. The fact that only last night he'd allowed her to taunt him into
kissing
those damned full, top-heavy
lips.

His unease was also due to the fact that moments before Voss's messenger had arrived tonight, Dimitri had been dreaming. Slumped in a chair, in his study, dreaming that he was arching over a slender, ivory body, filling his hands with feminine curves, tasting the warmth of her mouth…sinking into a virginal white neck, drinking the rich lifeblood as she moaned and writhed, pressing herself against—

“Where are we going?”

Miss Woodmore's question yanked Dimitri from the dark vortex of his thoughts. He swallowed hard, grateful for the redirection.
Angelica. At Black Maude's.
“Billingsgate.”

Pulling the cloak back up to her shoulders, she commenced with some odd contortions that he realized were her attempts to do up her dress.

Dimitri made a sharp disgusted sound. “Turn around, Miss Woodmore,” he said. “Allow me.”

Her gaze flew to his, her eyes rising in a lowered face that made her look even more shocked. “I don't think—”

“It would be best if you didn't. Think,” he added for clarification as much for himself as for her. Because when she
huffed and turned around to present him with her back, his newly ungloved hands trembled.

Perhaps not the most intelligent decision he'd ever made, but this entire farce had commenced with a foolish decision six years ago, when he agreed to act as guardian to Chas Woodmore's sisters. That had been before he'd ever seen or met any of them.

Not that he supposed he could have denied Chas's request anyway. Especially if he
had
seen them. For Dimitri always did what was right. He did what honor demanded, despite the searing reminder of the devil's Mark on his back.

Miss Woodmore's skin was warm.

He didn't exactly touch it, not directly, but he could feel it through the thin fabric. And perhaps a fingertip brushed over its smooth silkiness when he buttoned the first button at her nape. A finger might also have brushed the curve that swept down to her shoulder. Nothing like his own, roped with the rootlike Lucifer's Mark, scarred and dusted with erratic hair.

He was quick, his fingers nimble, his fangs thrust out so far his gums hurt, filling his mouth. Her scent, the light brush from the hair swept over the back of her neck, the heat from her skin and the confirmation that she wore no corset made his gaze tinge red.