The Vampire Voss (12 page)

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.

A
ngelica did what Voss told her to do: she stayed hidden in the shadowy corner.

Later, she would ask herself why she'd done so. If she'd come forward when the red-haired leader called for her, could she have helped? Could she have saved the life of Felicity Chapman, the butterfly? Could she have prevented the death of Mr. Dudley Hoosman, the Roman emperor?

She'd almost done it. Almost left the confines of the vine-shrouded corner, nearly shouted her presence and brushed past Voss out into the open. Anything to stop the screams and the violence. Anything to put an end to the awful, evil tension.

But when she saw Mr. Hoosman, dragged out into the space by the glowing-eyed, ferocious men, everything slowed. The world stopped, centering into a pinhole of a vision: that of Mr. Hoosman, on the floor, his neck and chest shredded to ribbons, the brooch that had held his toga in place over the shoulder glistening with his blood, the red stain saturating the white cloth and the floor beneath it.

She'd seen that image before, once, after she'd picked up the man's handkerchief he'd dropped.

And only moments later, her mouth open in a silent gasp, she saw the image in reality.

Angelica might have fainted if the wall hadn't been behind her and if Voss hadn't been standing so nearby. She tried to tell him, tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come…and he rounded on her, fierce and dark, grasping her arms so tightly.
Don't move. There is nothing you can do. Stay here until I come for you.

She listened. Angelica was no fool.

Whatever was happening out there on the dance floor, whatever Voss was doing or saying to the attackers, she didn't know. But the man with the glowing red eyes, the one whom she'd stabbed with her shears, was there, standing next to the leader. Who also had burning eyes.

And then she understood. He was what they called a
vampir
. Creatures who drank blood. Legends, tall tales. The stuff of Granny Grapes's ghost stories.

Or so she'd thought.

But now she knew…they were real. And they were all
vampirs,
all of those animalistic men, dragging people out into the middle of the room and feasting on them, tearing into them with claws and long, pointed teeth. Mauling their flesh and draining them of life. The smell of blood floated heavy in the air, and she remembered what Voss had said earlier, about smelling blood on her.

Was this what he meant?

It could have been her, out in the garden.
It could have been her.

Chills and nausea took over Angelica in the same way they had when she had learned her parents were dead. The same empty, awful feeling she'd had the first time she realized what her visions meant. As if life would never be good again. As if she'd never smile again.

The fountain was there, a handy receptacle for the contents of her stomach. She managed to hold it back until the
vampirs
left the room.

They left. They
left.
A miracle?

Somehow, somehow Voss had managed to talk them into leaving. How? How did he know them? What had he said?

Frozen, weak, her throat burning from the vomit and her head weightless, Angelica sagged against the wall, trying to sort through the thoughts and memories, visions and fear that pummeled her.

If she'd seen Mr. Hoosman earlier tonight in his Roman emperor costume, and had recognized he was dressed the way he was when he died in her vision…could she have prevented it? How?

Her head was pounding, her belly felt raw and tight. She tried to pull what she remembered of the vision back into her mind, but it was no use. She couldn't think about that any longer.

Because there was a much more important factor to consider. More terrifying than anything she'd seen, and try as she might to banish it, she couldn't.

What had those men wanted from her and Maia?

And… Oh, God,
where was Maia?

That thought had Angelica stumbling from her sanctuary at last, tearing through the vines and bumping into the fountain on her way. She had to find her sister.

Blood was slick on the floor, and she vaguely registered reddish-brown footprints on the scuffed wood. Someone had moved the bodies, and most of the party attendees had fled the room. Masks, canes, reticules and other accessories were scattered about, testament to the confusion of fear and terror.

Angelica didn't even know where to look for Maia, but she
didn't get far before a hand reached out from nowhere and clamped on her arm.

She stifled a startled shriek and spun to see Voss. Relief battled with urgency and she tried to pull away. “I have to find Maia,” she said. “I have to—”

“She's safe,” he told her. “She's all right. Corvindale hid her.”

“She's safe?” Angelica said. “I want to—”

“She's safe,” he said again, turning her around firmly. “Come. We have to leave, now, before they come back.”

Angelica didn't argue. She didn't have the strength, and aside of that, she wanted nothing more than to leave this horrible place, the scene of a terrifying evening. She wanted to be home, safe, and to see for herself that Maia was safe. And being in Voss's company on the way there was even better.

“This way,” he said when she would have started toward the main entrance. “The carriage is here.” His arm was strong and solid, sliding around her waist in gentle support as he hurried her away from the ballroom and out through the deserted kitchens to a servants' entrance.

It wasn't until they were outside and had walked beyond the drive leading to Sterlinghouse that she realized that the carriage to which he'd led her was not the one she'd arrived in with Maia and the others. Angelica stopped and looked at Voss. “What's this?”

He nodded at her question, stepping back slightly at the vehicle. “It's mine. They won't recognize it and won't know that you're inside.” He didn't need to say who “they” were. She knew.

He stood next to the open door, gesturing for his footman to climb into the driver's seat. The interior of the carriage was empty.

She hesitated a moment. Did she trust him?

“Miss Woodmore,” he said, urgency in his voice. “Please. The pretense will only be effective if you aren't seen climbing in. Or standing here with me.”

It was one thing to waltz with the man, and another to speak privately in the dark corner of an occupied room…but this was beyond the pale. Maia would be furious. Angelica could be ruined if anyone found out.

Although, after the terrifying, chaotic events of tonight… would anyone even know or care? Surely more than one young woman had left the party in horror, seeking safety, without a thought to her reputation.

Angelica was too numb to care. Too exhausted, and still fighting back those images of blood and screams and terror.
It could have been her.

They'd wanted
her.

Voss had protected her.

He had saved others, too.

Angelica gathered up her skirts and climbed in, her heart pounding and her palms damp, her knees still weak. She settled on the cushioned seat, unsure whether she ought to tuck herself in the corner so as to put as much distance between herself and Voss as possible in case he sat next to her…or to take up a lot of space on the seat so that he would be compelled to sit across the way.

Yet, if he sat next to her, he'd be large and warm, solid and comforting. He might even put his arm around her.

Or kiss her again.

Angelica swallowed hard, so confused, so unable to control or even organize the storm of thoughts and memories from tonight. Her teeth threatened to chatter and she couldn't get warm, despite the fact that it was a mild summer's eve.

Voss spoke to the driver, then climbed in with the flourish of his cloak and settled on the seat across from her.

And then the door closed and they were alone in the shadow-swathed vehicle.

Even in the faulty light, Voss could see how pale she was. Her lips were bloodless and her eyes deep in shadow, wide and very nearly empty of emotion. She huddled in the corner, a quiet and colorless version of the intriguing woman he'd danced with, bantered with, kissed.

Nevertheless, he wanted her. So much that he could barely draw a breath without being fully immersed in her presence. His veins leaped and pounded as he watched the play of passing illumination on her face, the light slipping over her cheeks, her lips, the hollow of her throat.

It was the close confines of the carriage. The silence, the privacy, the realization that they were alone and he could have her. Just as he'd had any number of women, willing, unwilling, coaxed or convinced, over the decades.

He could slide across and sit next to her, murmur in her ear and tempt her to him. It would be over before she knew it, his incisors buried in her neck, her blood flowing onto his tongue, hands on her skin, their bodies straining and twining. Voss swallowed, considering.

And if his hot-eyed thrall didn't loosen her restraints and bring her willingly into his arms, so be it…she'd find pleasure. Eventually.

It would be effortless. He could pull her to him, yank her across the space between them, gather her into his arms, find what he wanted.

Yet, he didn't move. His Mark twinged as if to ask why he held himself back, but Voss ignored it. Instead he pulled off his cloak and leaned forward quickly, draping it over Angelica, covering her half-bared shoulders. Then he settled back in his seat to plan his next move.

Angelica murmured her thanks and drew the cloak, which
must be warm from his body, closer beneath her chin. Her eyes were so dark in her pale, oval face.

And as he looked over at her, captured by the curve of her cheek and the dark, exotic eyes fastened on him, something shifted inside him. Deep within, like a little mechanism falling into place.

He didn't want to hurt this woman.

“Who were they?” she asked. She trained her gaze on him, still wide and shocked, but with some emotion therein. “What do they want from me and Maia?”

The second question was infinitely easier to answer than her first, and he saw no reason to lie. “They want to use you to get to your brother. As collateral or a ransom.”

“Chas? Why? For what?”

“He's taken something that belongs to a man named Cezar Moldavi—there's long been bad blood between his family and that of Corvindale and his associates.”

That was the simplest way to explain the two factions, or cartels, which split the Draculia: those who supported Cezar Moldavi and his thirst for power over the mortal world, and those who did not. Voss tended not to ally himself openly with either, but that was because he preferred to remain neutral in the ongoing struggle. It was much less messy—and infinitely less dangerous—to remain above the fray. He wasn't about to get caught in the crossfire, so to speak.

“Moldavi wants the…item your brother took returned to him. Those were Moldavi's men tonight.”

“Men? Those weren't men,” she said, her voice choked, her eyes flashing suddenly with rage. “They were…” She couldn't seem to find the words, and her voice trailed off. “
Vampirs
. They were
vampirs,
weren't they?”

He could barely hear the low syllables over the rumble of wheels along the cobbled street, but he saw the way her lips
moved. He was surprised she was familiar enough with the Hungarian word to apply it to a man, rather than a rotting corpse. But, of course, being Chas Woodmore's sister, she would probably know more than most other young women.

“What do you know about vampires?” he asked, pronouncing it in English. He asked partly from curiosity and partly to take control of the conversation's direction.

Voss would be surprised if Chas had actually divulged to his sisters any details of his relationship with Corvindale and the Draculia. Woodmore was discreet, and well aware of the consequences of betraying those with whom he associated. He'd become a valuable asset to Corvindale in particular, but even Chas Woodmore was expendable if he overstepped his bounds.

And now that he'd been foolish enough to elope with Cezar Moldavi's sister…Voss shook his head. Woodmore had been prudent to arrange for his sisters' safety and guardianship. Too damn bad for Corvindale that the earl didn't realize it would likely be a permanent arrangement. And that Voss had relieved him of the burden of one of his charges—at least temporarily.

He couldn't help but smile at the thought of Corvindale's reaction when he learned that Voss had Angelica Woodmore. The smile was more than a bit complacent. Perhaps then the man's cold facade might crack.

Voss hadn't known Dimitri before entering into his agreement with Lucifer. In fact, none of them knew each other before being turned immortal, for each Dracule came from a different geographic place, and in many cases, even different generations.

They became acquainted by accident, or perhaps by Lucifer's influence—or likely a little of both—but since they tended to congregate and find pleasure, sustenance and entertainment
in the darkest, most dangerous and expensive pleasure houses or clubs, it wasn't surprising that they should encounter others of the Draculia in the same places in the largest, most exciting cities of Europe: Paris, Rome, Prague, Barcelona and, of course, London. Their world, after all, was a relatively small one.

Angelica had wrapped the cloak even closer around her throat, and he could see the shapes of her knuckles where they curled into the silk-lined wool. “What did you say to them? How did you get them to leave? Do you
know
them?”

So much for diverting the conversation.

“I've had…dealings with them,” Voss replied. Strictly speaking, that was true. He wasn't sure why he hesitated telling her more. This conversation was pointless. He should be showing her his fangs and his glowing eyes, and getting beneath that cloak he'd so foolishly given her to hide under.