The Vampire Voss (23 page)

Voss felt the edges of his eyes crinkle in a smile. He didn't need to make any other reply. She was right and they both knew it.

“As you're risking your life being here, I rather suppose we ought to get on with whatever you needed to speak to me about,” Rubey said.

“Did Corvindale say anything about Angelica?” he asked, surprising himself, for that was not what he'd intended to say. His only concern was whether the chit had somehow died. “You never did tell me.”

“No, he merely commanded me to tell him where you were.”

“Perhaps Cale said something further during your…er… pillow talk?”

Rubey gave him a slow smile. “Now, Voss, you know that there's very little time—or energy—for mere talk when I am thus engaged.” Then the smile went away and that shrewdness came back in her eyes. “You are concerned for her, aren't you? Isn't that odd for you, Voss? Or is it merely because you know that if she's dead, Dimitri and Chas will be even more intent on sending you to join your friend Brickbank in hell? I wonder what it's like down there, being with Lucifer all the time. Don't you, Voss? At least—”

“Enough,”
Voss said, uncertain why her taunting annoyed him so. He showed a bit of fang to let her know he was damned serious.

She sobered and gestured to a chair. “Very well, then. Here I am, the wisest woman you know, at your disposal for whatever it is that's on your conscience.” Then she laughed. “Oh, dear. Did I truly say that? When have you—or any of you—ever had a conscience?”

Voss felt his eyes warm with a deeper glow and he didn't bother to retract his incisors. And then, suddenly, his annoyance faded. It was replaced by something he didn't recognize, some odd, empty emotion.

“Voss, I am expecting Giordan again shortly. Perhaps you'd like to conduct this conversation now, before he arrives?”

“You're going to die,” he said. Her eyes widened, and he continued, “Someday. You and everyone you know…except us.”

Rubey nodded, eyeing him as if he were a mouse. Voss happened to know that, while she had less than a fondness for rodents, she wasn't particularly frightened of them. Which was probably just about how she felt about him. “Everyone dies,” she said in an eerie echo of Angelica. “Except the Draculia.
And even then…well, that fierce Chas Woodmore has seen to the demise of more than a few of your brethren.”

Voss didn't say anything for a moment. He'd battled his way in here because he needed to talk to someone, and it wasn't possible to talk to Angelica without abducting her again.… But he didn't quite understand what he wanted from Rubey.

But he knew he wanted—needed—something. Direction. Wisdom. Hope?

What was happening to him?

Somehow, she seemed to sense what was on his mind. “You Dracule, you prize your immortality and live for centuries, but I've never understood why. I think I should find it lonely and monotonous after a time.” She leaned forward in her chair, affording him a generous view down her bodice, corset
and
shift. But even that delightful sight didn't distract him because she was speaking thoughts he'd always tried to ignore. “Giordan offered to make me Dracule. He suggested that if he did, I could be Rubey's proprietress forever. I told him I didn't want to do anything forever.”

“Not even live?”

But what happens when you die?

She shook her head. “It's unnatural, living forever.
Nothing
lives forever. Nothing, Voss. Only the demon who made you this way, made you unnatural. Look at how you must live—by feeding on other living beings. I have often wondered why he would do such a thing, but I've come to believe it's because it ties you more tightly to him. You take from your own race. You must. What sort of creature is he that makes you take life from your brethren to live? It's interesting, and frightening. Like copulating, the very act can be intimate and pleasurable… or it can be a violation. Which way do you think the demon wants it to be? Which way does he make it easier for you?”

He needed a drink. Voss stood and went to the cabinet,
helping himself to a finger of brandy. Yet…he didn't tell her to cease speaking.

“I've only known you for a decade, Voss, but I can see the emptiness in your life. Nothing changes, does it? The only relationships you have are with other Dracule, and none of you truly trust the others. Instead of envying you, I pity you. All of you. Each of you has nothing but sameness, emptiness, every day. You've nothing to strive for, nothing to look toward. Your lives—even Giordan's—are filled with debauchery and pleasure and nothing else.”

“And Prinny's life, and Byron, and Brummell—none of them are denying themselves pleasure. But they'll grow too old or too poor or they'll die and their days will be over. Ours— mine—goes for eternity. It will never change. I'll never be too old to fuck—”

“Ah, yes, the monotony of it all. But it's the very nature of your existence—the need, the drive for pleasure. Do you
never
get tired of indulgences? Pleasure? And not even the hair on your head turning gray or falling out?” Rubey shrugged. “You remain the same, for eternity—unless you land on a stake. Or a sword separates your head from your shoulders. And then what happens? What has your devil promised you then?”

Voss's mouth went dry. His body turned empty and cold because she had said what he couldn't put out of his mind. The thought had tortured him since yesterday. All he could do was nod.

It didn't matter. The deed was done, the covenant made. This was his life.

Forever, as long as he didn't get himself staked or beheaded. Or burned in the sun.

Rubey wasn't finished with her litany of questions. Ones he didn't want to hear, and yet, ones he could no longer ignore. “Do you ever wonder why he chose you? Why the offer was
made to you? What did the demon see in you, Voss, all those decades ago, that made him think you would be worthy?”

He gulped the whiskey, closing his eyes as scenes from his past whirled behind his lids, prodded his memory. He'd heard people describe it: how their life passed before their eyes during a near-death experience. He understood that experience.

And what he saw there, the summary of his hundred forty-eight years, was starkly clear. It was all about him. It always had been, since he was a child.

Petted, fussed over, indulged.

“You'll have to answer for it all someday, Voss.”

He opened his eyes. “I don't want to,” he said, speaking more honestly than he could ever remember doing. Something hot and raw inside him exploded, and so did the searing pain of his Mark. He felt Lucifer's hate at that moment.

“If you're afraid to answer for what you've done here,” Rubey said as she leaned forward and rested her hand on his, “then
change
.”

T
here were many ways to sneak into a woman's bedchamber, and Voss had tried a good variety of them in the last century, with great success and few disappointments.

Since, after all, there was little danger to him physically should he be found with his hand down (or up) a frilly night rail—being shot, tossed from a window or otherwise attacked were not real threats—Voss had no qualms about taking advantage of the lowered defenses of a slumbering woman. There was something even more attractive and sensual than usual when a woman was tousled with sleep, her face slack and without artifice, her slender arms and delicate shoulders exposed from beneath rumpled sheets, her lashes fanning over pale cheeks.

But most of all, he appreciated the way she would come to consciousness under his touch. Most often, like a cat—stretching and sighing, with a languorous roll. Warm skin and creased cheeks, and, most of all, the soft, hot valley between her breasts…easily accessible when bare of a corset. His gentle strokes and nuzzling lips brought her slowly awake to deli
cious pleasure, and once she opened her eyes, his own would be there…glowing, coaxing and easing any hesitation.

Sneaking into a woman's chamber in the home of a Dracule, however, was a different challenge. Especially if the Dracule was Dimitri.

Nevertheless, Voss had managed it.

Dimitri would be prepared for Belial and his cohorts to attack by climbing over walls or rushing the doors, using brute force. Or perhaps by hijacking a returning maidservant, groom or carriage, or tricking them into coming out—all after the sun was setting, of course…but Voss had a simpler way. It required more patience and planning than Belial or his ilk would have, but he didn't mind.

The earl's household ran like most other gentrified households in London, despite Dimitri's necessary proclivity for sleeping during the day and moving about during the night. As it was, such a lifestyle was not so different than that of most of the
ton,
particularly the gentlemen—which, as a rule, socialized well past midnight most nights. Thus they slept late in the day, often past noon. Since normal business was conducted during the daylight hours as well, it was simpler for most Dracule to have a household that ran thus.

Voss gained admittance, therefore, when he assisted in delivering the large haunch of pig and various other packages from a butcher shop, just after the servants ate supper. In the confusion in the kitchen as he and the butcher's son carried the wrapped pieces in, Voss slipped away to the servants' quarters.

After that, it was a simple matter to remain hidden until the time was right to find Angelica. Being among the servants would also help him determine who was going out for the evening and who would need to be avoided. The staff was busy throughout the rest of the evening, only coming into their
living quarters briefly. When they did, Voss heard and smelled them in plenty of time to hide. He moved more quickly than any mortal and made no noise.

Thus, his plan was simple, but it also required foreplanning and patience.

He must stay out of sight for hours in the same house that Angelica lived in, and far enough away that Dimitri wouldn't scent him. Angelica had left the house shortly after his arrival; he knew this, for her maid was discussing her mistress's choice of gown for the night's engagement. Yet, despite her absence, Angelica's scent somehow rose above every other smell—and there were many of them, not all pleasant—in Blackmont Hall, reminding him that she was near.

Even when two of the upper chambermaids somehow found the opportunity to retreat to their shared attic room shortly after supper, undress and conduct simple ablutions in front of a grainy mirror, Voss was hardly distracted. In the past, he would have considered such an opportunity a gift, and he would have emerged from where he hid beneath a narrow bed complete with glowing eyes and a variety of ideas that involved the three of them.… But he had no desire to bestir himself while he was waiting for Angelica to return. When the chatting maids left, smelling of lye soap and cheap rose petal water, Voss found himself wondering precisely why he had taken the trouble. Why he was here, hiding under a dusty bed on a threadbare rag rug.

Of course, a good portion of the reason was that he enjoyed the challenge. And he had the inexplicable desire to annoy Dimitri. He meant to leave the man a farewell gift of sorts so that he was aware that Voss had breached the house on his way from London to…wherever he was going to go now. Seville? Venice?

Constantinople was appealing.

He'd stop first in Paris to do business with Moldavi—or perhaps in Barcelona to see Regeris—and then be on his way. Despite his disregard for governments—imperial or otherwise—Voss had no desire to remain in a land in the midst of a war.

Yes, there were benefits to it: many women were left lonely and unprotected whilst their men were off fighting, and of course, some Dracule appreciated the smorgasbord of fallen soldiers on a silent battlefield. Voss liked fresher blood than that, but he'd been known to partake when necessary. After all, a vampire really only needed to feed once every few days or so. The other times were merely enhancements to or ways to prolong sexual pleasure. It was difficult—and, really, unnecessary in Voss's mind—to separate a bit of a fang-slip and a taste of lifeblood from other physical pleasure. Why bother to try?

Of Voss's relationship with Moldavi, there was no love lost. Despite what others might think, Voss had never done significant business with him. Just enough to keep the man from being suspicious or offended so that Voss didn't become one of his particular targets as Dimitri had become so long ago in Vienna.

Voss crawled from beneath the bed that was barely wide enough to hold a child, let alone a woman, and thought he might have to have a word with Dimitri about his servants' quarters. Not that he was terribly concerned for the comfort of servants—who was?—but at least if they slept well, they were more productive during the day or night.

But that bit of advice he would save for later, of course. Decades from now, perhaps a century, when Angelica was long dead and this whole incident was well in the past and forgotten.

Yes. A hundred years from now, all this would be forgotten and Voss would still be visiting Rubey's.

 

Voss lurked about well into the night, easily evading notice. Aside of the two chambermaids who'd changed earlier, he was also privy to a passionate encounter between one of the young, muscular footmen and a curvaceous blonde kitchen maid. He couldn't help but mentally critique the footman's technique, which could have been more visually attractive—for he knew from experience just how a man and woman looked when they were together against the wall. He'd utilized a mirror more than once to determine the best angles.

Another incident involving a less fortunate groom and a redheaded girl ended with the groom half falling down the back stairs after being rebuffed by the toe of a well-placed slipper.

Smirking to himself, Voss shook his head. The groom's advances had been clumsy and doltish…just as his own had been. One hundred and twenty-five years ago.

Originally Voss had assumed that Angelica would be staying in tonight, after her unpleasant experiences that had begun three days earlier with the masquerade ball. But to his surprise—and perhaps annoyance—his eavesdropping indicated that she had gone to a dinner party. Although he didn't see the frock in question, the discussion between the two upstairs maids about her choice of a periwinkle gown with dark blue ribbons induced an unseen nod of approval from Voss.

She would look lovely in blue, with her dusky rose complexion and dark eyes. Perhaps her hair would be dressed high, leaving the slender column of her neck bare for all to see. The delicate ridge of her clavicles, a bit of a swell of bosom, and perhaps even the hint of a shoulder blade…

A twinge of regret tightened his belly, but he pushed it away. He would see her soon enough, mussed from the pillow and sheets, warm with slumber. A pang tightened his gums, but he kept his fangs sheathed.

How would she have hidden the marks he'd left on her shoulder? It had only been two days; they wouldn't have quite healed yet.

Voss frowned. Perhaps with a well-placed curl and a wide necklet. It might mar the picture, but it would preserve her reputation.

He wondered if her reputation was, indeed, intact. Would she find a suitable groom, a man who either didn't know what had occurred—or didn't care?

Not that anything terribly untoward had happened, at least in Voss's mind. A bit of kissing and a single, abbreviated nibble shouldn't be enough to remove a woman from marriage consideration. And as for his own discomfort…the pain from his Mark, while it hadn't completely dissolved, had at least become bearable. It ached more than it ever had before, and occasionally he got a stubborn streak of fire radiating over his torso, but it wasn't enough to send him gasping for breath as it had before. Feeding on Angelica, for however brief a time, had obviously been the right thing to do to stop it.

It was well past two o'clock before the ladies returned from the dinner party. Corvindale was not with them, and Voss suspected that he was scouring London for none other than himself.

Such an irony that he should be hiding here in Corvindale's home, of all places, whilst the very man was hunting him. He grinned in the dark library, where he'd taken refuge shortly after midnight. None of the servants would be looking for reading material, and the ladies were otherwise occupied. He was reluctantly impressed with the choice of literature lining
the walls—a great variety of novels as well as books in languages from Greek to Latin to Spanish and even Egyptian and Aramaic. Apparently studying was what Dimitri did instead of socializing.

Studying, researching. Trying to find a way to break a covenant with the devil. Poor damned sot.

There was no way to break the unholy bargain.

Voss's keen ears heard bits of conversation as the ladies came in, and even as they chattered in and around their chambers. Angelica laughed more than once and she seemed rather gay, considering what had happened to her three days earlier. When Voss heard the word “Harrington,” followed by a quickly muffled feminine squeal, he frowned. And then low laughter and murmurs that even he couldn't discern.

It didn't take much for him to realize she had likely seen Lord Harrington tonight.

His frown deepened. How quickly she seemed to find other companionship.

Voss was forced to wait for another hour before he could make his way from the dark library up to the second floor, where the bedchambers were. At last, silence reigned over the household, and he slipped from the dual doors of the library. Angelica's scent led him to her room, and after he opened the door and slipped inside, he stood for a moment, his hand still on the knob.

Her scent, her presence…it overwhelmed him. So familiar and so much what he desired.

A sharp twinge of pain burned over his shoulder as if to urge him on, but Voss ignored it. Yet, he salivated as he smelled the citrusy-floral scent melded with woman and a waft of summer breeze from the open window. His mouth throbbed and he had a difficult time controlling the shoot of his fangs—like a green boy who grew hard at the mere mention of a breast.

What was it about this woman that made him so foolish? So thoughtful?

What was it about this one that put him in so much agony?

Luce's blood, he was a hundred forty-eight years old. He'd had thousands of women and never given one more than a second or third thought. Even Rubey.

Even Giliane, a woman he'd even considered making Dracule. Only for a day, but the thought
had
crossed his mind during one of their energetic bouts, back in 1755. They— she—had survived the horrendous earthquake in Lisbon and were celebrating with wine and cheese, stolen from one of the shops.

Now, as Voss looked down at the woman in the chamber he'd invaded, all thoughts of Giliane and every other of the thousands he'd known faded. A shaft of moonlight rippled over Angelica like the caress of a hand, and the curtains fluttered in a soft breeze. She slept with her face half buried in the pillow, her hair loose and curtaining her cheek. One hand was curled beneath her pillow, and the other tucked beneath her chin.

Voss moved closer to the bed, his heart pounding, suddenly rampant. A violent surge of awareness had taken over, trammeling through his veins, rushing to fill his cock and to thrust his incisors free. His skin flushed hot and his eyes warmed with heat.

Yes.

He turned and silently bolted the door behind him.

Angelica shifted onto her back and sighed, moving the pillow in her sleep.

And then she opened her eyes.

Voss froze and their gazes met in the darkness. He stiffened, preparing himself to clamp a hand over her mouth, but then her eyes closed and she turned her head away. Still asleep.

Why was he so relieved?

He reached to touch her hair, gently sliding his hand over the long tresses in a way he hadn't had the chance to before.

There'd been no gentleness, no caresses, no learning the texture and shape of her.

Before he realized it, Voss had come to sit on the bed next to her. His heart pounded, rampant and apprehensive. Ready, again, to cover her mouth to stifle a scream, he gently lifted a thick lock of hair from her bare shoulder, skimming his fingertips over the smooth warm skin.

He wondered how she'd looked in the periwinkle-blue dress. If Harrington had found an opportunity to coax her into a private corner. If she'd smiled at him with the wise light in her eyes, as if to say all would be well. If she'd talked with him about thoughtful things, like life and death.

If she'd told Harrington the secret she'd told Voss.

He bent, pressing his lips to the curve of her shoulder, resisting the sudden blinding urge to slide his fangs into that sweet muscle. Instead his teeth slid along her skin and he flicked his tongue out to taste her.