The Vampire Dimitri (16 page)

The space was quiet and still, but for the distant sounds of voices calling and the low rasp of his breathing.

Maia jerked herself upright, shoving her breast back into place, tugging up her bodice, wondering precisely what this all meant, and why he'd pulled away and was looking at her as if…as if he
loathed
her.

“What is it, my lord?” she asked, hiding her trembling
fingers in the vast wrinkles of her skirt. “Is something wrong?”

Oh, God, everything is wrong.

“My lord?” he gave a short, bitter laugh. “Always the proper miss. Or at least, nearly always.” The inflection in his tones made it sound like an insult.

She looked at him sharply. “Certainly you can't blame me for
this,
” she said, gesturing to encompass the carriage and all that had occurred there that evening.

Instead of responding, he merely looked at her. Watched her. His eyes glowed faintly still, but there was no sign of the tips of his fangs. His mouth seemed more full than usual, lush and soft.

“Blast it,” he muttered, still looking at her. “Miss Woodmore.”

She glanced back up at his gaze and felt a little tug of connection between them, his eyes luring and compelling her. And then suddenly, she gasped, realized what was happening.

“Am I enthralled?” she demanded. “Have you enthralled me with your vampire gaze?”

A rush of anger followed by confusion came over her, and then ebbed, leaving her to realize that if that was the case then she'd had no control over anything that had occurred. It wasn't her fault for kissing another man, and allowing him to…well, whatever. She closed her eyes and felt the memory tingle through her. Her lips curved softly as a little flutter of pleasure tickled the inside of her belly. It wasn't so bad after all.

It was even better than her dreams.

When she opened her eyes, he was still staring at her. But now his mouth was flatter and his eyes darker and the tension emanated from him in heavy waves.

Maia looked away, surprised that the earl had nothing to say, and noticed again that the carriage had stopped. They were returned to Blackmont Hall, and the dawn had come.

She rose, tired of waiting, awash with confusion and attempting to appear as if nothing was amiss when everything was, in fact, a frightening vortex of problems. “Good morning, Lord Corvindale,” she said when he made no move to assist.

Instead he sat there, his flat gaze fixed on her, no longer burning, but now black with loathing. The white of his shirt blazed bright against the dark velvet seat and below the swarthy skin of his neck and jaw. His eyes like black jet beads.

She flung open the carriage door with no little finesse, her knees shaking, her own mouth compressed in a worried line and her face hot and flaming, and she helped herself down from the vehicle and stalked into the house.

“Y
ou aren't truly going,” Narcise said, eyeing Chas from across the room. She stood near the table, trying to appear nonchalant by plucking the petals from a bouquet of daisies he'd brought for her.

He looked at her, his powerful, swarthy hands filled with stakes and a clean shirt. Normally the sight of a wooden pike in his capable grip sent a shiver of excitement mingled with fear rushing through her. But she was too upset right now to feel anything but anger and apprehension.

“Of course I'm going,” he replied sharply, shoving the items into a leather satchel. “She's my
sister,
Narcise. Do you think I would leave her safety up to chance? Especially with Voss?”

She shrugged, trying to make the movement nonchalant, while at the same time, her insides turned unsettled and her body numb. “Voss is smart enough, and Cezar likes him because he always has information he wants. He won't be suspicious of him, so Voss will have no problem getting in.
And with those smoke-bomb packets you gave him, he'll have an easy way to escape.”

Chas stopped and fixed her with a steady look. “I don't want him anywhere near my sister. Not only do I not trust him, not only have I heard legend upon legend of him ruining women, but he is also a Dracule.”

Narcise was surprised at the pang of hurt his words produced. She'd thought she was well beyond such sensitivities. Damn it…after all she'd been through, she
should
be stronger than that. “And so you can commingle with we Dracule, we damned and damaged demons…but not your sister.”

“Blast it, no, Narcise.” He jammed a hand into his shiny dark hair. His muscles shifted beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his untied shirt and she noted the sleek movement with a warm shiver of appreciation. “It's different for her than for me. I understand what I—I understand what it's like.”

“Well, Chas, I suggest you begin to help her understand. Because from the way she was acting that night in Dimitri's study, I wouldn't be surprised if Angelica was in love with Voss. And she doesn't know what to do about it. She probably doesn't even realize it.”

“Never,” he snapped. “And even if she fancies herself in love with him, I won't permit it. I'll kill him first.” Chas had shoved his weapons and shirt, along with a pouch of coins and bills, into the satchel, and now he slung it over his shoulder. He was leaving her here. Alone.

A moment of panic chilled her and she dropped the daisy she'd been torturing. Cezar could find her. Or worse, Giordan. “I'll come with you, Chas.”

“Don't be a fool,” he said, his tone softening. “You can't allow yourself anywhere near Cezar. Paris might be a big city, but you know as well as I do that he has spies and makes everywhere. I won't risk you, Narcise.”

“It was almost impossible for us to leave Paris safely
last
time. He still has makes and mortal soldiers watching for you everywhere…you know it. You'll never get out of the city again, with or without Angelica. Let alone into Cezar's place.”

“You know better than that. Last time
you
were with me and he was searching for you—”

“But he didn't know I was with you—at least at first.

Chas…” Her voice trailed off. She knew she was being awful and selfish—wasn't that part of her Dracule nature?—but if she lost Chas, she didn't know what she'd do. He was the only one she trusted to keep her safe.

The
only
one, she told herself firmly when her resolve wavered.

“Oh, Cezar would see me. You know that for certain.

He'd be delighted to welcome me back into his lair.”

Dark fear seized her. He was right. Chas would have no problem getting in to see her brother. It was the getting out that would be impossible. “Chas, please.” She hated that she begged; she'd given that up long ago.

“Don't insult me by implying your brother is more than a match for me,” he said, his voice a little flat. “You know what I'm capable of. And if we knew what his Asthenia was, I'd have brought it to him long ago.”

Narcise tried to believe Chas. She wanted to believe him; and much of what he said rang true. After all, it had been her fault Cezar captured Chas before they made their escape.

But as was the case for anyone who had been at the mercy of or tortured by another, it was hard to dismiss the sense of omnipotence that the captor inflicted upon the victim. And Cezar had done a good job of it over the course of decades.

“You'll be safe here, Narcise,” Chas said, gesturing to the
stone walls. “He won't find you, and then when I get back we'll go to Wales.”

They were in the cellar beneath the ruins of a former monastery in London, accessible through an old wall in a cemetery. All of the religious articles except around the building's perimeter had been taken away, and those that remained were partly covered by moss and lichen. That made it uncomfortable and more than a little painful for her to come into the space, and Chas had to nearly carry her in, but that was only until she crossed the threshold and closed the lead-filled door behind her. Then the pain was gone and she could be comfortable.

In fact, the chamber was rather luxurious, with a large bed, trunks, a table and chairs, and even a row of small venting windows to allow fresh air and filtered light into the space. Boxwood grew up and around the windows, which were at ground level, keeping the dangerous sun from streaming through directly. A thick rug covered the concrete floor, and a tapestry hung on one wall.

Chas had discovered the place as a haven for a group of made vampires when he was hunting some years ago, and chased them all away. Those who escaped the point of his stake didn't dare return, for he was fast and fierce. Aside of the physical attributes, he somehow had the innate ability to sense the presence of a Dracule. Even those of the Draculia couldn't recognize the mere presence of another, and they certainly couldn't identify the arrival of a vampire hunter like Chas. In combination with his speed and strength, which was nearly a match for any vampire, this ability made Chas Woodmore both feared and respected among the Dracule.

“Very well,” she said, knowing she sounded a bit petulant. It was just that she'd hoped and planned and attempted to escape from her brother for more than a hundred years, and
now that she'd finally done so, with Chas's assistance, she was terrified that her freedom would be taken away from her.

That Cezar would somehow find them. Or her. Or Chas.

Damned or no, she would never allow herself back with Cezar. She'd wrap herself in those painful brown sparrow feathers and jump from a tower into the sunshine before allowing him to touch her again.

Or his friends.

Freedom was glorious.

Chas looked at her from across the chamber, hesitated, as if trying to make up his mind, and then strode over to her. The next thing Narcise knew, she was flattened up against the cool stone wall, his hands on her face, his mouth crashing onto hers.

She closed her eyes and kissed him back, their mouths molding and smashing together, tongues fighting and sliding. Her hands curled around his skull, fingers digging up into his thick, black hair as he pressed her into the wall as if to leave the imprint of his body on hers.

“Be safe,” she managed to say as he pulled away to catch a breath. “Come back to me.”

“I'm in love with you, Narcise,” he said, looking down at her with glittering green-brown eyes. He bent to brush a softer, farewell kiss against her throbbing mouth. “Make no mistake…I'll return. But,” he said, stepping away, his face settling into something firm and serious. “While I'm gone, you have other things to attend to.”

Narcise blinked, trying to pull herself out of the gentle, warm haze he'd caused to rise in her, to focus on him.

“Do what you must do,” he said steadily, “to get beyond the past. Otherwise…” He shook his head, his mouth hard. “I love you, but I won't wait for you to come to love me.”

But I do love you.
The words didn't come, though she wanted them to. She knew they would be a lie. Dracule didn't—couldn't—love anyone but themselves. She'd made that mistake once before. “I can't lose you, Chas.”

But he'd turned and swept from the room.

 

“Mr. Alexander Bradington has sent a message for you.”

Maia froze, her hand holding the teacup halfway to her mouth. Her insides dropped, her face warmed, and she felt a rush of nausea replace the confusion that had been churning through her since returning early this morning. In the carriage with Corvindale.

She looked over to see the earl's butler in the entrance to the breakfast room, holding a small tray with a card on it.

Maia forced herself to wait until he brought it over to her, calmly replacing the teacup in its saucer. Then, as no one else was present at the table or in the room, she broke the seal and unfolded the card.

Darling Maia (if I may),
it read,
I returned last night from my travels. I should like to call on you at two o'clock this afternoon. Please advise if you will receive me then. Alexander.

Relief exploded in her belly. Surely he wouldn't call her darling” if he were going to break the engagement or had otherwise changed his mind. Would he?

Maia read the note again, concentrating on the words written therein and trying to glean any other sense or emotion from them. The phrasing was correct and polite, which was nothing more or different than she'd expect from him.

Alexander was the consummate gentleman. It was the proper thing to do—to ensure that she was dressed and at home and prepared to see him. Even after his eighteen-month absence, he was so very considerate. Instead of rushing to see her at
the earliest opportunity and interrupting her breakfast, he gave her notice of his intention. A proper gentleman.

Her hands felt clammy and her stomach unsettled.

She would not think about what
she
had been doing last night when Alexander was arriving home. She would not ever think about that again, now that her fiancé had returned.

“Will there be a reply, Miss Woodmore?”

“Oh,” she said. “Of course. I'll return in one moment.” She rose from her chair and hurried out of the breakfast room and up to her chamber, where she kept her personal writing implements and stationery.

Except that she wasn't able to find a good ink pen in her drawer, and so she had to resort to rummaging through Angelica's desk drawer for one. While she was doing so, she pulled out a sealed letter that had been tucked away beneath a box of note cards. Obviously something Angelica had meant to keep, but for some reason, hadn't opened.

Was there bad news in it? Something she didn't want to know?

Maia considered for a moment, looking at the strong masculine writing on the outside. It said merely
Angelica.
Sensitivity prickled over her arm. All at once, she knew: this was important.

She had to read it, she reasoned. Angelica was gone. There was the chance she might not return…only for a time; for Maia wouldn't allow herself to consider the worst, and Corvindale's relative ease with the situation had given her confidence that Angelica would soon be safe.

She smoothed her fingers over the envelope, wishing she had more than her intuition to direct her.

Without further thought, she took the letter to a candle used for melting the wax for the seals and lit it. Holding the
message just-so above the flame, she waited for it to soften just enough to be pried away, but without damaging or distorting the seal. Moments later, her steady hand rewarded her by lifting the black blob of wax so that she could read the note.

Dewhurst. She'd known it. Maia stared down at the message. A variety of emotions rushed through her, ranging from anger to shock to confusion.

Where did one begin to make sense of this?

Not to mention all of the other things she had to make sense of.

What to do with the letter?

Corvindale.

The very thought of facing him after last night made her knees weak and her belly flutter.
No.
She absolutely could not. Her cheeks flamed.

But he should see the letter. At the very least, he should
read the reference to the earbobs—which had to be the rubies that had suddenly appeared in Angelica's chamber.

She'd told Maia a ridiculous story that they'd been part of Granny Grapes's collection, but Maia was no fool.

She hadn't believed that story any more than she believed Angelica when she denied wearing Maia's crocheted pink gloves on a picnic. They'd been stained with blueberry juice and had never come clean.

According to the letter, Dewhurst—Voss—had intended to leave London. Apparently he'd changed his mind; perhaps because he learned that the vampire Belial meant to attack Angelica.

Maia shook her head, bit her lower lip and drew in a deep breath. It had to be done.

Blast it.

Slowly Maia replaced the writing implements in her sister's drawer and then her gaze fell on the note from Alexander. She'd forgotten about it, and that someone was waiting below for her response.

Dashing off a quick reply that she would of course be pleased to see him anytime he wished to call, she started out of Angelica's room. But then she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and paused.