The Vampire Voss (13 page)

But, again, he didn't. The fear lingered in her eyes, and he knew it would come back in full force if she realized he was of the very same cartel of people who'd just mauled two of her peers.

He didn't want to see terror in her eyes. He wanted the desire, the softness he'd seen earlier…when their gazes had met across the ballroom.

“And my brother? He associates with
vampirs?
”

Voss nodded. Luce's soul, why was he even talking to her? Waste of time. “Cezar Moldavi is a very dangerous…man,” he told her. “Not only does he want to use you to destroy your brother, but it's possible he's also found out about your… ability. It's not as if you've kept it a secret. You could be a very valuable asset to him. You could give him information that he'd find useful in dealing with his adversaries.”

Her eyes widened into circles, and now he could see the whites, gleaming in a flash of streetlamp.

“That's why,” Voss said, leaning toward her, breathing in her essence, curling his fingers into his thigh so that he didn't reach for her, “I'm taking you somewhere safe.”

She sat upright in her corner, surprising him with a flash of spirit. Anger. “What do you mean? I presumed you were escorting me home—back to Corvindale's residence.”

“It's not safe there,” he told her. “And it's not safe for both you and Maia to be together. Corvindale and I agreed that you should be separated to make it more difficult for them to find you.”

“Maia?”

“The earl will make certain she and your other sister are well protected. And I,” he said, settling back against the squabs in direct opposition to where he really wanted to be, “will take care of you. Now,” he added, the words coming out before he could comprehend them, “perhaps you should rest a bit. Close your eyes. Nothing will happen to you when you're with me, Angelica.”

Either she made a very unladylike sound in response, or he was hearing things. Voss's attention flashed to her eyes and he decided it was more than possible that she
had,
just then, made a frustrated or disbelieving sort of noise. And what on earth did she mean by it anyway?

How could she know what he was thinking?

But by now, she'd hooded her expression and the glimmer of naughtiness had gone. She closed her eyes, even.

His lips twitched. Not quite the proper young miss after all, was Angelica Woodmore. But of course, he'd already had an indication of that. After all, proper young misses didn't barrel up to men they don't know and announce that they'd been in her dream. And were going to die.

That roundabout thought brought him back to the realization that Brickbank was, despite the impossibility, dead. And
the very thought had been squirreling around in the back of his mind for two days, digging and clawing and refusing to let go.

In the last hundred twenty years, Voss hadn't given a lot of thought to what happened after death. In fact, he hadn't thought about it at all. Why should he? That was the deal with Lucifer. Power, strength and immortality—ergo, complete freedom with no consequences for his days on earth and the actions thereof. What more could a man want?

But if an unexpected demise could happen to Brickbank, it could conceivably happen to Voss. Not nearly as easily, of course, so perhaps he oughtn't expend any more energy over it, but…

The image of Dimitri, splayed on the floor, held immobile by a necklet of rubies, settled firmly in Voss's mind. A chill gripped him around the back of the neck.

Had Belial and his cohorts wanted, Dimitri would be dead even now.

The fact that they obviously hadn't wanted it wasn't the reason the image bothered Voss. It was the realization that if it could have happened to a man whom Voss, much as he was loathe to admit it, deemed invincible—it could also happen to Voss.

Voss could die.

He forced himself from those dark, unpleasant thoughts. There were much other more fascinating things to contemplate.

Like the lovely, luscious bit of flesh sitting so innocently across from him.

Her head had tipped to the side and her eyes appeared to be closed, but he wouldn't wager his damaged soul on whether she was actually sleeping or not.

No, Voss wasn't that foolish.

 

Ahh. Heat, thick and liquid. A world of red pleasure, blazing sensuality, a whirlwind of sweet, floral scent. Lush comfort, smooth silk. And an insistent need.

It pulled, urged.

Voss had no reason to resist. He needed this like a drowning man needed air. He eased into the familiar lull, slid away from the reality that edged, dark and evil, at his consciousness. The prickling subsided as he allowed himself into the pleasure. Slipped in.

She had dark hair, long and thick, and dark eyes…but her skin wasn't right. It wasn't as smooth, as sweet and rosy and spicy. Her scent cloyed and smothered and although she knew just what to do with her hands…oh,
indeed
…and her mouth….

Voss licked her neck, tasted old perfumed oil, and then his incisors slid long, sweetly, into her flesh. She gasped and tautened against him as the rush of tangy, thick ambrosia filled his mouth. He closed his eyes, drank, touched, battled, slid smooth against her…battled.

The back of his shoulder throbbed angrily, fighting with the passion and release that he must have. He closed his mind to it, fought it away, gulped and shifted and thought of Angelica.

Of his hands on her, his mouth and their skin…to skin. The long, sleek slide and the warmth. The rise, the miraculous light, then…her face, wide-eyed and horrified, burst into the image.

No!

Was it her voice or his own?

A streak of pain arced down his shoulder and red blazed behind his eyes, matching the agony.

Rigid with surprise as much as discomfort, Voss opened his eyes. He saw the woman, the crimson and golden room,
the tall, pale candles flickering and casting delicate shadows. Blood trailed sleek against her white skin, still pooled hot in his mouth, the essence on his tongue.

Voss caught his breath, working through the sudden onslaught of pain to steady his breathing. To bring himself back here, where he could find release from what pounded through his veins.

She looked up at him, lust and laziness in her eyes as she reached for his shoulders, wanting to draw him back down. Her eyes weren't right. They weren't catlike, exotic enough. Her mouth…her face…
no
.

He couldn't keep from a quick glance above, knowing that Angelica was there. Two floors higher, safely ensconced here at Rubey's, where no one would think to look for them. She was so very near, but the ceiling hung low and heavy and impenetrable.

He could send for her. Simple. Get it over with.

The pain had lessened slightly. He could breathe. Think. Why did she haunt him so?

“Voss,” the girl murmured. Her hand slid lower between them, between their hot, slick bodies. Her eyes were glazed, desperate. She licked her lips, shifted against him, closed her fingers more insistently.

He could do that to Angelica. He could make her cry and moan and want him like he wanted her. Like they all wanted him.

She could help him, and he…he could help her. And have her.

Show her the world of desire and passion.

She was two floors above. Unprotected. Virginal and waiting.

A rush of desire flooded him and Voss's breathing deepened. He could still smell her on his fingers from when they'd buried
into her hair during their kiss. He thought of how she would smell, close, naked and writhing against him. Her breast heavy in his hand, her hair clinging to the damp of her skin.

Her eyes, heavy with desire after their kiss, rose in his mind. They beckoned, and then suddenly widened with horror and shock.

Fear.

He'd pulled back by now, enough that the sticky heat of body against body had lessened. Voss heard his own breathing in a room that had become nearly silent. It rasped unsteadily and he hated the weakness it portended.

The throb at the back of his shoulder pounded harder. Insistent.
Go…go…go
.

Take.

Dull pain turned burning and sharp and reminded him that he had no reason for such deprivation. No reason to resist, to deny himself.

Nothing to fear.

Voss turned back to the woman. Easy, familiar relief.

Not Angelica.

The blaze shocked him and Voss gasped.
Luce's dark soul.
The devil wanted him to do it. To take her.

Angelica.

Not now,
he told himself. And his Mark.
Not yet. After I get what I need. After she does what I need.

Then he would take.

Ignoring the pain, driving it away, he lunged for the softness of the woman, buried himself, his senses, his mind, in the moment as he had done so many times before.

Later, sometime much later, he woke, naked, amid twisted sheets stained with blood. He remembered, vaguely, the dark-haired woman. And the blonde after her and the other bru
nette. The desperate need, the thirst he'd tried to quench. Over and over.

Then…dark dreams he'd tried to avoid, the face of Brickbank. His impaled body. Even the wisp of his soul, spiraling away in the darkness. Horrifying.

Of Angelica, white and sleek. Dark-eyed, tempting, begging.

And Lucifer.

In his dreams?

Voss sat up, his head pounding as if he'd drank a full bottle of blood whiskey.

Bloody damned hell.

Lucifer had only visited him in his dreams once before. The night he'd come to offer his unholy bargain, the temptation of a lifetime.

Slender and dark of hair, bright blue of eyes, pointed of chin and jaw and angular of body, Lucifer wasn't unpleasant to look at. But nor was looking upon him easy or comfortable. There was too much darkness behind those shocking blue eyes.

Sunlight seeped from behind the heavy shutters and curtains in his room and Voss stared at the shape it cast. The last time he'd touched sunlight had been the morning after Lucifer's nocturnal visit.

He hadn't realized what it would do to him. He hadn't realized the dream, the covenant, had been real.

He hadn't been touched by a sunbeam since.

A cold chill settled over him. Why had Luce appeared in his dream? To remind him of the unholy bargain they'd made?

He could remember nothing but his presence, his spectral face. Smiling that easy, smug smile that said he knew a man's every desire. And that he could fulfill it in every way.

Voss's legs felt weak and when he moved to haul himself out of bed, the skin and muscle beneath his right shoulder
protested with pain. As he turned, he saw the Mark in a mirror and paused…trapped by the sight.

Not like Dimitri's, whose Mark was black and so thick and raised it seemed to visibly throb. But Voss's was certainly more prominent than he'd ever seen it.

The ache was bearable, but insistent and penetrating. He moved his arm gingerly, then reached behind to touch the marks. Normally he felt no difference between the black rootlike insignia and his flesh, but now there was a slight swelling and a bit of warmth there.

Voss turned away from the reflection and rang for a bath. He wouldn't go to Angelica sweaty and dirty from his night of blind pleasure.

But nor did he feel remorse for taking what he needed and craved. It was his right, his compulsion. His compensation from Lucifer: never-ending, unrepentant self-indulgence.

He wouldn't hurt her; he wasn't like Cezar Moldavi who caused pain simply for the sake of it, as a revenge for all of the pain inflicted on him during his mortal years.

No, he wouldn't hurt Angelica. But he would have her.

And he wouldn't wait much longer.

 

Dimitri was tired and annoyed. Not particularly in that order. Definitely not in that order.

In fact, annoyed wasn't a strong enough word for how he was feeling. Livid. That was it.

He glared down at the figure standing between him and his only chance at a modicum of relief. No.

He felt murderous.

“What is it, Miss Woodmore?” he asked. It was clear that the eldest of his new charges wasn't going to allow him to pass to his study unless she spoke to him. And, from the looks of her stubborn expression, at great length.

She
had obviously found the time to change from last night's appalling Hatshepsut costume, and, presumably, to rest a bit. At least, that was what her maid had reported, via Dimitri's valet. Once assured that Angelica was not only safe, but would be returning to Blackmont Hall later that morning, Miss Woodmore had felt able to take a bit of repose. Perhaps even a bath, if the spicy floral scent emanating from her hair was any indication.

But Dimitri had spent the last hours of the night and well into the day (for it was now several hours past noon) attending to everything from Belial and his footpads—and their vain attempt to breach Blackmont Hall—to ensuring that the real story of what happened at the masquerade ball was obscured and stifled. A few hints dropped about a bit of playacting at the masquerade gone awry, a few twists of facts into something believable along with the altering of a number of stubborn memories, and several visits to men's clubs to blank out more memories—and all was taken care of.

And now here stood Miss Woodmore, fresh-faced and accusing.

“It's nearly four o'clock, Corvindale. I would like you to tell me precisely where Angelica is,” she told him. “And when she is going to arrive here. But most of all, I require assurance that she is safe.”

How could this slip of a woman who smelled like spicy flowers manage to fill the entire corridor? He hadn't a prayer of brushing past and ignoring her insulting insinuations.

No, Miss Woodmore would not be ignored.

“Your sister will arrive here at Blackmont Hall when I am convinced it is safe for her to do so,” he told Miss Woodmore. And when he located the chit and her abductor.