The Vampire Voss (19 page)

“But you weren't in time to save Ella.” There was reproach in her voice, and Voss realized he'd forgotten about the dead girl.

“No,” he said. Although it had been more than a century since he'd been the cause of a mortal's death—from reckless feeding—he'd also come to accept that it was a casualty of the Draculia and its need to feed on mortal blood. One could learn to control the blind need and leave the victim alive, as Voss had learned to do early on, but many of the Draculia had no concern about doing so. They had no reason to care any more about the lives of the mortals upon which they feasted than a butcher was concerned with the slaughtering of his cow or pig.

This was by design of Lucifer, of course.

Yet, Ella had been the victim of a particularly vicious
vampir,
and Voss had seen tendons and torn muscle beneath the ravaged skin of her shoulders and bosom. And blood, so dark and plentiful that it was nearly purple. The snapped and protruding collarbone and the awkward angle of her neck. He went still.

It could have been Angelica.

“How much longer am I going to be hunted by them?” she said. Her voice was thin. “When will it stop?”

“Moldavi won't rest until he gets his sister back, or until he has revenge on your brother for taking her.”

“Chas took a
vampir's
sister? Do you mean he kidnapped her?” The fear was replaced by surprise and confusion. “What on earth do you mean? How many of those creatures are there?” Panic stretched her voice.

“To be quite honest, I'm not certain whether he abducted Narcise…or whether they—er—eloped. It's all conjecture, really, but I do know that Moldavi is looking for your brother because Narcise is with him. Or was last seen with him, in Paris. Moldavi is rather closely associated with Bonaparte and has been staying there for some time. And until he gets Narcise back, or until he finds Woodmore, you are in danger because Moldavi will want to use you as bait or ransom for Narcise's return. And if your brother is dead—”

“He's not dead.”

Voss stilled. “You know this?”

But she wasn't listening; it was as if she were having her own conversation. “Are you suggesting that my brother has eloped with a
vampir?
How could you even fathom such a thing? Chas would have nothing to do with monsters like that. Or is she not one of those horrible creatures, but just the sister of one?” Her eyes blazed with shock and accusation.

“Narcise is one of them, yes,” he replied, feeling as if he were walking on a very delicate sheet of ice. And once again, he wondered why in Luce's name did he even care if he fell through. At least if he did, there would be no reason to wait any longer. His blood surged at the thought.

“Does she bite people, too? With long teeth and claws? Tear into them like paper dolls?” Tears had gathered in her eyes and as she lifted a hand to her mouth, he saw that her fingers
trembled violently. “I cannot fathom such vile creatures who take from other people and
leave them to die.
They drink their
blood.
They
take.
”

Voss reminded himself that she could have no idea that she was sitting in the same room with one of those horrible creatures—who wanted nothing more than to do the same to her, among other things—but for some reason, her words stung. “Angelica,” he began.

She swiped a tear away and kept talking. “I thought it was all stories, a legend that my granny told us. But they're
real.
And my brother is all sorted up with them. He could be in danger. He
is
in danger. He's gone into hiding, I'm certain of it.”

“Everything I know about your brother says that he knows how to take care of himself,” Voss told her. “Did you not just say he isn't dead? Do you know this?”

“I'm sure he's not dead. I—”

A knock at the door interrupted her, and Voss, smothering a curse as she fell silent, walked over. A low opening at the bottom of the door allowed for a tray of wine, cheese and bread to be slid beneath—again, keeping the anonymity of the chamber's occupants intact.

“I cannot eat,” Angelica said, holding a hand in front of her belly. “I don't know that I shall ever eat again, with those images in my mind. Poor Ella.” She looked even more pale-faced than before, and her eyes seemed to have sunken into their sockets in the last few moments. “I cannot believe it of Chas.”

Voss put the tray on the table and poured a glass of the wine. “Perhaps you are thirsty?”

“What is that?” she asked, pointing to his glass, likely forgetting that ladies didn't point. “Whiskey? Brandy? Something else that's meant only for men?”

Some of his discomfort slid away. “If you wish to try it, I won't tell anyone.” No indeed.

“There are many things about these last two days that I hope you shall not tell anyone,” Angelica said. The look she gave him was not one of a coquette, teasing him for more, but one of a woman very aware of her situation…and it was disconcerting.

She took the glass and drank, then, predictably, began coughing uncontrollably. But despite the fact that her eyes watered, she raised the glass for another taste. This time, she was a bit more cautious and the sip went down much easier. “It tastes terrible.”

Voss smiled. “I know. The wine isn't much better quality, but you might prefer it.”

“It's warm,” she said, drinking again. “I mean to say, I feel warm. It makes me feel warm.”

“That is not the only way you'll be feeling if you drink too much of it,” he said despite the arc of pain that shot through him.
Let her drink,
the devil told him.
She won't fight it.
He thought it prudent to change the subject. “What were you going to tell me, earlier? Or have you changed your mind?”

She sank down onto the cloak-draped chair, whiskey still in hand. Half the generous dollop he'd poured was gone and her movements were already looser. “I've never told another person this. I'm not altogether certain why I should want to tell you, Dewhurst.”

“Voss,” he said. “Call me Voss.”

Angelica frowned and he wasn't certain if it was because she'd taken another drink or because of his suggestion. “Rubey calls you by your given name. That bespeaks of a very intimate relationship.”

“I have just asked you to call me by my given name, as well. Do you and I have an intimate relationship?” The words,
practiced and easy, slid from his flirtatious tongue. He brought out his smile, the warm one whose allure never failed, to curve his lips. His sisters, his mistresses, the wife of his mathematics teacher, and so many others… None of them had been able to resist.

The smile that told her just what sort of relationship he wanted.

“No, we do not,” she replied primly. Oh, so primly. “But if I don't get back to Blackmont Hall or at least to a chaperone soon, my reputation will be ruined on the grounds of mere suspicion and assumption. 'Tis nothing to take lightly, my lord.”

So it was “my lord” now. “And then…?”

“And then I'll never make a good marriage. No respectable gentleman will want to wed me.” She sipped again. “Chas has made it very clear that I need to make a match this Season. He has little patience for chaperoning us about.”

Yes, there was the concern of Chas being more than annoyed that Voss had ruined his sister. And of course, marriage to a Dracule was out of the question—for a variety of reasons in Chas Woodmore's eyes, the least of which was the immortality issue. Not to mention the pact with the devil. Thus, Chas would be incensed if his sister was ruined by Voss, or any other Dracule.

But Voss was fully confident in his ability to evade the
vampir
hunter. It wouldn't be the first time.

Angelica continued talking, the whiskey having done a nice job of loosening her tongue. “But perhaps after Maia and Mr. Bradington wed, she can be my chaperone and Chas can go about his business. Sonia won't be out for another two years.”

“Is there a respectable gentleman whom you wish to wed? Is there one who might have his hopes dashed if you do not
return? Or if you return…in a questionable state?” Voss wasn't altogether certain why he pursued this topic, but he didn't seem able to control his tongue. Perhaps he ought to try a sip of the whiskey himself.

No. He had no reason to subject himself to that horror.

“Perhaps. Lord Harrington is quite agreeable.” Her expression wasn't one of sly flirtation, but rather as if she'd just realized some simple fact such as that the sky was blue.

Voss thought he recalled the man in question—the slender dandy who'd waltzed with her at the masquerade. The one whom he'd put the fear of the devil into with a mere glance while visiting in Angelica's parlor. He smothered a snort. Harrington was probably the sort who'd been thrown in the privy
and
had had his clothes tossed into the coal pit.

“Agreeable is such a flavorless word. I don't believe I should appreciate being described as merely agreeable by a woman such as yourself,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

“That is no surprise,” she replied. “I suspect you would aspire to descriptors like ‘charming' and ‘handsome' and ‘witty.' And ‘wealthy.'”

Voss was enjoying this exchange and, from the glint in her eye that he thought was only partly from the whiskey, she seemed to be, as well. The slender ivory column of her neck shifted in and out of shadow as she moved and drank and teased. “Mmm,” he said, his voice rumbly. “Perhaps. Or maybe I should simply like to be considered interesting. Or exciting.”

She snorted. Definitely, it was a snort. A ladylike one, but nevertheless. “Why would you need to be any of those things when you are a man, and a rich one at that? And not terribly difficult to look upon, either,” she added with a sudden saucy look that took him by surprise. “The choice is yours, and your wealth assures you a vast selection to choose from.”

If only it were that simple. Despair—such a foreign emotion that he wasn't even certain he recognized it properly—rushed in. Marriage was something in which Dracule members had no reason or desire to indulge.

But it was something that Angelica and those of her class aspired to. It was the focal point of her life, in fact. Marriage, an heir and one to spare, perhaps a daughter…a household that didn't need to be uprooted every few decades because
nothing bloody changed
.

And yet…everything one knew or cared about was eventually left behind. Aged. Died. Turned to dust.

Voss succumbed and took a drink of the wine, which turned out to be thinner than rainwater. Was it too bloody much to expect that Maude have something palatable, considering the fees she charged?

And couldn't the woman in the next room find a high C without going flat?

“Or perhaps you have no intention of marrying,” Angelica said, drawing him back to the moment at hand. Her voice had gone as flat as the singer's.

Voss opened his mouth but found he had no response to that. Instead he replied, “You were going to tell me something you've never told anyone before, Angelica. Have you changed your mind, then?”

She sipped again. Her cheeks were flushed and her almond-shaped eyes bright. “I've told no one of this, Dewhurst.”

“You've said that,” he replied, unaccountably irked by the fact that she continued to call him by his title.

“If I tell you, you must tell me one of your secrets. Will you?”

He smiled, gave a low, rolling laugh and gestured to himself from head to scuffed-up toe. “But I have no secrets. Whatever
it is you see here is all there is to know of Lord Dewhurst.” He gave the little flourish of a bow.

But when he rose back to full height, her eyes speared him. “Pardon me, my lord, but I can see that isn't true. It's in your eyes. There's something there—some fear, a horror, some grief or perhaps a memory—that you hide.”

He froze and they stared at one another for a moment. Even the insistent burning in his shoulder faded because there was nothing at the moment but Angelica. “There is nothing,” he said at last.

She tilted her head as she rested the glass on the scarred table, then took a deep breath. “I don't believe you, my lord. But—”

“Call me Voss.” Blast it.

She shrugged, still watching him, and the shadows in the dip of her collarbones shifted temptingly. His gums swelled, ready to push the incisors free and he swore he smelled her blood again. Somehow.

Was it she who was becoming foxed, or he?

She shifted then, pulled her gaze away and spoke suddenly and in a rush. “I know when my sisters and brother will die,” she said. “I've read their futures and I know how it will happen…and when.”

“You know how your brother will die?”

How could he be so very fortunate? This was a most valuable, serendipitous bit of information. He hadn't even thought to ask for it directly, and now it would be handed to him just as the puzzle of Dimitri's Asthenia had. Voss smiled complacently.

Moldavi would pay handsomely to find out when the feared vampire hunter Chas Woodmore was to die, as would Regeris, who rarely ventured from his beloved Barcelona since Woodmore had staked him in the belly as he tumbled from a tower
into the ocean. Two inches higher, and the man would be living with Luce in hell instead of having to swim for miles to safety.

The question would be which of them would pay more— and what a delightful problem to have. And the information would cost Voss nothing to obtain; she was offering it up to him freely. The last bit of hazy sweetness evaporated from him, and he focused on the realization of his goal. “You know how he will die, and when, as well?”

“Yes. I've known for years. I've lied to them and—”

“But he is not dead now. You are certain of it?”