The Vampire Dimitri rd-2

by Колин Глисон

  And dreaming.

  Dimitri yanked his thoughts away from that avenue and drilled his attention steadfastly onto Chas Woodmore, who was trying to explain to his sister why he worked for Dimitri when he was bound to kill those of his race.

  It really wasn’t all that complicated, when one thought about it logically. Just as there were good and moral men, there were also members of the Dracule who were less inclined to live uneventfully alongside their mortal counterparts. People like Moldavi, who fed from children and left them to die. Or, when they wanted something, they’d burn a house down and watch people perish.

  Or they’d feed on injured soldiers on a field, prolonging their agony just for pleasure.

  Just as there were mortals who hunted game, killed it neatly and quickly and used it for nourishment, and there were others who tortured the animals just to watch them twist and cry and squeal…there were also Dracule, who fed expediently and took just what they needed from mortals, and quite often from willing ones, and there were Dracule who fed until the mortal was bled nearly dry. And left for dead.

  As there were mortal men who hungered for power until it became all consuming, there were Dracule who did the same.

  There were Dracule who merely lived lavish lives, filled with luxuries and pleasure, but who were content to simply enjoy the sensuality of it, without desiring to control everyone around them.

  And then there was Dimitri, who no longer did any of those things. Whose Mark blazed with constant pain for precisely that reason: because he denied the pleasure, the very covenant that Lucifer had given him.

  And searched for a way to renounce it.

  Thus, instead, he lived in solitude and darkness, seeking an escape from an eternity of hell.

  “At any rate,” Chas was saying, “I’m going to Paris with Voss and we’ll bring back Angelica. That’s all you need to know at this time, Maia.”

  Voss interrupted, shaking his head sharply. “If you want to jeopardize my chances, then you may come. Otherwise…follow if you will, but some days behind me. There can be no hint to Moldavi that we’re working together.”

  Dimitri snorted in agreement. “Even if he saw the two of you shaking hands, he wouldn’t believe it.”

  Voss shot him a look of pure dislike. “Precisely.”

  8

  Of Ferocious Dogs, Hissing Kittens And Proper Syntax

  Maia had so many questions she could hardly quiet her mind to select one for consideration.

  But when she climbed into Corvindale’s landau—for he’d absolutely forbidden her to hire a hack to take her home from White’s, and she was simply too tired to argue about propriety—and settled into her seat across from him, suddenly her wild musings and whirling thoughts scattered, leaving her mind blank and focused on one thing: him.

  The door closed, and as had happened little more than a week ago, they were alone in the vehicle. Corvindale seemed to take up the entire expanse of his seat, sprawling his long legs to one side and the flaps of his sable coat open wide like a bird fluffing its feathers to make it appear larger. Settled across the top of the squabs behind him were his arms, hands dangling casually. His dark hair, always a bit out of sorts, flipped up and around his ears and temples.

  He looked none too pleased with the current situation; but that was nothing new. He’d never looked pleased with anything, ever since Maia had met him. But there was also something else about him that struck her. Something different.

  A sort of wariness, like a large, ferocious dog who’d been cornered by a kitten.

  Maia considered herself the kitten in this situation, and even through her weariness and confusion, she decided she rather liked the metaphor. And because she was the kitten, Maia thought she’d bare her claws—as small and insignificant as they might be.

  “And so you are a vampir,” she said, primly arranging her skirt so that not even the tops of her slippers showed. She would not think right now about what sort of mess her hem and shoes were in. Or what her hair looked like. She was hissing and spitting in her own quiet way, all the while trying not to be completely overset by the fact that her brother had put her into the wardship of a vampir.

  “The proper term is Dracule. Or, if you insist upon using the archaic word vampir, I would appreciate if you would use the Anglican pronunciation—‘vampire’—rather than attempting to speak Hungarian. Your accent isn’t quite spot-on.” He sounded supremely bored, and looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world but her diction and whatever was so fascinating out the half-curtained window of the carriage.

  But despite his interest out on the streets, he was watching her. Particularly when she wasn’t looking directly at him. She felt the weight of his regard as if it were a thick blanket, shuttling down over her shoulders. Warm and heavy. And not altogether unwelcome.

  “Very well,” she replied, clearly enunciating her words so that there would be no mistake. “You are a vampire, then, Lord Corvindale, and I have a variety of questions—”

  “Only a variety? I was expecting a plethora of them. Or perhaps a score?”

  It was all Maia could do to keep back the little gust of a chuckle at this unexpected, wholly uncharacteristic show of levity. Or, perhaps he wasn’t jesting and was being quite serious. She eyed him from the corner of her eyes and noticed his ungloved hand with its exposed wrist resting on the top of his seat. It vibrated and jounced a bit with the rumbling movement of the carriage.

  As it happened, the moon or a streetlamp chose that moment to shine directly on it, and Maia found her attention attracted to the shape of that wide, dark appendage. Long, sturdy fingers, the ridges of slightly flexed tendons, the curve of a broad thumb and neat fingernails. It wasn’t often she’d seen a man’s hand uncovered—certainly Chas’s, and her father’s when she was young, and of course Alexander’s—but Lord Corvindale’s hand seemed particularly wide and well-shaped. Even there, settled, fingers bowed gently, a latent power seemed to emanate from it.

  They reminded her…Maia caught her breath, her belly suddenly fluttering, and her mouth dry…they reminded her of the smooth, dark hands from her dreams. She could imagine them, sliding over her pale skin, large and strong—

  “Well?”

  Maia’s eyes bolted back to Corvindale and she swallowed, frantically trying to catch up to the conversation. Then she remembered. She had a variety of questions for him.

  But she would start with the most pressing one. “Do you truly think that Lord Dewhurst will be able to save Angelica?” She wasn’t fully able to keep the pitch of concern from rising in her voice.

  He seemed to relax a bit, his fingers shifting into a looser curve. “Voss—er, Dewhurst—isn’t one of my favorite people,” he said, clearly understating the facts, “but his arguments were sound and I believe that he’ll succeed, if only because the man is very manipulative and sneaky. And, one must confess it, intelligent and resourceful, too. If not burdened with a lack of responsibility. Aside of that, Moldavi has no reason to suspect Dewhurst of any threat, so if he doesn’t find them before they get to Paris, he certainly has the best chance of gaining access to Moldavi. And further, your brother is close on Dewhurst’s heels. In the event he fails, Chas wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it takes to retrieve Angelica.”

  Maia blinked. She could hardly believe it, but not only had he given her information that she’d actually requested, he’d spoken in normal tones. “Your opinion means a good deal to me,” she managed to say.

  He didn’t respond except to lift his brows and look down his straight nose at her.

  So she continued. “Chas seems to think that Angelica isn’t in any danger of being hurt, at least until that vampire delivers her to Moldavi. Do you agree?”

  “I do.”

  Maia couldn’t hold back a smile, partly borne of relief. “I can scarcely believe we are having a normal conversation, my lord.” She realized that her own gloveless hands had ceased adjusting the folds of the cloak and gown in her lap.

&
nbsp; “That,” he said, shifting in his seat, moving his long legs so that they brushed briefly against her skirt, “is because you are asking reasonable questions. In a reasonable tone. Although, I might point out that if you had stayed home like any reasonable woman would have done, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Civil or not.”

  She bristled a bit, then recalled that she wanted more information from him—and now that she was as assured as she could be that Angelica would soon be safe, she thought it prudent not to annoy him. Although whatever she’d done to annoy him in the past, she couldn’t know, and therefore how could she keep from irritating him now?

  “And so you are a vampire, and my brother is a vampire hunter? And you are friends? He works for you?”

  “A rather irregular circumstance indeed, but true, nonetheless.”

  “But how can that be? Aren’t you—well, mortal enemies?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled a bit, which Maia took to mean that he’d had a flash of humor. Astounding. Twice in one night; in less than one hour?

  “Now who is sounding sensational, like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic novels, Miss Woodmore?” he asked, almost lazily.

  Something fluttered inside her, for his voice had dropped low. She could barely hear it, mixing as it did with the constant rumble of carriage wheels. There were no other sounds outside, and she realized with a jolt that it must be very late. Near dawn.

  “Well?” she prodded tartly. And then realized that, for all of her irritation with the situation, he was still an earl, a peer of the realm. And a vampiric—was that even a word? She dared not ask him, but he would certainly have an opinion—one at that. And her manner had become quite familiar with him.

  He shifted, adjusting his coat lapels and running a hand briefly through his hair in a surprisingly endearing gesture. “I shall make a very complicated situation as simple as I can, Miss Woodmore,” he said.

  “Oh, you need not condescend to me, Lord Corvindale.” The kitten had unsheathed her little claws again. “I’m quite capable of comprehending any situation you might describe. It was I who had to tutor Chas in geometry and Greek.” And what a task that had been, especially since Greek was just as difficult for her. But she would never have admitted that to Chas.

  “Indeed? Very well, then,” the earl said. And his eyes crinkled a bit more, and perhaps even the corners of his lips shifted. “I have a variety of business interests throughout the Continent, the Far East and even some limited ones in the New World. As the wealthy and powerful often do, I have more than my share of enemies—”

  “I can scarcely imagine that,” Maia murmured.

  “—who would take any chance to see my investments fail, or to damage them, or any variety of things,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. But his eyes had sharpened a bit and she knew he’d heard her. “Many of those are members of the Draculia, and there are some who are mortals, as well. Your brother acts as my agent and, if necessary, will—er—remove any problematic individuals from—er—causing any further disruptions. He also assists me in managing some of my other associates, who are also of the Draculian race.”

  “What you mean to say is that my brother is your paid assassin?” Maia said, her eyes wide. “He kills people?” She thought she might faint. Her heart was pounding in her chest in an ugly beat, thrumming through her stomach, which had suddenly become queasy.

  Mama and Father…what would you think if you knew? Oh, Chas, what are you doing?

  “Not people, Miss Woodmore. Your brother has never, to my knowledge, ended the life of a mortal person. But he has removed or otherwise dissuaded more than a few vampires—and he was doing so for quite some time before I met him. Which, by the way, was when he attempted to do the same to me.” Corvindale fixed her with his eyes, and Maia felt a little wavering tug deep inside her. “You see, Miss Woodmore, the simple way to look at it is that there are good vampires, and there are bad vampires. Your brother kills the bad vampires.”

  “And presumably you don’t count yourself among the ‘bad’ vampires?”

  Maia didn’t know how or why she had the courage to say such a thing—for once again, it dawned on her that not only was she in a carriage with an earl, one of the most powerful men of the ton and in England, but that he was a vampire. A bloodthirsty vampire.

  And, ward or not, she was alone with him.

  He made a deep sound that at first she didn’t recognize as laughter, but when the light fell on his face, outlining harsh cheekbones and the straight line of his nose, she saw that his lips were curved. His laughter was brief and as sharp as he was, and then it subsided. “As I highly doubt that Attila the Hun or Judas Iscariot or even Oliver Cromwell considered themselves ‘bad’ or ‘evil,’ I suggest that your question is moot.”

  But then he fixed her with his eyes again. “Naturally, you could pose the question to your brother if you aren’t certain which side of the battle lines I’m on, Miss Woodmore. But I suspect you already know what his answer would be.”

  Maia kept her lips compressed together. Indeed. Chas loved her and Angelica and Sonia, and he would never expose them to any danger if he could help it. And he was a good and moral man himself. “Indeed,” she replied. “And so I am to assume that Cezar Moldavi is on the other side of the good-versus-bad-vampire battle lines.”

  “Your logic is astonishing.” His words were bored, but she swore she saw a bit of light in his eyes.

  It occurred to her at that moment that perhaps he enjoyed the verbal sparring as much as she—well, she didn’t really like the exchanges of insults and banter between them, for Maia found it outside of infuriating. But perhaps he found it difficult being both vampire and an earl. After all, earls were intimidating all on their own, but to add the fact that he was a vampire into the composite…perhaps no one was willing to stand up to him.

  Perhaps they were afraid he’d bite them—or worse—if they did.

  Perhaps—now here was a fanciful thought—he didn’t mind being treated like a normal person. Occasionally.

  “Do you truly drink blood?” she blurted out. “From people?”

  He became very still. Even his eyes didn’t shift, nor his fingers. And the carriage all at once seemed to shrink, becoming very close and dark, and her heart began to pound again in that ugly way. She wished fiercely that she could take the question back.

  “It’s the common means of survival and obtaining sustenance,” he replied after a moment. “But I do not.”

  Maia opened her mouth to ask more, but something stopped her. She sensed that their tenuous connection might be strained, or even broken, if she did. Instead she said, “Is it true that vampires cannot go about in the sunlight?”

  “Direct rays from the sun cause excruciating pain, so one must take care if one ventures out during the day. Surely you haven’t heard this information from your brother,” he said. “I was under the impression you and your sisters were blissfully ignorant of his…occupation. But you seem to have some…reasonable…knowledge.”

  “We grew up listening to stories from our Granny Grapes, who was part-Gypsy. She had many tales about the vampires in Romania. Of course, at the time, I had no idea that not only were they true, but that I would actually meet some of them.”

  “Granny Grapes?”

  Maia felt her face soften into a fond smile. “She was our grandmother, and for some reason when I was very young, I got it all mixed up and thought she was our great-grandmother. So I got it into my head that her name was Grape-Grandmother. And so the name remained fixed.”

  Silence settled between them then, causing Maia to silently muse that she couldn’t ever recall being alone with the earl and not fumbling or grasping for something to say. Or being skewered by his wit.

  It wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. In fact, with the rhythmic rumbling of the carriage wheels on the cobblestones and bricks, the moment was rather pleasant.

  Without being obvious, she glanced at him sidewise. He was starin
g out the window, and it occurred to her with a start that he might be watching for another attack.

  But, she reminded herself, that was unlikely, as the attack had already occurred. And so perhaps he was simply fascinated by a world that was beginning to brighten with dawn. A world that he must never experience fully illuminated, and warm.

  What a terrible thing, never to bask in the sun or to walk through the rows of flowers when they were in full bloom. Not that she actually pictured the rigid earl walking through flower gardens, brushing his strong fingers lightly over rose blossoms…

  He turned and the broad light of a streetlamp played over his mouth and jaw.

  Maia looked at him, her gaze suddenly fully fastened on the lower half of his face. On his mouth. Her breath stopped.

  A mouth utterly, horribly, impossibly recognizable to her. A mouth that she’d remarked on, a mouth that she’d scrutinized and thought about the fact that she was doing so because the upper half of his face had been masked. A chill washed over her, followed by a rush of heat. No. It was impossible.

  She’d almost made the same mistake before.

  But the image was eerily familiar: his eyes in shadow, his mouth and jaw exposed.

  Maia must have gasped or otherwise indicated her shock, for he turned to look directly at her. Their eyes met, suddenly clashing and holding, and she could no longer deny it.

  “Is something amiss, Miss Woodmore?” he asked coolly.

  It was he. There was no question.

  I do hope you aren’t about to cast up your accounts on my waistcoat, your majesty, the Knave of Diamonds had said that night.

  While on this night, Lord Corvindale had said, I do hope you aren’t wiping your nose on my shirt, Miss Woodmore.

  She’d been kissed by the Earl of Corvindale? She’d waltzed with him? Flirted with him?

  Maia felt faint. And queasy.