Dimitri still hadn’t forgiven him for that night in Vienna, and Voss supposed he couldn’t wholly blame him. The incident in 1690 that had caused their rift had been a combination of misjudgment and unfortunate happenstance. Voss had written it off to his own inexperience and the fact that he’d only been Dracule for six years.
Nevertheless, he should have realized that whatever sense of humor Dimitri might have once had, had long been lost after becoming Dracule. But perhaps he’d never even had one, growing up the son of an English earl during the dark times of Oliver Cromwell and his stark Puritan ways.
But that occasion in Vienna had taken place so long ago, the Plague had still been a threat, and unfortunate as it was, the destruction of Dimitri’s property and the death of his mistress had been an accident. Most of the blame was, and rightly should be, laid at the feet of Cezar Moldavi—who’d also been in Vienna.
But however the blame had been distributed, the fact that he’d infuriated Dimitri all those years ago made it more difficult for Voss to get what he needed from him.
And the fact was he needed Dimitri’s cooperation now that Woodmore was gone. They weren’t precisely enemies, Voss and the Earl of Corvindale—but neither did they fully trust each other. It was more as if they were two dogs circling, eyeing each other balefully…with Dimitri doing most of the baleful eyeing, if one was to be wholly honest.
Voss frowned, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. Even if Chas Woodmore—who was a mortal, and not a member of the Draculia—wasn’t dead now, he would be as soon as Cezar Moldavi found him with his sister. It was only a matter of time.
“Bastard’s as cold and frigid as a dead mortal,” he muttered to himself, thinking of Dimitri and his decades of self-denial of the most basic of needs. Whether it stemmed from the incident with Moldavi and Lerina that night in Vienna, or maybe because of his previous mistress, Meg, he didn’t know, but Dimitri’s choice was an abstinence worse than chastity. Neither of which were the least bit attractive to Voss.
“Beg pardon, my lord?” said his valet, Kimton, turning from the wardrobe. A variety of rejected neckcloths hung from his fingers and over his arms.
“Nothing,” Voss replied, picking up his hat and gloves. He paused one last time to admire the cut of his steel-blue coat and gray, gold and midnight patterned vest. His shirt was crisp and white, and the chosen neckcloth a rich sapphire. He’d chosen to stud it with a black jet pin in the shape of an X.
Or, if looked at from a different angle, a cross. But no one would recognize the irony of that except another Dracule.
He smiled, admired the glint of his fangs as they eased smoothly out to press against his lower lip, and flashed a bit of that alluring glow from his pupils.
Tonight was going to be a delightful challenge. He wondered which of the Woodmore sisters would fall prey to his charm first. Another game, of course. It didn’t really matter which one did, as long as one of them succumbed and he could get the information he needed—namely, which of them had the gift of the Sight.
After that, it would be a simple matter to coax the information he needed from whichever one knew, and then he could be on his way before Woodmore was any wiser.
A bigger concern than Woodmore, however, was whether Moldavi knew yet just how valuable the sisters were. The last thing Voss wanted was for Moldavi to realize he could procure his own information from the girls, for it would decidedly deflate Voss’s leverage with him. And it would take all of the amusement out of things.
If nothing else, Voss appreciated pleasure and amusement in his life.
After all, when one lived forever, and one was rich as sin, one had to find entertainment and pleasure in order to keep things from becoming mundane. Unfortunately, his attempt at amusement and puzzle-solving was precisely what had driven the wedge between him and Dimitri more than a century ago.
But then again, a simple life without pleasure, diversion and the matching of wits would be tedious. Especially when it stretched on for eternity.
Voss ignored an internal rumble of discontent and reached for the handkerchief that Kimton had neatly folded, tucking it into a pocket, giving himself a last critical once-over in the mirror.
It was a relief to return to civilization after spending the majority of the last generation in the Colonies. The man who’d been installed as his father, Lord Dewhurst, had retired from his post—which was to say, he’d been paid off to live the rest of his years in the mountains of Romania or Switzerland—and Voss had been able to reinstate himself as Dewhurst after a forty-year exile. During that time, he’d managed brief trips to Paris, Vienna, Rome and even London, of course, but he couldn’t remain there long and still draw on his accounts without inviting question.
It was too difficult to explain why Viscount Dewhurst never aged, disliked going outside when it was very sunny and preferred the warm rich taste of blood to any vintage or, Luce forbid, the rot they called ale in Boston. And if anyone noticed the extreme resemblance between every other generation of Lord Dewhursts, it was merely written off to a strong family tree.
Voss smiled as he pulled on his own gloves. A strong and quite unique family tree indeed. The fact that he and Dimitri, as well as Cezar Moldavi, sprang from the same widespread branches was merely an irritation in the grand scheme of things.
It was fortunate to Voss’s way of thinking that his Draculian ancestors, as well as those of Dimitri, Cale, and a limited number of others, had found their wives among the British and French peerage and thus had conferred upon them their titles and estates throughout Western Europe. Moldavi’s roots, on the other hand, were firmly entrenched in the cold, uncivilized mountains of Transylvania and Romania. Drafty castles and mountainous estates located leagues from anything resembling civilization would not be to Voss’s liking. Perhaps that was part of the reason Moldavi was so intent on growing his power over mortal and Dracule alike, and why he’d established himself in Paris, trying to create an ally in Napoleon Bonaparte.
At the bottom of the stairs of his James Park residence, Voss found his butler, Moross (whom he privately called Morose for obvious reasons), waiting at the door.
“Your carriage, my lord,” the man intoned. It wasn’t time for his once-a-year smile, so he merely looked down his long bloodhound face.
“Where’s Eddersley? And Brickbank?” Voss glanced at the clock in the foyer. Nearly eleven. They’d been expected by half past ten, and he thought he’d heard voices below as he finished dressing. Everyone in the household knew better than to interrupt him in his toilette.
“Here!” trilled a voice. A very happy voice—rather a bit high in pitch to be comfortably masculine—which belonged to Brickbank. From the sound of it, he’d been into Voss’s private vintage in the study. Blast. He’d only been back in London for three days and already Brickbank was becoming an annoyance.
Brickbank cared for little more than charming a few debutantes in a dark corner to see how far down their gloves would slip. Although Voss wasn’t averse to those challenges himself, he had a bit more on his mind than that. With Moldavi allying with Bonaparte, the Draculia cartel in London would be well served by preparedness.
And Voss would soon in the position to accomplish just that.
For a fee, of course.
The door to the study opened and out tottered Brickbank, his eyes bright and his nose tinged red. Behind him strode Eddersley, his mop of thick, dark hair a mess as usual and a bemused expression on his face. Voss met his eyes and Eddersley shrugged.
“Shall we?” Voss asked coolly, resisting the urge to look at the condition of his study. Morose would see to any disruption with pleasure. “The ball should be in full crush by now.”
“You’re certain the Woodmore chits will be there?” asked Brickbank, bumping against him as they both moved toward the front door. “Abhor stuffy crushes.”
“By all accounts they will. At least, the two elder ones. Unless Corvindale has locked them away already,” Voss replied, stepping back so
that his clumsy friend could precede him through the front door.
Eddersley gave a short laugh. “Dimitri likely hasn’t yet met them. He’d be in no hurry to accept his responsibility as their guardian, temporary or otherwise. That would mean actually speaking to a mortal—and a female one at that—and removing himself from his study.”
Voss nodded, smiling to himself. He’d given Corvindale the news only two nights ago; even he wouldn’t have moved that quickly to get the girls under his roof and safe from Moldavi. And that was precisely the reason he was taking himself off to the Lundhames’ ball tonight.
There were rumors about the Woodmore girls and their abilities, of course, but whether those rumors about the sisters and their secrets had yet reached the streets of Paris, and thus the ears of Moldavi, was uncertain. Since the war and the new Emperor Bonaparte’s subsequent buildup of brigades ready to invade England, even those who were Dracule had a bit more difficulty with expedient communication.
Chas Woodmore had done his best to keep his sisters and their abilities under wraps while at the same time making himself indispensable to Dimitri and other members of the Draculia. It was too bad Woodmore didn’t trust Voss enough to turn the guardianship of his sisters over to him, instead of the Earl of Corvindale. That would have made things much simpler.
The three men climbed into the carriage and Voss settled himself on the green velvet seat. Eddersley and Brickbank found their places across from him, and he rapped on the ceiling. The conveyance started off with nary a jolt, and he peered out the window as they drove through St. James. As they rumbled along, the wheels quick and smooth over the cobbles below, Voss found himself less interested in the conversation of his companions than the sights outside the window.
A new moon gave no assistance to the faulty oil lamps illuminating the streets, exposing little but the shadows of random persons making their way along the walkways. The houses and shops, cluttered and clustered together in a jumbled-together fashion so unlike that in the sprawling Colonies, rose like unrelieved black walls on either side of the street. The only texture in that solid dark rise was the occasional alley or mews, just as dark and dangerous.
To mortals, anyway.
Voss felt oddly prickly tonight, as if something irregular were about to happen.
Perhaps it was simply that he’d not been out in London Society for years, although he would never ascribe his unsettled feeling to nerves. A 148-year-old vampire simply didn’t have nervous energy…even when he came face to face with his own weakness, which, in the case of Voss, was the unassuming hyssop plant.
Each of them, each Dracule, had a personal Asthenia—an Achilles’ heel or vulnerability, or whatever one wanted to call it. Other than a wooden stake to the heart, a blade bent on severing head from body or full sunlight, the Asthenia was the only real threat to a member of the Draculia. And even then, the Asthenia caused only pain and great weakness—which often allowed for the stake, sword or sun to do its business.
Not that a Dracule ever discussed or even disclosed this frailty. It was a personal thing, akin to having a flaccid cock at the most inopportune moments. Never spoken of, never acknowledged, never dissected. There was, as Giordan Cale had once said, honor among thieves, pirates and the Draculia.
In an attempt to keep his mind occupied and for personal amusement—as well as leverage in the event he needed it—Voss had made it a sort of game to determine the Asthenias of his Draculian brothers. He considered it nothing more than each man’s unique puzzle, and by craft, cunning or mere observation, he had determined the weaknesses of many of his associates.
For this reason he found himself all but ostracized by the rest of the Draculia. They simply didn’t trust him.
The ostracization was unfair, if not highly amusing to Voss, for he’d rarely sold the information or otherwise utilized it. Nor did he intend to—unless his own life was at stake. The collection of knowledge had become a personal triumph. Some men collected horses or women or wine. Voss collected information.
He was rich, titled, handsome, powerful, could bed any woman he wanted whenever he wanted and he was never going to die. What else was he to do with his infinite amount of time?
What else?
Voss pursed his lips as the carriage trundled along. His companions were conversing about some twilight horse race in which he had no interest, while he must consider how to woo a Woodmore sister out from under the Earl of Corvindale’s nose.
Just another challenge. Just another puzzle.
Now, Voss’s eyes narrowed as a movement in the shadows caught his attention. The carriage rolled speedily along, but he could see well into the dark recess of the alley and he straightened in his seat as they went by.
The flutter of a skirt, a tall, bulky figure swooping.
His eyes narrowed and he rapped sharply on the vehicle’s roof to signal the driver to stop.
Pleasure rushed through him as he sprang from the conveyance before it came to a full stop. Ignoring the exclamations of his companions, Voss was out the door and streaking back down the street toward the long, dark passage between two close-knit buildings.
It was a matter of a breath before he arrived in the engulfing shadows that, nevertheless, appeared to him only like green haze mottled with gray. Although the details were obscured, he could still clearly see shapes and some texture in the dark. His fangs he kept retracted and he knew his eyes glowed faintly, but he didn’t allow them to burn very hot. Not yet.
The muffled sounds of struggle filtered through the silence and Voss smiled in anticipation. Just a bit of a diversion before the propriety of the ball.
He moved so silently and quickly the man had no sense of his presence until Voss closed his fingers over the scruff of his jacket and hoisted him up and away from his prey. Nearly twice his size, the attacker flailed with a meaty arm, attempting to whirl about as Voss propelled him through the air like a child’s ball. He landed against a rough brick wall with a satisfying thump as Voss turned to the woman.
Blood scented the air—thick and full and tempting. It had, after all, been two days since he’d fed. Voss drew in a breath of pleasure and looked down at her. In the greenish-glowing dimness, he took note of her wide eyes and her dress—a frock that he could see was of decent quality. The daughter of a tradesman perhaps, or a servant, but certainly not a beggar or even a whore. Her clothing and grooming were much too nice.
She gaped at him, staggering back into the wall behind her as she stumbled away, clearly frightened of everything, including her rescuer.
Voss heard the noise behind him as the heavy man struggled to his feet, but he ignored it and instead spoke to the woman. “A bit dark down in here, isn’t it, m’dear?”
Her neck and the expanse of her bosom gleamed pale in the dimness, and he saw blood trailing from a cut on her cheek. It was still fresh; glistening and raw, and its scent teased him. A young woman’s blood, cut with fear, rich and sweet. He could already taste it.
Her mouth moved but nothing came out, yet Voss stepped closer, reaching for her arm. “Come,” he said. “You don’t want to stay here.” He turned just as she gasped in alarm, his arm whipping out to crash solidly into the other man, who’d lunged at them.
One effortless slash against the attacker’s gut, then an elbow smashing into the side of his head. This time the man collapsed like a stone. The aroma of his blood filled the air, heavy and metallic. And plentiful.
Voss wasn’t even tempted.
During this additional altercation, Voss hadn’t loosened his grip on the woman’s arm, and now he turned back to coax her. “Come now,” he said again, leaning closer to get a better whiff of her bloodscent. Lovely. “He won’t bother you again. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
She made a whimpering sound, and he banked the glow of his eyes. He’d kept his fangs sheathed all this time; there was no reason to frighten her any further. He had other methods, and he preferred an at least somewhat willing partner. Once she
understood that pleasure awaited, she’d be willing and ready.
He’d already stripped off his gloves, and now, with a bare finger, he reached out and swiped the blood from her cheek. His skin seemed to heat as the liquid touched his flesh, and he brought his finger to his lips. A delicate taste, just there on his mouth…warm, but a bit thin. Not as sweet as he’d expected, or hoped. But pleasant enough. It would do.
She was still gaping up at him with frantic eyes, and Voss tugged her closer. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, and deftly shifted so his foot brushed against hers.
So simple, so easy. He allowed his eyes to shift and beckon, and felt her tension ease as he captured her gaze, just enough to take the edge off her panic. Even in this dim light, he could find the center of a mortal, he could tug and coax and lead…
She stumbled a bit and he moved closer, still holding the eye contact. “I want to taste you.”
Her breath stuttered and she stared at him, her hand trembling against her throat. Her lips parted but nothing came out.
“May I?” he asked, but he was already moving in. Closer. The warmth of her breath puffed against him, buffeting his mouth, the smell of bloodscent filling his nose. He smiled. Then he released and loosened the thrall he had cast upon her so that she knew what he was about to do.
So she would feel the pleasure.
She softened and her eyes fluttered.
His fangs had emerged and he showed them to her. “It won’t hurt,” he murmured, lifting her arm, smoothing away the sleeve of her frock. Then in a burst of ferocity, he changed his mind and reached for her shoulders. She muttered and shifted, and he pulled away to look at her. A bit of fear leaped there…fear, and an edge of curiosity and desire. The glamouring, the thrall, was no longer necessary: he saw only clear need and question. He smiled and bent to her neck.
She stiffened and gasped in shock as his fangs sank in, down into the soft flesh.
Ah. The blood, the sweet flood of it, the smell and taste of iron and fear and naked desire poured through him. His veins surged and filled, his body heated and the familiar throb lifted his cock. She trembled, shuddered, her hands against his shoulders. Whether she were pushing him away or merely steadying herself, he wasn’t certain. He didn’t care.
Bad Boys of the Night: Eight Sizzling Paranormal Romances: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 68