Bad Boys of the Night: Eight Sizzling Paranormal Romances: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set

by Jennifer Ashley

  When he wanted, he took.

  She moaned against him, suddenly soft, suddenly pressing her body all along his. The curve of her breasts and the swell of her arse were tempting, and he pulled away from her neck long enough to smother her mouth with his. Heat mixed with the heavy iron of her lifeblood. She shuddered beneath his kiss, her lips opening and the warm, sleek thrust of her tongue shared the blood on his lips.

  That was the way of it. They always wanted more.

  And for the Dracule, it was a dual-pronged need: the desire for hot, sweet, life-sustaining blood combined inextricably with sexual desire. One fed the other: the dual penetrations, the heat and sensuality, the sleek, pulsing sensations, the intimate tastes and scents. Although it was possible, a Dracule rarely indulged in one without the other. Why bother?

  She shifted so her hips moved against him, little gasps and sighs coming from deep in her throat as he returned to feeding, to drawing the pulsing blood from her in the same primitive rhythm of coitus. The girl shuddered, vibrating with desire, her fingers curling into his arms.

  Voss fed, drawing deep and hard. He breathed in her heated scent, felt the tremors in her torso and her weight suddenly sag between him and the wall. He knew when to stop, and he pulled away. Reluctantly. His cock raged, needing to finish things off.

  In response to the interruption, Voss felt the familiar warning twinge on the back of his shoulder.

  The girl looked up at him with vacant eyes and he kissed her parted lips in a brief thank you. Then he bent back to the four little wounds on her neck and licked them delicately, slipping his tongue into and around the little indentations to ensure the spread of his healing saliva. After all, he’d just saved her life. It would be a bit of a kick in the face to let her die so soon after.

  Just as he was finishing and setting her weak-kneed body up against the wall, Voss heard a noise behind him.

  “What in the bloody hell?”

  Eddersley.

  “Hell, Dewhurst. Can’t keep ’em sheathed for more than a few hours, can you?” his friend tsked. Of course, if it were a handsome, muscled young man in the alley, Eddersley would have been unsheathing his own incisors without delay. He’d even looked Voss’s way more than once—but that had been decades ago, when they’d first met at one of Cale’s parties in Paris.

  Voss smiled, still feeling the pleasure. “When the opportunity presents itself, why not? She enjoyed it as much as I. Or at least, that’s how she’ll remember it.” As she tensed, he curled his fingers around her arm so the girl couldn’t run off before he was through with her. “You can still join me.”

  Eddersley didn’t look the least bit tempted. “I just visited Rubey’s. I’ll wait and see what I can find at the Lundhames’ tonight. Blue blood’s my preference.”

  Blue blood in a stiff cock, to be precise. “This was nothing more than a bit of foreplay. I’ve room for more, later, of course.” Voss grinned and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the handkerchief in case of any errant streaks of blood. The girl was making little gasping noises and he looked down at her. “Now, there, m’dear. It’s all over for now and soon you won’t recall a thing about it. More’s the pity for you.”

  He turned on his gentle thrall, his eyes glowing full and golden-red, and he stared into the girl’s gaze. He felt the moment she released the memory of him and what had just occurred: she gave a little sigh and a jolt and then fear blazed into her face.

  Good; she’d remember the attack from the man, but wouldn’t have the memory of a handsome, tawny-haired vampire to share.

  “Go,” he commanded. “And stay out of the bloody alleys.” He released her and watched as the girl pushed past him, dashing toward the street end of the alley where a lamp provided the relative safety of illumination.

  “I thought you were hellbent on getting to the Lundhames’,” Eddersley said. “Didn’t think you had time for such a diversion.”

  Voss straightened up and brushed the sleeve of his coat. “Indeed. But if I hadn’t stopped to intervene, she’d have suffered more than a bit of pleasure and four small puncture wounds. ’Twas only a bit of a delay. The Woodmore chits will still be there, I’m certain.”

  “Never can pass up a bit of the tip-slip, can you, Dewhurst?” said Brickbank as Voss and Eddersley climbed back into the coach.

  “Why should I?” he replied, settling into his seat. He was aware of the sharper ache on the back of his right shoulder as he settled into place.

  The discomfort was Lucifer’s way of annoying him, of course. Reminding him to whom he belonged. The ache wouldn’t be nagging at him if he’d gouged his fangs roughly into that little chit’s chest, tearing the virgin flesh and sucking until she collapsed—and then left her. Or if he’d savaged her assailant, draining him of his blood or even simply pulling him apart. Or even if he’d driven on by without stopping to interfere.

  Voss adjusted his arm and tried to ignore the dull throb emanating through Lucifer’s Mark. He knew what it would look like at this moment: the slender, jagged line that started beneath the hair at his nape and spread like roots over the back of his right shoulder would be raised like tiny, dark, veinlike welts. Normally the mark remained nearly flat and simply looked like the tattoo of a shattered piece of glass. But at times like this—when Luce was displeased—it filled and swelled and became an annoyance.

  It was the physical manifestation of the crack in his soul, the one that had occurred when Lucifer visited him in his dreams more than a century ago. It was the sign of his family’s liaison with the devil, the indication of Voss’s immortality and power.

  A cracked or damaged soul meant that he could live forever and never face the judgment of God. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted. He had access to resources beyond imagination: power, wealth, even knowledge. He had no one to answer to but Lucifer, and only if the devil ever called him to true service.

  Unless, of course, he met a stake through his heart or someone sliced off his head.

  And the only way either of those things would happen was if he came face to face with the damned hyssop plant and it weakened or paralyzed him. And since Voss had no intention of dying, ever, he continued to build up his own arsenal of protection by learning the frailties of others.

  He would never again be the scrawny fifteen-year-old kid who’d spent more than two hours in the depths of the privy his first week at Eton—on three different occasions—because his upper classmates thought he was too pretty and spoiled.

  Regardless of the fact that it was true: he always had been pretty and spoiled.

  Perhaps that was why Lucifer had chosen him to be Dracule.

  Not for the first time, Voss was thankful his Asthenia wasn’t something common, like tea leaves or silver. Amman Gilreath, poor bastard, had had an Asthenia of pine needles, which had led to an early end for him, thanks to Chas Woodmore.

  The thought of Woodmore then brought to mind the issue of Moldavi. This reminder steered Voss’s attention back to where it should have been, instead of on things he couldn’t change.

  His family’s deal with the devil had been made in the fifteenth century. Voss, Dimitri, Eddersley, Giordan Cale—all the members of the Draculia, even Moldavi—were the result of Vlad Tepes’s, Count Dracula’s, desire to rule Romania with an iron fist.

  And centuries later, random members of the broad family tree were still paying the price of an unholy covenant negotiated by Vlad the Impaler.

  ***

  “I should like to engage your services, Miss Woodmore.”

  Angelica turned to the pretty young woman, who’d spoken to her through the leaves of a large potted lemon tree settled in the corner of the Lundhames’ ballroom. A bit out of breath from the quadrille she’d just finished with the very energetic Mr. Clayton Beemish, Angelica smiled and edged closer to the large plant, allowing its branches to flutter in front of her—the better to keep the conversation unnoticed.

  Fortunately, Mr. Beemish had taken himself off to
fetch a cup of lemonade for her. It would be a while before he returned, she was certain, and as long as none of the other young men noticed she was unattended, she would have a few moments to talk to this new acquaintance.

  That was, except for Lord Harrington. She hadn’t seen the handsome young man yet—and as he always made a point of finding her if he was in attendance, she presumed he either wasn’t coming or hadn’t arrived yet. But if he did appear, she’d certainly choose the pleasure of dancing with him over a possible business transaction.

  “Do you have a reference?” Angelica asked her potential client, for she was careful with whom she divulged her ability.

  “Chastity Drury told me about you. I’m Gertrude Yarmouth,” the woman whispered. One of the green spikes from the lemon tree had caught in her hair, and she pushed it away as she offered a coin to Angelica, gloved hand meeting gloved hand behind the sturdy tree trunk. “Will this be enough for you to tell me about Baron Framingham?”

  Ah. Framingham. The man who laughed too loudly and who seemed unable to retain a valet, if his attire was any indication.

  Angelica looked down at the gold crown that had just been slipped to her and resisted the urge to smile in delight. Her reputation was certainly growing, as was the small pouch of coins in her chamber. As soon as she could slip out of the house without Maia bothering her, she would deliver it to St. Anselm’s orphanage, where the ladies who ran the home would put it to good use.

  “I must have further information before I agree to take you on as a client,” she warned, for the services of Angelica Woodmore weren’t for the fainthearted. Nor for the destitute.

  “Has Framingham asked for your hand?” she continued, for she hadn’t heard, nor read, any announcement of a betrothal. And if the man were betrothed, the engagement certainly hadn’t affected his interest in other young women since arriving at the Lundhames’ ball. Including Angelica herself.

  “Yes, he spoke to my father only today. My father approves of the match.”

  “Have you accepted him, then? Are you certain you wish to engage my services?” Angelica watched the girl closely.

  “I have asked my father to allow me a day to think on it—a request which he granted reluctantly. I knew you were going to be here tonight, and I didn’t want to make a decision until I learned what you had to tell me. Chastity said you helped her.”

  Angelica nodded. Now for the most telling question. “Do you wish to accept Framingham? Are you in love with him?” She would return the coin in a moment if the young woman were. For she’d come to accept that the very thing which made her so different, and which burdened her in ways no one else understood, could also be put to good use. Her “sight” could be intriguing, amusing, and profitable for certain charities—but not in every case. She’d learned her lesson after what happened with Belinda Mayhew and no longer blindly accepted clients.

  “I hardly know the man,” Miss Yarmouth said, her voice rising and her hand buffeting the aromatic lemon leaves. “He is… He’s nearly forty, and his teeth are so yellow and crooked and all he speaks of are his hounds. Always, his hounds. But he has over thirty thousand a year, and this is my second Season. Papa is annoyed that I’ve been out for so long and I’ve only received one other proposal. If I don’t accept Framingham, Papa won’t be pleased.”

  Definitely not a love match, which would make it easier to deliver unpleasant news if that was what it happened to be. “Very well. Consider this”—she held up the coin—“a down payment. You will owe me another one after I give you the information.” The orphans at St. Anselm’s seemed to grow out of their frocks and pants weekly. Angelica eyed Miss Yarmouth, who gulped but nodded firmly. Then Angelica tucked the crown into her reticule and, after a glance to determine Mr. Beemish’s whereabouts (still across the room, in line for lemonade), continued, “You must provide me with something that Framingham has touched with his bare hand. And you understand there is only one thing I can tell you about him.”

  “Yes, of course. Chastity explained how you helped her. You can tell me only how he will die,” Miss Yarmouth said, her voice pitching so low at the end of her speech that the music fairly drowned it out.

  “After a fashion. I can only see a person in a still image at the moment of death. And the only reason I am willing,” Angelica said, her voice and expression becoming vehement as she tried to ignore the fact that it was no longer quite true, “is to enable you to make a knowledgeable decision as to whether you wish to accept his hand in marriage.”

  She ruthlessly pushed away the flash of memory from the grisly dream she’d had last week. It had only happened once. Surely it meant nothing.

  Miss Yarmouth’s eyes were wide and she nodded fervently. “Yes, of course,” she said again.

  Despite the other woman’s assurances, Angelica launched into her standard lecture. “We of the fairer sex have little to say in regards to our marital matches and our lives. If I can offer a piece of information that might tip the scales a bit in our balance, then I am happy to do so.”

  “I do wish you’d cease this ridiculous game,” a voice suddenly hissed into Angelica’s ear. “We’ve got other things to be concerned with tonight.”

  Angelica pulled her arm away from her older sister’s firm grip. “Stow it, Maia. At least one of us ought to enjoy ourselves,” she muttered, “and it best be me. Heaven knows you don’t know how. Have you even danced once tonight?”

  “While our brother is quite possibly lying dead somewhere?” Maia pressed her slippered foot down hard onto hers, but her sister was nimble enough to pull her toes out before they were smashed, and without stumbling and making a scene in front of her client.

  Angelica slipped a sharp elbow into her sister’s side as she turned and smiled at Miss Yarmouth. “I shall meet you in the ladies’ retiring room in thirty minutes to examine the item you’ve retrieved from him. Don’t be late.”

  “Thirty minutes?” Miss Yarmouth’s lips opened in shock. “But—”

  “Yes. Half past midnight. You’ll have to work quickly and intelligently,” Angelica told her. “My services do not come cheaply or simply, but they are worth it.” Then she turned her back on the lemon tree and her client, and faced her sister.

  She opened her mouth to tell Maia that she knew Chas wasn’t dead…but then closed it. Even now, even to put her sister out of her obvious misery, she wouldn’t go on that path. She couldn’t allow herself to do so, to open herself—and her family—up to such a Pandora’s box.

  Maia didn’t understand why Angelica felt compelled to do what she did, assisting the other young women of the ton. Her older sister was affianced to a handsome, kind man for whom she had great affection, but that was only because she had a forceful way about her, and because Chas, for all of his constant traveling, loved and cared for his sisters dearly. There were plenty of other young women who made miserable—or worse—matches with men much older than they were. At least Chas wouldn’t force any of them into something they didn’t want.

  Maia was the eldest of the three of them, not counting their brother. He was older than all of his sisters and, since they had been orphaned for ten years, he was also the head of the family, which, although it wasn’t titled, held a lovely county seat in Shropshire and a smaller estate in Derby. This made the Woodmore sisters welcomed in most homes of the ton, as well as fine wifely candidates for the bachelors thereof.

  Chas was twenty-seven, and Maia was nearly twenty—just ten months older than Angelica. Sonia was only thirteen, and she was currently tucked safely away in a convent school in Scotland.

  In addition to their comfortable wealth, the Woodmores were a particularly fertile family. And thanks to Angelica’s great-great-grandmother, who, after the death of her older, wealthy husband, had become enamored with a handsome young groom, they also had acquired a bit of Gypsy blood that cropped up every generation or so. Chas and Maia hadn’t been blessed (or cursed, depending upon whom one spoke to) with the Sight, but their two younge
r sisters had.

  “And I have danced—twice,” Maia retorted from between tight lips. “Despite the fact that one of my partners couldn’t seem to find a spot on the floor between my feet during the entire set.”

  “So you danced with Flewellington? I warned you about him.” Angelica’s ire faded quickly, as it often did, and she smiled at her sister in sympathy. It had taken only one set with Baron Flewellington for her to learn the same lesson: avoid the man and his large, clumsy feet at all costs. “At least you didn’t sit against the wall like you normally do. And, drat it, Harrington isn’t here tonight.”

  “I haven’t seen Corvindale yet, either,” Maia said, changing the subject and reaching over to adjust one of her sister’s curls. “Hold still. This one is coming undone, Ange.”

  Angelica obeyed as deft fingers adjusted the little pin that held one of the curls in place at her temple. “I’m not certain I would recognize him even if I saw Corvindale,” she said. “Are you certain he’s to be here?”

  “Everyone who is everyone is here tonight. I think it’s disgraceful he hasn’t made any attempt to answer the message I sent him yesterday. We haven’t heard from Chas for a fortnight, and I’m only following his directions in contacting the earl. I made that perfectly clear in the letter.”

  Angelica had no doubt of that. If nothing else, her sister was exceedingly capable of expressing herself and her intentions clearly.

  And despite the fact that she knew he wasn’t dead, Angelica had to push away the pang of worry for her brother. He traveled to the Continent quite often, for purposes that remained unclear to his sisters, but he always made certain to be in touch with them regularly by post or other message. The aunt of a distant cousin, Mrs. Fernfeather, and her husband, as necessary, acted as chaperone in those instances. But Chas’s last letter had given an unusually terse command that if they didn’t hear from him in two weeks that they were to contact the Earl of Corvindale immediately.