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

by Jennifer Ashley

“Assistance,” the man gurgled.

  Voss released him, but kept the sword in his hand and his fangs long and visible. “Very well.” He smiled as if he’d just requested a different neckcloth from his valet and had been rewarded with the perfect choice.

  The guard stumbled over to the door, opened a small window and spoke within. He turned, looking more cowed than a vampire had the right to be, and asked, “What was yer name again?”

  “Dewhurst,” Voss said, trying not to inhale the smells coming from that little window. Angelica. Burning coal. Blood. Wine. Angelica.

  Focus.

  Moldavi wasn’t a fool, but he wouldn’t expect any trickery from Voss, and therefore, he would have no reason to be on his guard. That was the benefit of Voss having cultivated the persona he had: everyone knew that he had no allegiance to anyone but himself; therefore he was of no threat to anyone unless he was threatened first. Above all, he was known for being a well-compensated informant who sold his information to the highest bidder, regardless of who they were, and a man who enjoyed his pleasures with whoever cared to share them with him.

  And that was precisely why he had been the best person to come to rescue Angelica. Moldavi would never suspect him of bestirring himself for anyone else.

  Voss was gratified when the pronouncement of his name gained him immediate access, and he resisted the urge to ram the sword into the guard’s belly simply because he could. Instead he returned the weapon to the man knowing that Moldavi wouldn’t allow it in the chamber, and relying on the fact that the guard would likely employ it to keep any others from interrupting what was to follow.

  And he walked in.

  Into a veil of bloodscent. Angelica. His fingers curled into the edge of his coat.

  The room, the chamber: Voss focused on that immediately after glancing at Moldavi. He had to take it all in before allowing himself to look at Angelica.

  For he saw her out of the corner of his eye; the impression, the essence of her. In the corner. Unmoving.

  The chamber. Moldavi. He focused again even as he strode in and said, “Right, Cezar, I see you’ve changed things up a bit since my last visit. Being in the emperor’s pocket has been a boon for you, no?”

  Swathed in royal blue and emerald-green silk, the primitive stone walls shimmered in firelight coming from a large enclosure—a necessary evil for a subterranean chamber, even on a summer’s evening. Two other doors stood at opposite ends of the chamber. Paintings made shadows and wrinkles in the fabric wall coverings. A strip of moonlight beamed through one of the high, narrow windows. Lamps lit every corner of the square chamber, and the chairs and chaises were upholstered in dark brown and blue, with heavy walnut tables.

  Beneath his feet were furs. In that breath of a moment, Voss identified a Siberian tiger, white with black stripes, and two others that he supposed were from India—yellowish orange and black. A brown bear, and a large number of minks stitched together to make a quilt-like rug in front of the chair on which Moldavi sat. A bit too exotic for Voss, but other than that, Moldavi’s taste wasn’t terribly ostentatious.

  The man in question laughed at Voss’s comment. “Being in the emperor’s pocket? I’m not certain whose pocket is carrying whom.” Like his servant, his voice was slightly sibilant and, though it had been centuries, still carried a bit of Transylvania in its accents. Voss knew—because it was his business to know such things—that part of the reason for the faint hiss was that Moldavi’s jaw had been broken when he was young, and his teeth hadn’t grown back in properly.

  Still taking care not to look overtly at Angelica, despite the fact that his very being pulled in that direction, Voss strolled in and slid the toe of his boot across one of the furs as if in admiration. He used the opportunity to glance sidewise over toward the corner and caught the impression of continued stillness. His nostrils twitched, the scent of blood strong and sweet and of Angelica filling them.

  In here, he had no need to keep his fangs sheathed, and allowed them to touch his lower lip as he pushed his needs away. Something burned over his shoulder. The fingers of the devil.

  “If I had to wager,” Voss said, “I should guess each of you find the other useful…after a fashion. For one, the emperor’s propensity for battle and casualties has certainly kept you well fed, and easily so.”

  “I have been known to sample the convenient buffet of a battlefield, to be sure. You are correct we both serve the needs of the other.”

  Voss’s expression remained bland. Moldavi’s Asthenia happened to be something so common in the world of mortals he would forever be limited in his own power. Otherwise, Napoleon Bonaparte would be merely a note in the realm of Cezar Moldavi instead of an associate. “Indeed,” he replied. “The new emperor is fortunate to have your skills and brilliance.”

  And if Voss actually knew what Moldavi’s weakness was—other than the fact it kept him fairly sheltered from the mortal world for fear of being accosted by it (silver? gold? paper? ink? an apple?)—he would have a greater chance of extricating both himself and Angelica without it getting messy. As it was, thanks in part to Chas Woodmore, he had a better than average chance of making it anyway.

  “Well, then, Voss, what brings you here? Belial claims you were in London only days past.”

  “I was, but it’s such a bore. With the trade cut off, there’s not a decent bottle of champagne or Armagnac to be found. The women don’t waltz. And the fashions are…Well, need I say more?” He gestured to his attire, clothing he’d worn in America and donned for the purpose of this meeting to make his point. “So I thought to come to the source.” He smiled and selected a chair near Moldavi, half facing Angelica.

  Voss was acutely aware he’d seen and sensed no movement from the bundle of woman in the corner. While he was pleased that she’d made no reaction to his presence—for it was imperative he keep their acquaintance secret from Moldavi—the very fact made his skin prickle with fear.

  “I did see Belial in London,” Voss added, and as Cezar stood to walk over to a large wooden cabinet, he chanced a glance at Angelica.

  She slumped in a chair. Her eyes were closed and neat tendrils of blood trickled from her nose. Her neck, throat, shoulder…all seemed untasted. Her gloveless hands were curled, white, in her lap.

  Sleeping. Voss hoped, hoped with such fervor that Lucifer’s spectral fingers tightened on his shoulder so that he couldn’t contain a gasp, hoped that she was sleeping. Peacefully.

  The door on the opposite side of the room opened and two men walked in. Dracule, Voss assumed, but one couldn’t be certain until one saw fangs or glowing eyes. They could be mortal minions of the emperor. Either way…blast and hell.

  The fewer the people in the chamber while he tried to manipulate Moldavi, the better. He furtively felt for the packet in his pocket, and with the other hand adjusted his coat so he felt the weight of Bonaparte’s watch chain. One or both of them would need to be employed.

  “And what was your business in London? Sniffing around the Woodmore sisters, I presume?” Cezar said, bringing a glass bottle back to his seat. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable, Voss.”

  The bottle was dark purple, the color of eggplant, and had a golden wax seal that broke as Moldavi twisted off the cork. “We were just about to celebrate with a special toast,” Cezar said.

  “As to my interest in the Woodmore chits—anything to annoy Woodmore, of course,” replied Voss easily, even as he felt a wave of…something…odd. “But I hardly saw the girls. Dimitri is keeping them tightly locked up in Blackmont, as I’m certain you’re aware.”

  “Not as tightly as he meant to,” said one of the new arrivals with a low laugh. Voss recognized him as one of Belial’s companions at the Gray Stag and at the masquerade ball as well. The other man gestured to the corner where Angelica lay.

  “Indeed? Is she one of them?” Voss now had permission to look overtly at the girl, and he took the moment to do so. Her chest rose and fell in shuddering breaths, and one of her f
ingers twitched. An uneasy sleep.

  Or an unnatural one.

  Fear seized him more tightly as he returned his attention to Moldavi. A horrible thought—one that he’d tried to ignore since London—rose in the front of his mind…a thought that made all feeling leech from his body.

  It would be just like Moldavi to do it.

  “Ah…the reason for the celebratory toast, I presume.” Voss forced his voice to remain steady. No.

  What would be the best revenge for Moldavi to have on Chas Woodmore, vampire hunter? The man who’d stolen his own vampire sister from him?

  Why…to turn Woodmore’s own sister into a replacement for Narcise. And all of the Draculia knew what Narcise was to Moldavi: his sister, his slave, his whore.

  To humiliate Chas Woodmore as Chas had humiliated Moldavi.

  Voss’s fingers were chilled, and he struggled to cut through the burn over his shoulder and the explosion of thoughts…and that odd sensation of helplessness that seemed to be growing. He vaguely noticed Moldavi pouring four drinks from the aubergine-colored bottle, and when the man offered him one of the glasses, he took it.

  At that moment, he knew. As if he were punched in the gut and his ears were boxed simultaneously. His lungs tightened. Harder to breathe, more difficult to control the grip of his fingers around the glass. Hyssop.

  Here.

  He looked around the wavering room. Where? The other two vampires had drawn nearer. There were no plants, no food seasoned with the herb. Nothing that could explain his sudden weakness.

  The room swirled and tipped and Voss felt as if he were sliding into a pool of water, slogging and slow. Somewhere.

  “A toast,” Cezar was saying, lifting his glass. He looked at Voss, who, with difficulty, managed to raise his to just below his shoulder.

  Steady. Steady focus.

  He fought the weakness creeping over him, warring with the pain in his shoulder and his mental capacity. “What is it?” he asked, finding it nearly impossible to move his mouth in speech. Slowly he lowered the glass to the table next to him. Where is it?

  He needed to get away. His head felt light and the room tried to spin, but he fought it still.

  “Absinthe,” Cezar replied. He smiled with genuine pleasure, showing a fang studded with a tiny sapphire. “A bottle of the best French absinthe, which I have been saving for such an occasion.”

  Absinthe. Not brandy or whiskey.

  Lucifer’s nails… It was in the drink. Hyssop syrup. Of course.

  “Drink, Voss,” Cezar told him. Looking at him oddly. “You must join us in the toast. I shall at last have the Woodmore bastard crawling on his knees. And Dimitri to follow.” The others had raised their own glasses.

  It could kill him. Did Moldavi know? Could he know?

  Voss had guarded his secret so closely. It was impossible for the other man to know. No. No one knew.

  It was a horrible, awful coincidence.

  Moldavi was looking at him strangely now. With suspicion. His eyes dark and piercing, the faintest warning of red glowing at the rims of his irises.

  Voss couldn’t allow him to suspect, to question. He swallowed, tried to wade through the roaring in his ears, the tunneling of his vision as it narrowed and darkened. His hand trembled. Even Angelica’s alluring scent had faded.

  “Drink, Voss,” said Moldavi. The glint in his eyes had gone beyond suspicion to something akin to delight. The fang’s sapphire winked and hypnotized and Voss realized that, for the first time in his life, he had wholly miscalculated.

  CHAPTER 14

  WHEREIN A STUMBLE CREATES A GREAT DIVERSION

  When she heard a familiar voice, Angelica opened her eyes in narrow slits. At first she thought she was dreaming.

  Voss was here?

  Immediately her heart swelled and a flush of relief and hope washed over her. Oh, God, thank you.

  But then, just as suddenly, the warmth evaporated, leaving her cold and frightened again. If only Voss were the man he’d been…before. The one she’d begun to have feelings for. An actual man.

  Knowing that, she was filled with trepidation as she watched him settle into a seat with Cezar Moldavi. Much too friendly. Much too companionable. What did he want? Had they been working together all along?

  Chas. Where is Chas?

  She’d been pretending to be unconscious for some time now. Chas would be after her as soon as he learned what had happened, and her hope had been to stall for time. So far, she’d been successful…but she’d only been here for a day. Perhaps not even that long.

  Voss looked over at her and she held herself still, trying to keep her breathing steady. Despite her slitted vision, she could see him clearly, and although she hated him, Angelica couldn’t deny he was so handsome it made her heart hurt. And he seemed so capable and confident.

  His honey-brown hair was ruffled around the collar and fell in a curling lock over one eyebrow that would have been endearing if she could trust him. Love him. His jaw, so masculine and chiseled, and those lips…and his fangs.

  This was the first she’d really seen them fully exposed. They were wicked-looking, long and lethal, and in the fog of her weary, frightened mind, she remembered Maia waxing on about how she’d dreamed of being bitten by incisors like that.

  If only…She snapped her eyes closed when he seemed to stare more closely at her. If only.

  Something burned behind her lids and Angelica tried to squeeze them tighter so that the tear wouldn’t trickle down and give away the fact that she was conscious. Oh, Voss.

  As she struggled to control her emotions—and it was no wonder she found it impossible, after what she’d been through in the last few days—Angelica realized the mood in the chamber had altered.

  “Drink, Voss,” Moldavi was saying. He was not a large or imposing man, for all of his feared reputation—but it was his eyes that bespoke of the perfidy and malevolence inside him. He had swarthy skin and an abnormally wide, square jaw. His hair was the same dark brown as his thick, straight brows, and he had hands as large as dinner plates. Large rings flashed on seven of his fingers. Now his eyes blazed red-orange and he was focused on Voss with an intensity that had Angelica opening her eyes fully.

  Something was wrong.

  Voss seemed…odd. She was across the chamber, and couldn’t quite understand it, but he was acting not unlike Corvindale had in the carriage just before they were attacked. As if he were having trouble breathing, and moving.

  And then…ice washed over her. She recognized his clothing. Odd, dull and ill-fitting. More out of fashion than anything she’d ever seen Voss wear. Except in her dream.

  The dream she’d had the night before she’d been abducted from Lord Corvindale’s carriage in London.

  The dream in which…he’d died.

  Angelica gasped and all eyes turned to her before she could figure out whether she’d done so purposely or not. Burned into her mind was the image of Voss, splayed on the ground in that awful dun-colored coat and purple and red neckcloth. Dead.

  “My guest has awakened,” Moldavi said. He smiled a hateful smile and Angelica saw the flash of a blue gem in his fang. “Just in time to join us in our toast to her presence.”

  So far she’d managed to keep him from biting her, although he’d been inordinately interested in the blood that erupted from her nose during her attempt to fight off one of his companions. She shuddered at the memory of him swiping his finger over her upper lip, and pulling it away, glistening with blood and then sliding it into his mouth. Watching her the whole time with glowing yellow eyes.

  Angelica shifted, pulling herself up into a more stable position, and allowed herself a glance at Voss. His eyes met hers, and she was shocked by a blaze of awareness when their gazes clashed. Oh, Voss.

  Her heart felt crushed, her breathing impossible. Why did you have to betray me?

  She pulled her attention away and found Moldavi looking at her. “Perhaps you would care to join us in a toast, Miss Woodmore?�
� he asked. “It is in your honor, after all.”

  The tone of his voice clearly indicated sarcasm, and Angelica wasn’t certain what to do. But before she could decide, there was a clatter, and the crash of breaking glass.

  Moldavi gave a sharp exclamation and leaped to his feet. Voss did the same, but his movements were sharp and jerky and he seemed to be clutching the side of his chair for support.

  The glass that had been in Voss’s hand had shattered on the table, and the dark liquid spread in a pool, draining onto the fur rugs below. The other two men in the room had moved immediately to flank Voss, and in spite of herself, Angelica’s heart lodged in her throat.

  One of them wrenched Voss’s arm behind his back and she saw he had begun to reach into his pocket, but was arrested in mid-move.

  “Did you not care for my choice of liqueur, then, Voss?” Moldavi said. His face had settled into a complacent smile that bespoke evil. “Absinthe doesn’t appeal?”

  “Take your hands from me,” Voss said to the men. “You’re…mussing my coat.” His voice sounded weak to Angelica, and his face still seemed drawn. He’d shifted away from the chair and table during the little melee, moving farther from the furniture where they’d been sitting and nearer to the fireplace.

  He looked at Moldavi. “You didn’t care to ask for the purpose of my visit,” he said. “If you had…you’d know I came to do you a service. So if your men will take their hands off my person…our discussion can commence. Or…I can see what Regeris is willing to pay to find out when Chas Woodmore will die.”

  Angelica managed to hold back a gasp of fury. He was using her information? Giving it to Moldavi? And then his words penetrated, and she realized that Voss didn’t actually know when her brother was going to die—for she hadn’t told him. And even if he did know…it was to be decades from now. Her tension eased and she waited to see what would transpire.

  Moldavi must have moved or given some sort of signal, for Voss was released—but not until after his pockets were searched. “Indeed?” Moldavi sounded bored.

  Voss stood, his fingers still curled onto the back of a different chair, his face still taut as the contents of his pockets were flopped onto the table. A small pouch of coin, two small cloth-wrapped packets tied with string, a pistol and a knife. A handkerchief.