Still feigning ease and indifference, he tsked and looked at Belial. “Such animals. Is that how you and that dog Bonaparte train them? No manners.”
Belial crossed his arms. “Why are you here?”
“Looking for Woodmore’s sisters, just as you are.” Voss gave a little shrug. “They’re not here. And you’re disturbing my evening.”
“Disturbing your evening?”
Voss didn’t look at the vampire feeding in front of him, blocked the sounds of suction and desperate gulping and choking gasps. He focused on Belial and nothing else. “I do love masquerade balls. They allow much easier access. But I prefer a bit more subtlety when arranging my…er…liaisons.” He made an offhand gesture to the scene in front of him, making sure to keep his voice pitched so low that only Belial and his companions could hear him. “Much more enjoyable and less of a mess. My valet hates it when I come home with stains.”
“I should believe you that the Woodmore bitches aren’t here?”
“You don’t have to, of course. You can stay and waste your time, although I suppose you might enjoy the entertainment. But drawing too much attention to your proclivities is not the best means to get what you want.” Voss was careful to say “your” instead of “our.” “I’m certain you haven’t forgotten those harrowing weeks in Copenhagen. You nearly slept on a stake, if I recall correctly.” He gave a bland smile.
Belial gave a narrow-eyed smile, his orange hair shining as he pursed his lips. Covered everywhere with a wash of dark freckles, he didn’t appear threatening. Until the eyes burned and the fangs came out.
“Dimitri said the same,” said the silver-haired vampire as he released the girl from his fangs. She slumped to the floor and one of the other Dracule members swooped down on top of her. “The Woodmores aren’t here.”
Voss hid his annoyance. If Dimitri was here, what the bloody hell was he doing? Where was he?
“There’s no love lost between you and Dimitri,” Belial murmured, nodding shrewdly. “No reason for you to lie for him.”
None at all, although, Voss had to admit, if he had to ally himself with Cezar Moldavi or the Earl of Corvindale, he supposed he’d more readily suffer the latter’s cold self-flagellation over Moldavi’s indiscriminating violence. Everyone knew Moldavi was a child-bleeder. But either of them could fry in the sunlight for all he cared.
“I haven’t seen Dimitri,” Voss said, fanning the uncertainty in the vampire’s eyes. “And the chits aren’t here if they ever were. I was just about to leave when…well.” He gestured to the scene in front of him, exuding disdain. “You interrupted my courting.”
“Dimitri is a bit…preoccupied at the moment,” Belial said, gesturing vaguely to the front foyer. “We’ve already spoken.”
Despite his antipathy for the earl, Voss didn’t like the sound of that. He forced himself to shrug easily. “You can continue here. If Dimitri is otherwise engaged, then I’ve got other things to do.” He sniffed in disdain. “Don’t draw too much attention to yourself, Belial. I don’t want any damned trouble now that I’m back in London. Been too long in the uncivilized America.”
He turned, his senses high, his movements casual, and began to walk away. Doubtful one of them would come after him— there was no reason to do so, and every reason not to. But he wasn’t a fool. The back of his shoulders prickled and the only sound was the wheeze of someone’s fearful breath and the intense gulping.
There was no more Voss could do to dissuade the vampires from continuing their attack and working their way through the crowd of people, feeding, terrorizing, ravaging. He’d reminded Belial that these sorts of overt events didn’t go unnoticed. They often resulted in the spawning of well-equipped, wooden-stake-and-sword-toting mortals who called themselves Vampire Hunters—often to great effect. Chas Woodmore was one of them, and the most successful one in recent times. It was fortunate that he had associated himself with Dimitri and no longer went about arbitrarily staking any member of the Draculia he encountered. Dimitri had forced Woodmore to see that there were many Dracule who offered no threat to the mortal world.
Voss walked through the stunned crowd, noticing that they’d unmasked themselves and that they stepped back as he passed through. Just as he reached the main foyer—where three footmen stood with bayonets—he heard Belial behind him. Voss turned, ready, but the vampires were merely making their way out of the room in his wake. A strong testament to the control the leader had over his companions, and only one reason he was a formidable opponent and favorite of Cezar Moldavi.
“Since Dimitri is otherwise engaged, he won’t be there when we pay Blackmont a visit,” Belial commented as he passed by Voss. He glanced at the sweeping staircase, an amused smile twitching his thick lips.
Then, with a commanding jerk of his head, he thus gave the order for the footmen to fall in line behind him. “I’m certain the Woodmore bitches will be most happy to leave that black hole and find more comfortable accommodations.”
Voss shrugged. Dark soul of Luce, where the hell is Dimitri? Up there? He didn’t look at the stairs, but suspected he knew the answer.
“Best of luck,” he told the vampire-make with great insincerity. Belial would never get into Blackmont Hall. Present or not, Dimitri would make certain of that.
And, regardless, Voss knew that at least Angelica was safe, here with him. He resisted the urge to glance back toward the ballroom. She’d wait. He’d told her to.
One thing he’d learned about Angelica Woodmore: she wasn’t a fool.
Belial paused as he passed through the front door, the last to leave. “Do give Dimitri Cezar’s best. I regret that I forgot to do so.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Voss took to the stairs. As he flew up, his feet barely touching the treads, he heard the soft rumble of stunned voices begin below and then swell to a loud, shocked pitch. Running feet, slamming doors, general chaos.
He’d only be a moment up here and he hoped Angelica would have the sense to do as he’d warned and stay put. Even as he went after Corvindale, he wondered why the hell he should take the time when he could be getting Angelica out of there.
Perhaps the earl was dead.
It took Voss mere seconds to find the correct room; not because he could somehow recognize Corvindale’s presence but because he was quick. Down the hall, up another flight, and then…
“Dark soul of Lucifer,” he breathed as he walked into the room.
Corvindale lay on his back on the rumpled carpet in the center of what was a cozy, well-lit parlor or den. He wasn’t moving, but Voss could hear his breathing. Long, rough, labored. Bloodscent filled the room, Corvindale’s shirt was torn from his shoulders, his coat gone, his gloves missing, one arm crossed over his muscular torso.
“Well,” he said, walking over to stand above the man. “What have we here?”
He looked down and Corvindale’s gaze, dark and yet clouded, bored into him. Loathing filled his eyes and Voss saw his only movement: a faint twitch of fingers as if he were imagining curling them around his neck.
Or a stake.
It was immediately evident to Voss that Corvindale was paralyzed, in pain and otherwise encumbered. Which meant that—
Ah, there it was.
Voss had almost missed it because the man’s shirt was bunched up—but as he bent closer to admire the bastard in his immobilization, he saw it. The solution to the riddle he’d sought to solve a century ago in Vienna had just been handed to him. Draped over Dimitri’s neck, against the swarthy skin, was a heavy strand of large rubies set in gold links.
“So it’s rubies?” Voss said. “I knew it had to be a gemstone of some sort. But I had suspected emeralds or pearls all these years. Rubies. I do hope you checked the Woodmores’ jewel boxes when they moved in.”
The loathing burned stronger and hotter in Corvindale’s eyes, and those fingers moved again on his chest, trying to inch toward the poison that must be burning into his skin, seeping his energy and life. All it would take was the thrust of a wooden pike into his chest.
Death.
Voss swooped down and yanked the jewelry away, tossing it across the room. With a whoosh of breath and a strangled cough, Dimitri leaped to his feet.
Instead of launching himself at Voss, as he had half expected, Dimitri turned toward the French doors leading to the balcony. White shirt in shreds, flapping from his shoulders, the earl went outside. Before Voss could react, he was back, carrying a struggling figure draped in heavy cloth and followed by an angel carrying her own wings.
Voss would have choked on a derisive laugh at the extent to which Corvindale had gone to keep Maia Woodmore from showing herself and getting captured by Belial if he hadn’t noticed the man’s back. The destroyed shirt clearly exposed the rear of Corvindale’s left shoulder, and the sight of the rootlike pattern similar to that on Voss’s skin made his own tighten and ache. For, unlike Voss’s Mark, which occasionally throbbed and reminded him to whom he belonged, Corvindale’s threads rose in heavy, pulsing welts, shiny with what had to be agonizing pain.
6
IN WHICH THE EARL OF CORVINDALE RUNS THE BLOCKADE
Angelica did what Voss told her to do: she stayed hidden in the shadowy corner.
Later, she would ask herself why she’d done so. If she’d come forward when the red-haired leader called for her, could she have helped? Could she have saved the life of Felicity Chapman, the butterfly? Could she have prevented the death of Mr. Dudley Hoosman, the Roman emperor?
She’d almost done it. Almost left the confines of the vine-shrouded corner, nearly shouted her presence and brushed past Voss out into the open. Anything to stop the screams and the violence. Anything to put an end to the awful, evil tension.
But when she saw Mr. Hoosman, dragged out into the space by the glowing-eyed, ferocious men, everything slowed. The world stopped, centering into a pinhole of a vision: that of Mr. Hoosman, on the floor, his neck and chest shredded to ribbons, the brooch that had held his toga in place over the shoulder glistening with his blood, the red stain saturating the white cloth and the floor beneath it.