To her surprise, Maia gave a little sniffle and nodded, as if receiving confirmation of something she’d already known. “I think I’m foolish to feel that way, too, especially since I don’t have your…gift. But I do. And I confess I’m glad to hear you say it, as well. I just hope it isn’t wishful thinking on both our parts. But…we’ve been so close for so long, the four of us, since Mama and Papa died.… I feel as though we have some sort of spiritual connection. Perhaps it’s absurd, but it’s the only hope I have.”
These last words came out as little more than a murmur and Angelica was forced to watch her sister’s lips and try to interpret. A pang of guilt pricked at her—there was a way to put Maia out of her misery. But no. This was enough.
It would all work out in the end and Maia need never know that Angelica had indeed opened visions to the lives—and deaths—of all of her siblings.
That was her burden to carry alone.
3
WHEREIN OUR HERO IS ASSIGNED A MOST INCONVENIENT TASK
Voss stared at himself in the mirror.
His eyes, rarely fully wide even on a happy night, were past half-mast. And bloodshot. Bleary.
Filled with disbelief and shock.
Impossible.
“How could I have been so bloody foolish?” he demanded of his reflection.
It was the same question he’d pummeled himself with for hours. But it was too late for questions and recriminations. Now he had to decide how to proceed.
After leaving the enticing Miss Woodmore—who’d teased him with her alternately dancing then earnest eyes, tantalized him with her long, graceful neck and beckoning scent—he, Eddersley and Brickbank had gone to Rubey’s.
It was either that or descend into a brawl with that bastard Corvindale. Tempting as it might have been, Voss was in no mood to have his shirt crinkled or his clothing torn.
Nor, suddenly, had he felt the urge to tease and coax the pink-frocked matron with whom he’d exchanged glances earlier. No. His need and fury had burrowed deep and fierce.
So he’d allowed his two companions to draw him away and they went to Rubey’s.
The original Rubey was long-dead, but her discreet establishment near Charing Cross remained. The current “Rubey”—certainly that wasn’t her real name—ran it with the same discriminating business sense as her predecessors. In all, Voss believed there had been more than a dozen Rubeys over the centuries, providing the members of the Draculia with a variety of pleasures of the flesh.
Dracule had discriminating tastes when it came to food, drink and pleasure, and Rubey’s catered to all of them. The current proprietress provided an establishment that offered women and men who found it titillating and arousing to be fed upon by vampires, along with other physical pleasures. The best drink, the best food—for even though the Dracule required lifeblood for sustenance, many of them had never lost their taste for the same food mortals consumed. Just as they drank brandy often laced with blood, or wine or ale, they could find pleasure in the texture, scent and taste of food, despite the fact that it provided no real nourishment. As with opium and drink, cooked food was a sensual pleasure but not a necessity.
Some of the most popular of Rubey’s women—or men— were ones who shared the taste for blood with a Dracule customer, sipping from a sliced vein and giving that unique pleasure in return as they copulated or did whatever the customer fancied.
Last night, Voss had partaken of a bottle of blood-red Bordeaux and then the very sleek, very accommodating limbs of three young women in a room thick with scented smoke designed to heighten the pleasure of all. They certainly seemed well pleased, indeed, when he was finished.
But he found himself unable to slake his lust; nor, surprisingly, was he all that interested in pursuing that conclusion. He considered engaging the only female Dracule that Rubey had on staff and having a rough, bloody time of it…but even that didn’t appeal to him.
Too messy, and then there would be unsightly marks all over his skin.
Things became slow and foggy when he had a goblet of Rubey’s special drink. Laced with opium and brandy, it had turned the rest of his night into a long, red, sensual blur.
Yet, despite that blur, he recalled mulling over the fact that Angelica Woodmore was not as young as she’d appeared—at least if one looked in her eyes. There, one most definitely saw not only bright intelligence, but also an innate…comprehension—he supposed was the best word—that was missing from most other women. And, to be honest, men.
And Voss had indeed been looking in her cocoa-brown eyes. He’d even tested out his thrall on her, allowing his irises to take on the faintest bit of a glow, an edge of his coaxing tug, in an attempt to draw her away from the party instead of to the dance floor. Just to see what her face would look like, caught up in that sensual moment. Perhaps to see if he could identify any part of her unforgettable scent.
She was young and inexperienced, and he wouldn’t need more than a little hint of his power to enthrall her.
But…it hadn’t worked. She’d seemed immune to the lure in his eyes.
To be sure, he hadn’t intended anything other than to ease her away for a moment. A mere moment, where they might have a chance to speak privately, without being—as they’d been—interrupted by Dimitri. Damn him.
Of course, Dimitri hadn’t believed Voss when he’d asserted he had merely been asking for a dance, and, now compelled to honesty by the reflection of his drawn, stubbled face, Voss could admit that, in the same position, he wouldn’t have believed himself, either.
Regardless of Voss’s intentions last evening, the fact remained that Angelica Woodmore hadn’t seemed affected by his compelling gaze. And that, perhaps more than anything else, was what had jammed such a burr up his arse at Rubey’s.
In the face of his—albeit gentle—onslaught of charm and glamouring, Miss Angelica Woodmore had simply turned and started off toward the dance floor, fairly towing him in her wake.
Now, Voss shifted away from the mirror and stripped off the mangled neckcloth he’d been wearing since leaving for the Lundhames’ ball last night. It was well past noon today, and he hadn’t arrived back to his house until the sun was well above the horizon—yet another thing that had gone wrong in a night that had started out so promising and that had turned so hellish. He was normally safely in bed before dawn, sleeping until noon like most other gentlemen.
Fortunately the sun was weak today, shrouded in London fog and fighting through the accompanying mist, so at least Voss hadn’t had to content with being sizzled by its rays. An enveloping cloak and a bit of care had kept him from being exposed when the beams did peek out as he climbed into a closed carriage.
His shirt had bloodstains on it and he tossed it onto a chair, knowing that Kimton wouldn’t even flicker an eyelash.
Christ-blood. How could it have happened?
They’d left Rubey’s an hour or so before dawn and somehow had decided to go to Vauxhall—for them, an easy walk down Whitehall and across the river a bit. Three Dracule on a tear, with nothing to fear from any mortal armed with any weapon who might lurk in the shadows. They were fast, strong and could see throughout the green-tinged night.
There was nothing to fear. Always nothing to fear.
Yet, somehow through the red fog of his frenetic pleasure, Voss remembered Angelica’s warning about Brickbank.
I must beg of you to keep him away from Blackfriars Bridge. Especially tonight. It was that bridge, and his exact attire, that I saw in my dream.
But they were going to cross Westminster Bridge, loudly and exuberantly, hopeful of finding some gang of thieves or other group of no-gooders in the Gardens that could be terrorized by a trio of drunk vampires. If not, there were always any number of young dandies and their companions who could be frightened.
It was Westminster Bridge, far from Blackfriars, and Voss barely hesitated as they stepped on it.
How could Brickbank die from a fall off a bridge, anyway? There was simply no manner in which he could.
Voss laughed at the absurdity. Laughed, loud and long, exuberant, his mouth still wide with mirth as it happened.
Whether it was Brickbank’s Asthenia (copper, the poor brute) that made him fall or merely that he was clumsy from all the drink, they would never know. None of the details were clear: how had he been so close to the edge, what had happened, how could it have happened? But something made the man stumble suddenly, and as he attempted to catch his balance, he fell from the bridge.
Voss stopped laughing and ran to the side, expecting to see his friend bobbing in the water and chuckling about the fact that half of the premonition had come true…but that was not the case.
He was not bobbing in the water. Nor was he chuckling.
A freak accident was the only explanation. Brickbank had somehow landed on an old, rotting piece of dock jutting from the water not far from the shoreline, impaling himself through the chest.
Dead. Instantly. One of the only ways a Dracule could die.
The very thought made Voss’s blood run cold. Brickbank was dead.
Impossible.
Now, hours later, after the body had been retrieved and he and Eddersley had gone to the secret rooms at White’s and shared yet another bottle of something to take the sting away, Voss was home.
Pounding headed, thin-blooded, filled with guilt and self-loathing. He could have prevented it.
And on top of that, his Mark was throbbing.
With a snarl, he rang for Kimton and ordered a bath.
Thirty minutes later, despite no sleep, Voss felt marginally better—and that was only because Kimton had scrubbed his back (avoiding the Mark) and given him a shave. At least on the outside, he looked less like a man who’d allowed his friend to die. Dressing in neat, pressed clothing helped further, and when he was fully attired, he agreed with himself that he looked just as magnetic and attractive as he always did.
For, although it was only late in the afternoon and the sun was still up, Voss needed to go out. He’d flirted with the idea all morning, knowing all along that he would end up deciding to go; that it was merely the details left to be decided.
