“And where exactly were you going to search in the city?” Dewhurst asked. His lean stance was lazy, as Maia had come to expect, and his voice easy—but under it all, she recognized tension simmering. He felt the urgency just as much as she did. Perhaps more. “Because she’s no longer in the city. They’re taking her to Paris. They’re already well ahead of you on a boat going down the Thames.”
Paris? How? They were at war, the French were collecting troops just over the Channel. Impossible.
Maia was prepared for the other men to scoff at the viscount, but to her surprise, they remained silent. Mr. Cale even gave a brief nod as if to instruct Dewhurst to continue, which he did.
“You didn’t think Cezar would risk himself to come here, did you? Belial is bringing Angelica to him. The good news is that she’ll arrive unharmed—for Cezar will want to use her for everything he can. And Belial won’t dare allow anything to happen to her. The bad news is…not one of you could expect to gain entrance to Moldavi’s residence in Paris to get to Angelica. Except for me.”
“You forget about me. Moldavi will see me,” Cale said. His voice was flat and his eyes empty. “I’ll go.”
“That’s not necessary,” Dewhurst replied, just as Corvindale snapped, “No, Giordan.”
“I’ll go,” Dewhurst said firmly. “Moldavi will see me. I have acquired some information he wants about Bonaparte. And I’ll be able to get her back.”
“How are you going to get to Paris? We’re at war!” Maia asked. But it was as if she weren’t even in the room. “Mrs. Siddington-Graves has been trapped there for a year!” Which was why her husband had become much less discreet about taking his mistress to the theater.
“Why should I trust you?” Chas was saying.
Dewhurst shrugged. “I returned her once before, didn’t I?”
“Complete with nightmares, frightening memories, not to mention marks on her skin,” her brother responded. “Not quite unharmed.”
Dewhurst’s jaw moved but he kept his voice steady. “As you well know, I’ve spent my life collecting information and learning the weaknesses of my associates and enemies alike. I know how to influence Moldavi.”
Chas gave a sharp nod. “Very well, then. I’ll accompany you to Paris.”
“No! Chas! What if Moldavi captures you, too?” Maia interjected as Dewhurst frowned, shaking his head.
Her brother looked at her as if she’d just offered to hold his hand and tuck him into bed. “I am quite able to take care of myself, Maia. I’ve already evaded him once, and now I know exactly what I’d be walking into.” He glanced at Corvindale, then settled on Cale with an unfathomable expression. “Narcise will have to stay here, of course.”
“But, Chas…I don’t understand. Why are you working with vampirs if you kill them?” Maia asked. Her head had begun to pound harder now.
Her brother made an impatient gesture. “It’s all rather complicated, and I’m not about to explain it all right now. The simple answer is—there are evil vampires and ones that are… well, not so much of a danger to us mortals. I work to rid the world of the evil ones. At any rate, I’m going to Paris with Voss and we’ll bring back Angelica. That’s all you need to know at this time.”
But Dewhurst interrupted. “If you want to jeopardize my chances, then you may come. Otherwise…follow if you will, but some days behind me. There can be no hint to Moldavi that we’re working together.”
Corvindale snorted again. “Even if he saw the two of you shaking hands, he wouldn’t believe it.”
Dewhurst shot him a look of pure dislike. “Precisely.”
Under normal circumstances, Voss would be delighted with an excuse to visit Paris. Culture, food, wine and the most flamboyant of women made the city one of his favorite places.
But this visit was to a Paris in flux, with its revised imperial government, new emperor, soldiers in uniform everywhere, talk of the war with England and general government upheaval. Voss recognized in the city an unusual aura of disarray—whether it was from preparations for a coronation still months away, or the sense that things had not quite settled since Napoleon Bonaparte managed to manipulate himself from First Consul to Emperor mere weeks earlier.
Aside from that, of course, Voss wasn’t in Paris for anything related to pleasure or leisure. Despite the unrelenting pain in his shoulder, he’d traveled quickly—on horseback at night to Dover, and then below deck while crossing the Channel during a ridiculously sunny day—then back on horseback again across the French countryside to Paris. He took care to avoid the camps at Boulogne, where armies prepared for their invasion of England.
The fact that soldiers and armed guards were more prevalent than the last time he’d been to Paris concerned him not at all. Not only did he have no interest nor stake in any political upheaval (why should he?), Voss had speed, night vision and stealth. Plus, he was impervious to bullets.
It was simpler than seducing a whore to get where he needed to go without being intercepted.
Despite his claims to Woodmore and Dimitri, Voss wasn’t altogether confident that Angelica would be unharmed when he found her. Certainly Moldavi would want to utilize her Sight…but what exactly would he do to ensure that she complied?
Thus, he’d been in a state of tense urgency since leaving White’s with the reluctant approval of the other Draculia members. Remembering the horror in Angelica’s face, the loathing when she spoke of vampires, Voss could only hope—for he didn’t pray—that she’d be untouched. The small bite, the bare nibble he’d taken from her a week ago was nothing in comparison to Moldavi’s and his cronies’ proclivities.
Thus, Voss rested little, except while on the sun-drenched boat. As it was the first time in more than a week that he’d slept without being drenched in whiskey, bloodscent and pleasure, he had expected easy slumber.
He was wrong.
Even now, as he strode through the busy arched galleries of Paris’s Palais-Royal and its sprawling gardens, Voss couldn’t banish the dark images that had swept into his dreams two days ago. An agonized Brickbank. A terrified, and yet sensual, beckoning Angelica.
And Lucifer. Again. Silent, smiling, but his fingers—long, slender, white—curving over Voss’s shoulder. Holding him. Invading his dreams and turning them to nightmares.
You cannot change. You are bound to me.
When Voss had dragged himself back into the reality of day, the imprint of the devil’s fingers on his shoulder still burned…as if he were with him still. Even now, as the moon rose, no longer quite full, in the starry sky, he felt the weight of those dreams and wondered why Luce had visited him yet again after more than a century of silence.
Moving quickly along the walkway, Voss avoided the eyes of a particularly friendly prostitute—ahh, the French!—and slipped between a group of jovial men and one of the gallery columns. Louder and more contained than Vauxhall, the jardins at what had once been the residence of Cardinal Richelieu abounded with shops, brothels, cafés and theaters—anything for the gentry in search of pleasure. The Café des Chartres, where, according to Moldavi, Napoleon and his new empress, Josephine, had been known to tryst, was tucked into a corner of the palais and next to it sat a popular wine bar with revelers spilling onto the stone colonnade edged with lilies and lavender.
As he hurried along, a pale, slender figure caught his eye. She was leaning against one of the columns, and when he saw her, Voss nearly stopped in surprise. It couldn’t be. Their eyes met and a shiver rushed through him. It was the blonde woman he’d seen at the Gray Stag. Had she trailed him to Paris?
As then, she was wearing a long, outdated gown that looked as if it belonged on a medieval chatelaine rather than a Parisian shopkeeper, or whore, or whatever she was.
Her pale eyes caught his as he walked past, and she gave a little nod. So you remember me this time.
He heard the words in his mind, as if she’d whispered them in his ear—but she hadn’t moved from her position against the column.
Good, Voss. You give me hope. Are you ready yet?
He paused and looked at her from across the street. I don’t know what you mean, he thought, sensing that she’d hear him.
She nodded, and revealed a bit of a smile. Even from a distance, he felt warmth. You’ll know when the time comes.
A mass of people walked between them, and when they passed by, she was gone.
An uneasy feeling settled over his shoulders, and the rage of his Mark reminded him why he was here. He put it out of his mind and prepared himself for what was certain to be a tenuous, if not deadly, meeting with Moldavi.
At last Voss found the shop front he sought. The spicy sage and rosemary scent of Corcellet’s renowned sausages didn’t have to fight hard to be noticed above the other smells of patisserie or cigar smoke, although the sweet and overbearing gillyflower perfume of the whore who stumbled into Voss gave it some competition.
“Pardon, madame,” he said, walking past her into the little epicerie. The patés and sausages were of little interest to him, of course, although the scent of blood was heavy in the space and his mouth watered a bit.
How long had it been since he’d fed?
The thought hadn’t occurred to him until now, startling Voss as he pushed through the crowded little shop. For it was rare that he went more than a day or two without at least a bit of pleasurable sucking, drinking and fucking. And along with that, perhaps once a week he needed to find three or four willing participants to completely replenish his fluids.
“Monsieur,” said the gentleman behind the counter even as he wrapped a package for one of his customers, and gestured sharply to an employee to assist another. The dull roar of shouted orders and animated conversation muted his greeting.
Voss merely nodded and met the proprietor’s eyes over the throng of men. A bit of a glow, a flash of fang, was all Corcellet needed to ascertain Voss’s requirement. Despite the claims on his attention, he eased from behind the counter and gestured for Voss to follow him.
