The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia #1)

The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia #1) Page 21

He could barely hear the low syllables over the rumble of wheels along the cobbled street, but he saw the way her lips moved. He was surprised she was familiar enough with the Hungarian word to apply it to a man, rather than a rotting corpse. But, of course, being Chas Woodmore’s sister, she would probably know more than most other young women.

“What do you know about vampires?” he asked, pronouncing it in English. He asked partly from curiosity and partly to take control of the conversation’s direction.

Voss would be surprised if Chas had actually divulged to his sisters any details of his relationship with Corvindale and the Draculia. Woodmore was discreet, and well aware of the consequences of betraying those with whom he associated. He’d become a valuable asset to Corvindale in particular, but even Chas Woodmore was expendable if he overstepped his bounds.

And now that he’d been foolish enough to elope with Cezar Moldavi’s sister…Voss shook his head. Woodmore had been prudent to arrange for his sisters’ safety and guardianship. Too damn bad for Corvindale that the earl didn’t realize it would likely be a permanent arrangement. And that Voss had relieved him of the burden of one of his charges—at least temporarily.

He couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Corvindale’s reaction when he learned that Voss had Angelica Woodmore. The smile was more than a bit complacent. Perhaps then the man’s cold facade might crack.

Voss hadn’t known Dimitri before entering into his agreement with Lucifer. In fact, none of them knew each other before being turned immortal, for each Dracule came from a different geographic place, and in many cases, even different generations.

They became acquainted by accident, or perhaps by Lucifer’s influence—or likely a little of both—but since they tended to congregate and find pleasure, sustenance and entertainment in the darkest, most dangerous and expensive pleasure houses or clubs, it wasn’t surprising that they should encounter others of the Draculia in the same places in the largest, most exciting cities of Europe: Paris, Rome, Prague, Barcelona and, of course, London. Their world, after all, was a relatively small one.

Angelica had wrapped the cloak even closer around her throat, and he could see the shapes of her knuckles where they curled into the silk-lined wool. “What did you say to them? How did you get them to leave? Do you know them?”

So much for diverting the conversation.

“I’ve had…dealings with them,” Voss replied. Strictly speaking, that was true. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated telling her more. This conversation was pointless. He should be showing her his fangs and his glowing eyes, and getting beneath that cloak he’d so foolishly given her to hide under.

But, again, he didn’t. The fear lingered in her eyes, and he knew it would come back in full force if she realized he was of the very same cartel of people who’d just mauled two of her peers.

He didn’t want to see terror in her eyes. He wanted the desire, the softness he’d seen earlier…when their gazes had met across the ballroom.

“And my brother? He associates with vampirs?”

Voss nodded. Luce’s soul, why was he even talking to her? Waste of time. “Cezar Moldavi is a very dangerous…man,” he told her. “Not only does he want to use you to destroy your brother, but it’s possible he’s also found out about your… ability. It’s not as if you’ve kept it a secret. You could be a very valuable asset to him. You could give him information that he’d find useful in dealing with his adversaries.”

Her eyes widened into circles, and now he could see the whites, gleaming in a flash of streetlamp.

“That’s why,” Voss said, leaning toward her, breathing in her essence, curling his fingers into his thigh so that he didn’t reach for her, “I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

She sat upright in her corner, surprising him with a flash of spirit. Anger. “What do you mean? I presumed you were escorting me home—back to Corvindale’s residence.”

“It’s not safe there,” he told her. “And it’s not safe for both you and Maia to be together. Corvindale and I agreed that you should be separated to make it more difficult for them to find you.”

“Maia?”

“The earl will make certain she and your other sister are well protected. And I,” he said, settling back against the squabs in direct opposition to where he really wanted to be, “will take care of you. Now,” he added, the words coming out before he could comprehend them, “perhaps you should rest a bit. Close your eyes. Nothing will happen to you when you’re with me, Angelica.”

Either she made a very unladylike sound in response, or he was hearing things. Voss’s attention flashed to her eyes and he decided it was more than possible that she had, just then, made a frustrated or disbelieving sort of noise. And what on earth did she mean by it anyway?

How could she know what he was thinking?

But by now, she’d hooded her expression and the glimmer of naughtiness had gone. She closed her eyes, even.

His lips twitched. Not quite the proper young miss after all, was Angelica Woodmore. But of course, he’d already had an indication of that. After all, proper young misses didn’t barrel up to men they don’t know and announce that they’d been in her dream. And were going to die.

That roundabout thought brought him back to the realization that Brickbank was, despite the impossibility, dead. And the very thought had been squirreling around in the back of his mind for two days, digging and clawing and refusing to let go.

In the last hundred twenty years, Voss hadn’t given a lot of thought to what happened after death. In fact, he hadn’t thought about it at all. Why should he? That was the deal with Lucifer. Power, strength and immortality—ergo, complete freedom with no consequences for his days on earth and the actions thereof. What more could a man want?

But if an unexpected demise could happen to Brickbank, it could conceivably happen to Voss. Not nearly as easily, of course, so perhaps he oughtn’t expend any more energy over it, but…

The image of Dimitri, splayed on the floor, held immobile by a necklet of rubies, settled firmly in Voss’s mind. A chill gripped him around the back of the neck.

Had Belial and his cohorts wanted, Dimitri would be dead even now.

The fact that they obviously hadn’t wanted it wasn’t the reason the image bothered Voss. It was the realization that if it could have happened to a man whom Voss, much as he was loathe to admit it, deemed invincible—it could also happen to Voss.

Voss could die.

He forced himself from those dark, unpleasant thoughts. There were much other more fascinating things to contemplate.

Like the lovely, luscious bit of flesh sitting so innocently across from him.

Her head had tipped to the side and her eyes appeared to be closed, but he wouldn’t wager his damaged soul on whether she was actually sleeping or not.

No, Voss wasn’t that foolish.

Ahh. Heat, thick and liquid. A world of red pleasure, blazing sensuality, a whirlwind of sweet, floral scent. Lush comfort, smooth silk. And an insistent need.

It pulled, urged.

Voss had no reason to resist. He needed this like a drowning man needed air. He eased into the familiar lull, slid away from the reality that edged, dark and evil, at his consciousness. The prickling subsided as he allowed himself into the pleasure. Slipped in.

She had dark hair, long and thick, and dark eyes…but her skin wasn’t right. It wasn’t as smooth, as sweet and rosy and spicy. Her scent cloyed and smothered and although she knew just what to do with her hands…oh, indeed…and her mouth….

Voss licked her neck, tasted old perfumed oil, and then his incisors slid long, sweetly, into her flesh. She gasped and tautened against him as the rush of tangy, thick ambrosia filled his mouth. He closed his eyes, drank, touched, battled, slid smooth against her…battled.

The back of his shoulder throbbed angrily, fighting with the passion and release that he must have. He closed his mind to it, fought it away, gulped and shifted and thought of Angelica.

Of his hands on her, his mouth and their skin…to skin. The long, sleek slide and the warmth. The rise, the miraculous light, then…her face, wide-eyed and horrified, burst into the image.

No!

Was it her voice or his own?

A streak of pain arced down his shoulder and red blazed behind his eyes, matching the agony.

Rigid with surprise as much as discomfort, Voss opened his eyes. He saw the woman, the crimson and golden room, the tall, pale candles flickering and casting delicate shadows. Blood trailed sleek against her white skin, still pooled hot in his mouth, the essence on his tongue.

Voss caught his breath, working through the sudden onslaught of pain to steady his breathing. To bring himself back here, where he could find release from what pounded through his veins.

She looked up at him, lust and laziness in her eyes as she reached for his shoulders, wanting to draw him back down. Her eyes weren’t right. They weren’t catlike, exotic enough. Her mouth…her face…no.

He couldn’t keep from a quick glance above, knowing that Angelica was there. Two floors higher, safely ensconced here at Rubey’s, where no one would think to look for them. She was so very near, but the ceiling hung low and heavy and impenetrable.

He could send for her. Simple. Get it over with.

The pain had lessened slightly. He could breathe. Think. Why did she haunt him so?

“Voss,” the girl murmured. Her hand slid lower between them, between their hot, slick bodies. Her eyes were glazed, desperate. She licked her lips, shifted against him, closed her fingers more insistently.

He could do that to Angelica. He could make her cry and moan and want him like he wanted her. Like they all wanted him.

She could help him, and he…he could help her. And have her.

Show her the world of desire and passion.

She was two floors above. Unprotected. Virginal and waiting.

A rush of desire flooded him and Voss’s breathing deepened. He could still smell her on his fingers from when they’d buried into her hair during their kiss. He thought of how she would smell, close, naked and writhing against him. Her breast heavy in his hand, her hair clinging to the damp of her skin.