The Vampire Voss

arm and shook his head once, briefly.

Be still.

It wasn’t Moldavi himself who’d given the order—no, he would be safely back in Paris, licking Bonaparte’s arse-crack. But Voss recognized the sibilant tone, and as the speaker moved into view, his identity was confirmed.

Belial, one of Moldavi’s makes.

A “made” vampire was a mortal chosen, not directly by Lucifer to fulfill Vlad Tepes’ familial bargain, but by a Dracule himself. The Dracule fed, draining the mortal of his blood. Then the Dracule turned the man into a vampire minion himself by allowing the mortal to drink from his blood, thus becoming the new vampire’s sire, or master. These “made” or “sired” vampires weren’t as strong and powerful as the ones chosen by the devil and personally invited into the covenant of the Draculia. It was a sort of hierarchy—the further removed the “made” vampire was from the original sire, the less powerful he or she was for the simple reason that each made vampire inherited the Asthenia of his or her sire, as well as acquiring their own personal one. And so on down the line.

In this case, Cezar Moldavi had made Belial, and Belial was only one of many who answered to Moldavi in payment for immortality and power. And any vampires that Belial sired would be even less powerful than he, and they ultimately answered to him—or, in his absence or death, to Belial’s sire, Moldavi.

Voss had encountered Belial in the past, and the only reason one of them wasn’t dead was that the sun had come up on them during a hand-to-hand battle, and they’d had to separate in order to take cover.

“Show yourself, Miss Woodmore. Or…” Belial’s voice trailed off as he nodded to one of his companions.

The man, another make who had silver-blond hair in a thick braid, moved with the lightning speed all Dracule enjoyed and snatched a gossamer-winged butterfly from the crowd. She screamed and struggled, but there was no help for her. The wig fell from her head, tumbling onto the man who lay still pinned in place by a boot heel.

Two men in the crowd lunged forward to intervene, but were caught instantly by two vampires and slammed to the floor as if they were gnats. A knife flashed and one of them screamed as he was pinned in place through his shoulder. Bloodheat infused the air. The other tried to roll away, and was kicked into the air, tumbling into the crowd. All during this time, the spectators had remained silent in shock.

“Miss Maia Woodmore,” Belial lisped in his eerie voice. “Or Miss Angelica Woodmore. Either of you can put an end to this.” He sounded polite and sincere even as he watched the silver-braided vampire put his hands on the butterfly.

Angelica tensed behind him and Voss edged backward to keep her in place, ignoring the flash of a pang in his shoulder. No. There was nothing she could do.

The butterfly’s gown tore easily, exposing a flimsy shift and white skin, frail shoulders and the delicate tendons of her neck and shoulders. Voss’s breathing began to deepen.

The Dracule held the girl’s two hands behind her back, and tore at her costume again. The shift fell away, clearly exposing two breasts that jounced and jolted as she struggled. Her pitiful screams were the only sound in the room, and when the vampire grasped her hair and yanked her head back, exposing her throat, Voss felt Angelica gasp behind him.

The fangs flashed briefly before they sank into the terrified girl’s shoulder. She choked, her body tightening like a bowstring and Voss felt his own blood rising. His fangs threatened, the scent of hot blood, frightened and desperate, beckoned.

Lucifer made them that way. To crave, to need not only the rich, warm life-giving liquid, but to revel in the fear and the fight when taking it. And the intertwined sensuality that came with it. The ache in Voss’s shoulder lessened as his breathing quickened and he knew that his eyes would be glowing faintly by now.

He closed them, drew in a deep blood-scented breath and focused on the other smells in the air, the sounds, even the woman behind him. Especially the woman behind him, her body stiff and frozen against his back.

No, that didn’t help. His blood pounded harder and he had to open his eyes again to push away the smell, the need. No, no. Not now. Not here. He steadied himself, breathed, focused.

When Angelica moved, he grabbed her before she could do something foolish. Yanking her close to him, he put his mouth to her ear and spoke short and low. “You can’t stop them. Stay here.” His heart thudded hard, his fingers curled around her warm arms. They were so delicate, slender. Smooth. He breathed her, he touched her, her hair curled in his face and smelled like summer.

Soon, my dear. Soon. He lifted his face away but didn’t yet trust himself to look down at her.

Voss knew from the way she trembled and the dampness she pressed against his cheek that she wouldn’t listen to his warning for long. He had to do something before she did, or his chance would be all over.

Where the hell was Corvindale? And Maia Woodmore? He knew she was here, too. She was headstrong enough to answer Belial’s summons. Why hadn’t she stepped forward?

Voss pulled Angelica close to him and looked down into her face, hoping his eyes wouldn’t give him away. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. No matter what, until I come back for you.”

He waited until she nodded, her face streaked with tears and her eyes wide and shocked. She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed his hand to her warm lips and shook his head sharply. No.

Then he slipped to the side, away from the corner, along the wall behind the fountain that had gone silent. When he’d gotten as far as he could from Angelica without being seen, he stepped out into the room.

“What a damned mess,” he said as all eyes turned to him. Steadfastly fighting the alluring smell of blood and fear, he curled his lip in disdain. “By Luce, Belial, can you not teach your dogs some manners?”

Belial turned, his eyes bright and orange, his fangs showing in a flash as he smiled unpleasantly. “Ah, Voss. I cannot imagine what you have found yourself doing here.”

As always, that low hiss of a voice made him want to twitch. The man sounded as if he had a too-tight neckcloth on.

“Looking for the Woodmores are you?” Voss said, strolling unconcernedly toward the cluster of Dracule and their victims. The girl was silent now, not yet dead, but wheezing damply as she hung from the vampire’s grip over her shoulder.

The thought of Angelica hiding in the corner enabled him to breathe without acknowledging the bloodscent filling the air. But the other members of the Draculia weren’t as in control. As Voss stepped forward, one of them lurched down to the man pinned by the knife to the floor. His fangs flashed then sunk into the man’s arm as the victim strained and screamed. Voss was certain he heard a sound behind him, and prayed—so to speak—that Angelica would stay put.

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.”