The Vampire Voss

“Beg pardon, my lord?” said his valet, Kimton, turning from the wardrobe. A variety of rejected neckcloths hung from his fingers and over his arms.

“Nothing,” Voss replied, picking up his hat and gloves. He paused one last time to admire the cut of his steel-blue coat and gray, gold and midnight patterned vest. His shirt was crisp and white, and the chosen neckcloth a rich sapphire. He’d chosen to stud it with a black jet pin in the shape of an X.

Or, if looked at from a different angle, a cross. But no one would recognize the irony of that except another Dracule.

He smiled, admired the glint of his fangs as they eased smoothly out to press against his lower lip and flashed a bit of that alluring glow from his pupils. Tonight was going to be a delightful challenge. He wondered which of the Woodmore sisters would fall prey to his charm first. Another game, of course. It didn’t really matter which one did, as long as one of them succumbed and he could get the information he needed—namely, which of them had the gift of the Sight.

After that, it would be a simple matter to coax the information he wanted from the chit, and then he could be on his way before Woodmore was any wiser. The biggest concern was, however, whether Moldavi knew yet just how valuable the sisters were. The last thing Voss wanted was for Moldavi to realize he could procure his own information from the girls, for it would decidedly deflate Voss’s leverage with him. And it would take all of the amusement out of things.

If nothing else, Voss appreciated pleasure and amusement in his life.

After all, when one lived forever, and one was rich as sin, one had to find entertainment and pleasure in order to keep things from becoming mundane. Unfortunately his attempt at amusement and puzzle-solving was precisely what had driven the wedge between him and Dimitri more than a century ago.

But then again, a simple life without pleasure, diversion and the matching of wits would be tedious. Especially when it stretched on for eternity.

Voss ignored the internal rumble of discontent and reached for the handkerchief that Kimton had neatly folded, tucking it into a pocket, giving himself a last critical once-over in the mirror.

It was a relief to return to civilization after spending the majority of the last generation in the Colonies. The man who’d been installed as his father, Lord Dewhurst, had retired from his post—which was to say, he’d been paid off to live the rest of his years in the mountains of Romania or Switzerland— and Voss had been able to reinstate himself as Dewhurst after a forty-year exile. During that time, he’d managed brief trips to Paris, Vienna, Rome and even London, of course, but he couldn’t remain there long and still draw on his accounts.

It was too difficult and certainly impolitic to explain why Viscount Dewhurst never aged, disliked going outside when it was very sunny and preferred the warm rich taste of blood to any vintage or, Luce forbid, the rot they called ale in Boston. And if anyone noticed the extreme resemblance between every other generation of Lord Dewhursts, it was merely written off to a strong family tree.

Voss smiled as he pulled on his own gloves. A strong and quite unique family tree indeed. The fact that he and Dimitri, as well as Cezar Moldavi, sprang from the same widespread branches was merely an irritation in the grand scheme of things. It was fortunate to Voss’s way of thinking that his Draculian ancestors, as well as those of Dimitri, Cale and a limited number of others, had found their wives among the British and French peerage and thus had conferred upon them their titles and estates throughout Western Europe. Moldavi’s roots, on the other hand, were firmly entrenched in the cold, uncivilized mountains of Transylvania and Romania. Drafty castles and mountainous estates located leagues from anything resembling civilization would not be to Voss’s liking. Perhaps that was part of the reason Moldavi was so intent on growing his power over mortal and Dracule alike, and why he’d established himself in Paris, trying to create an ally in Bonaparte.

At the bottom of the stairs of his James Park residence, Voss found his butler, Moross (whom he privately called Morose for obvious reasons), waiting at the door.

“Your carriage, my lord,” the man intoned. It wasn’t time for his once-a-decade smile, so he merely looked down his long bloodhound face.

“Where’s Eddersley? And Brickbank?” Voss asked, glancing at the clock in the foyer. Nearly eleven. They’d been expected by half past ten, and he thought he’d heard voices below as he finished dressing. Everyone in the household knew better than to interrupt him in his toilette.

“Here!” trilled a voice. A very happy voice—rather a bit high in pitch to be comfortably masculine—which belonged to Brickbank. From the sound of it, he’d been into Voss’s private vintage in the study. Blast. He’d only been back in London for three days and already Brickbank was becoming an annoyance.

Yes, Voss was more than ready to make the rounds in Society and take advantage of any offered—or coaxed— opportunities therein whilst going about his more urgent business, but there was a time for play and a time for business. To quote a book that he was only vaguely familiar with.

In most cases, however, Voss found a way to combine both business and pleasure.

Brickbank cared for little more than charming a few debutantes in a dark corner to see how far down their gloves would slip. Although Voss wasn’t averse to those challenges himself, he had a bit more on his mind than that. With Moldavi riding his tongue along Bonaparte’s arse crack, the Draculia cartel in London would be well served by preparedness.

And Voss was in the position to accomplish just that.

The door to the study opened and out tottered Brickbank, his eyes bright and his nose tinged red. Behind him strode Eddersley, his mop of thick dark hair a mess as usual and a bemused expression on his face. Voss met his eyes and Eddersley shrugged.

“Shall we?” Voss asked coolly, resisting the urge to look at the condition of his study. Morose would see to any disruption with pleasure. “The ball should be in full crush by now.”

“You’re certain the Woodmore chits will be there?” asked Brickbank, bumping against him as they both moved toward the front door. “Abhor stuffy crushes.”

“By all accounts they will. At least, the two elder ones. Unless Corvindale has locked them away already,” Voss replied, stepping back so that his clumsy friend could precede him through the front door.

Eddersley gave a short laugh. “Dimitri likely hasn’t yet met them. He’d be in no hurry to accept his responsibility as their guardian, temporary or otherwise. That would mean actually speaking to a mortal—and a female one at that—and removing himself from his study.”

Voss nodded, smiling to himself. He’d given Corvindale the news only two nights ago; even he wouldn’t have moved that quickly to get the girls under his roof and safe from Moldavi. And that was precisely the reason he was taking himself off to the Lundhames’ ball tonight.

There were rumors about the Woodmore girls and their abilities, of course—which was why Dimitri had become ensnared in a mess that he surely would prefer to be left out of—but whether those rumors about the sisters and their secrets had yet reached the streets of Paris, and thus the ears of Moldavi, was uncertain. Since the war and the new Emperor Bonaparte’s subsequent buildup of brigades ready to invade England, even those who were Dracule had a bit more difficulty with expedient communication.

Chas Woodmore had done his best to keep his sisters and their abilities under wraps while at the same time making himself indispensable to Corvindale and other members of the Draculia. It was too bad Woodmore didn’t trust Voss enough to turn the guardianship of his sisters over to him, instead of Corvindale. That would have made things much simpler.

The three men climbed into the carriage and Voss settled himself on the green velvet seat. Eddersley and Brickbank found their places across from him, and he rapped on the ceiling. The conveyance started off with nary a jolt and he peered out the window as they drove through St. James. As they rumbled along, the wheels quick and smooth over the cobbles below, Voss found himself less interested in the conversation of his companions than the sights outside the window.

A new moon gave no assistance to the faulty oil lamps illuminating the streets, exposing little but the shadows of random persons making their way along the walkways. The houses and shops, cluttered and clustered together in a jumbled-together fashion so unlike that in the sprawling Colonies, rose like unrelieved black walls on either side of the street. The only texture in that solid dark rise was the occasional alley or mews, just as dark and dangerous.

To mortals, anyway.

Voss felt oddly prickly tonight, as if something irregular were about to happen.

Perhaps it was simply that he’d not been out in London Society for years, although he would never ascribe his