taste, just there on his mouth…warm, but a bit thin. Not as sweet as he’d expected, or hoped. But pleasant enough. It would do.
She was still gaping up at him with frantic eyes and Voss tugged her closer. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, and deftly shifted so his foot brushed against hers.
So simple, so easy. He allowed his eyes to shift and beckon, and felt her tension ease as he captured her gaze, just enough to take the edge off her panic. Even in this dim light, he could find the center of a mortal, he could tug and coax and lead.…
She stumbled a bit and he moved closer, still holding the eye contact. “I want to taste you.”
Her breath stuttered and she stared at him, her hand trembling against her throat. Her lips parted but nothing came out.
“May I?” he asked, but he was already moving in. Closer. The warmth of her breath puffed against him, buffeting his mouth, the smell of bloodscent filling his nose. He smiled. Then he released and loosened the thrall he had cast upon her so that she knew what he was about to do.
So she would feel the pleasure.
She softened and her eyes fluttered.
His fangs had emerged and he showed them to her. “It won’t hurt,” he murmured, lifting her arm, smoothing away the sleeve of her frock. Then in a burst of ferocity, he changed his mind and reached for her shoulders. She muttered and shifted, and he pulled away to look at her. A bit of fear leaped there… fear and an edge of curiosity and desire. The glamouring, the thrall, was no longer necessary: he saw only clear need and question. He smiled and bent to her neck.
She stiffened and gasped in shock as his fangs sank in, down into the soft flesh.
When he wanted, he took.
She moaned against him, suddenly soft, suddenly pressing her body all along his. The curve of her breasts and the swell of her arse were tempting and he pulled away from her neck long enough to smother her mouth with his. Heat mixed with the heavy iron of her lifeblood. She shuddered beneath his kiss, her lips opening and the warm sleek thrust of her tongue shared the blood on his lips.
That was the way of it. They always wanted more.
And for the Dracule, it was a dual-pronged need: the desire for hot, sweet, life-sustaining blood combined inextricably with sexual desire. One fed the other: the dual penetrations, the heat and sensuality, the sleek, pulsing sensations, the intimate tastes and scents. Although it was possible, a Dracule rarely indulged in one without the other. Why bother?
She shifted so that her hips moved against him, little gasps and sighs coming from deep in her throat as he returned to feeding, to drawing the pulsing blood from her throat in the same primitive rhythm of coitus. The girl shuddered, vibrating with desire, her fingers curling into his arms.
Voss fed, drawing deep and hard. He breathed in her heated scent, felt the tremors in her torso and her weight suddenly sag between him and the wall. He knew when to stop, and he pulled away. Reluctantly. His cock raged, needing to finish things off. In response to the interruption, Voss felt the familiar warning twinge on the back of his shoulder.
The girl looked up at him with vacant eyes and he kissed her parted lips in a brief thank you. Then he bent back to the four little wounds on her neck and licked them delicately, slipping his tongue into and around the little indentations to ensure the spread of his healing saliva. After all, he’d just saved her life. It would be a bit of a kick in the face to let her die so soon after.
Just as he was finishing and setting her weak-kneed body up against the wall, Voss heard a noise behind him.
“What in the bloody hell?”
Eddersley.
“Hell, Dewhurst. Can’t keep ’em sheathed for more than a few hours, can you?” His friend tsked. Of course, if it were a handsome, muscled young man in the alley, Eddersley would have been unsheathing his own incisors without delay. He’d even looked Voss’s way more than once—but that had been decades ago, when they’d first met at one of Cale’s parties in Paris.
Voss smiled, still feeling the pleasure. “When the opportunity presents itself, why not? She enjoyed it as much as I. Or at least, that’s how she’ll remember it.” As she tensed, he curled his fingers around her arm so the girl couldn’t run off before he was through with her. “You can still join me.”
Eddersley didn’t look the least bit tempted. “I just visited Rubey’s. I’ll wait and see what I can find at the Lundhames’ tonight. Blue blood’s my preference.”
He turned on his gentle thrall, his eyes glowing full and golden-red, and he stared into the girl’s gaze. He felt the moment she released the memory of him and what had just occurred: she gave a little sigh and a jolt and then fear blazed into her face.
Good; she’d remember the attack from the man, but wouldn’t have the memory of a handsome tawny-haired vampire to share.
“Go,” he commanded. “And stay out of the bloody alleys.” He released her and watched as the girl pushed past him, dashing toward the street-end of the alley where a lamp provided the relative safety of illumination.
“I thought you were hell-bent on getting to the Lundhames’,” Eddersley said. “Didn’t think you had time for such a diversion.”
Voss straightened up and brushed the sleeve of his coat. “Indeed. But if I hadn’t stopped to intervene, she’d have suffered more than a bit of pleasure and four small puncture wounds. ’Twas only a bit of a delay. The Woodmore chits will still be there, I’m certain.”
“Never can pass up a bit of the tip-slip, can you, Dewhurst?” said Brickbank as Voss and Eddersley climbed back into the coach.
“Why should I?” he replied, settling into his seat. He was aware of the sharper ache on the back of his right shoulder as he settled into place.
The discomfort was Lucifer’s way of annoying him, of course. Reminding him to whom he belonged. The ache wouldn’t be nagging at him if he’d gouged his fangs roughly into that little chit’s chest, tearing the virgin flesh and sucking until she collapsed—and then left her. Or if he’d savaged her assailant, draining him of his blood or even simply pulling him apart. Or even if he’d driven on by without stopping to interfere.
Voss adjusted his arm and tried to ignore the dull throb emanating through Lucifer’s Mark. He knew what it would look like at this moment: the slender jagged line that started beneath the hair at his nape and spread like roots over the back of his right shoulder would be raised like tiny, dark veinlike welts. Normally the mark remained nearly flat and simply looked like the tattoo of a shattered piece of glass. But at times like this, it filled and swelled and became an annoyance.
It was the physical manifestation of the crack in his soul, the one that had occurred when Lucifer visited him in his dreams more than a century ago: the sign of his family’s liaison with the devil, the indication of Voss’s immortality and power.
A cracked or damaged soul meant that he could live forever and never face the judgment of God. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted. He had access to resources beyond imagination: power, wealth, even knowledge. He had no one to answer to but Lucifer, and only if the devil ever called him to true service.
Unless, of course, he met a stake through his heart or someone sliced off his head.
And the only way either of those things would happen was if he came face-to-face with the damned hyssop plant and it weakened or paralyzed him. And since Voss had no intention of dying,
