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.
Moments later, he slipped a generous handful of
Nothing had changed, however. The air was cool and dank, and smelled of peat and mold along with the spices from above. The large oaken door still led to stairs that spiraled down into one of the old Roman quarries, now little more than tunnels beneath the city. In some areas, skulls and other human bones now literally covered what had been walls carved into stone—a result of overcrowded cemeteries being emptied in the latter part of the previous century. But no one had yet dared breach Cezar Moldavi’s subterranean hideaway with such macabre decor.
Not that it would have bothered Moldavi to have stacks of skulls and femurs lining his walls. It was just that no one but a select few knew of this particular entrance and set of tunnels through Corcellet’s.
Voss checked the deep pockets of his coat as he followed the familiar route. The packets were there—flat, odd-smelling items that would seem inconsequential to Cezar Moldavi if he bothered to check. They were his ace in the pocket, and, he hoped they’d be as effective for him as they had been for Chas Woodmore. If he had a chance to use them.
He strode quickly, passing three other doorways, until it swept up to a higher level and at last ended in a fourth door. Behind that door, he knew, was a space set just below the ground. Narrow windows, placed right at ground-level, offered natural illumination that was sketchy enough to be safe for even the most sun-sensitive of vampires and kept the chamber from being dark and gloomy.
Draculia members spent much of their effort looking for ways out of dark and gloom. With the exception of Dimitri.
Voss paused when the guard sitting in the shadows moved into better view. Hmm. He didn’t recall there being one the last time—but then again, he’d been drunk on blood-whiskey and a variety of other influences, and some of the details had been lost. But…a guard. With a sword, and very, very wide shoulders.
“Voss Arden, Viscount Dewhurst,” he said to the wall-like man, clearly a made vampire—and likely a newly minted one at that, if the way he tried to sneer around his fangs (awkwardly) was any indication. Voss smiled back, easily, without puncturing himself with his own show of fangs, and made his eyes burn. “Tell Moldavi I’m here.”
And all at once, Voss smelled
He had to steady himself. The scent was so rich and so strong, filtering unerringly to his nostrils that he was certain it had to be from blood. Spilled blood.
Until now, he hadn’t allowed himself to think too closely about his mission, other than general urgency. Just:
He hadn’t dwelled on what it meant. What he might find. Why he really was there. But now… Suddenly his heart pounded like a cavalry cresting a hill.
“He’ll want to see me. I must insist that you announce my presence,” he replied, keeping his voice charming with an effort. A great effort. Angelica was…just there. Behind that door.
“I think not,” replied the guard. “You can wait. Until tomorrow. When Voivode Moldavi is finished.”
Voss moved quickly, smoothly, and had the guard against the wall before the bloody bollocks-sucker could react. “I’ll see Moldavi now.” His fingers closed over the man’s windpipe even as the guard’s sword clanked ineffectively against the wall behind him. “Trust me. He’ll want to see me.”
Of course, there was no strangling a Dracule—even one not invited directly by Lucifer—but it did weaken the bloke enough to make his point. A quick jerk of Voss’s powerful hand slamming flat-palmed over the man’s ear and the guard jolted, stunned, head-spinning and half deaf, beneath Voss’s fingers.
That was all he needed to wrench the sword from the guard’s weak fingers and press the blade against his neck.
“Now,” said Voss, “shall I see Moldavi with your assistance, or without?” The wiry, ropelike Mark on his flesh seared hotter in warning, but he ignored it as the blade he held made a thread of blood over the vampire guard’s throat.
His bloodscent was thin and immature, filled with fear and a low-class essence. Despite the fact that he hadn’t fed for nearly a week, it attracted Voss even less than the ale at the Gray Stag.
“Assistance,” the man gurgled.
Voss released him, but kept the sword in his hand and his fangs long and visible. “Very well.” He smiled as if he’d just requested a different neckcloth from his valet and had been rewarded with the perfect choice.
The guard stumbled over to the door, opened a small window and spoke within. He turned, looking more cowed than a vampire had the right to be, and asked, “What was yer name again?”
“Dewhurst,” Voss said, trying not to inhale the smells coming from that little window. Angelica. Burning coal. Blood. Wine.
Moldavi wasn’t a fool, but he wouldn’t expect any trickery from Voss, and therefore, he would have no reason to be on his guard. That was the benefit of Voss having cultivated the persona he had: everyone knew that he had no allegiance to anyone but himself, therefore he was of no threat to anyone unless he was threatened first. Above all, he was known for being a well-compensated informant who sold his information to the highest bidder, regardless of who they were, and a man who enjoyed his pleasures with whoever cared to share them with him.
And that was precisely why he had been the best person to come to rescue Angelica. Moldavi would never suspect him of bestirring himself for anyone else.
Voss was gratified when the pronouncement of his name gained him immediate access, and he resisted the urge to ram the sword into the guard’s belly simply because he could. Instead he returned the weapon to the man knowing that Moldavi wouldn’t allow it in the chamber, and relying on the fact that the guard would likely employ it to keep any others from interrupting what was to follow.
And he walked in.
Into a veil of bloodscent. Angelica. His fingers curled into the edge of his coat.
The room, the chamber: Voss focused on that immediately after glancing at Moldavi. He had to take it all in before allowing himself to look at Angelica.
For he saw her out of the corner of his eye; the impression, the essence of her. In the corner. Unmoving.
Swathed in royal blue and emerald-green silk, the primitive stone walls shimmered in firelight coming from a large enclosure—a necessary evil for a subterranean chamber, even on a summer’s evening. Two other doors stood at opposite ends of the chamber. Paintings made shadows and wrinkles in the fabric wall coverings. A strip of moonlight beamed through one of the high, narrow windows. Lamps lit every corner of the square chamber, and the chairs and chaises were upholstered in dark brown and blue, with heavy walnut tables.
Beneath his feet were furs. In that breath of a moment, Voss identified a Siberian tiger, white with black stripes, and two others that he supposed were from India—yellowish-orange and black. A brown bear, and a large number of minks stitched together to make a quiltlike rug in front of the chair on which Moldavi sat. A bit too exotic for Voss, but other than that, Moldavi’s taste wasn’t terribly ostentatious.
The man in question laughed at Voss’s comment. “Being in the emperor’s pocket? I’m not certain whose pocket is carrying whom.” Like his servant, his voice was slightly sibilant and, though it had been centuries, still carried a bit of Transylvania in its accents. Voss knew—because it was his business to know such things—that part of the reason for the faint hiss was that Moldavi’s jaw had been broken when he was young, and his teeth hadn’t grown back in properly.
