The Vampire Voss

Still taking care not to look overtly at Angelica, despite the fact that his very being pulled in that direction, Voss strolled in and slid the toe of his boot across one of the furs as if in admiration. He used the opportunity to glance sidewise over toward the corner and caught the impression of continued stillness. His nostrils twitched, the scent of blood strong and sweet and of Angelica filling them.

In here, he had no need to keep his fangs sheathed, and allowed them to touch his lower lip as he pushed his needs away. Something burned over his shoulder. The fingers of the devil.

“If I had to wager,” Voss said, “I should guess that each of you find the other useful…after a fashion. For one, the emperor’s propensity for battle and casualties has certainly kept you well fed, and easily so.”

“I have been known to sample the convenient buffet of a battlefield, to be sure. You are correct that we both serve the needs of the other.”

Voss’s expression remained bland. Moldavi’s Asthenia happened to be something so common in the world of mortals that he would forever be limited in his own power. Otherwise, Napoleon Bonaparte would be merely a note in the realm of Cezar Moldavi instead of an associate. “Indeed,” he replied. “The new emperor is fortunate to have your skills and brilliance.”

And if Voss actually knew what Moldavi’s weakness was— other than the fact that it kept him fairly sheltered from the mortal world for fear of being accosted by it (silver? gold? paper? ink? an apple?)—he would have a greater chance of extricating both himself and Angelica without it getting messy. As it was, thanks in part to Chas Woodmore, he had a better than average chance of making it anyway.

“Well, then, Voss, what brings you here? Belial claims you were in London only days past.”

“I was, but it’s such a bore. With the trade cut off, there’s not a decent bottle of champagne or Armagnac to be found. The women don’t waltz. And the fashions are… Well, need I say more?” He gestured to his attire, clothing he’d worn in America and donned for the purpose of this meeting to make his point. “So I thought to come to the source.” He smiled and selected a chair near Moldavi, half facing Angelica.

Voss was acutely aware that he’d seen and sensed no movement from the bundle of woman in the corner. While he was pleased that she’d made no reaction to his presence—for it was imperative that he keep their acquaintance secret from Moldavi—the very fact made his skin prickle with fear.

“I did see Belial in London,” Voss added, and as Cezar stood to walk over to a large wooden cabinet, he chanced a glance over at Angelica.

She slumped in a chair. Her eyes were closed and neat tendrils of blood trickled from her nose. Her neck, throat, shoulder…all seemed untasted. Her gloveless hands were curled, white, in her lap.

Sleeping. Voss hoped, hoped with such fervor that Lucifer’s spectral fingers tightened on his shoulder so that he couldn’t contain a gasp, hoped that she was sleeping. Peacefully.

The door on the opposite side of the room opened and two men walked in. Dracule, Voss assumed, but one couldn’t be certain until one saw fangs or glowing eyes. They could be mortal minions of the emperor. Either way… blast and hell.

The fewer the people in the chamber while he tried to manipulate Moldavi, the better. He furtively felt for the packet in his pocket, and with the other hand adjusted his coat so that he felt the weight of Bonaparte’s watch chain. One or both of them would need to be employed.

“And what was your business in London? Sniffing around the Woodmore sisters, I presume?” Cezar said, bringing a glass bottle back to his seat. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable, Voss.”

The bottle was dark purple, the color of eggplant, and had a golden wax seal which broke as Moldavi twisted off the cork. “We were just about to celebrate with a special toast,” Cezar said.

“As to my interest in the Woodmore chits—anything to annoy Woodmore, of course,” replied Voss easily, even as he felt a wave of…something…odd. “But I hardly saw the girls. Dimitri is keeping them tightly locked up in Blackmont, as I’m certain you’re aware.”

“Not as tightly as he meant to,” said one of the new arrivals with a low laugh. Voss recognized him as one of Belial’s companions at the Gray Stag and at the masquerade ball as well. The other man gestured to the corner where Angelica lay.

“Indeed? Is she one of them?” Voss now had permission to look overtly at the girl, and he took the moment to do so. Her chest rose and fell in shuddering breaths, and one of her fingers twitched. An uneasy sleep.

Or an unnatural one.

Fear seized him more tightly as he returned his attention to Moldavi. A horrible thought—one that he’d tried to ignore since London—rose in the front of his mind.… A thought that made all feeling leech from his body.

It would be just like Moldavi to do it.

“Ah…the reason for the celebratory toast, I presume.” Voss forced his voice to remain steady. No.

What would be the best revenge for Moldavi to have on Chas Woodmore, vampire hunter? The man who’d stolen his own vampire sister from him?

Why…to turn Woodmore’s own sister into a replacement for Narcise. And all of the Draculia knew what Narcise was to Moldavi: his sister, his slave, his whore.

To humiliate Chas Woodmore as Chas had humiliated Moldavi.

Voss’s fingers were chilled, and he struggled to cut through the burn over his shoulder and the explosion of thoughts…and that odd sensation of helplessness that seemed to be growing. He vaguely noticed Moldavi pouring four drinks from the aubergine-colored bottle and when the man offered him one of the glasses, he took it.

At that moment, he knew. As if he were punched in the gut and his ears were boxed simultaneously. His lungs tightened. Harder to breathe, more difficult to control the grip of his fingers around the glass. Hyssop.

Here.

He looked around the wavering room. Where? The other two vampires had drawn nearer. There were no plants, no food seasoned with the herb. Nothing that could explain his sudden weakness.

The room swirled and tipped and Voss felt as if he were sliding into a pool of water, slogging and slow. Somewhere.

“A toast,” Cezar was saying, lifting his glass. He looked at Voss, who, with difficulty, managed to raise his to just below his shoulder.

Steady. Steady, focus.

He fought the weakness creeping over him, warring with the pain in his shoulder and his mental capacity. “What is it?” he asked, finding it nearly impossible to move his mouth in speech. Slowly he lowered the glass to the table next to him. Where is it?

He needed to get away. His head felt light and the room tried to spin, but he fought it still.

“Absinthe,” Cezar replied. He smiled with genuine pleasure, showing a fang studded with a tiny sapphire. “A bottle of the best French absinthe, which I have been saving for such an occasion.”

Absinthe. Not brandy or whiskey.

Lucifer’s nails… It was in the drink. Hyssop syrup. Of course.

“Drink, Voss,” Cezar told him. Looking at him oddly. “You must join us in the toast. I shall at last have the Woodmore bastard crawling on his knees. And Dimitri to follow.” The others had raised their own glasses.

It could kill him. Did Moldavi know? Could he know?

Voss had guarded his secret so closely. It was impossible for the other man to know. No. No one knew.

It was a horrible, awful coincidence.

Moldavi was looking at him strangely now. With suspicion. His eyes dark and piercing, the faintest warning of red glowing at the rims of his irises.

Voss couldn’t allow him to suspect, to question. He swallowed, tried to wade through the roaring in his ears, the tunneling of his vision as it narrowed and darkened. His hand trembled. Even Angelica’s alluring scent had faded.

“Drink, Voss,” said Moldavi. The glint in his eyes had gone beyond suspicion to something akin to delight. The fang’s sapphire winked and hypnotized and Voss realized that, for the first time in his life, he had wholly miscalculated.