The Vampire Voss

“Miss Woodmore,” he said.

“Maia, I’ve found the earl,” said Miss Angelica Woodmore unnecessarily.

“So I see,” replied her sister. Still with clenched teeth, but at this point Voss wasn’t certain if that was for the benefit of Corvindale or Angelica.

The next portion of the conversation between the earl and the sister was lost on Voss, for the lovely Angelica had turned back to Brickbank. Every time she moved, a new, fresh waft of her filtered toward him. Voss sidled nearer, sliding past Eddersley to get closer.

“It’s of a personal nature,” Miss Woodmore was saying. Her expression and demeanor were of matching earnestness, and for a moment, Voss was overwhelmed by annoyance.

Why wasn’t she approaching him to speak of something of a personal nature? He was quite certain he could find something personal and natural to interest her.

Why on God’s green earth did she have to find Brickbank fascinating?

Then Voss realized it was simply because she hadn’t seen him yet, and he edged his way even closer. Women always noticed him. And that was one of the delights of his immortal life. He enjoyed as many of them as he wanted, without the hassle of having to woo or court or be the recipient of their many moods. Let alone spend any significant amount of time with them outside of the bedchamber. Why bother? There was always another one waiting.

None too gently, he elbowed up to Brickbank and turned to bestow his most charming smile on the yellow- gowned chit with the alarmingly enticing neck.

It was swanlike, long and curved just so. Elegant…and Voss realized he was having a hard time swallowing. His incisors teased him, slipping out just enough that his tongue brushed against them in a parody of where they really wanted to be: sliding into that ivory flesh, to feel the flood of hot, heavy blood surging into his mouth, over his tongue…into him.

Sweet. It would be sweet and heady and rich, and she would sigh against him, the pleasure trammeling through her veins, matching his. Their breaths would mingle, their bodies sear against the other.…

He blinked, focused and nearly turned away, calling himself every ridiculous name he knew. It had been less than thirty minutes since the girl in the alley…and only yesterday since he’d partaken even more fully of the erotic flesh. He certainly didn’t need to pant after a virginal young miss who was about to be taken under the wing of that dead-blooded Corvindale, enticing as she might be. Another trip to Rubey’s might be in order. Or a tête- à-tête with that saucy matron in pink. She looked as if she’d be a rough, wild ride.

She might be convinced to allow him to sink into her neck instead of her arm. Or thigh. Plump, sensitive thighs were a lovely treat, but not so much as a sleek, bare neck. He felt the stab of interest shimmer through him, and he found himself eyeing that one belonging to Miss Woodmore.

“I feel the need to warn you,” she was saying. Obviously Brickbank wasn’t listening any more closely than Voss had been, for his expression seemed quite unfocused, as well.

“Warn me?” he repeated.

“Perhaps I might be of assistance,” Voss said, at last, at last, drawing the girl’s attention to him. He gave a genteel bow and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. Her scent surrounded him and he felt something tug in his belly, followed by a sharp twinge on the back of his right shoulder. His mouth brushed the cotton of her glove and he had an instant fantasy of slipping that glove down to bare a narrow wrist. “I am Dewhurst.”

Her eyes met his and he felt a sizzle of warmth at the candid interest in them. Ah. Very good.

“I would very much appreciate it if you would recommend to your friend that he heed my warning,” she told him.

“And what warning might that be?” Voss returned.

For the first time, she seemed to hesitate. Drawing herself up as if girding for battle, the hollows of her delicate shoulders catching the light and shadow just so, Miss Woodmore moistened her lips and spoke. “I had a dream in which you died,” she blurted out, looking at Brickbank.

Voss blinked. A range of emotions blasted through him, the least of which had to do with the fact that he was on the verge of learning what he’d come to learn. If she dreamed of people she didn’t know, she might have the Sight. Which would mean he would have a legitimate reason—or at least a justifiable one—to converse with her. He resisted the urge to smile and instead shifted automatically so that his body blocked them from view of the rest of the room. “Go on.”

She was still looking at Brickbank, and Voss watched the steady pumping of the pulse in her throat. “I dreamed that you fell off a bridge. That you died.”

Brickbank blinked and glanced at Voss, who lifted his gaze and shrugged. “A dream, you say?” the other man replied, suddenly no longer red-nosed and tipsy. “I was in your dream, and fell off a bridge and died?”

A flash of what might have been irritation crossed Miss Woodmore’s face—perhaps she felt her explanation had been clear enough that it didn’t bear repeating. “Yes. That is what I said.”

Voss shrugged again. Odd enough that she’d had a dream about Brickbank and had recognized him—which could or could not mean she had metaphysical powers. But the fact was, a Dracule wouldn’t die from a fall off a bridge. They couldn’t drown, nor would the impact of the water damage them beyond a bit of a headache.

They were never going to die. That was part of the arrangement with Lucifer. It was something that Voss was assured of, as long as he was careful with his weakness to hyssop. Not that either of them would be inclined to explain this to the very earnest, lovely—yes, indeed, quite lovely—young woman bristling with intent. Those of the Draculia, of necessity, hid their immortal afflictions from all but other members and their households. And even then, those household members were carefully selected, well-paid, and well-trained to keep their secrets.

That was, Voss paused for a moment to smirk, certainly one of the reasons Corvindale had been reluctant to take on his responsibility as guardian to the Woodmore girls. He could only imagine the sort of disruption the mortal debutantes would have in the household of a Dracule.

“You have my gratitude, then, Miss Woodmore,” Brickbank was saying gravely. “Shall keep myself far from any bridges, and thus if there is any danger, it shan’t find me.”

The young woman appeared only slightly mollified, and Voss could read the suspicion in her expression. She wasn’t certain if she was being condescended to or not. “At least,” she said, lifting her chin, “you would do well to stay away from bridges whilst dressed as you are. For, you see, you were wearing that exact attire in my dream. When you fell off the bridge.”

Voss stilled, a renewed prickle of interest settling over him. Fascinating, yet he could not find it terribly disturbing due to its impossibility. Brickbank seemed just as stunned.

Before either of them could speak, Miss Woodmore gave a nod and said, “Very well, then. I’ve done my duty. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lords. I have a previous engagement.”

And she swept away with much more aplomb than a young woman should have.

“What do you see, Miss Woodmore?”

Angelica opened her eyes and attempted to keep her expression bland. “It takes a moment,” she explained to Miss Yarmouth. For the third time. “And great concentration. Even… silence.”

Hoping that her inquisitive client would get the hint, Angelica closed her eyes again and fingered Baron Framingham’s glove. She didn’t know how Miss Yarmouth had extracted the item from her possible fiancé, but that wasn’t of any concern.

At last, the familiar prickling sort of buzz descended upon her and Angelica focused on the images evolving. It was rather like that moment between sleep and wakefulness…where one was fully aware of what images scanned over the insides of one’s eyelids but had no control over their content.

When she was able to summon it, the vision was always a picture, a static image that, while it didn’t change, allowed her the chance to examine all its details. A moment in time, captured, as the last bit of life evaporated.

“He’s much older. Perhaps fifty. Bald atop his head, many wrinkles. Lying in bed. Eyes closed.” She listed off her impressions as she got them. “The window nearby…there’s bright sun and leaves on the tree. Full leaves. Summer perhaps. Alas, I cannot tell if there is anyone with him.” That was a bit of a lie, for she did see a woman who looked nothing like Miss Yarmouth.

But that could be anyone—a servant, a nurse, a sister—and she never gave any information that could imply