Dimitri’s scowl deepened and the familiar burn of disgust billowed in him. Vampires like Moldavi and Belial who routinely left a trail of violence and dead mortals in their paths repulsed him. Voss might be a creature concerned only with himself, but he didn’t have the lack of respect for mortals that Moldavi and his ilk did—leaving children bled dry and to die in the fields.
Moldavi particularly enjoyed the blood of young, virginal boys.
“Woodmore is here in England,” Cale said, surprising Dimitri. “He contacted me. The assumption is that he knows where Narcise is, but he didn’t say that in the correspondence I received. He was careful. No one else would even know it was from him.”
“Moldavi wants his sister back and he’ll do whatever he must to retrieve her—including coming out of his position licking the bollocks of Napoleon Bonaparte. Woodmore isn’t about to take the chance of being found. He’s too damn smart.”
“We’re meeting at the inn in Reither’s Closewell.”
Dimitri looked at his friend sharply, but Cale’s face was carefully blank. Too blank.
Chas Woodmore couldn’t know the history between Narcise and Cale if he was turning to the latter for assistance.
“When you see him, tell Woodmore to get his arse back to London and see to his sisters. You can attend to Narcise,” he suggested.
“Over my damned dead soul,” Cale replied. “She’s Woodmore’s problem now.”
4
Despite Dimitri’s easy conversation with Giordan Cale, he was unable to dismiss the fact that somehow, someone knew of his Asthenia for rubies. That conundrum couldn’t help but take him back to the night of the fire in Vienna, the night that had ultimately sent him back to England, and that had cemented his mistrust of Voss and the hatred between him and Cezar Moldavi.
He remembered the night as if it had happened yesterday, although it had been in 1690—more than a hundred years ago. He’d been celebrating the opening of the gentleman’s club he’d had built in the city of Vienna, which was going through a great architectural renewal now that the Turkish siege had ended.
“If Cezar Moldavi attempts to enter,” Dimitri had directed his manager, “inform me immediately.” At that time, he held a glass of whiskey that he’d hardly yet sipped. It was an exceptional vintage, of course, for he would offer nothing less to the patrons, especially on the opening night.
There were other forms of libation, of the fresh-blooded sort, too, of course. Dimitri did not stint on luxury, at least in his investments. The Puritan days of Oliver Cromwell were long gone.
But the one sort of vintage he didn’t offer was that which Cezar Moldavi preferred: that of young children. Boys in particular, but either gender would do. Dimitri’s mouth flattened with repugnance.
Only yesterday, word had filtered through Vienna of yet another child’s body found in the woods. The girl’s blood had been drained nearly away, and she’d been left to die.
She’d been eight.
The blame had been visited upon a group of Jews, as they were regularly accused of such a horror, but Dimitri knew better. Over the centuries, the Jews had been often accused of such blood libel—of taking blood from Christian or even Muslim children and using it for their religious ceremonies. But, in fact, it was certain members of the Dracule who not only murdered the children, but also perpetuated that myth. Just one of those ways Lucifer created chaos among the mortals.
That was part of the reason Dimitri had dissolved his partnership with Cezar. There were many things about the life as a Dracule that were violent, unsavory and base, but child-bleeding was one thing he wouldn’t look away from. Once he’d learned of Moldavi’s bloodthirsty propensity for children, he’d released him as an investor in the gentleman’s club.
“We are to disallow Moldavi entrance for any reason?” replied Yfreto, the club’s manager.
“Precisely. He’s not been invited,” was Dimitri’s reply, referring to tonight’s festivities. “Naturally that won’t keep the dog-licker away, so ’tis best to be prepared.”
“Of course, my lord. And, incidentally, we have more than half the private chests still available in the anteroom for the guests.”
Dimitri nodded in approval. Everyone who entered must leave weapons—stakes and swords in particular, along with all valuables, including jewelry and gemstones—in a private chest. Each with its own key, which was then given to the patron. By placing such a wide moratorium on articles that entered the establishment, Dimitri would ensure that no rubies made it to his vicinity, while at the same time precluding any accidental stakings or other violence.
The Dracule were a particularly savage lot.
Aside of being savage, the Dracule were patrons of pleasure. Night after night, they drank and fed and fucked—in as many different ways as they could, for there was none to stop them or to say them nay. That was, Dimitri had come to realize, the reason Lucifer had offered immortality to his earthly minions. When one had nothing to fear, when one had any and all sort of pleasure easily at hand, one became even more self-serving, greedy and base. Just the sort of person Lucifer would appreciate, and the sort who would do his bidding when and if he required it. Rather like an army—or, perhaps more accurately, a society of agents—in waiting.
One could find such a superficial, hedonistic life unfulfilling, to be sure, so Dimitri had decided to combine business with pleasure. Thus, he’d thrown some energy and funds into a private pleasure house designed specifically for the Dracule.
It was either that, or return to England.
He’d been gone from that country more than twenty years. Ever since Meg—for whom he’d given everything—had left him.
During this, the opening night of his gentleman’s club, nearly every chair was filled with Dracule and a select group of mortals who were allowed to associate with them. Men played draughts, backgammon or chess. Groups of candle stands clustered in corners and on tables, along with a few shallow bowls, covered and filled with glowing coals for lighting the opium pipes.
“You appear displeased, my lord. Is there something you lack?” A slender hand smoothed over the back of Dimitri’s shoulders and tickled the ends of his hair, bringing with it Lerina’s familiar scent.
He looked up at her and lifted his whiskey glass. “I have all I need right here.” There might have been a flicker of affront in her eyes that she wasn’t specifically included in his statement, but Dimitri wasn’t certain. And he was sorry if it was the case. She was a beautiful woman, but she required more attention and care to maintain her happiness than he was able, or willing, to give.
Thanks to Meg.
The fresh bite marks on Lerina’s shoulder were a testament to the attention and pleasure he’d given her— and, to be fair, she’d given him—earlier today. Lerina was one of those relatively rare mortals who craved the touch and bite of a vampire, particularly when such feeding was accompanied by coitus. And Dimitri was inclined to oblige since a man had to get his pleasure from somewhere.
Yet…she hung on too much, touched him too much, talked too much, and when she did talk, it was of things he had no interest in: fashion and gossip and picnic outings. He never wore a wig, and had no interest in hearing about her trials and tribulations in finding a fashionable one. He didn’t know if she’d ever read a book. Like most women, her knowledge of history—except for the most recent events here in Vienna with the Turkish siege—was dismal. And once, early on, when he’d actually thought she might help him forget Meg, he’d expressed interest in obtaining a copy of Sir Isaac Newton’s telescope to look at constellations, she’d suggested that he invest in real diamonds instead of the ones in the sky.
Lerina’s laughter, becoming more high-pitched, had begun to grate on his nerves. She simply wasn’t interesting or stimulating, and nor was she silent and forgettable.
Aside of that, she had been trying to convince him that he should turn her Dracule—so that they could live
