refusing to allow a demonic vampire—particularly such a rapacious one—near his sister, had intercepted them in Paris and brought Angelica back to London, where wedding plans for her elder sister had commenced with great alacrity.
Now, as of his meeting with Voss, Dimitri knew he would be subjected to twice the excitement, for Voss had announced his intention to wed the younger Woodmore sister. Now that he was no longer bound to Lucifer, there was no real reason Chas could deny such a marriage. The viscount was wealthy and a peer. And he was a mortal.
Voss had actually removed his shirt whilst in Dimitri’s study in order to show him that the Mark was gone from the back of his shoulder.
When asked how he’d done it—how he’d shorn himself of the devil’s Mark—Voss had said simply that he’d
Dimitri climbed quickly into the carriage, taking little care to protect himself from the sun’s rays despite the cloak he carried. The flash of a burn skimmed his face and ungloved hand and wrist, and he fairly welcomed the pain.
The antiquarian bookshop seemed even less noticeable than usual, with the alcove entrance of Lenning’s Tannery next door fairly dwarfing the small, dark entryway.
Once inside, Dimitri paused and waited for the strains of serenity to slide over him. When he’d drawn in a steadying breath of old books and worn leather, he stepped into the dark shadows of the rows of shelves and waited.
It didn’t take long for Wayren to appear. This time, she wasn’t holding a book, although she had her spectacles on.
“Dimitri of Corvindale. I was suspecting you might return.” She looked at him closely, and all at once, he wondered what madness had brought him here. She knew nothing that could help him.
He found himself momentarily at a loss for words, anger and confusion churning like sludge in his gut.
Wayren cocked her head, watching him like an interested sparrow. “I’ve acquired something I think you might find interesting, and I’ve been saving it for you.” She turned toward a shelf next to her and plucked out a bound pamphlet from between two other much thicker books and handed it to him.
Dimitri took the slender packet, which could be no more than a hundred pages, and didn’t attempt to hide his distaste. “
She smiled benevolently. “Indeed. Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve is quite an entertaining writer.”
He frowned. “I don’t see how a fairy tale will be of assistance to me.”
“And yet you study Faustian legend?” she said delicately. “You must see something of yourself in Doktor Faust’s character. Perhaps you will find something different to relate to in Madame de Villeneuve’s tale about the beauty and her beast.”
Dimitri took the pamphlet and tucked it in his inside coat pocket, unwilling to offend the woman. “Very well. Bill my account for whatever it’s worth.”
From behind her spectacles, she watched him with a considering gaze. “Is there aught else I can do for you?”
She waited patiently.
“There is a way,” he said at last, a hint of desperation making its way into his voice, “to break the covenant.”
Why was he telling this colorless, quiet woman? What did he think she could do for him? Did he truly think she had some writ that would spell it out neatly and clearly; one that she’d kept from him during his previous visits?
“You must find a way yourself, Dimitri,” she said, in an echo of his unspoken question. “Just as Voss did.”
Dully he realized he wasn’t surprised that she knew of Voss, and what had happened to him. That was what had drawn Dimitri here. Some deep-seated reason had brought him to this librarian of sorts.
“I don’t know how he did it,” he said, his voice thick. “He’s neither pious nor has he ever denied himself anything. How could…”
“How could he have done it when you’ve spent so much of your life denying yourself everything in an effort to do the same?”
“Yes,” he exploded. But his voice didn’t shake the rafters. It merely settled there, a pained affirmation that hardly stirred the dust. “I always do what is right. I always have.” He remembered those years of study, of Puritan starkness, of maintaining his honor even in the face of difficulty, when Royalists were hated during Cromwell’s reign. Of rushing into a burning house to save the man.
Anger rushed through him.
“But that is why he chose you, Dimitri. Do you not understand that? To have turned such a man to him—a man who sees in black-and-white, and who lived in the light and the right—was the greatest of successes for the Fiend. It’s much easier to tempt and lure one who exists in the gray. Someone, perhaps, like Voss. Like Giordan. But you…you were different. You tried to live in the light.”
“And the one time someone meant something to me…” His voice trailed off, for he simply couldn’t put the disconcerting thought into words.
“Aye. The one time you allowed yourself to open and love, when you were desperate, he used that very power against you. You were very vulnerable and that was how he convinced you.” She was nodding, her eyes serene pools of fog-laced blue. “He found your soft underbelly. That is the way he works.”
“I accepted it. And he branded me for eternity,” Dimitri said bitterly. So bitterly. He pinched the upper part of his nose, just above his eye sockets, as hard as he could. He wanted to make it go away.
Wayren was nodding. “Because of that, he’ll not release you easily.”
“But it’s possible?” For the first time, he felt a real glimmer of hope.
“Anything is indeed possible. But it’s not without trial and tribulation. You, too, have to change.”
Dimitri looked at her, frustration simmering. “Change? I don’t know what you mean. Change how? I’m honest. I give to those in need. I don’t take, I don’t feed. I’ve taken in Mirabella when she had no one. I’ve—”
“Certainly. You’ve done that…but have you given anything of yourself, Dimitri? Any care, any affection or love or even any
Terror seized him. “I can’t.” His response came out in a heartfelt groan. “I cannot.”
Wayren looked at him for a long moment, sadness lingering in her eyes. “Then you still aren’t ready, Dimitri.”
What precisely did one do?
“Turn, please, miss.”
Maia turned obediently, feeling the tug of her skirt as the seamstress’s assistant folded it just-so and pinned it. Behind her, another assistant adjusted her bodice, carefully inserting another pin along the seam in the back.
What did one do when one’s fiancé’s kiss had lost its attraction?
When one would rather be removing a splinter than meeting his lips?
Maia opened her eyes and found herself staring at the image of a lovely bride. Golden-coppery-brown hair shone in a shaft of light from the window, and the beam filtered over the pale pink silk of her gown. Over it lay an icy-lemon layer of lace, which gave the frock a shiny, pearlescent appearance.
“You look beautiful, miss. He will be unable to take his eyes off you,” said the seamstress. Satisfaction colored her voice, and she stepped forward to adjust the short puff of a sleeve. It was made from twisted swatches of pale pink, lemon and blue silk, loosely braided and sewn stuffed with padding to hold their shapes.
Maia scanned herself. She did indeed look beautiful—mostly due to the dress, she conceded. Though the bodice was low, and in a new neckline called a sweetheart shape, the little scratch on the top of her breast was no longer visible. It had healed weeks ago.
