The Vampire Voss

“You’ll never see him again,” Woodmore said, lifting the stake a bit, turning to look at her. It was the first time his voice and expression had softened since he entered the room. “I won’t allow it. Get any thought of it out of your head.”

Angelica didn’t look at Voss. “It’s gone. Please. Take me home.”

Woodmore turned back to Voss one last time. “I’m doing it for her, not for you.”

“If you were doing it for me,” Voss managed with every bit of strength he had, “you’d finish it.”

“Damn you to hell, Voss,” Woodmore said, taking Angelica by the arm and starting toward the splintered doorway.

Already done, Woodmore. Already done.

16

THE ORDEAL

Voss didn’t know how long he lay on the bloodstained, Angelica-scented bed after they left. Hazy, dimmed beams of sunlight still streamed through the windows. A gentle breeze ruffled the curtains.

Damned Parisian summer day.

At least Moldavi wouldn’t be out, searching for them. Woodmore and Angelica would be safe.

He was forced to stir, to try to move his abused body when a knock came on the sagging door. At his bidding, a chambermaid entered, ironically carrying the new clothing he’d ordered for Angelica.

The pain had eased a bit; enough that he could rise from the bed, holding a pillow to the wound on his chest, and pretend that all was well. Even though it was certainly not. His body felt as if it had been stretched beyond its limit, as if it would never work the same again. The Mark continued to haunt him, to needle and slice. But now that Angelica was gone, Voss thought it might forgive him.

Eventually the pain might ease.

Because Luce would never let him go. He’d been foolish to even think it.

Voss noticed that the small metal case that had held the hyssop necklace while protecting him from its power still rested on the small table. But she’d walked out of the chamber still wearing the necklace. Thank Fate she’d kept it on during their—he stopped his mind, forced the images away—during it all. Or Woodmore would have had all the reason in the world to execute him.

Voss’s neckcloth was on the floor, that horribly unfashionable strip of fabric he’d forced himself to wear. He pulled on a clean shirt, but wrapped the neckcloth loosely around his throat, for it was the only one he’d brought. The awful dark coat he’d brought from America was a bit dusty and smelled like smoke, but he donned it anyway. He had traveled very light, and very quickly.

He’d done what he’d come to Paris for. Angelica was safe. Woodmore and Corvindale would see to it that she remained thus, and Giordan Cale, too.

The sun was too bright and strong for him to leave, though he was desperate to quit the room. Leave Paris and put it, and England as well, far behind him. He packed up the meager things he’d brought in his satchel, slowly, still weak.

At first he dismissed the strained cry. But when it was repeated, Voss paused to listen. It was coming from outside the open windows.

He ignored it for a moment, but it became louder. More urgent.

Someone was calling for help. Thin, frightened, young.

Frowning, he went to the wafting curtains, staying out of the bolt of sunshine. Peering around them, maneuvering in shadow, he looked out and saw nothing but dazzling light and a nearby tree.

Another cry caused him to look up, and then he saw two small feet dangling…from above. Nearly a man’s height away, and off to the side.

Luce’s dark soul, it was a girl! Hanging from the balcony on the higher floor, holding on by two dainty hands. The balcony wasn’t directly above his; the platforms were staggered for privacy. If the girl released her death-grip on the railing, she would fall three stories down.

He glanced around—down, up, behind. There was no one else about. No one to notice.

Odd. So very odd.

Something prickled over his skin. Something happened inside…a burst of right.

He hesitated only a moment.

Part of him knew it would kill him as he darted out onto the sunny balcony with its red geranium pots. Another part thought if it didn’t, at the least it might take away some of the impact of the swollen Mark, spreading the pain so to speak.

The blaze of sun on his bare skin was instant and excruciating, and it stole the breath from him, weakened him to a stumble. Voss held back a scream of pain as he reached up and over, keeping himself from being paralyzed by it.

Please…

Fire blazing over him, his flesh singeing and tightening, he staggered to the edge of the balcony and reached up. Couldn’t reach. Half-blind, unable to force his breath to speak, he grasped the railing of his own porch and steadied himself against the brick wall as he climbed onto the rail somehow sensing his way. As if in a dream. A nightmare.

When his fingers closed around the ankle of the girl, he couldn’t speak to warn her. He couldn’t see. He could barely sense what he was doing through the white pain…but somehow guided, he managed a good, hard, yank, and pulled her to him…

She screamed, high and childlike, and they tumbled back off the rail, onto the balcony, Voss miraculously managing to vault her into his arms so she didn’t flip face-first into the side when she fell. He felt her warm body, slight and struggling, as he collapsed onto the tile floor. The girl pulled away, babbling something that he couldn’t comprehend. But then, their eyes connected for a moment as time seemed to pause, and he was struck by familiarity there.

Peace and serenity in pale blue eyes. He’d seen them before.

And through the door and away, she was gone, suddenly, and he was alone. Paralyzed. Burning in the sun.

His Mark was going to explode.… He felt Lucifer’s fury filling, swelling, radiating like it had never done before…and he buried his face into the hard floor, grinding dirt and grit into his cheek and chest.

Stop it…stop…

The sun blazed down and he couldn’t move. The slender ropes on his back bulged, teemed with hot pain and he screamed in agony, dirt in his mouth and teeth, his nails digging desperately into the surface on which he lay.

And, at last, with one last silvery-hot blaze, he succumbed to the darkness.

But just before he did…there were those pale blue eyes… and a face.

The face of the blonde woman. She was smiling. You were ready.

17

OF MUSICALES, PROPOSALS AND FAT FINGERS

“I don’t want to sit in the first row this time,” Angelica hissed, pulling out of Maia’s grip. Her sister always made them sit in the front at musicales.

How would you feel if no one sat in the first row or two when you were playing piano? she’d say. As if they were afraid to get too close?

Since Angelica didn’t play piano—or anything else—she wouldn’t have the foggiest notion.

Maia paused in her attempt to direct Angelica to the front row at the Stubblefields’, annoyance shining in her pretty face. But then it faded. “All right, then,” she replied. “Where do you want to sit?”

Nowhere. But Angelica replied, “The last row. In the corner. That way,” she added a bit more firmly, “none of the other young ladies will be trying to engage my fortune-telling services during the performance.” Since only a small percentage of the attendees at a musicale were actually there to listen to the daughters of whatever household it was play and sing (the rest were there by obligation and/or to catch the eye of a potential mate), this was a very real possibility.

Maia couldn’t argue with her logic, and Angelica congratulated herself on her quick thinking.

It had been two weeks since Chas had brought her back from Paris. To this day, Angelica wasn’t quite certain how he’d managed to do so without any delay or problem, especially when so many other Londoners were still detained due to the war. Her abduction and their absence at Harrington’s party had been explained as a carriage accident, in which Angelica had been slightly injured, and for the last two weeks her societal obligations had been limited.

Once back at Blackmont Hall, she’d found flowers and notes from half of the ton, wishing her good recovery, and she’d taken advantage of the chance to hide away for a bit.

Two days after their return to London, Chas had gone off again, leaving his sisters still in the care of a resigned Corvindale. He, apparently, still had things to settle with the vampir Narcise and no one seemed to know when he’d return.

Since her return, Angelica had been patently uninterested in employing her Sight at anyone’s whim, particularly in a business transaction.

She had, in fact, been patently uninterested in quite a few things, including eating, sleeping, dancing, gossiping and shopping.

Her sister had had to pester her into attending the musicale tonight, threatening to tell Chas (although she never indicated just how she would get that message to their absent brother) that Angelica was pining over a vampir if she did not attend.

And Angelica was certainly, definitely, not pining over a vampir. A man, perhaps.

But not a vampir. And why did she feel so dratted empty when she thought about that?

She didn’t even know if he was still alive. He was supposed to have died.

He probably had. “Will this do?” asked Maia, gesturing to a row of chairs near a tall, potted plant with her neatly gloved hand. She looked particularly lovely tonight, with her hair scooped up high at the back of her crown in an intricate braided and curling mass. Depending upon the light, her hair could appear mahogany or chestnut, or even honey-red. Angelica had always been a little envious of her sister’s classic beauty, compared to her own Gypsyish looks. Yet, she often told herself that though her sister might have gotten the beauty, she also got the bossy, rigid personality of their mother to go along with it.

“You look so pretty tonight. Is it because Mr. Bradington has returned?” asked Angelica as she smiled at Maia, suddenly feeling a rush of affection for her sister. After her experience with Voss, she understood better what happened between a man and a woman and how beautiful it could be. Now she realized how Maia must have felt all these months with Mr. Bradington absent, waiting for him to return. “You seemed so happy when you were dancing with him at the party last night.”