The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia #1)(7)
Author: Colleen Gleason

“Why should I?” he replied, settling into his seat. He was aware of the sharper ache on the back of his right shoulder as he settled into place.

The discomfort was Lucifer’s way of annoying him, of course. Reminding him to whom he belonged. The ache wouldn’t be nagging at him if he’d gouged his fangs roughly into that little chit’s chest, tearing the virgin flesh and sucking until she collapsed—and then left her. Or if he’d savaged her assailant, draining him of his blood or even simply pulling him apart. Or even if he’d driven on by without stopping to interfere.

Voss adjusted his arm and tried to ignore the dull throb emanating through Lucifer’s Mark. He knew what it would look like at this moment: the slender jagged line that started beneath the hair at his nape and spread like roots over the back of his right shoulder would be raised like tiny, dark veinlike welts. Normally the mark remained nearly flat and simply looked like the tattoo of a shattered piece of glass. But at times like this, it filled and swelled and became an annoyance.

It was the physical manifestation of the crack in his soul, the one that had occurred when Lucifer visited him in his dreams more than a century ago: the sign of his family’s liaison with the devil, the indication of Voss’s immortality and power.

A cracked or damaged soul meant that he could live forever and never face the judgment of God. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted. He had access to resources beyond imagination: power, wealth, even knowledge. He had no one to answer to but Lucifer, and only if the devil ever called him to true service.

Unless, of course, he met a stake through his heart or someone sliced off his head.

And the only way either of those things would happen was if he came face-to-face with the damned hyssop plant and it weakened or paralyzed him. And since Voss had no intention of dying, ever, he continued to build up his own arsenal of protection by learning the frailties of others.

He would never again be the scrawny fifteen-year-old kid who’d spent more than two hours in the depths of the privy his first week at Eton—on three different occasions—because his upper classmates thought he was too pretty and spoiled.

Regardless of the fact that it was true: he always had been pretty and spoiled.

Perhaps that was why Lucifer had chosen him to be Dracule.

Not for the first time, Voss was thankful that his Asthenia wasn’t something common, like tea leaves or silver. Amman Gilreath, poor bastard, had had an Asthenia of pine needles, which had led to an early end for him, thanks to Chas Woodmore.

The thought of Moldavi steered Voss’s mind back to where it should have been, instead of on things he couldn’t change. His family’s deal with the devil had been made in the fifteenth century. Voss, Dimitri, Eddersley, Giordan Cale—all the members of the Draculia, even Moldavi—were the result of Vlad Tepes’s, Count Dracula’s, desire to rule Romania with an iron fist.

And centuries later, random members of the broad family tree were still paying the price of an unholy covenant negotiated by Vlad the Impaler.

“I should like to engage your services, Miss Woodmore.”

Angelica turned to the pretty young woman, who’d spoken to her through the leaves of a large potted lemon tree settled in the corner of the Lundhames’ ballroom. A bit out of breath from the quadrille she’d just finished with the very energetic Mr. Clayton Beemish, Angelica smiled and edged closer to the large plant, allowing its branches to flutter in front of her—the better to keep the conversation unnoticed.

Fortunately Mr. Beemish had taken himself off to fetch a cup of lemonade for her. It would be a while before he returned, she was certain, and as long as none of the other young men noticed that she was unattended, she would have a few moments to talk to this new acquaintance.

That was, except for Lord Harrington. She hadn’t seen the handsome young man yet—and as he always made a point of finding her if he was in attendance, she presumed he either wasn’t coming or hadn’t arrived yet. But if he did appear, she’d certainly choose the pleasure of dancing with him over a possible business transaction.

“Do you have a reference?” Angelica asked, for she was careful with whom she divulged her ability.

“Chastity Drury told me about you. I’m Gertrude Yarmouth,” she whispered. One of the green spikes from the lemon tree had caught in her hair, and she pushed it away as she offered a coin to Angelica, gloved hand meeting gloved hand behind the sturdy tree trunk. “Will this be enough for you to tell me about Baron Framingham?”

Ah. Framingham. The man who laughed too loudly and who seemed to be unable to retain a valet, if his attire was any indication. Angelica looked down at the gold crown that had just been slipped to her and resisted the urge to smile in delight. Her reputation was certainly growing, as was the small pouch of coins in her chamber. As soon as she could slip out of the house without Maia bothering her, she would deliver it to St. Anselm’s orphanage, where the ladies who ran the home would put it to good use.

“I must have further information before I agree to take you on as a client,” she warned, for the services of Angelica Woodmore weren’t for the fainthearted. Nor for the destitute.

“Has Framingham asked for your hand?” she continued, for she hadn’t heard, nor read, any announcement of a betrothal. And if the man were betrothed, the engagement certainly hadn’t affected his interest in other young women since arriving at the Lundhames’ ball. Including Angelica herself.

“Yes, he spoke to my father only today. My father approves of the match.”

“Have you accepted him, then? Are you certain you wish to engage my services?” Angelica watched the girl closely.

“I have asked my father to allow me a day to think on it—a request which he granted reluctantly. I knew you were going to be here tonight, and I didn’t want to make a decision until I learned what you had to tell me. Chastity said you helped her.”

Angelica nodded. Now for the most telling question. “Do you wish to accept Framingham? Are you in love with him?” She would return the coin in a moment if the young woman were. She’d come to accept that the very thing which made her so different, and which burdened her in ways that no one else understood, could also be put to good use. Her “sight” could be intriguing, amusing and profitable for certain charities— but not in every case. She’d learned her lesson after what happened with Belinda Mayhew and no longer blindly accepted clients.