The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia #1)(81)
Author: Colleen Gleason

And how some people seemed empty and remote for all of their lives.

“That explains it, then,” Voss said. “The Gypsy blood, the Romanian heritage…the first of the Draculia was Vlad Tepes, Count Dracula of Transylvania. And the rest of us are all descendants of his. For obvious reasons, if they choose to do so, Dracule tend to make very good marriages—albeit temporary ones, due to the immortality factor. Many of our antecedents wed titled members of European aristocracy. But the choice to become Dracule is only offered to some of us.”

“Such were my granny’s bedtime stories,” Angelica agreed. “Not of the variety commonly told to English children, however.”

“Thank the Fates for that, or how many more of them would grow up wishing to be like your brother.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Voss shifted. “Because you aren’t asking the ones you ought to, Angelica.” His eyes glittered and she felt warm and flushed again.

But no longer apprehensive.

“I’m certain I’ll learn the answers in good time. You obviously can’t leave the hotel during the daylight, so we are here for some time. And for now, I want to understand how this plant…whatever it is…affects you.”

He sighed. “It’s not something one discusses, Angelica. It’s of a personal nature. Incidentally,” he added with a bit of a rueful smile, “that’s precisely the reason Corvindale and Cale, and even your brother, are displeased with me. Because I make a point of learning about their…weaknesses. So to speak.”

“Lord Corvindale is one, too?” Angelica gasped. “And Mr. Cale?”

“Ah. Yes, indeed. I’m sorry to shatter your illusions. They are also Dracule.”

“And my brother…Chas works with Lord Corvindale? How can he work with the man he hunts?”

Voss shrugged. “I don’t know the details of the history between them, but as I told you before, there is bad blood between two Draculean factions—those of Corvindale and Moldavi. Aside of the fact that Corvindale has his own reasons for disliking me, I confess, I admire his situation. Having a vampire hunter on one’s side is a smart move on Corvindale’s part.”

“What about Mirabella? She can’t be a vampir, can she? For…well, she’s gone shopping with us.”

“No, it’s my understanding that Dimitri found her as a babe and raised her as his sister. I don’t believe she knows the truth of her origin, either.”

“How many of you are there?” She couldn’t help the distaste in her tone, and from the expression on his face, she saw that he noticed. His features flattened just a bit, just enough to let her know she’d insulted him.

“Not so many as it would seem,” he said. “We don’t generally reproduce.”

Silence reigned for a moment, and Angelica found that she couldn’t keep her eyes from him. The necklace gave her an unfamiliar, heady sort of power. Courage and even boldness. She no longer feared him.

And the fact that he’d thought to prepare such a talisman for her—to offer her a way to protect herself—gave her much to think about.

“Have you always been…like this?” she asked, rising to her feet. Her heart was pounding and her palms had begun to dampen.

Voss shook his head, his hair gleaming rich and bronze. His hand was splayed wide on the bed next to him, pressing deeply into a thick coverlet. She couldn’t help but notice the length and fine shape of his fingers.

“No, one isn’t born Dracule,” he replied. “One is… invited.”

Angelica raised her brows in question and realized she’d taken a step toward him.

“You wouldn’t believe me.… Well, perhaps you would,” he amended with a rueful smile. “You who have the Sight, and know that extraordinary things do exist. It was Lucifer. He came to me in a dream.”

“The preferred method angels use for communication,” Angelica said lightly, after a moment of shock. “Fallen from grace or otherwise.”

His lips quirked. “Apparently so. He offered power, strength and immortality. I was twenty-eight, at the prime of my manhood. It was a dream; it wasn’t real, but it was tempting. Of course I accepted.” Now his mouth flattened. “And neglected to ask what he expected in return.”

“Or perhaps the state of being in a dream wouldn’t have allowed you to do so.” Angelica had come to recognize his expressions by now, and what she saw was grief and pain. And yet…bravado. He would soldier on. Perhaps make light of it. “What did he expect in return?”

“Allegiance…not overt fealty, but he has ways of influencing one’s actions. And there is the understanding that, if bidden, a Dracule is meant to do Luce’s work, to be called up to arms, so to speak, if the day comes when we’re needed.”

Horror had begun to filter through Angelica as his words sank in. “The devil’s earthly army? To be called up at his whim?”

“I didn’t understand that part of it, or really, any of it, at that time,” he replied. His voice was testy and sharp. “If I had…”

What sort of a person would agree to such a thing? Angelica couldn’t speak. The knowledge that she sat here, with a man who’d sold his soul to Lucifer, was inconceivable. Chilling.

Worse yet was that she wasn’t frightened of him, and in fact…she felt connected to him. They, like Beatrice and Vinio, had had that instant, compelling connection.

She liked him—at least when he wasn’t driving his incisors into her neck.

“I woke up the next morning, the dream lingering like a nightmare. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a drawing on the wall of my father’s study—that was where I’d fallen asleep after too much drinking the night before. He had hung a collection of botanical watercolors, and the one I noticed was a picture of hyssop.” He gestured faintly toward her and she understood that was the name of the plant she wore around her neck. “To this day, I’m unaccountably grateful that it wasn’t the drawing of grapes that caught my attention first.”

He paused, ran a hand through his hair and looked straight at her. “It feels odd to talk about such things. I never have.”

“It’s a great burden you’ve borne for… How long has it been?”

“Since 1684.”

Angelica couldn’t speak for a moment. He was one hundred and…forty-three? Forty-two? Forty-five years old?