Angelica’s eyes had widened, all trace of sensuality and teasing gone. Now she looked frightened, and by damn, she should be. Voss flattened his lips, an ugly gnawing in his belly.
“He was insistent on going into the dark part of the garden, and when I hesitated, he pulled my mask down so I couldn’t see…then he picked me up—”
A shrill scream from beyond the alcove drew their attention and Voss reacted immediately, shoving Angelica back into the corner and positioning himself in front of her. Damn and the devil. Already? Another scream, cut off quickly, and then eerie, strained silence.
How could he have been so distracted? By the stones of hell, he should have taken Angelica out of there as soon as he found her instead of dallying on the dance floor and in the corner. But the blood…the smell had scattered his mind, dangerously diverting him.
Voss could see little beyond the vines, but he didn’t dare move them for fear of drawing attention. From between velvety white gardenia petals, he watched a faction gather on what had been the dance floor. Five of them, large and imposing. Eyes burning red. And then he smelled it. Blood. Saw it soaking the front of one of them, thanks to Angelica’s shears.
Luce’s balls.
Tension settled over Voss and he looked around for a weapon. The gun tucked into the deep pocket of his cloak would do nothing against the vampires. There was nothing else in the corner he could utilize for a weapon, either. He’d been a damned fool to not think Moldavi would move so quickly.
The crowd had edged back from the five menacing figures, but Voss knew they couldn’t go far. The doors would be guarded by more Dracule or at least their footmen armed with rifles and bayonets. Everyone was trapped…until the vampires got what—or who—they’d come for. And finished feeding.
One of the vampires swept out a powerful arm and grabbed a Roman emperor, jerking him to the center of the room. When the man attempted to fight back, the Dracule twisted his fist into the throat of his victim’s shirt and cloak and yanked tightly, lifting him off the floor as the man struggled to kick free.
Damn. This was going to get bloody messy.
And where the hell was Corvindale? Voss couldn’t handle five of Moldavi’s men plus their footmen, and protect the two Woodmore sisters…and the earl’s so-called sister, who must be around somewhere. Mirabella would also be a convenient and lucrative prize for Cezar Moldavi.
Damnation.
The vampire slammed his prisoner to the floor and shoved a heeled boot over the man’s windpipe, pinning him on the smooth wooden surface as he choked and gasped. No one moved. No one made a sound.
Then Angelica shifted behind him, just a little shuddering breath. Voss slammed a hand back, whirling to face her. “Hush,” he breathed into her ear. “Be still.”
“That’s him,” she whispered, and Voss saw two Dracule shift toward their hiding place, listening.
He put his face close to hers and lifted a finger, pressing it sharply against his lips in a fierce command of Silence! By Luce, those bastards could hear the slightest sound. Another benefit, or affliction, vested upon Dracule.
“Miss Woodmore.” The strained silence was broken by a low, commanding voice. “Show yourself.” Angelica jolted behind Voss, and he was vaguely aware that she’d clutched his arm tightly. He closed his fingers over her arm and shook his head once, briefly.
Be still.
It wasn’t Moldavi himself who’d given the order—no, he would be safely back in Paris, licking Bonaparte’s arse-crack. But Voss recognized the sibilant tone, and as the speaker moved into view, his identity was confirmed.
Belial, one of Moldavi’s makes.
A “made” vampire was a mortal chosen, not directly by Lucifer to fulfill Vlad Tepes’ familial bargain, but by a Dracule himself. The Dracule fed, draining the mortal of his blood. Then the Dracule turned the man into a vampire minion himself by allowing the mortal to drink from his blood, thus becoming the new vampire’s sire, or master. These “made” or “sired” vampires weren’t as strong and powerful as the ones chosen by the devil and personally invited into the covenant of the Draculia. It was a sort of hierarchy—the further removed the “made” vampire was from the original sire, the less powerful he or she was for the simple reason that each made vampire inherited the Asthenia of his or her sire, as well as acquiring their own personal one. And so on down the line.
In this case, Cezar Moldavi had made Belial, and Belial was only one of many who answered to Moldavi in payment for immortality and power. And any vampires that Belial sired would be even less powerful than he, and they ultimately answered to him—or, in his absence or death, to Belial’s sire, Moldavi.
Voss had encountered Belial in the past, and the only reason one of them wasn’t dead was that the sun had come up on them during a hand-to-hand battle, and they’d had to separate in order to take cover.
“Show yourself, Miss Woodmore. Or…” Belial’s voice trailed off as he nodded to one of his companions.
The man, another make who had silver-blond hair in a thick braid, moved with the lightning speed all Dracule enjoyed and snatched a gossamer-winged butterfly from the crowd. She screamed and struggled, but there was no help for her. The wig fell from her head, tumbling onto the man who lay still pinned in place by a boot heel.
Two men in the crowd lunged forward to intervene, but were caught instantly by two vampires and slammed to the floor as if they were gnats. A knife flashed and one of them screamed as he was pinned in place through his shoulder. Bloodheat infused the air. The other tried to roll away, and was kicked into the air, tumbling into the crowd. All during this time, the spectators had remained silent in shock.
“Miss Maia Woodmore,” Belial lisped in his eerie voice. “Or Miss Angelica Woodmore. Either of you can put an end to this.” He sounded polite and sincere even as he watched the silver-braided vampire put his hands on the butterfly.
Angelica tensed behind him and Voss edged backward to keep her in place, ignoring the flash of a pang in his shoulder. No. There was nothing she could do.
The butterfly’s gown tore easily, exposing a flimsy shift and white skin, frail shoulders and the delicate tendons of her neck and shoulders. Voss’s breathing began to deepen.
The Dracule held the girl’s two hands behind her back, and tore at her costume again. The shift fell away, clearly exposing two breasts that jounced and jolted as she struggled. Her pitiful screams were the only sound in the room, and when the vampire grasped her hair and yanked her head back, exposing her throat, Voss felt Angelica gasp behind him.
The fangs flashed briefly before they sank into the terrified girl’s shoulder. She choked, her body tightening like a bowstring and Voss felt his own blood rising. His fangs threatened, the scent of hot blood, frightened and desperate, beckoned.
Lucifer made them that way. To crave, to need not only the rich, warm life-giving liquid, but to revel in the fear and the fight when taking it. And the intertwined sensuality that came with it. The ache in Voss’s shoulder lessened as his breathing quickened and he knew that his eyes would be glowing faintly by now.
He closed them, drew in a deep blood-scented breath and focused on the other smells in the air, the sounds, even the woman behind him. Especially the woman behind him, her body stiff and frozen against his back.
No, that didn’t help. His blood pounded harder and he had to open his eyes again to push away the smell, the need. No, no. Not now. Not here. He steadied himself, breathed, focused.