When Angelica moved, he grabbed her before she could do something foolish. Yanking her close to him, he put his mouth to her ear and spoke short and low. “You can’t stop them. Stay here.” His heart thudded hard, his fingers curled around her warm arms. They were so delicate, slender. Smooth. He breathed her, he touched her, her hair curled in his face and smelled like summer.
Soon, my dear. Soon. He lifted his face away but didn’t yet trust himself to look down at her.
Voss knew from the way she trembled and the dampness she pressed against his cheek that she wouldn’t listen to his warning for long. He had to do something before she did, or his chance would be all over.
Where the hell was Corvindale? And Maia Woodmore? He knew she was here, too. She was headstrong enough to answer Belial’s summons. Why hadn’t she stepped forward?
Voss pulled Angelica close to him and looked down into her face, hoping his eyes wouldn’t give him away. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. No matter what, until I come back for you.”
He waited until she nodded, her face streaked with tears and her eyes wide and shocked. She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed his hand to her warm lips and shook his head sharply. No.
Then he slipped to the side, away from the corner, along the wall behind the fountain that had gone silent. When he’d gotten as far as he could from Angelica without being seen, he stepped out into the room.
“What a damned mess,” he said as all eyes turned to him. Steadfastly fighting the alluring smell of blood and fear, he curled his lip in disdain. “By Luce, Belial, can you not teach your dogs some manners?”
Belial turned, his eyes bright and orange, his fangs showing in a flash as he smiled unpleasantly. “Ah, Voss. I cannot imagine what you have found yourself doing here.”
As always, that low hiss of a voice made him want to twitch. The man sounded as if he had a too-tight neckcloth on.
“Looking for the Woodmores are you?” Voss said, strolling unconcernedly toward the cluster of Dracule and their victims. The girl was silent now, not yet dead, but wheezing damply as she hung from the vampire’s grip over her shoulder.
The thought of Angelica hiding in the corner enabled him to breathe without acknowledging the bloodscent filling the air. But the other members of the Draculia weren’t as in control. As Voss stepped forward, one of them lurched down to the man pinned by the knife to the floor. His fangs flashed then sunk into the man’s arm as the victim strained and screamed. Voss was certain he heard a sound behind him, and prayed—so to speak—that Angelica would stay put.
Still feigning ease and indifference, he tsked and looked at Belial. “Such animals. Is that how you and that dog Bonaparte train them? No manners.”
Belial crossed his arms. “Why are you here?”
“Looking for Woodmore’s sisters, just as you are.” Voss gave a little shrug. “They’re not here. And you’re disturbing my evening.”
“Disturbing your evening?”
Voss didn’t look at the vampire feeding in front of him, blocked the sounds of suction and desperate gulping and choking gasps. He focused on Belial and nothing else. “I do love masquerade balls. They allow much easier access. But I prefer a bit more subtlety when arranging my…er…liaisons.” He made an offhand gesture to the scene in front of him, making sure to keep his voice pitched so low that only Belial and his companions could hear him. “Much more enjoyable and less of a mess. My valet hates it when I come home with stains.”
“I should believe you that the Woodmore bitches aren’t here?”
“You don’t have to, of course. You can stay and waste your time, although I suppose you might enjoy the entertainment. But drawing too much attention to your proclivities is not the best means to get what you want.” Voss was careful to say “your” instead of “our.” “I’m certain you haven’t forgotten those harrowing weeks in Copenhagen. You nearly slept on a stake, if I recall correctly.” He gave a bland smile.
Belial gave a narrow-eyed smile, his orange hair shining as he pursed his lips. Covered everywhere with a wash of dark freckles, he didn’t appear threatening. Until the eyes burned and the fangs came out.
“Dimitri said the same,” said the silver-haired vampire as he released the girl from his fangs. She slumped to the floor and one of the other Dracule members swooped down on top of her. “The Woodmores aren’t here.”
Voss hid his annoyance. If Dimitri was here, what the bloody hell was he doing? Where was he?
“There’s no love lost between you and Dimitri,” Belial murmured, nodding shrewdly. “No reason for you to lie for him.”
None at all, although, Voss had to admit, if he had to ally himself with Cezar Moldavi or the Earl of Corvindale, he supposed he’d more readily suffer the latter’s cold self-flagellation over Moldavi’s indiscriminating violence. Everyone knew Moldavi was a child-bleeder. But either of them could fry in the sunlight for all he cared.
“I haven’t seen Dimitri,” Voss said, fanning the uncertainty in the vampire’s eyes. “And the chits aren’t here if they ever were. I was just about to leave when…well.” He gestured to the scene in front of him, exuding disdain. “You interrupted my courting.”
“Dimitri is a bit…preoccupied at the moment,” Belial said, gesturing vaguely to the front foyer. “We’ve already spoken.”
Despite his antipathy for the earl, Voss didn’t like the sound of that. He forced himself to shrug easily. “You can continue here. If Dimitri is otherwise engaged, then I’ve got other things to do.” He sniffed in disdain. “Don’t draw too much attention to yourself, Belial. I don’t want any damned trouble now that I’m back in London. Been too long in the uncivilized America.”
He turned, his senses high, his movements casual, and began to walk away. Doubtful one of them would come after him— there was no reason to do so, and every reason not to. But he wasn’t a fool. The back of his shoulders prickled and the only sound was the wheeze of someone’s fearful breath and the intense gulping.
There was no more Voss could do to dissuade the vampires from continuing their attack and working their way through the crowd of people, feeding, terrorizing, ravaging. He’d reminded Belial that these sorts of overt events didn’t go unnoticed. They often resulted in the spawning of well-equipped, wooden-stake-and-sword-toting mortals who called themselves Vampire Hunters—often to great effect. Chas Woodmore was one of them, and the most successful one in recent times. It was fortunate that he had associated himself with Dimitri and no longer went about arbitrarily staking any member of the Draculia he encountered. Dimitri had forced Woodmore to see that there were many Dracule who offered no threat to the mortal world.
Voss walked through the stunned crowd, noticing that they’d unmasked themselves and that they stepped back as he passed through. Just as he reached the main foyer—where three footmen stood with bayonets—he heard Belial behind him. Voss turned, ready, but the vampires were merely making their way out of the room in his wake. A strong testament to the control the leader had over his companions, and only one reason he was a formidable opponent and favorite of Cezar Moldavi.
“Since Dimitri is otherwise engaged, he won’t be there when we pay Blackmont a visit,” Belial commented as he passed by Voss. He glanced at the sweeping staircase, an amused smile twitching his thick lips.
Then, with a commanding jerk of his head, he thus gave the order for the footmen to fall in line behind him. “I’m certain the Woodmore bitches will be most happy to leave that black hole and find more comfortable accommodations.”
Voss shrugged. Dark soul of Luce, where the hell is Dimitri? Up there? He didn’t look at the stairs, but suspected he knew the answer.
“Best of luck,” he told the vampire-make with great insincerity. Belial would never get into Blackmont Hall. Present or not, Dimitri would make certain of that.