AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Country girls, I presume?” Dimitri said coolly, although his fangs threatened to shoot to full extension. Bastard. “What a shame the bourgeois aren’t foolish enough to lift their skirts for you. All those lovely white thighs and blue blood.”
Pure red burned in Voss’s eyes, making even his dark irises glow. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to deny oneself the pleasure of a real feeding for decades. To be resigned only to a bottle of pig’s blood, or worse. It would certainly make one cold and empty. Unpleasant, to say the least. Slow. And repulsive.”
Dimitri accepted the slur; it was nothing new. The others feared him, keeping their distance, interacting with him only when necessary, pretending to be his comrade whilst whispering behind his back. Within the Draculia—those who bore Lucifer’s Mark identifying the crack in their souls—it was common knowledge that Dimitri hadn’t fed on a living human for more than two generations. He’d taken up that abstinence not long after the events in Vienna.
The exception to the divide between himself and the wary deference of the others was Voss, who had only this sort of insolence to show, and Cale, whom Dimitri considered his only true friend.
Unlike Dimitri, Voss wore his dissociation from the other Dracule like a mantle of pride—mainly because it was of his own making. Voss, now the very wealthy Viscount Dewhurst, amused himself by seeking and collecting information that could be sold or bartered and, Dimitri suspected, he did so also in order to insulate himself from the others.
Dimitri, on the other hand, didn’t care what anyone thought of him and did nothing to challenge long-held perceptions. He simply wanted to be left alone with his studies and occasionally emerge to the gentlemen’s clubs for a game of chance or a midnight horse race. Or perhaps a bout of pugilism at Gentleman Jackson’s.
“If you have news, I suggest you share it. Sooner rather than later,” Dimitri said at last.
Voss’s contemptuousness seemed to evaporate as he leaned toward him, as did the anger in his eyes. For a moment, Dimitri sensed a sort of hesitation, perhaps, or doubt, from the younger man. Younger in years on the earth by perhaps a generation, but not in physical appearance. To an ignorant mortal, the two men would appear to be in their thirties instead of well over one century old.
Voss’s fingers traced idly over the sides of his cognac glass, giving him the appearance of being relaxed. But his face was intense and his voice pitched low enough for only Dimitri to hear.
“Narcise Moldavi has disappeared.”
Next to him, Cale stilled, and Dimitri flickered a glance at his companion. The man’s face was passive, his eyes flat and dark as he lifted his glass of wine. He remained silent.
“Cezar Moldavi can’t keep control of his own sister. Why is that such great news?” Dimitri’s tone was flat and bored. Yet, his attention sharpened. He had a bad feeling about this.
Voss sipped then returned his drink to the table. “You’re not a fool. You know Moldavi will eagerly blame no one other than yourself for her disappearance. Regardless of any evidence—or the lack thereof.”
“Again, you bring me no information that I don’t already possess,” Dimitri replied, annoyed at the reminder that Cezar Moldavi continued to disfigure the face of the earth after two centuries. He forced his fingers to release the glass, slowly and deliberately. “You’ve interrupted my game for naught.”
“From the looks of it, Cale is the one with the largest pot. Perhaps you ought to thank me.” Voss settled back in his chair, once again looking like the rake he was well-known for being: heavy-eyed, half smiling, relaxed. “But here is the information you likely don’t possess.”
Dimitri didn’t care for the smile twitching the corners of the man’s mouth. What the hell had brought Voss back to London anyway? Surely not this sort of dancing, parleying conversation. Probably the women. It had always been the women, the pleasure, the hedonism for Voss and others of the Dracule. And for a time, Dimitri had tried to enjoy it as well, and had even promoted it through his establishment in Vienna. A renewal of annoyance flushed through him, and he pushed it away. It wasn’t worth the effort.
Standing, he swiped up the handful of notes and coins he’d won in the game and folded them neatly. “I find myself bored with the company and conversation. Carry on.”
As he turned, shoving the winnings into his coat pocket, Voss’s parting words came to settle on the back of his neck, as if burned there. “Chas Woodmore was last seen in Paris, with Narcise. He’s gone missing, as well.”
Woodmore was gone? With Narcise? Bloody damned bones of Satan. Woodmore was supposed to kill Moldavi, not run off with his sister. Dimitri didn’t pause but his gut tightened. That pronouncement meant a variety of things, but by his personal estimation the worst was what it meant to Dimitri, himself.
It meant that his well-ordered, if monotonous, life was about to turn upside down. It meant that his solitude, his studies, his very existence was about to be invaded by the trio of silly, giggling, frippery-happy Woodmore sisters. Including Miss Maia Woodmore.
Why in the name of the Fates had he ever promised Chas Woodmore he’d watch over them? Why did Woodmore have to do something so blasted foolish? He should have left Cezar Moldavi to Dimitri to handle.
Damn it all to Lucifer.
Dimitri curled his lips and darkly considered his predicament. He had a few days to put things in order before the girls would invade his home. They couldn’t stay at their residence, not with Cezar Moldavi coming after their brother. But Dimitri wasn’t about to have them under the Corvindale roof until he was prepared to be overrun.
Damn and blast and burning bones.
He’d have to set some guards to watch over the girls until he was ready to have them to Blackmont Hall. Damn the Fates. What the hell was it going to be like with three young, mortal women in his house? Hell, he’d probably have to have Mirabella come in from the country. And a chaperone to keep it proper.
Grinding his teeth, Dimitri poured another glass of whiskey, then tossed it back with a big swallow. When he glanced up, Voss, the bastard, was watching him with a smirk.
He knew exactly how annoyed Dimitri was. And the man was enjoying every moment of it.
Damn it to Lucifer.
1
WHEREIN MISS WOODMORE’S SERVICES ARE ENGAGED
Voss adjusted the shoulders of his coat, aligning the seams, then smoothed the lapels and hem. Having been alive for more than a hundred forty years, he’d seen his share of fashions come and go—and some of them had been horrific. Thank the Fates that the wigs and long, swinging coats that had been in fashion during all of the upheaval around Charles II had given way to shirts and neckcloths and pantaloons. The tailoring was much more attractive, and showing one’s own hair was much preferred after decades of wigs and powder.
