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But by now he’d seen that he wasn’t in his own chamber, nor was he at Rubey’s, or even anywhere he recognized. The window was wide-open and not only did the sun pour in, but so did fresh summer air. Blasted birds chirping outside. A table next to the bed held three bottles—empty, or nearly so, based on the smell of whiskey that permeated the chamber as well as the pain in his temples and the vague wisp of memory.
A pool of dark liquid had dried on the table, and the residue of red-brown lined the bottom of one of the glasses. His stomach shifted alarmingly when he recognized it.
Gingerly Voss settled back down and rolled in the other direction. When he saw the white shoulder rising from amid the blankets, and the pool of dark hair…and the red marks on her neck, he remembered.
For a moment, panic seized him. Was she dead?
He tried to focus, tried to slice through the fog and remember.… Oh, Luce, it had been a whirlwind of heat and pleasure and feeding laced with horrible wildness. He remembered finding her at Bartholomew Fair, and because she had exotic eyes and wavy dark hair, he’d enticed her away with a pouch of coin.
But the frenzy of feeding…the blood whiskey…the animal that had taken hold of him… It was all dark and hellish. Voss chose to reach for her shoulder instead of the chamber pot when his stomach heaved, and when he touched, not icy flesh but warm skin, he exhaled.
Thank you.
He wasn’t certain whom he was thanking. Or why.
She shifted and stirred and he saw more marks on her shoulder, her arm, her throat. By Luce, it was a miracle she wasn’t dead.
Nauseated, Voss stumbled from the bed, relegated to climbing over the foot so as to avoid both the deadly sunshine and also the woman next to him.
That was when he realized, with distaste, that he still wore his clothing. A night of debauchery and still fully dressed. His white shirt was bloodstained, his neckcloth crooked and forlorn, but hanging from his throat, his pantaloon flap undone but the waist settled at his hips.
Even his damned boots were still on his feet.
At least he didn’t remember any of his dreams.
He looked at the door and around the chamber and realized he was trapped by the sunshine. There was no way to reach the shutters and close them, nor to make his way to the door without walking through a pool of light.
For a moment he thought about doing it anyway, walking into the warmth and allowing it to touch his skin. Could the pain be any worse than what he’d felt yesterday, when he’d been with Angelica?
He’d wanted her so badly. And Lucifer knew it, and had made it impossible for him to resist.
At the memory of her stricken, accusing face, the nausea rushed through him again. The loathing that had been there. The devastation in those bright, wise eyes.
What else could he have done? He’d been in agony. The pain had been so unbearable, he would have gone mad if he’d had to live another moment with it.
Hell, he had gone mad. Mad with need and desire.
A glance at his sleeping bed partner reminded him of how easy it had been to entice her. If his thrall had worked with Angelica, she would be the one in his bed right now.
He would have pleasured her, too.
Instead he’d frightened and disgusted her. And she certainly wouldn’t be of any willing assistance to him now.
Much as he hated the thought, he’d best leave England straight away. After this, Woodmore and Corvindale would be on his trail, after his heart. Voss preferred to keep his life as free of violence as possible, and if they found him, there was more than a chance he might actually get hurt.
Especially if the two were together.
So he would have to depart London and go somewhere else for civilization and culture. Rome. Lisbon. Perhaps Barcelona, where he could make a deal with Regeris. Definitely not back to the Colonies.
Frowning, his knees weak and his world spinning—not to mention the foul taste in his mouth—Voss snatched up a pillow and, sliding his hands into the case, held it up as a shield and rushed through the sunbeam. It burned where it caught a slice of his wrist and wavered over a segment of his temple, but he made it into the shadows on the other side of the lethal light.
He no longer had his double-lined cloak that worked so well to keep every bit of the sun from him, and now when he left this chamber in the boardinghouse, he’d be vulnerable to the light.
But he had to leave. He wanted to get away from this room, the smell of stale blood and spilled whiskey and sex, and be somewhere else. And the problems between France and England wouldn’t keep a Dracule from making his way across the Channel and going where he wished. That was the least of his concerns.
Voss glanced at the woman, who’d begun to snore delicately. Definitely not dead, and for some reason, he was relieved yet again. She had given him a good ride last evening, and been very generous with all of her bodily fluids. Perhaps he hadn’t compensated her enough. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his coat and found another guinea.
As he pulled out the coin, his glove came with it and Voss paused, suddenly paralyzed by a thought. A glove.
His glove.
Angelica had been holding his glove when he opened the carriage door for her.
Did she know that he was going to die?
“What are you doing here, Voss?” Rubey’s blue eyes peered through the small door panel. They weren’t kind nor welcoming in the least. In fact, he’d never seen them so cold.
“Won’t you let me in?” Voss wheedled, and allowed a bit of that enticing glow into his eyes. “I just want to talk with you, Rubey, darling.” The weight of the sunshine beat down on the hooded cloak he’d stolen from the front closet of the boardinghouse, and although it didn’t touch him directly, he could feel it like a heavy hand. “Perhaps a bit of tête-à-tête, too. I know how you like—”
“No,” she said, and made to slide the door panel closed.
“Wait, Rubey. Please,” he said, panic in his voice, jamming his hand into the slot. “I haven’t anywhere else to go, and I need to talk with someone. And the sun—”
“Dimitri was here. He and Giordan. Looking for you. Sure as the sun, they’re going to kill you when they find you.”
A little prickle skittered down his spine. “Angelica? Is she… Did they say anything about her?”
“So it is about Angelica.” The blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and the small panel remained half open. Then she shook her head. “No, Voss. The last time I let you sugar-talk me into something I shouldn’t have, you know what happened.”
