by Колин Глисон
His face drawn, his lips flat, Voss nodded, then gave a shrug. “A bit.”
She stepped back again and saw that his chest moved in an easier breath. Odd, fascinating…and a bit frightening.
Angelica sat in a chair across from him, leaving what she judged was space enough for his comfort. “Is it the proximity? The smell? The sight? I thought it was silver that repelled vampires. That was the way Granny Grapes told us.”
Voss smiled and moved carefully to sit at the edge of the bed, leaving more space between them. “Your grandmother sounds like a fascinating woman. I wonder how she knew so much about the Draculia. That,” he added, “is what we call ourselves.”
“Her grandmother was my great-great-grandmother, the Baroness Beatrice Neddelfield, whose much-older husband died when she was merely twenty. The baroness fell in love with a blacksmith, who happened to be the son of a Gypsy from Romania. The way Granny tells it, they fell in love at first sight and Beatrice would have no one but Vinio for her husband. Since she was a widow, she no longer cared what Society thought, and they wed—living happily ever after.” Angelica shrugged, thinking, as she had done many times in the past, about the way some people seemed to find a strong, intimate connection to another person so quickly and easily without any explanation or logic. And how, for others, it was something that seeded, rooted and eventually blossomed.
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?
His bright smile had an edge to it. “Yes, I’m one hundred and forty-eight years old.”
Angelica had never been very good at arithmetic. “I find it inconceivable. Yet, I believe you. After all, I’ve seen…evidence of it.” She strolled around the edge of the small round table between the two chairs, trailing her finger on it, feeli
ng herself wanting to move toward him. Despite all of it. “Recall that I, too, have told you my deepest secret. My own burden.”
“I was—am—very flattered. You carry a great strength about you, Angelica.”
Something unfurled in her chest. He made her feel something that no one else did. Important, worthy… She said, “You awoke, you saw the picture and how did you know that this…whatever it is…had happened?”
“When I walked outside that morning, into the sunlight… after realizing I wasn’t hungry for the eggs and ham that had been served. That was the last time I’ve been in the sun. Those brief moments I spent there were agony.”
“But you look as if you belong there,” she said, the words coming out before she could stop them. So she continued. “Your skin is so golden. And warm.”
Angelica. His lips moved silently and his eyes heated to pure gold. Her heart thumped and she took a step closer, leaving the table behind. His fingers moved on the coverlet next to him.
What am I doing?
He can’t hurt you. He’s said it himself. You’ve seen the proof.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, walking closer. “I don’t wish to hurt you, my lord. But…”
“It’s no great pain…just…as if I cannot breathe. I grow weaker, the closer you come.”
She stopped, took a step back, gauging his expression. “I don’t seem to be able to stay away.” Again, the words came without her permission.
“It’s no great thing.… I find I cannot breathe around you regardless.”
This made her want to smile and cry at the same time. “If I wear this, I can come close to you, safely…but you’re hurting.”
“The pain is only too great if the plant touches me. Take care.”
Take care.
Was he giving her permission to come to him? To touch him?
The answer was clear in his eyes.
Angelica’s palms were damp, her heart raced. What am I doing? His shoulders were so wide, and the shirt damp from his hair.
His breathing shifted, lowered and became rough. But his eyes focused on her, pulled, lured…
“What of the way vampires can hypnotize?” she asked, stopping suddenly, remembering more from Granny’s stories. Was that all this was? His manipulation? Was he tricking her, just as Lucifer had tricked him? “Are you tricking me?”
Voss managed a sharp laugh. “The Fates, no.” He drew in a breath. “Yes, the thrall—my thrall—is real. And very effective. Except with you. You seem…impervious to it.”
Angelica straightened and looked at him with interest. She was perhaps five paces from him, from the bed on which he sat like a rigid soldier. The corners of his mouth were tight.
“I? Impervious?” she asked.
He made a frustrated sound. “Blast it, Angelica, if you weren’t…well, you’d likely be able to call me Voss. And you wouldn’t be wearing that damned necklet.” He looked at her hotly, and the bottom dropped out of her belly. “You wouldn’t want to. I promise you that.”
The tips of his fangs were showing now, just beneath his upper lip, and the burning in his eyes shone like red-gold flames.
“What is that on your back?” she asked again. “May I tend to it?”
Again, a short, sharp laugh. “There is naught you can do.”
She was close enough that if she reached out, she could touch his face. Or shoulder. His breathing was rough, and she realized hers had become unsteady as well.
“If I come closer—”
“Please,” he said in a soft groan. Please, his lips moved silently.
She did. Empowered by the talisman around her neck, compelled by desire and curiosity, reassured by his need, she went to him.
His shoulders trembled as she rested her hands on them, lightly, taking care that he wouldn’t be in pain. She felt him vibrating beneath her touch, and understood that he was fighting, struggling against something.
Under her palms, Voss was warm, hot even. Solid. Broad. The ends of his hair brushed the tops of her fingers and she could smell the citrus and rosemary from his bath. His shoulders rose and fell in little jagged movements.
She looked down and saw his fingers curled up into the coverlet, wrinkling and gathering it into great bunches. His shirt gapped away from his strong, golden neck and she could see down into the back of it…the heavy black tendrils of scarring there on bronze skin.
“My God,” she breathed, and without thinking, she pulled the neckcloth away, pulled aside the opening of the shirt so she could see more of it. “What is it?”
They were like little purplish-black ropes, and seemed to pulse and throb as she looked down at them. Shiny, coursing…the pain must be beyond comprehension. They grew like roots from beneath the hair he kept long at the nape, down over the right side of his back, concentrated at the shoulder but spreading like cracks in his flesh past his rib cage.
“Mark…of Luce…ifer,” he managed to say. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple, and she saw that his skin had gone shiny and damp. “Please…Angel…ica…”
She thought he meant for her to move back, to give him relief, but when she began to shift away, he made a sound of negation. No.
Her hands trembled, and she was hot and shivery all over. Something fluttered in her stomach and Angelica felt something deep inside her curling, unfurling, swelling.
Take care.
She remembered his warning, so when she leaned forward, she bent carefully, holding the necklace tight to her skin so that it wouldn’t fall against him, her other hand on his uninjured shoulder. And she lowered her lips to his.
15
An Unfortunate Slip
Voss’s world was a war of agony and relief. When her soft lips touched his, half parted and sweet, he nearly cried out from the pleasure, then gasped against her at the sudden, searing pain that followed, driving him to take more. Oh. God.
The hyssop, small amount that it was, was so close that he could barely lift a hand, could barely uncurl his fingers from the bedding beneath him. The delicate curve of her throat was right in front of him, the V of her robe, the golden necklace, there…so close. Yet he couldn’t move to touch her. He felt his muscles slowing, becoming heavy, even as the rush of desire surged through his veins.
And all the while Angelica’s mouth tasted his, and his fought to taste hers back, the Mark on his skin twisted and throbbed, knifing beneath his skin, tempting him… Take, take, take.
Slick and full, her lips molded over his, nibbling and licking as her body strained closer. Her breasts, right there, free and loose just beyond his reach. Her nipple strained against the thin material. The druglike mix of lavender and orange and Angelica, warm and sweet and sensual.
Her hands brushed over his hot skin and he felt the flesh on his face tighten beneath her fingers. He lifted his chin and her touch slipped to cup his jaw. More, more…he wanted more. His lungs no longer worked and he felt as if he were drowning, spiraling into a vortex of pain-matched pleasure.
Her hip pressed against his torso, the fabric of her robe slid along his thigh. His fangs thrust hard and sharp, his gums swollen with the same need that filled his cock. Voss tried to say her name, but he couldn’t drag his thoughts together enough to take the breath.
The next thing he knew, she was lifting his shirt, pulling it from his trousers. The cooler air was good against his damp skin, and her hands were there…over his shoulders, his chest, along the tops of his arms. Tentative, so tentative and light that he wanted to groan with frustration.
She gasped in horror when she brushed over his Mark, and it leaped and pulsed beneath her touch, shooting dark, evil pain through him. “Oh, God, Dewhurst…” Angelica breathed.
Voss. Call me Voss.
He didn’t know why it was so important to him, but he wanted it. He wanted her. Deep within, his body strained and writhed with so many battling demands, weak and on fire.
Voss closed his eyes, tried desperately to block out the agony, to gather the stre
ngth to touch her. If he didn’t, he would die.
“Dewhurst,” she said, her voice penetrating the blaze of pain. She was close, her words warm on his desperate skin. He managed to lift a hand, though it felt like a hundredweight, and touch her face. “I’m going to take this off.” She lifted the necklace.
Yes, yes, yes. Oh, Luce. Oh, God, please, yes.
Voss drew in his breath as she closed her fingers around the chain. He struggled, his back was on fire, his body wouldn’t work…yet it strained and throbbed and needed.
No. He moved his lips. No.
He tasted blood—his own blood, and knew in a moment, if she pulled on that chain, if she yanked it away, it would be her blood. In his mouth. Her skin, her blood. Hot and sweet, so thick and filled with her…sliding down his throat, warming his belly, filling him. Yes, yes.
Voss was shaking as he fought it. Squeezed his eyes closed. No, he whispered. “No.” A single breath was all he could manage.
Angelica stepped away, taking her warmth, and he opened his eyes. Her fingers were still closed over the chain. Her dark, velvet-brown gaze covered him, wide and hot with pleasure. Beckoning. Her lips, full and well kissed, half parted. Her chest and breasts, nipples outlined, straining against the robe, rose and fell. Thick waves of her hair had come undone, half tumbled over her shoulders, a strand caught against her damp neck.
If he’d been able to breathe, he would have groaned at the pure beauty of her.
“If I remove some of the leaves…some of it?” she asked, and began to pluck at them. “Will it be…better?”
Voss swallowed. He couldn’t speak; he could formulate nothing. He managed a short nod and wondered, what next?
How long could he live through this torture?
Angelica felt the smooth leaves beneath her fingers, and watching Voss, breathless from the expression on his face, she pulled some away. Careful to gather them in her palm so they could be disposed of, she picked from the necklace.
Three, four clumps. A quick glance in the mirror showed her that more than half of the original remained. It also showed her a woman there, with unbound hair and flushed, rosy skin and parted lips. Nothing beneath her robe and shift but skin. Unbound, her breasts felt full and ready, and the place between her legs hot and damp.
