by Колин Глисон
“When you see him, tell Woodmore to get his arse back to London and see to his sisters. You can attend to Narcise,” he suggested.
“Over my damned dead soul,” Cale replied. “She’s Woodmore’s problem now.”
4
An Incident In Vienna
Despite Dimitri’s easy conversation with Giordan Cale, he was unable to dismiss the fact that somehow, someone knew of his Asthenia for rubies. That conundrum couldn’t help but take him back to the night of the fire in Vienna, the night that had ultimately sent him back to England, and that had cemented his mistrust of Voss and the hatred between him and Cezar Moldavi.
He remembered the night as if it had happened yesterday, although it had been in 1690—more than a hundred years ago. He’d been celebrating the opening of the gentleman’s club he’d had built in the city of Vienna, which was going through a great architectural renewal now that the Turkish siege had ended.
“If Cezar Moldavi attempts to enter,” Dimitri had directed his manager, “inform me immediately.” At that time, he held a glass of whiskey that he’d hardly yet sipped. It was an exceptional vintage, of course, for he would offer nothing less to the patrons, especially on the opening night.
There were other forms of libation, of the fresh-blooded sort, too, of course. Dimitri did not stint on luxury, at least in his investments. The Puritan days of Oliver Cromwell were long gone.
But the one sort of vintage he didn’t offer was that which Cezar Moldavi preferred: that of young children. Boys in particular, but either gender would do. Dimitri’s mouth flattened with repugnance.
Only yesterday, word had filtered through Vienna of yet another child’s body found in the woods. The girl’s blood had been drained nearly away, and she’d been left to die.
She’d been eight.
The blame had been visited upon a group of Jews, as they were regularly accused of such a horror, but Dimitri knew better. Over the centuries, the Jews had been often accused of such blood libel—of taking blood from Christian or even Muslim children and using it for their religious ceremonies. But, in fact, it was certain members of the Dracule who not only murdered the children, but also perpetuated that myth. Just one of those ways Lucifer created chaos among the mortals.
That was part of the reason Dimitri had dissolved his partnership with Cezar. There were many things about the life as a Dracule that were violent, unsavory and base, but child-bleeding was one thing he wouldn’t look away from. Once he’d learned of Moldavi’s bloodthirsty propensity for children, he’d released him as an investor in the gentleman’s club.
“We are to disallow Moldavi entrance for any reason?” replied Yfreto, the club’s manager.
“Precisely. He’s not been invited,” was Dimitri’s reply, referring to tonight’s festivities. “Naturally that won’t keep the dog-licker away, so ’tis best to be prepared.”
“Of course, my lord. And, incidentally, we have more than half the private chests still available in the anteroom for the guests.”
Dimitri nodded in approval. Everyone who entered must leave weapons—stakes and swords in particular, along with all valuables, including jewelry and gemstones—in a private chest. Each with its own key, which was then given to the patron. By placing such a wide moratorium on articles that entered the establishment, Dimitri would ensure that no rubies made it to his vicinity, while at the same time precluding any accidental stakings or other violence.
The Dracule were a particularly savage lot.
Aside of being savage, the Dracule were patrons of pleasure. Night after night, they drank and fed and fucked—in as many different ways as they could, for there was none to stop them or to say them nay. That was, Dimitri had come to realize, the reason Lucifer had offered immortality to his earthly minions. When one had nothing to fear, when one had any and all sort of pleasure easily at hand, one became even more self-serving, greedy and base. Just the sort of person Lucifer would appreciate, and the sort who would do his bidding when and if he required it. Rather like an army—or, perhaps more accurately, a society of agents—in waiting.
One could find such a superficial, hedonistic life unfulfilling, to be sure, so Dimitri had decided to combine business with pleasure. Thus, he’d thrown some energy and funds into a private pleasure house designed specifically for the Dracule.
It was either that, or return to England.
He’d been gone from that country more than twenty years. Ever since Meg—for whom he’d given everything—had left him.
During this, the opening night of his gentleman’s club, nearly every chair was filled with Dracule and a select group of mortals who were allowed to associate with them. Men played draughts, backgammon or chess. Groups of candle stands clustered in corners and on tables, along with a few shallow bowls, covered and filled with glowing coals for lighting the opium pipes.
“You appear displeased, my lord. Is there something you lack?” A slender hand smoothed over the back of Dimitri’s shoulders and tickled the ends of his hair, bringing with it Lerina’s familiar scent.
He looked up at her and lifted his whiskey glass. “I have all I need right here.” There might have been a flicker of affront in her eyes that she wasn’t specifically included in his statement, but Dimitri wasn’t certain. And he was sorry if it was the case. She was a beautiful woman, but she required more attention and care to maintain her happiness than he was able, or willing, to give.
Thanks to Meg.
The fresh bite marks on Lerina’s shoulder were a testament to the attention and pleasure he’d given her—and, to be fair, she’d given him—earlier today. Lerina was one of those relatively rare mortals who craved the touch and bite of a vampire, particularly when such feeding was accompanied by coitus. And Dimitri was inclined to oblige since a man had to get his pleasure from somewhere.
Yet…she hung on too much, touched him too much, talked too much, and when she did talk, it was of things he had no interest in: fashion and gossip and picnic outings. He never wore a wig, and had no interest in hearing about her trials and tribulations in finding a fashionable one. He didn’t know if she’d ever read a book. Like most women, her knowledge of history—except for the most recent events here in Vienna with the Turkish siege—was dismal. And once, early on, when he’d actually thought she might help him forget Meg, he’d expressed interest in obtaining a copy of Sir Isaac Newton’s telescope to look at constellations, she’d suggested that he invest in real diamonds instead of the ones in the sky.
Lerina’s laughter, becoming more high-pitched, had begun to grate on his nerves. She simply wasn’t interesting or stimulating, and nor was she silent and forgettable.
Aside of that, she had been trying to convince him that he should turn her Dracule—so that they could live together forever.
Forever, Dimitri knew, was much too long to spend with any woman—including Lerina. And when he thought about it in that way, he was almost relieved that Meg had left him. Almost.
And so, tomorrow, when the sun came up and the last of the patrons left, Dimitri intended to bid farewell to Lerina. He’d send her off with a fat purse and three chests of fabrics, as well as the deed to a small house here in Vienna.
He looked up at that moment and saw Voss threading his way toward him. Voss had never been a particularly close associate of Dimitri’s, for he was much more interested in seeing how many women he could feed on and bed, smoking opium, and generally drinking himself into a stupor, but they’d played cards together more than a few times in London and Paris. He was charming enough, and didn’t grate on Dimitri’s nerves as much as unintelligent people did, but there was one problem with Voss. It was that, while Dimitri found him an amusing companion, he didn’t trust him.
“Charming place, Dimitri,” Voss said. He was holding a leather-wrapped parcel. “I’ve brought you a congratulatory gift.”
“That’s kind of you.” He took the parcel and found a bottle of most excellent brandy wrapped up with a pewter goblet
. The cup’s craftsmanship was exquisite: detailed and yet masculine.
He would have set it aside, but Voss smiled. “Do taste it tonight. I’ve never had better. I thought perhaps you’d be able to tell me from whence it comes.” His eyes glinted with mischief.
Always agreeable to a challenge that exercised his mind, Dimitri agreed to the test. Holding his large, wide coat sleeve out of the way, Voss poured him a generous dollop in the pewter goblet, then, with a lifted brow for permission, poured himself a drink of the same in another glass.
Dimitri sipped from the brandy. It was excellent, indeed, and he fully enjoyed the warmth as it burned its way to his belly. Even Lerina’s constant toying with the ends of his hair didn’t detract from the pleasure of the excellent libation.
Voss had noticed, and had been admiring Lerina, of course, for a man would have to be blind not to notice her. But Dimitri saw that his admiration was merely objective, not possessive.
Aside of that, with Dimitri’s marks, as well as his scent, on Lerina, no one would dare make an overture. It was a point of honor among the Dracule that no one fed upon—let alone coupled or otherwise interacted with—one who was marked. Whether it be mistress, servant, or other associate, a mark was a claim of possession not to be violated. Voss might be an arse, but he certainly wasn’t stupid.
And the consideration that Voss might be interested in becoming Lerina’s protector was rejected almost as instantly as Dimitri thought of it. The blond man wouldn’t be interested in the obligation of maintaining one single woman. “Obligation” and “one” being the detrimental modifiers.
As Dimitri rolled a second sip of brandy around in his mouth, he realized with a start that it wasn’t merely brandy. He swallowed, trying to place the additive. It wasn’t blood, but it was nearly as pleasant.
“Have you decided on the location of its vintage?” Voss asked, watching him closely. “Spain.” But there is something else.
His companion’s brows raised. “Indeed. You do not disappoint me, Dimitri. But precisely where?”
“I’ll have to sample a bit more,” he replied, moving now. Lerina’s hands fell to his shoulder, but then she shifted onto the chair next to his and began to toy with the large, heavy buttons on his coat.
Dimitri was, thankfully, distracted for a moment by the approach of Yfreto, who needed his attention in the card room. By the time he returned to his seat after addressing the issue, Dimitri noticed that Voss had just returned, as well.
“Have you had enough time to consider now?” the latter asked, handing him the refilled goblet.
Dimitri sipped again, once again noting the additive. “Salvi,” he said. “You’ve added salvi.” It was an herb mélange that caused a heightened sense of pleasure and relaxation in a Dracule. For a mortal, however, it would put them to sleep in moments.
Voss inclined his head. “Indeed. I thought a bit of additional enhancement might make it all that more difficult for you, expert as you are, to identify the genesis of the drink. But you’ve yet to tell me—where in Spain?”
They were interrupted three more times during the course of their conversation, and the enjoyment of the very excellent brandy. Dimitri was feeling the effects of the salvi, and recognized the same in Voss’s eyes. Just then, Dimitri’s front steward approached, carrying an unfamiliar wooden chest. As he looked up to greet him, Dimitri noticed Voss suddenly go very still.
And as the chest came closer, he felt it.
“My lord,” said the steward, opening the chest to reveal a set of pewter goblets, identical to the one Voss had given him, that Dimitri had drunk from and still held in his hand. “I found these in the front alcove. Hidden behind the curtain.”
With the coffer lying open, Dimitri was assaulted by the presence of a ruby. His chest became heavy, his breath thicker, his limbs slower. It took him only an instant to realize what Voss had intended. He’d been swapping the cups, refilling each new one with brandy, all in an effort to see which cup caused him to display some weakness. Fury rose inside Dimitri as he turned his attention to Voss.
The other man lifted his glass in salute. “A gift for my host. A collection of a dozen of the finest craftsmanship.”
“So that’s what you’ve done,” Dimitri said. It took incredible effort for him to move and speak as if nothing was wrong, despite the fact that his companion was watching him closely. “I wondered. And you expected to trick me thus?”
It was just the sort of thing Voss did, purely for amusement.
Which was precisely why Dimitri had never fully trusted the man.
And why he would not, simply would not show any weakness. The ruby was far enough away, and obviously of an insignificant size, so that he wasn’t completely paralyzed or weakened. Which implied, at least, that Voss meant him no real harm.
And then suddenly, Dimitri saw something else that drew his attention from the chagrined man in front of him.
Cezar Moldavi had just entered the chamber, surrounded by five of his companions.
Another problem to attend to, but one that much more delicate.
Silently Dimitri cursed Voss even more viciously. Not only was he impaired by a good portion of excellent brandy laced with salvi, but also by the presence of a ruby.
“I would throttle you but I’m afraid I have more imminent concerns to deal with. But you are no longer welcome here, Voss. See that he leaves,” he added to the steward, forcing the words out as smoothly as he could.
Voss stood and gave a short little bow. But Dimitri no longer had any interest in him.
“Who allowed that child-bleeder entrance?” he growled, still in his seat. Even Lerina shifted away, seeing the warning in his face as he looked around for his manager. Where the bloody hell was Yfreto? “I gave strict instructions—”
“Dimitri,” said Moldavi, sweeping toward them boldly. “Your place is quite accommodating.”
The other man was slight of build, but neatly groomed. His unwigged and unpowdered dark hair was combed straight down over his forehead in the old style of a Crusader. He had a wide jaw and full lips, and he carried himself as if expecting to need to defend an attack at any moment. His shoulders hunched slightly, but his eyes never seemed to rest in one place for long.
Dimitri merely looked coolly at him. He made no move to rise, nor allowed any inflection into his voice. “I hardly expected to see you here, Moldavi.” Especially since Dimitri had dissolved their business partnership over a year ago, buying out his would-be partner while the building was still in the early stages of construction. “There aren’t any children about.”
“More’s the pity,” said Moldavi. His voice had a bit of a sibilant hiss due to an accident wherein his jaw hadn’t healed properly. Rumor had it he’d been beaten and left for dead by a band of his schoolmates. “Children have the sweetest, purest blood.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dimitri replied, still concentrating on his breathing. The chest with the goblets was still on the floor nearby, but he would not give Voss—who was taking his time leaving the chamber—the satisfaction of confirming the man’s trick. Revealing one’s Asthenia was akin to acknowledging a flaccid cock or any other private weakness. Not to mention dangerous. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation, Cezar.”
The other man smiled unpleasantly, and a tiny gold fleck glinted in his left fang. “I was certain it had been an oversight. You’ve always been so inclusive of all of us. Which is why I brought a gift for you.” He stepped aside and revealed a cloaked figure behind him.
Dimitri had never met Cezar’s sister before, but there was no mistaking her, for her beauty was legendary among the Dracule. Narcise Moldavi was easily one of the most striking women living—or immortal, as she happened to be. Her skin was smooth and ivory, and she had violet-blue eyes that were disconcertingly empty. Long, shiny black hair fell in lush waves over her shoulders. And her violet gown was made of some material that clung to her as if molded in the wind, revealing taut nipples, the jut of her
hip bones, and even the swell of her mons venus. Other than a bracelet encircling her upper arm with a feather dangling from it, she wore no other adornment.
It wasn’t because of Lerina—or even Meg—that Dimitri was unmoved, however. “I have no interest in your leavings, Moldavi,” he said. Despite the lure and lull of the salvi, there were a variety of reasons Narcise’s presence had no impact on him, including the emptiness in her face. Although he’d seen the brief flash of shame and anger in her eyes, Dimitri saw that it was clear she was under her brother’s control. “Especially your sister. Although, she’s not precisely your type, is she? You prefer to let others partake while you sniff out other amusements.” Such as hard cocks and little children.
“You dare to insult my family?” Moldavi’s eyes burned with fury. His companions closed ranks, showing their fangs.
“On the contrary. The insult was directed to you alone,” he replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” He made it a statement, not a question, and turned away from the repugnant man. Dimitri didn’t trust himself to stand, but he had no fear of putting his back to Cezar Moldavi.
At that moment, another of Dimitri’s acquaintances, Lord Eddersley, approached, and took Voss’s vacant seat.
“Is all well?” he asked Dimitri, eyeing Moldavi over his host’s shoulder and then meeting his eyes.
Dimitri felt the shift in the air and the change in smell as Cezar Moldavi and his group moved on. He had no illusions that the man was actually going to leave the premises, but Dimitri wasn’t inclined to make a scene. Not tonight.
He didn’t need to prove anything, and Moldavi had obviously wished to make the point to his companions: that he could enter uninvited and disrupt Dimitri’s evening. Engaging with the man would only fuel Moldavi’s fire, and give him more attention than he deserved.
However, once Dimitri found out who’d allowed the bastard in, there would be hell to pay. “Just dealing with a nuisance,” Dimitri replied to Eddersley as Lerina excused herself.
