The Vampire Voss (34 page)

It would be a relief when Woodmore shoved it through.

“Chas,” Angelica said, pulling at his arm. “Leave him be. He saved me from Moldavi.”

“With…the help of your…clever smoke explosions,” Voss said, trying not to sound too breathless and weak. He failed miserably. Glancing at Angelica, he managed to add, “That was how…your brother…nearly killed me once before. Took me…by surprise.”

Woodmore responded to Angelica as if Voss hadn't spoken. “He might have saved you from Moldavi, but it appears no one saved you from
him
.”

“Chas, no. Please. He did nothing.” Her voice sounded calm and steady, but her eyes were filled with fear.

Voss could do little but lie recumbent and try to ignore the bloodscent from Angelica that still lingered in the air. The essence was long gone from his tongue, and his fangs had slid back into place. Even his raging erection had eased. But the Mark still writhed and burned white agony through him.

“You cannot call
this
nothing,” Woodmore snapped, gesturing to her bloodied lip and the sagging neckline of her robe. “This is a world you do not understand, and a man who is no longer a man…. He hasn't a conscience, Angelica. None of them do. They live only for themselves, for their moment of pleasure. They do nothing but
take.
”

“And yet you love one of them yourself. You're one to talk,” she responded.

Woodmore blanched as if slapped, then acknowledgment flared in his eyes. “You don't understand. And I'm not about to let you—”

“It's too late, Chas. I—I love him,” Angelica said. Her voice was still calm but sad.

“Then all the more reason for me to rid you of him,” Chas said. And pushed the point harder. It had gone through flesh and muscle. Blood pooled enough that it ran down the side of Voss's torso onto the bedding. One sharp thrust and it would go through his sternum and into the heart.

“Do it,” Voss managed to say.

Their eyes met, his and Woodmore's. He dared not look at Angelica. He just wanted the torture to end.

And he could never really have
her
. Not without fear in her eyes. Not without having to battle the pain and agony and the devil on his back. Not without hyssop and his betrayal and her blood between them.

Suddenly he remembered the blonde woman. The voice in his head.
Are you yet ready?

Another excruciating wave sliced through him, and his fingers and toes curled against it.
Just end it. I'm letting her go. I haven't taken her. Isn't that enough?

“Chas,” whispered Angelica. “I will
never
forgive you. Please…take me away. Let's go. Leave him here. Please.” She gestured to the sun blazing through the thin curtains. “He can't follow us.”

“You'll never see him again,” Woodmore said, lifting the stake a bit, turning to look at her. It was the first time his voice and expression had softened since he entered the room. “I won't allow it. Get any thought of it out of your head.”

Angelica didn't look at Voss. “It's gone. Please. Take me home.”

Woodmore turned back to Voss one last time. “I'm doing it for her, not for you.”

“If you were doing it for me,” Voss managed with every bit of strength he had, “you'd finish it.”

“Damn you to hell, Voss,” Woodmore said, taking Angelica by the arm and starting toward the splintered doorway.

Already done, Woodmore. Already done.

V
oss didn't know how long he lay on the bloodstained, Angelica-scented bed after they left. Hazy, dimmed beams of sunlight still streamed through the windows. A gentle breeze ruffled the curtains.

Damned Parisian summer day.

At least Moldavi wouldn't be out, searching for them. Woodmore and Angelica would be safe.

He was forced to stir, to try to move his abused body when a knock came on the sagging door. At his bidding, a chambermaid entered, ironically carrying the new clothing he'd ordered for Angelica.

The pain had eased a bit; enough that he could rise from the bed, holding a pillow to the wound on his chest, and pretend that all was well. Even though it was certainly not. His body felt as if it had been stretched beyond its limit, as if it would never work the same again. The Mark continued to haunt him, to needle and slice. But now that Angelica was gone, Voss thought it might forgive him.

Eventually the pain might ease.

Because Luce would never let him go. He'd been foolish to even think it.

Voss noticed that the small metal case that had held the hyssop necklace while protecting him from its power still rested on the small table. But she'd walked out of the chamber still wearing the necklace. Thank Fate she'd kept it on during their—he stopped his mind, forced the images away—during it all. Or Woodmore would have had all the reason in the world to execute him.

Voss's neckcloth was on the floor, that horribly unfashionable strip of fabric he'd forced himself to wear. He pulled on a clean shirt, but wrapped the neckcloth loosely around his throat, for it was the only one he'd brought. The awful dark coat he'd brought from America was a bit dusty and smelled like smoke, but he donned it anyway. He had traveled very light, and very quickly.

He'd done what he'd come to Paris for. Angelica was safe. Woodmore and Corvindale would see to it that she remained thus, and Giordan Cale, too.

The sun was too bright and strong for him to leave, though he was desperate to quit the room. Leave Paris and put it, and England as well, far behind him. He packed up the meager things he'd brought in his satchel, slowly, still weak.

At first he dismissed the strained cry. But when it was repeated, Voss paused to listen. It was coming from outside the open windows.

He ignored it for a moment, but it became louder. More urgent.

Someone was calling for help. Thin, frightened, young.

Frowning, he went to the wafting curtains, staying out of the bolt of sunshine. Peering around them, maneuvering in shadow, he looked out and saw nothing but dazzling light and a nearby tree.

Another cry caused him to look up, and then he saw two small feet dangling…from above. Nearly a man's height away, and off to the side.

Luce's dark soul, it was a girl! Hanging from the balcony on the higher floor, holding on by two dainty hands. The balcony wasn't directly above his; the platforms were staggered for privacy. If the girl released her death-grip on the railing, she would fall three stories down.

He glanced around—down, up, behind. There was no one else about. No one to notice.

Odd. So very odd.

Something prickled over his skin. Something happened inside…a burst of
right
.

He hesitated only a moment.

Part of him knew it would kill him as he darted out onto the sunny balcony with its red geranium pots. Another part thought if it didn't, at the least it might take away some of the impact of the swollen Mark, spreading the pain so to speak.

The blaze of sun on his bare skin was instant and excruciating, and it stole the breath from him, weakened him to a stumble. Voss held back a scream of pain as he reached up and over, keeping himself from being paralyzed by it.

Please…

Fire blazing over him, his flesh singeing and tightening, he staggered to the edge of the balcony and reached up. Couldn't reach. Half-blind, unable to force his breath to speak, he grasped the railing of his own porch and steadied himself against the brick wall as he climbed onto the rail somehow sensing his way. As if in a dream. A nightmare.

When his fingers closed around the ankle of the girl, he couldn't speak to warn her. He couldn't see. He could barely sense what he was doing through the white pain…but
somehow guided, he managed a good, hard, yank, and pulled her to him…

She screamed, high and childlike, and they tumbled back off the rail, onto the balcony, Voss miraculously managing to vault her into his arms so she didn't flip face-first into the side when she fell. He felt her warm body, slight and struggling, as he collapsed onto the tile floor. The girl pulled away, babbling something that he couldn't comprehend. But then, their eyes connected for a moment as time seemed to pause, and he was struck by familiarity there.

Peace and serenity in pale blue eyes. He'd seen them before.

And through the door and away, she was gone, suddenly, and he was alone. Paralyzed. Burning in the sun.

His Mark was going to explode.… He felt Lucifer's fury filling, swelling, radiating like it had never done before…and he buried his face into the hard floor, grinding dirt and grit into his cheek and chest.

Stop it…stop…

The sun blazed down and he couldn't move. The slender ropes on his back bulged, teemed with hot pain and he screamed in agony, dirt in his mouth and teeth, his nails digging desperately into the surface on which he lay.

And, at last, with one last silvery-hot blaze, he succumbed to the darkness.

But just before he did…there were those pale blue eyes… and a face.

The face of the blonde woman. She was smiling.
You were ready.

“I
don't want to sit in the first row this time,” Angelica hissed, pulling out of Maia's grip. Her sister always made them sit in the front at musicales.

How would you feel if no one sat in the first row or two when you were playing piano?
she'd say.
As if they were afraid to get too close?

Since Angelica didn't play piano—or anything else—she wouldn't have the foggiest notion.

Maia paused in her attempt to direct Angelica to the front row at the Stubblefields', annoyance shining in her pretty face. But then it faded. “All right, then,” she replied. “Where do you want to sit?”

Nowhere
. But Angelica replied, “The last row. In the corner. That way,” she added a bit more firmly, “none of the other young ladies will be trying to engage my fortune-telling services during the performance.” Since only a small percentage of the attendees at a musicale were actually there to listen to the daughters of whatever household it was play and sing (the rest were there by obligation and/or to catch the eye of a potential mate), this was a very real possibility.

Maia couldn't argue with her logic, and Angelica congratulated herself on her quick thinking.

It had been two weeks since Chas had brought her back from Paris. To this day, Angelica wasn't quite certain how he'd managed to do so without any delay or problem, especially when so many other Londoners were still detained due to the war. Her abduction and their absence at Harrington's party had been explained as a carriage accident, in which Angelica had been slightly injured, and for the last two weeks her societal obligations had been limited.

Once back at Blackmont Hall, she'd found flowers and notes from half of the ton, wishing her good recovery, and she'd taken advantage of the chance to hide away for a bit.

Two days after their return to London, Chas had gone off again, leaving his sisters still in the care of a resigned Corvindale. He, apparently, still had things to settle with the
vampir
Narcise and no one seemed to know when he'd return.

Since her return, Angelica had been patently uninterested in employing her Sight at anyone's whim, particularly in a business transaction.

She had, in fact, been patently uninterested in quite a few things, including eating, sleeping, dancing, gossiping and shopping.

Her sister had had to pester her into attending the musicale tonight, threatening to tell Chas (although she never indicated just how she would get that message to their absent brother) that Angelica was pining over a
vampir
if she did not attend.

And Angelica was certainly, definitely, not pining over a
vampir
. A
man,
perhaps.

But not a
vampir
. And why did she feel so dratted empty when she thought about that?

She didn't even know if he was still alive. He was supposed to have died.

He probably had. “Will this do?” asked Maia, gesturing to a row of chairs near a tall, potted plant with her neatly gloved hand. She looked particularly lovely tonight, with her hair scooped up high at the back of her crown in an intricate braided and curling mass. Depending upon the light, her hair could appear mahogany or chestnut, or even honey-red. Angelica had always been a little envious of her sister's classic beauty, compared to her own Gypsyish looks. Yet, she often told herself that though her sister might have gotten the beauty, she also got the bossy, rigid personality of their mother to go along with it.

“You look so pretty tonight. Is it because Mr. Bradington has returned?” asked Angelica as she smiled at Maia, suddenly feeling a rush of affection for her sister. After her experience with Voss, she understood better what happened between a man and a woman and how beautiful it could be. Now she realized how Maia must have felt all these months with Mr. Bradington absent, waiting for him to return. “You seemed so happy when you were dancing with him at the party last night.”

Clearly surprised, Maia smiled. Her creamy cheeks pinkened a little. “I am glad he's returned at last. He is an accomplished dancer.”

“And when you danced the waltz, he looked down at you in such a way that it makes me want to blush,” Angelica said. “His regard is very evident.”

Maia's smile faltered just a bit. “I'm not certain that's proper, to be so overt about it in front of everyone.”

“Why would you think such a thing? I know that you are careful about propriety, but you're engaged to be married,” Angelica said. “I would be so happy if a man looked at me that way, regardless of whether it was in public or private.”

She would not think about Voss.

“Corvindale seemed annoyed that we waltzed, even after I informed him that Chas permitted it.
And
I reminded him that we are to be married in two months.” Maia's smile had been replaced by very flat lips.

“Corvindale is always annoyed about something,” Angelica replied, getting a surprisingly unladylike snort from her sister.

“I've never heard truer words.” Then Maia bumped her with her elbow. “Shhh. Tilla is about to play.”

As the smattering of applause greeted the youngest Stubble field sister, who was taking her seat at the piano, Angelica settled into her seat and tried not to look bored.

She found that the performance and the necessity of sitting quietly gave one an ample opportunity to think…something that she found she'd been doing much of lately. Not always pleasant thoughts, but sometimes they were pleasant.

Sometimes the thoughts…the memories…actually made her blush. And the insides of her tingle.

Other times, they made her want to cry.

And still other times they made her angry.

But threading through all of them was Voss.

They had become, she thought, intimate enough that she could think of him again that way.

If he was even still alive. A little shudder whipped through her now as she remembered that dream where he'd died. She'd kept Chas from killing him, but for all she knew, he was dead anyway. The same coat, the same neckcloth…the image of him sprawled in the sun: the dream was burned in her brain. She remembered what Corvindale had said about Voss's friend: Brickbank was destined to die that night, and no precautions could have changed it.

She'd never know for certain of Voss's fate, unless Chas
chose to tell her. And it certainly shouldn't matter to her. But she couldn't deny that it did.

It felt as if that part of her life was unfinished.

The day after she and Chas had returned from Paris, when she couldn't sleep, Angelica had succumbed and opened the drawer in her bureau. The message that had come from Voss after she sent him the letter telling him what she'd learned from the watch chain was still in the drawer, the seal unbroken. Apparently even nosy Maia hadn't found it…unless she'd discovered a way to lift the seal without breaking it.

Angelica wouldn't put it past her.

By the low light of her bedchamber lamp, she looked at her name, written simply as
Angelica
in a dark, strong script. Her eyes burned. After a moment, she broke the seal and unfolded it to find more of his writing filling half of the page.

The signature was larger than the remainder of the text, and had a bold and charming flourish—just like the man himself. Angelica had smiled at the thought and read it again, and then a third time.

And then she realized she should be angry…for if she
had
read the message, she would never have worn the rubies. And she wouldn't have been abducted and taken to Paris.

But if she'd never been abducted and taken to Paris, she would never have seen Voss again. And somehow, that experience, that time with him superseded the discomfort and terror she'd suffered at the hands of Cezar Moldavi.

What kind of fool
was
she? To have fallen in love with a
vampir?

“I love this violin piece,” Maia leaned over to whisper, pointing to one of the items on the program and pulling Angelica from her musings. “I hope she doesn't ruin it. Melanie has fat fingers.”

Angelica stifled a laugh and then sobered, for she was reminded of Voss when the second Stubblefield sister commenced with playing the violin. He'd complained about a violinist's chair squeaking as if it were some great annoyance. At least this time, the performer was standing.

“Harrington has just walked in,” Maia said suddenly from the side of her mouth.

Angelica closed her eyes and waited.

No. It didn't happen.

The rush of anticipation, the little thrill wasn't there. She didn't have the urge to slyly turn and look at him, to wonder if he'd find a way to ease them into a dark corner for a delicate kiss.

Or a passionate one.

“He's coming this way, along the back of the room,” Maia added. “He looks a bit…determined.” She smiled knowingly, giving her sister a sidewise look.

The back of Angelica's neck didn't prickle, despite the fact that she knew her beau was easing along the wall just behind
her. Her pulse didn't quicken, nor did anything flutter in her belly.

But that was often the way of it, she knew. Marriage rarely began with the instant and passionate connection that her great-great-grandmother Beatrice and the Gypsy groom Vinio had. It more often began with a general regard, an ability to stand the other's presence—and of course, a good family and sufficient income—and then, if one was fortunate, it grew into companionship and affection. Perhaps even love and respect.

That was how it would be with Lord Harrington, should he propose, and Angelica couldn't be more pleased with it. Truly.

And if she was a bit envious of Maia and her fiancé—that the deep regard and affection shaped itself even before the marriage—Angelica simply told herself that the two had been engaged for nearly a year. The affection and intimacy had had time to grow. His absence might have helped intensify that affection, as well.

“He's been so patient, waiting for you,” Maia whispered, again pulling Angelica from her thoughts. Why did her sister have to be so talkative tonight? “I do think his attachment is quite solid.”

The fact that Angelica and Maia had never made it to Harrington's birthday fete because of the attack by Belial, and Angelica's subsequent abduction, hadn't seemed to deflate the man's regard for her at all.

“Did you speak with him at the party last night?” Maia asked.

Why
was her sister so dratted talkative? “No, he wasn't there,” Angelica replied.

Maia smirked. “I'm certain he would have been if he thought you were to attend.”

Angelica reminded herself that she was fortunate that a young, dashing, comfortably wealthy peer seemed to have such an attachment to her. She couldn't expect a better match.

A small burst of applause interrupted her private lecture and Harrington took that moment to slip into the chair next to her.

She turned and gave him a modest smile that became a bit frozen when he leaned close and whispered, “I have waited two weeks to speak with you, and I shan't be put off any longer. I should like to call on your guardian tomorrow, Miss Woodmore. With your blessing.”

Her throat dried. The only reason he would make such a request was so that he could ask for her hand. It was truly going to happen.

Tomorrow she was going to become engaged.