Voss hid his annoyance. If Dimitri was here, what the bloody hell was he doing? Where was he?
“There’s no love lost between you and Dimitri,” Belial murmured, nodding shrewdly. “No reason for you to lie for him.”
None at all, although, Voss had to admit, if he had to ally himself with Cezar Moldavi or the Earl of Corvindale, he supposed he’d more readily suffer the latter’s cold self-flagellation over Moldavi’s indiscriminating violence. Everyone knew Moldavi was a child-bleeder. But either of them could fry in the sunlight for all he cared.
“I haven’t seen Dimitri,” Voss said, fanning the uncertainty in the vampire’s eyes. “And the chits aren’t here if they ever were. I was just about to leave when…well.” He gestured to the scene in front of him, exuding disdain. “You interrupted my courting.”
“Dimitri is a bit…preoccupied at the moment,” Belial said, gesturing vaguely to the front foyer. “We’ve already spoken.”
Despite his antipathy for the earl, Voss didn’t like the sound of that. He forced himself to shrug easily. “You can continue here. If Dimitri is otherwise engaged, then I’ve got other things to do.” He sniffed in disdain. “Don’t draw too much attention to yourself, Belial. I don’t want any damned trouble now that I’m back in London. Been too long in the uncivilized America.”
He turned, his senses high, his movements casual, and began to walk away. Doubtful one of them would come after him— there was no reason to do so, and every reason not to. But he wasn’t a fool. The back of his shoulders prickled and the only sound was the wheeze of someone’s fearful breath and the intense gulping.
There was no more Voss could do to dissuade the vampires from continuing their attack and working their way through the crowd of people, feeding, terrorizing, ravaging. He’d reminded Belial that these sorts of overt events didn’t go unnoticed. They often resulted in the spawning of well-equipped, wooden-stake-and-sword-toting mortals who called themselves Vampire Hunters—often to great effect. Chas Woodmore was one of them, and the most successful one in recent times. It was fortunate that he had associated himself with Dimitri and no longer went about arbitrarily staking any member of the Draculia he encountered. Dimitri had forced Woodmore to see that there were many Dracule who offered no threat to the mortal world.
Voss walked through the stunned crowd, noticing that they’d unmasked themselves and that they stepped back as he passed through. Just as he reached the main foyer—where three footmen stood with bayonets—he heard Belial behind him. Voss turned, ready, but the vampires were merely making their way out of the room in his wake. A strong testament to the control the leader had over his companions, and only one reason he was a formidable opponent and favorite of Cezar Moldavi.
“Since Dimitri is otherwise engaged, he won’t be there when we pay Blackmont a visit,” Belial commented as he passed by Voss. He glanced at the sweeping staircase, an amused smile twitching his thick lips.
Then, with a commanding jerk of his head, he thus gave the order for the footmen to fall in line behind him. “I’m certain the Woodmore bitches will be most happy to leave that black hole and find more comfortable accommodations.”
Voss shrugged. Dark soul of Luce, where the hell is Dimitri? Up there? He didn’t look at the stairs, but suspected he knew the answer.
“Best of luck,” he told the vampire-make with great insincerity. Belial would never get into Blackmont Hall. Present or not, Dimitri would make certain of that.
And, regardless, Voss knew that at least Angelica was safe, here with him. He resisted the urge to glance back toward the ballroom. She’d wait. He’d told her to.
One thing he’d learned about Angelica Woodmore: she wasn’t a fool.
Belial paused as he passed through the front door, the last to leave. “Do give Dimitri Cezar’s best. I regret that I forgot to do so.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Voss took to the stairs. As he flew up, his feet barely touching the treads, he heard the soft rumble of stunned voices begin below and then swell to a loud, shocked pitch. Running feet, slamming doors, general chaos.
He’d only be a moment up here and he hoped Angelica would have the sense to do as he’d warned and stay put. Even as he went after Corvindale, he wondered why the hell he should take the time when he could be getting Angelica out of there.
Perhaps the earl was dead.
It took Voss mere seconds to find the correct room; not because he could somehow recognize Corvindale’s presence but because he was quick. Down the hall, up another flight, and then…
“Dark soul of Lucifer,” he breathed as he walked into the room.
Corvindale lay on his back on the rumpled carpet in the center of what was a cozy, well-lit parlor or den. He wasn’t moving, but Voss could hear his breathing. Long, rough, labored. Bloodscent filled the room, Corvindale’s shirt was torn from his shoulders, his coat gone, his gloves missing, one arm crossed over his muscular torso.
“Well,” he said, walking over to stand above the man. “What have we here?”
He looked down and Corvindale’s gaze, dark and yet clouded, bored into him. Loathing filled his eyes and Voss saw his only movement: a faint twitch of fingers as if he were imagining curling them around his neck.
Or a stake.
It was immediately evident to Voss that Corvindale was paralyzed, in pain and otherwise encumbered. Which meant that—
Ah, there it was.
Voss had almost missed it because the man’s shirt was bunched up—but as he bent closer to admire the bastard in his immobilization, he saw it. The solution to the riddle he’d sought to solve a century ago in Vienna had just been handed to him. Draped over Dimitri’s neck, against the swarthy skin, was a heavy strand of large rubies set in gold links.
“So it’s rubies?” Voss said. “I knew it had to be a gemstone of some sort. But I had suspected emeralds or pearls all these years. Rubies. I do hope you checked the Woodmores’ jewel boxes when they moved in.”
The loathing burned stronger and hotter in Corvindale’s eyes, and those fingers moved again on his chest, trying to inch toward the poison that must be burning into his skin, seeping his energy and life. All it would take was the thrust of a wooden pike into his chest.
Death.
Voss swooped down and yanked the jewelry away, tossing it across the room. With a whoosh of breath and a strangled cough, Dimitri leaped to his feet.