The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia 1)

“They were almost glowing, a moment ago. It must be a trick of the light, because his were, too.”

He forgot to be reticent and polite. “What? His?”

She shrank back a bit, but not as much as she could have. “The man from outside. His eyes looked like they were glowing or burning. It must have been the moon—”

A rush of comprehension blasted through him and he grabbed her by the arms. Satan’s black soul. “What did he say to you? You said he asked about your brother.”

Instinctively Voss turned, reversing their positions so he could see beyond the hanging vines. People were dancing, talking, laughing. The damned chair was still squeaking, the pianist fumbled a note.… “What exactly did he do to you?” he demanded as he scanned the room, looking for anything or anyone that upset his instincts.

A vampire had no way to sense or otherwise identify the presence of another vampire unless one came face-to-face with him, and even then, it was more of a feeling. Even among the Dracule, they couldn’t always identify each other merely by sight.

There were ways, of course…subtle comments that might be made, or a certain way of looking at one to test the waters, so to speak. It was almost like being able to tell when a man preferred another man in his bed, instead of the sweet bundle of female curves.

Angelica’s eyes had widened, all trace of sensuality and teasing gone. Now she looked frightened, and by damn, she should be. Voss flattened his lips, an ugly gnawing in his belly.

“He was insistent on going into the dark part of the garden, and when I hesitated, he pulled my mask down so I couldn’t see…then he picked me up—”

A shrill scream from beyond the alcove drew their attention and Voss reacted immediately, shoving Angelica back into the corner and positioning himself in front of her. Damn and the devil. Already? Another scream, cut off quickly, and then eerie, strained silence.

How could he have been so distracted? By the stones of hell, he should have taken Angelica out of there as soon as he found her instead of dallying on the dance floor and in the corner. But the blood…the smell had scattered his mind, dangerously diverting him.

Voss could see little beyond the vines, but he didn’t dare move them for fear of drawing attention. From between velvety white gardenia petals, he watched a faction gather on what had been the dance floor. Five of them, large and imposing. Eyes burning red. And then he smelled it. Blood. Saw it soaking the front of one of them, thanks to Angelica’s shears.

Luce’s balls.

Tension settled over Voss and he looked around for a weapon. The gun tucked into the deep pocket of his cloak would do nothing against the vampires. There was nothing else in the corner he could utilize for a weapon, either. He’d been a damned fool to not think Moldavi would move so quickly.

The crowd had edged back from the five menacing figures, but Voss knew they couldn’t go far. The doors would be guarded by more Dracule or at least their footmen armed with rifles and bayonets. Everyone was trapped…until the vampires got what—or who—they’d come for. And finished feeding.

One of the vampires swept out a powerful arm and grabbed a Roman emperor, jerking him to the center of the room. When the man attempted to fight back, the Dracule twisted his fist into the throat of his victim’s shirt and cloak and yanked tightly, lifting him off the floor as the man struggled to kick free.

Damn. This was going to get bloody messy.

And where the hell was Corvindale? Voss couldn’t handle five of Moldavi’s men plus their footmen, and protect the two Woodmore sisters…and the earl’s so-called sister, who must be around somewhere. Mirabella would also be a convenient and lucrative prize for Cezar Moldavi.

Damnation.

The vampire slammed his prisoner to the floor and shoved a heeled boot over the man’s windpipe, pinning him on the smooth wooden surface as he choked and gasped. No one moved. No one made a sound.

Then Angelica shifted behind him, just a little shuddering breath. Voss slammed a hand back, whirling to face her. “Hush,” he breathed into her ear. “Be still.”

“That’s him,” she whispered, and Voss saw two Dracule shift toward their hiding place, listening.

He put his face close to hers and lifted a finger, pressing it sharply against his lips in a fierce command of Silence! By Luce, those bastards could hear the slightest sound. Another benefit, or affliction, vested upon Dracule.

“Miss Woodmore.” The strained silence was broken by a low, commanding voice. “Show yourself.” Angelica jolted behind Voss, and he was vaguely aware that she’d clutched his arm tightly. He closed his fingers over her arm and shook his head once, briefly.

Be still.

It wasn’t Moldavi himself who’d given the order—no, he would be safely back in Paris, licking Bonaparte’s arse-crack. But Voss recognized the sibilant tone, and as the speaker moved into view, his identity was confirmed.

Belial, one of Moldavi’s makes.

A “made” vampire was a mortal chosen, not directly by Lucifer to fulfill Vlad Tepes’ familial bargain, but by a Dracule himself. The Dracule fed, draining the mortal of his blood. Then the Dracule turned the man into a vampire minion himself by allowing the mortal to drink from his blood, thus becoming the new vampire’s sire, or master. These “made” or “sired” vampires weren’t as strong and powerful as the ones chosen by the devil and personally invited into the covenant of the Draculia. It was a sort of hierarchy—the further removed the “made” vampire was from the original sire, the less powerful he or she was for the simple reason that each made vampire inherited the Asthenia of his or her sire, as well as acquiring their own personal one. And so on down the line.

In this case, Cezar Moldavi had made Belial, and Belial was only one of many who answered to Moldavi in payment for immortality and power. And any vampires that Belial sired would be even less powerful than he, and they ultimately answered to him—or, in his absence or death, to Belial’s sire, Moldavi.

Voss had encountered Belial in the past, and the only reason one of them wasn’t dead was that the sun had come up on them during a hand-to-hand battle, and they’d had to separate in order to take cover.

“Show yourself, Miss Woodmore. Or…” Belial’s voice trailed off as he nodded to one of his companions.

The man, another make who had silver-blond hair in a thick braid, moved with the lightning speed all Dracule enjoyed and snatched a gossamer-winged butterfly from the crowd. She screamed and struggled, but there was no help for her. The wig fell from her head, tumbling onto the man who lay still pinned in place by a boot heel.