He was wrong.
Even now, as he strode through the busy arched galleries of Paris’s Palais-Royal and its sprawling gardens, Voss couldn’t banish the dark images that had swept into his dreams two days ago. An agonized Brickbank. A terrified, and yet sensual, beckoning Angelica.
And Lucifer. Again. Silent, smiling, but his fingers—long, slender, white—curving over Voss’s shoulder. Holding him. Invading his dreams and turning them to nightmares.
You cannot change. You are bound to me.
When Voss had dragged himself back into the reality of day, the imprint of the devil’s fingers on his shoulder still burned…as if he were with him still. Even now, as the moon rose, no longer quite full, in the starry sky, he felt the weight of those dreams and wondered why Luce had visited him yet again after more than a century of silence.
Moving quickly along the walkway, Voss avoided the eyes of a particularly friendly prostitute—ahh, the French!—and slipped between a group of jovial men and one of the gallery columns. Louder and more contained than Vauxhall, the jardins at what had once been the residence of Cardinal Richelieu abounded with shops, brothels, cafés and theaters—anything for the gentry in search of pleasure. The Café des Chartres, where, according to Moldavi, Napoleon and his new empress, Josephine, had been known to tryst, was tucked into a corner of the palais and next to it sat a popular wine bar with revelers spilling onto the stone colonnade edged with lilies and lavender.
As he hurried along, a pale, slender figure caught his eye. She was leaning against one of the columns, and when he saw her, Voss nearly stopped in surprise. It couldn’t be. Their eyes met and a shiver rushed through him. It was the blonde woman he’d seen at the Gray Stag. Had she trailed him to Paris?
As then, she was wearing a long, outdated gown that looked as if it belonged on a medieval chatelaine rather than a Parisian shopkeeper, or whore, or whatever she was.
Her pale eyes caught his as he walked past, and she gave a little nod. So you remember me this time.
He heard the words in his mind, as if she’d whispered them in his ear—but she hadn’t moved from her position against the column.
Good, Voss. You give me hope. Are you ready yet?
He paused and looked at her from across the street. I don’t know what you mean, he thought, sensing that she’d hear him.
She nodded, and revealed a bit of a smile. Even from a distance, he felt warmth. You’ll know when the time comes.
A mass of people walked between them, and when they passed by, she was gone.
An uneasy feeling settled over his shoulders, and the rage of his Mark reminded him why he was here. He put it out of his mind and prepared himself for what was certain to be a tenuous, if not deadly, meeting with Moldavi.
At last Voss found the shop front he sought. The spicy sage and rosemary scent of Corcellet’s renowned sausages didn’t have to fight hard to be noticed above the other smells of patisserie or cigar smoke, although the sweet and overbearing gillyflower perfume of the whore who stumbled into Voss gave it some competition.
“Pardon, madame,” he said, walking past her into the little epicerie. The patés and sausages were of little interest to him, of course, although the scent of blood was heavy in the space and his mouth watered a bit.
How long had it been since he’d fed?
The thought hadn’t occurred to him until now, startling Voss as he pushed through the crowded little shop. For it was rare that he went more than a day or two without at least a bit of pleasurable sucking, drinking and f**king. And along with that, perhaps once a week he needed to find three or four willing participants to completely replenish his fluids.
“Monsieur,” said the gentleman behind the counter even as he wrapped a package for one of his customers, and gestured sharply to an employee to assist another. The dull roar of shouted orders and animated conversation muted his greeting.
Voss merely nodded and met the proprietor’s eyes over the throng of men. A bit of a glow, a flash of fang, was all Corcellet needed to ascertain Voss’s requirement. Despite the claims on his attention, he eased from behind the counter and gestured for Voss to follow him.
Moments later, he slipped a generous handful of sous into the man’s hand and was given admittance to the presumed cellar. He’d been here several times in the past, but it had been nearly a decade since his last visit.
Nothing had changed, however. The air was cool and dank, and smelled of peat and mold along with the spices from above. The large oaken door still led to stairs that spiraled down into one of the old Roman quarries, now little more than tunnels beneath the city. In some areas, skulls and other human bones now literally covered what had been walls carved into stone—a result of overcrowded cemeteries being emptied in the latter part of the previous century. But no one had yet dared breach Cezar Moldavi’s subterranean hideaway with such macabre decor.
Not that it would have bothered Moldavi to have stacks of skulls and femurs lining his walls. It was just that no one but a select few knew of this particular entrance and set of tunnels through Corcellet’s.
Voss checked the deep pockets of his coat as he followed the familiar route. The packets were there—flat, odd-smelling items that would seem inconsequential to Cezar Moldavi if he bothered to check. They were his ace in the pocket, and, he hoped they’d be as effective for him as they had been for Chas Woodmore. If he had a chance to use them.
He strode quickly, passing three other doorways, until it swept up to a higher level and at last ended in a fourth door. Behind that door, he knew, was a space set just below the ground. Narrow windows, placed right at ground-level, offered natural illumination that was sketchy enough to be safe for even the most sun-sensitive of vampires and kept the chamber from being dark and gloomy.
Draculia members spent much of their effort looking for ways out of dark and gloom. With the exception of Dimitri.
Voss paused when the guard sitting in the shadows moved into better view. Hmm. He didn’t recall there being one the last time—but then again, he’d been drunk on blood-whiskey and a variety of other influences, and some of the details had been lost. But…a guard. With a sword, and very, very wide shoulders.
“Voss Arden, Viscount Dewhurst,” he said to the wall-like man, clearly a made vampire—and likely a newly minted one at that, if the way he tried to sneer around his fangs (awkwardly) was any indication. Voss smiled back, easily, without puncturing himself with his own show of fangs, and made his eyes burn. “Tell Moldavi I’m here.”