The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia 1)

As the steward escorted him toward the door, he glanced at Moldavi. The man didn’t seem offended by the comments, and in fact returned Dimitri’s expression with a bold and challenging one.

“More’s the pity,” said Moldavi. “They have the sweetest, purest blood.”

Even Voss couldn’t contain his revulsion at that point, and despite the way the blood—and salvi-laced brandy had lulled him while heightening his senses, he felt his belly lurch. So it was Cezar Moldavi who’d left the young boy’s body in the farm fields. Bled nearly dry, the boy had been eight and left to die in the sun. All of Vienna had heard about it, and the horror had rushed through the mortal population as well as the Draculian underpinnings.

It was one thing to feed on a mortal, to take sustenance. Even from one who had to be coaxed or otherwise enthralled. But to leave one to die, and a child at that…

“I wouldn’t know,” Dimitri replied. Despite the fact that he hadn’t moved or hardly flickered an eyelash, he looked as if he were about to squash a large gnat. His fangs barely showed, and his eyes had banked the red-orange glow of fury. But the sense of suppressed fury fairly radiated from him, even though the chest of goblets still remained in the vicinity, apparently forgotten. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation, Cezar.”

The other man smiled unpleasantly. “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.

It was a woman, Voss saw, and immediately, his blood surged and his breathing quickened as someone drew away her cloak. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She had smooth, ivory skin, startling blue eyes and ink-black hair that fell in long, lush waves over her shoulders. She wore a vibrant purple gown that clung to a tall, slender body in the most unfashionable manner, but that left every curve outlined: her br**sts, their erect ni**les, the swell of her belly and the bones of her hips and even the swell of her mons.

Her only other adornment was a curious bracelet with a feather dangling from it.

“I have no interest in your leavings, Moldavi,” Dimitri said. His attention had barely flickered over the woman. “Especially your sister. Although,” he said as if an afterthought, “she’s not precisely your type, is she? You prefer to let others partake while you sniff out other amusements.” A bit more of his fangs showed.

Even from a distance near the door, Voss saw and heard the rumble of surprise from Moldavi’s companions. Apparently they weren’t used to their leader being insulted by the implication that he couldn’t bed a woman. And neither was he, if the expression on his face was any indication. Surprise and hatred flashed there, and then it was gone.

Voss turned his attention back to the woman. So this was Cezar Moldavi’s vampire sister, Narcise. Even with dull, blank eyes, she was an incredible beauty. Enough to make any man, mortal or Dracule, weak in the knees and hard of the cock. How could Dimitri resist? Voss would have accepted her in a moment, and in fact, if he weren’t being so unceremoniously escorted from the place, he would have tried.

But that wasn’t going to happen, for he realized belatedly that Narcise Moldavi didn’t seem to have any freedom of her own. She didn’t speak to anyone, and other than a single, brief flash of life in her eyes, she remained little more than a statue at her brother’s side. Clearly under his control.

The same couldn’t be said for Moldavi, for after Dimitri’s dismissal of Narcise, the man’s eyes burned brilliant red. “You dare to insult my family?”

“On the contrary. The insult was directed to you alone,” Dimitri replied, clearly bored.

By that time, Voss was at the door and he had no choice but to leave, even though he had a feeling that things were about to get interesting.

He didn’t find out until months later what exactly had happened that caused the great loathing between Moldavi and Dimitri to become even deeper and more permanent. According to other witnesses, after Voss left, Moldavi pretended to do the same. But instead, he remained in the club and somehow lured Lerina into a dark corner with him.

When Lerina reappeared with Cezar’s marks on her left shoulder and his scent on her, Dimitri had had enough. Intoxicated from the salvi and likely still weakened by the presence of his Asthenia, he was obviously impaired. Moldavi pulled out a small wooden stake—which he clearly had not left at the door—and lunged at Dimitri. In their struggle they knocked over a lit candelabra.

No one noticed at first because of the ensuing battle, and the fire started quickly, eating into the lush upholstery and furnishings in the chamber as Dimitri grabbed Cezar by the throat. Fueled by fury, he lifted him into the air, throwing him across the room. Cezar landed in a heap amid his followers, beaten by a vampire who was unarmed, not to mention intoxicated and weakened. Completely and utterly humiliated.

Of course, Voss wasn’t there to witness the details of the fight, but it was clear from the stories that were told that that night cemented a hatred between the two men even deeper than the discord he’d invited by bringing the goblets.

To add even more injury to Dimitri’s insult, the fire not only destroyed his new club, but it also caused the death of Lerina, who had been unable to escape the fire.

In one dark evening, Dimitri lost his mistress, a valuable piece of property and made himself a lethal enemy by humiliating an immortal madman in front of his peers. And had nearly been tricked into revealing his deepest secret. It was, Voss reflected grimly as he clung to the back of his carriage, no wonder the man blamed him. If he hadn’t put the salvi in the brandy, things might not have happened the way they had.

Or perhaps they would have.

After all, as Dimitri had warned Voss after Brickbank’s death, which couldn’t have been avoided despite Voss’s precautions: if one was destined to die, there was nothing that could be done to prevent it.

Voss blinked and rubbed his head against the back of the carriage that held Angelica, bringing himself back from more than a hundred years ago to present-day London. The carriage had navigated through shoppers and street hawkers on busy Bond Street, then along Piccadilly toward Fleet, and at last turned along Bishopsgate. Now it pulled into a narrow opening between two buildings.

Voss knew they’d reached their destination when the smell of the river and all of its accompanying stench melded with that of vomit and stale ale. The Billingsgate Fish Market was two blocks away, and here in the narrow, crooked streets crowded public houses frequented by the fishermen and mongers. The particular establishment to which he had directed his groom had a sign on the front naming it The Golden Lion, but was known as Black Maude’s to those who frequented it.