The Vampire Voss (Regency Draculia 1)

He nodded. “All my gratitude goes to Granny Grapes. And as soon as I learned from Cale that Voss had abducted Angelica, I came back. Corvindale is your guardian for the foreseeable future,” he said, looking at Maia, “but I wasn’t going to stand aside and let Voss compromise my sister.”

“I’m not compromised,” Angelica said.

“We know he was here tonight, Angelica. Whether you invited him or welcomed him or—”

“I certainly didn’t invite him,” Angelica shot back in horror, her heart pounding. “I wouldn’t invite a terrifying creature like him anywhere!” How had they even known he was there?

“It doesn’t matter,” Chas continued. “Corvindale and Cale are going to help me find him. And then I’m going to kill him.”

12

LORD DEWHURST RECEIVES A MESSAGE

The public house known as the Gray Stag was raucous and crowded, with more than one shadowy corner in which one could hide oneself. Ale and whiskey flowed freely, and although the particular libation that Voss preferred wasn’t served here, he didn’t mind a decent ale on occasion. Not that the Stag offered that, but there were times when one must adapt.

He chose the dark corner nearest the rear entrance, and sat with his back to the intersection of two smoke-blackened, stained wooden walls. One benefit to facing away from them—aside of the obvious—was that he wouldn’t find himself contemplating what had caused said stains. Some of them were blood, which, of course didn’t offend his sensibilities in the least—but there were others that, based on the underlying stench in the area, he suspected were caused by more unpleasant casualties.

The whole place, in fact, smelled like any other public house Voss had ever entered: stale, close, smoky and of unwashed humans with a tinge of animal.

He hailed a harried serving girl by showing her a handful of shillings, and was treated to the sight of her long, slender neck from behind as she hurried away. He smiled to himself in admiration, but made no other move.

He wouldn’t leave until after the appointed time had come and gone by an hour. After that, well…who knew what sort of pleasure might await the woman with the long neck?

Voss arranged two tankards on his table so that he would be recognized by the messenger he awaited: one upside down and the other next to it, handles touching. A third he reserved for himself, although he doubted he would actually ingest the ale.

Not that he was certain Angelica would even follow through on her agreement. She’d said she’d send word through Rubey, but Voss knew it wasn’t safe for him to wait at her establishment anymore. Corvindale and Woodmore were certainly looking for him, so staying out of sight was the safest way to avoid the inconvenience of a stake in the heart, or any other disruption. Rubey had agreed that if she got word from Angelica, she would send a messenger to meet him at the Gray Stag by midnight.

An uncomfortable twinge tightened his belly as it did whenever he realized he would never see Angelica again. It was for the best, of course, but…it made him feel hollow. Unaccountably empty.

Turning his thoughts away from that unhappy thought, Voss scanned the establishment, watching for any sign that all might not be as it seemed. Waiting for someone to approach him. There was a woman in one of the corners who attracted his attention—not because she looked as if she might want to slip into the dark shadows with a man who’d bite her neck, but because she didn’t look as if she belonged in a dingy place like this. She sat alone and no one seemed to give her any notice. She had long blond hair and was dressed in a shapeless gown. There was something…different…about her. And familiar, perhaps. Or perhaps it was simply her appearance that attracted his attention.

Once, Voss turned quickly and caught her watching him. She had a faint smile on an otherwise serene face…but she made no move to approach him.

He kept half an eye on her, simply because she seemed so out of place. He wondered if she were some make of Moldavi’s who’d managed to track him…or just an odd whore looking for a trick. Or some servant of Angelica’s? When she rose from her seat and approached his table, Voss watched in surprise and hope. Was she from Angelica? Could he be that fortunate?

The woman made her way around and between the servants and patrons as if they didn’t exist. None of them seemed to acknowledge her, even when she passed close by.

For some reason, his heart beat faster as she came to stand in front of him. It certainly wasn’t because he found her attractive. She was lovely to look at in a serene, peaceful sort of motherly way, but not in the way he was accustomed to thinking of women who approached him in a public house. He looked up at her, wondering if she would be amenable to his particular sort of sport.

“Been a while since you’ve seen a seamstress, hmm, m’dear?” he said, lifting a brow as he scanned her figure. “You really ought to remedy that if you expect to do well in this city.” She looked as if she had emerged from some Saxon or Welsh legend, with a pale, shapeless tunic that dragged upon the floor. Her sleeves were long and she showed not a hint of bosom or even the shape of her figure. His Mark twitched and burned, and he looked with interest at the line of her neck, half obstructed by long blond hair. It was a lovely, long neck.

The faint curve of a smile shaped her lips, and he slightly revised his opinion that she wasn’t attractive. He could sink into that.

“Aye, Voss. That’s what’s come to be expected of you. Always the superficial. Always planning your next conquest. Always the game. ’Tis why he chose you, you know.”

His mouth went dry as his old wig powder and Voss suddenly felt as if his brain was about to shatter. Pain and light warred in his mind, and he tried to focus, to make sense of what she was saying. That’s why he chose you. Something dark and heavy settled in his gut.

“Who are you?” he managed to choke out.

She lifted her shoulders delicately and he noticed her pale, elegant hands and the circlet of keys that hung from her woven leather belt. A medieval chatelaine.

“It matters not,” she replied. “You aren’t yet ready.” The peace and serenity that had shone in her eyes wavered into something like sadness. “I’ll be here when you are. I pray that it happens before she’s gone.”

“Who? What are you talking about? Who are you?” He’d found his voice, even through the rage of pain and the whirl of thoughts that he couldn’t seem to control.