How much worse could it get? Last night, when he’d sent Angelica from her own bedchamber… Even now, the thought of that searing, white pain took his breath away. How he’d even formed the words to warn her to leave, Voss didn’t know. He didn’t remember anything but that white, hot world until his feet landed in the cool, damp grass.
Lucifer didn’t approve of his immortalized men killing other Dracule members—mercenaries, as he called them, in his earthly army—and he expressed his anger the way he always did: through the mark of their agreement.
Already, the symbol of Voss’s covenant with Lucifer had become slender, brownish-red ropes of agony. For self-preservation purposes, he hadn’t been to his London home for more than a week, although he had sent for Kimton (who could travel easily during the daylight) and new clothing. The valet had tried everything including a foul-smelling salve to ease his master…to no avail. Its rage was a constant reminder of Luce’s control.
Voss’s fangs pressed into the inside of his lower lip and his fingers curled around the edge of the table.… No, there was no point in angering Lucifer any further. He had a better idea, and crooked his finger to the slender-necked serving girl. Obviously remembering the pile of shillings earlier, she hurried to his side. Another slip of coin, a few whispered words into her ear and she was off to do his bidding.
Even as he watched her from his shadowy position, Voss toyed with the idea of attacking Belial anyway, and putting the made vampire out of his misery instead of relying on the serving girl to eavesdrop. The only person who would miss Belial would be Cezar Moldavi, and the bastard could always sire another arse-licker who’d serve him unquestionably.
That gave Voss food for thought. How did Lucifer feel about Moldavi having makes—minions that answered to him and not Luce? Why did the devil even allow it? His mind circled around that for a moment—better to meditate upon that, he supposed, than to contemplate the fact that Angelica hadn’t done what she said she would. Far better to mull about Moldavi and his habits than to think about Angelica in that warm, sleepy state…and the alluring scent that clung to her hair and around her shoulders when he’d come into her chamber last night.
That was, he thought, a good enough reason to rid the earth of Belial. Angelica would be safe. His mind fairly made up, Voss felt his lips stretch in a nasty smile. His pulse pounded beneath his skin, his muscles tensed as he prepared to rise… then eased. Moldavi would simply replace Belial and Angelica would be in jeopardy once again. It was best to let the serving girl find out what she could so that Voss could prevent any further attacks.
There was one good thing about Belial appearing at the Gray Stag tonight with his companions: that meant he wasn’t attempting to abduct Angelica or her sisters.
Voss’s attention had continued its constant sweep of the irregularly shaped room, and now it focused on the figure that had just entered. Standing just inside the door of the pub, tall and slender with dark eyes and wearing the cloak Voss had purposely left at Rubey’s, the young man was unfamiliar to him. But he was wearing the red cloak trimmed in gold…and Voss trusted Rubey.
Voss shifted in his seat and waited, smothering his impatience. The tankards were in position. The young man would find him.
He extracted a guinea from his pouch and set it on the table next to the tankards and lifted his own to drink.
Or, rather, to pretend to drink. And to hide his face should anyone look in his direction.
The young man didn’t waste any time. In fact, he was more obvious than Voss would have preferred, but Belial didn’t seem to notice how the red-cloaked figure made its way around the pub to the corner where Voss sat. He dropped a packet on the table and swiped up the guinea, then slipped out the rear entrance.
The packet of paper was heavy, and Voss unfolded it with hands that shook more than he’d care to admit. On the creamy paper, the scent of ink was laced with the smell of Angelica’s fingerprints, rising over stale ale and sweat. He breathed. A pang, unfamiliar and surprising in its intensity, sizzled through him—a pang different from the constant agony that had become part of his person, radiating from the Mark on his back.
As Bonaparte’s watch chain slipped from the packet, cool and snakelike into his palm, Voss reflected that he knew how to make the searing stop—if he chose to.
It would be easy. And very, very pleasurable. And, after all, pleasure was what he lived for…was it not?
It was all he had.
Yet…as he fingered the chain and unfolded the letter with it, he told himself he didn’t wish to endanger his own person by going after Angelica—after all, Dimitri and Giordan Cale would be watching even more closely for him now. And he’d heard from Rubey that even Woodmore had chanced a secret appearance in London, looking for Voss. The letter crinkled in his hands.
Her handwriting was feminine, with extra curlicues and sweeping descenders. It fit her, as did the few drips of ink and a smudged fingerprint that bespoke of haste or furtiveness. He found it strangely intimate, seeing a woman’s handwriting for the first time. It was rather like touching her bare hand after removing her gloves.
Did you not think I wouldn’t know whose it was the moment I touched it? she wrote. If I weren’t so eager to rid London of your presence, I would lie and say I saw nothing, for if this informatio— Here, she had scratched out the following words, leaving them illegible, then continued: But I dare not lie, for fear you would use that as an excuse to stay. And you must leave. I do not want to ever see you again, but nor do I wish for your demise. As for the owner of the enclosed item… His death will come, not on a battlefield, not from a coup or other attempt, but in a deathbed, surrounded by only three persons. The chamber is not a great or well-furnished one, but nor is it poor and mean. It feels as if it is some years in the future. The fact that he is alone but for the three, and his body is wasted and his face some years older, suggests that whatever power he now has will at that time be gone or greatly diminished. That is all I can tell you. I bid you adieu.
She hadn’t signed it.
Definitely not the sort of correspondence he was used to receiving from a woman. Not a hint of amour anywhere.
Although…she didn’t actually wish him dead. That was something.
But then again, he cared little for what she thought.
Voss folded the letter and considered lighting it on the candle sconce behind him, then setting it in one of the tankards to burn—but that was only a brief contemplation. Instead he tucked it into his breast pocket.
Right, then. Woodmore had come back to London, at least temporarily. Not that it was the first time the vampire hunter had been out for Voss’s heart…but he thought it best not to tempt the Fates. Now that he’d received the chain back from Angelica, with her valuable knowledge, he was going to leave London and make his way to…St. Petersburg, he decided impulsively. He pursed his lips, suffered through another sip of the thin, pale-as-piss ale and decided he’d send Angelica a brief correspondence to thank her, and to let her know he was leaving. And assuage the bit of conscience that dared niggle at him in the process.
On his way to St. Petersburg, there’d be a quick stop in Paris to meet Moldavi. He’d sell a select portion of the information to the bastard, and then—flush with even more blunt—he’d be putting himself far away from Angelica Woodmore.
Surely, then, the pain would stop.
“Angelica, I neglected to tell you how much I adore your frock,” said Mirabella as they settled in the carriage. “That rose hue is too bold for me, I think, but on you, it looks perfect.”
Angelica had to force herself to smile at the younger woman. The compliment was sincere, and Lord Corvindale’s sister was a delightful change from her own bossy sibling, but Angelica didn’t feel terribly cheery this evening. Her unpleasant mood had begun this morning, when she awoke from the disturbing dream that, hours later, still clung to the remnants of her consciousness.