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

And then Dimitri would be able to get back to his studies, and forget about the upheaval brought by a houseful of mortal women.

And perhaps then he’d stop dreaming about one in particular.

7

WHEREIN A CHOICE OF ACCESSORIES PROVES DISASTROUS

The carriage rolled to a stop at the rear entrance of the establishment Dimitri sought. Tren, the footman, had aligned the vehicle near enough the back entrance that his master was able to step out from the open door—which had been fitted with a fanlike cover that expanded as the door drew wide, blocking any sunshine—directly into the little shop.

The smell of age and wisdom, littered with dust, worn leather and fabrics…and yet something fresh, curled into his sensitive nose. The door closed behind Dimitri and he found himself amid tall, close shelves lined with books. Walls of wide, shallow drawers like those found in the British Museum were interspersed with the bookshelves.

The soft glow of lamps came from strategic places on the walls, but Dimitri didn’t need their illumination. He was well at home in dim light, and felt the familiar wave of peacefulness that always hovered in these surroundings. Merely stepping into the place eased his tension. Even the constant, screaming pain from his Mark seemed to ebb.

“Ah, you’ve returned.”

He looked up to see the shop’s proprietress emerging from between two stacks. A woman of indeterminate age, she blinked owlishly from behind square spectacles as if she’d just been awakened—or, more likely, pulled from whatever she had been reading. Yet her gray-blue eyes turned bright and she seemed pleased to see him. She wore a long bliaut that, along with the points of her wide sleeves, skimmed the ground. Around her waist hung a loose leather cord, to which a collection of keys to the many chests, cases and drawers was attached.

In one long-fingered hand was an open book that she appeared to have been perusing before his presence interrupted her. Her long pale hair was separated into two thick tails that fell behind her shoulders. A pair of finger-thick braids began at her temples and curved around to the back of her head. The fact that she neither showed the deference due an earl nor made use of the proper address he hardly noticed.

“No other customers again, I see,” he commented, reaching idly for a dusty book. “I find it a wonder that you remain in business, this little shop tucked away in the back mews of Haymarket.”

She smiled, replying, “’Tis a happy thing, then, that I have the patronage of an earl to keep my interests afloat.”

“I gave your direction to an acquaintance of mine some weeks past,” Dimitri said, glancing down at the excellent French translation of The Iliad, “but he couldn’t seem to find you. I told him you were next door to the old tannery, but he didn’t see the shop.”

She didn’t seem concerned about the loss of a potential customer. “Perhaps that was a day the shop was closed. Have you given any more thought to breaking into the museum and examining the stele from Rosetta?”

Dimitri didn’t recall speaking such a fantasy aloud, let alone to this woman, but he was never able to summon his customary abrasiveness whilst here. Thus, he responded, “I’m certain I could arrange to see the stone privately if I thought it would be help in my quest. I am Corvindale, of course.”

“That is, I’m certain, quite true. Are you in search of anything in particular today?” she asked. “There are some new scrolls I’ve received—perhaps you might take a look at them.” She gestured toward one of the corners of the dingy little shop.

“Nothing in particular. However, it’s rare that I leave without finding something to add to my library.” Dimitri had never told her of his quest. How could one explain to an ageless, absentminded woman about his desire to break a covenant with the devil?

She’d think him mad and close up the shop to him, as well.

The proprietress merely nodded, then absently returned her attention to the book she held. “If there is aught I can do to help…” And she wandered off.

Dimitri normally would have done the same, but today things prickled at him. Uncomfortable things. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. “Have you,” he began, following her. “Have you any old, very old, perhaps original, chapbooks of the Faust legend?”

She turned from where she’d paused at a table and looked up from her book. Satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. “Faust. And why would you be looking for a story you know so well?”

Dimitri couldn’t keep the jolt of surprise from blasting through him at—not so much her exact words, but the sharp, suddenly knowing look in her fathomless eyes. “What precisely do you mean by that, madame?” he asked, placing all of the chill and inflection of an earl’s power behind it.

“I think, Dimitri of Corvindale, that you know all of what I mean.”

He glowered in all of his earlness, and thought even for a moment of allowing some of his vampire glow to burn in his eyes. Yet, he said nothing, simply waiting for her to explain.

The woman closed her book without marking the page. And it was a very thick tome. “You and Johann Faust have much in common, do you not? Your pacts with the devil are quite different, and yet the same. That is what I mean.”

Instead of the thunderous rage that might have—perhaps should have—flooded him, Dimitri felt only a wave of shock. “How do you know this?”

She merely looked at him. “It matters not. However, might I remind you that your selections from here have ranged from Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis to Malleus Male-ficarum, as well as a wide variety of Bibles and kabbalistic literature. Even some from the Hindis. And you’ve even asked about moksha. All of them have had aught to do with recognizing demons or calling to them, or of the word and teachings of our God. And so,” she said, still holding him with her gaze, “one draws conclusions.”

Dimitri wasn’t precisely clear on how she’d drawn such a conclusion—albeit a correct one—based on his purchases, but earls didn’t lower themselves to arguing with shopkeepers.

Instead, he said stiffly, “There is one large difference between myself and Herr Doktor Faust.”

She nodded, as if she already knew and was waiting for him to speak it.

“Faust called Lucifer to him. I did not.”

She nodded again. “But he came to you when you were at your most vulnerable. That is how he works.”

“Who are you?” Dimitri demanded, suddenly flooded with the memory of that dark, hot night when Lucifer visited him in his dream. A night of fitful sleep, filled with smoke and ash and the heat of London’s Great Fire.

“My name is Wayren. This is my shop.” She spread an elegant hand around the space. Then she looked at him. “What do you seek, Dimitri?”

“I’ve been searching,” he said in a subdued voice he hardly recognized as his own, “for a way out. A way to break his hold on me.”

“You’re certain there is a way?” she asked, her eyes steady on him.

“No.” Despair washed over him. “I’m certain there isn’t. For if there were, I swear I’d have found it by now.”

Without waiting for her response, he spun on his feet, confused and unaccountably furious, and left.

Dimitri snarled at his footman as he opened the door to the carriage waiting in the moonlight.

Nearly four days since the invasion of his study, and he, Woodmore and Cale had been unable to locate Voss in London. He’d been there that night, the cocky bastard, in Angelica’s chamber…but somehow, he’d gotten away before Chas arrived. And since then, he seemed to have evaporated into darkness.

Probably with the blessing of Lucifer.

Dimitri would have suspected Voss had made his escape from London if he hadn’t received a terse message from him today. Voss’s message said that Belial was intending to attack the Woodmore sisters again tonight, and warned him to be on his guard.

As if Dimitri ever let his guard down. Voss knew better than that.

Chas was off tending to Narcise somewhere in London, keeping out of sight of anyone who might notice his presence while trying to find Voss. Dimitri didn’t know where he was, nor did he have any safe way to get the word to Woodmore that his sisters were in particular danger, although he did leave a message at White’s and Rubey’s, as well as the Gray Stag and a few other locations Chas might visit. Using blood pigeons—ones that the Dracule specially trained to fly by following a particular scent of blood to deliver the message—wasn’t secure enough, for Cezar had been known to intercept them.

Cale was spending the evening with the woman named Rubey. She was a mortal who operated an establishment catering to the pleasure needs of the Dracule, and she was also a friend of Voss, who could be contacting her—which was Cale’s official excuse for the visit.

But Dimitri was required to attend to the ladies tonight at some party for some lord or viscount or earl named Harrington, where, according to Iliana, who’d heard it from Mirabella who’d presumably heard it from the sisters, rumor had it that the guest of honor was going to make a proposal of marriage to Angelica Woodmore.

If Iliana hadn’t come down with some sort of sniffle and headache, complete with red, dripping nose and hacking cough, she could have ridden in the carriage with the young ladies and left Dimitri to follow in his own vehicle or even on horseback to ensure their safety along the dark streets.

But he dared not chance leaving them unattended in the carriage, and so he climbed into the blasted thing.

Assaulted immediately by perfumes and powders and acres of skirts and wraps and trailing-off giggles, Dimitri settled onto his seat with nary a word and hardly a glance at his companions. Silence had fallen, in fact, as soon as the door opened and he ducked in, as if his mere presence put a cork in their conversation.

One thing to be grateful for.

But as he adjusted his coattails and the carriage lurched off, Dimitri was assaulted by something else entirely. Something heavy and dark and crushing, over his chest and onto his lungs.