Voss was acutely aware that he’d seen and sensed no movement from the bundle of woman in the corner. While he was pleased that she’d made no reaction to his presence—for it was imperative that he keep their acquaintance secret from Moldavi—the very fact made his skin prickle with fear.

“I did see Belial in London,” Voss added, and as Cezar stood to walk over to a large wooden cabinet, he chanced a glance over at Angelica.

She slumped in a chair. Her eyes were closed and neat tendrils of blood trickled from her nose. Her neck, throat, shoulder…all seemed untasted. Her gloveless hands were curled, white, in her lap.

Sleeping. Voss hoped, hoped with such fervor that Lucifer’s spectral fingers tightened on his shoulder so that he couldn’t contain a gasp, hoped that she was sleeping. Peacefully.

The door on the opposite side of the room opened and two men walked in. Dracule, Voss assumed, but one couldn’t be certain until one saw fangs or glowing eyes. They could be mortal minions of the emperor. Either way…blast and hell.

The fewer the people in the chamber while he tried to manipulate Moldavi, the better. He furtively felt for the packet in his pocket, and with the other hand adjusted his coat so that he felt the weight of Bonaparte’s watch chain. One or both of them would need to be employed.

“And what was your business in London? Sniffing around the Woodmore sisters, I presume?” Cezar said, bringing a glass bottle back to his seat. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable, Voss.”

The bottle was dark purple, the color of eggplant, and had a golden wax seal which broke as Moldavi twisted off the cork. “We were just about to celebrate with a special toast,” Cezar said.

“As to my interest in the Woodmore chits—anything to annoy Woodmore, of course,” replied Voss easily, even as he felt a wave of…something…odd. “But I hardly saw the girls. Dimitri is keeping them tightly locked up in Blackmont, as I’m certain you’re aware.”

“Not as tightly as he meant to,” said one of the new arrivals with a low laugh. Voss recognized him as one of Belial’s companions at the Gray Stag and at the masquerade ball as well. The other man gestured to the corner where Angelica lay.

“Indeed? Is she one of them?” Voss now had permission to look overtly at the girl, and he took the moment to do so. Her chest rose and fell in shuddering breaths, and one of her fingers twitched. An uneasy sleep.

Or an unnatural one.

Fear seized him more tightly as he returned his attention to Moldavi. A horrible thought—one that he’d tried to ignore since London—rose in the front of his mind.… A thought that made all feeling leech from his body.

It would be just like Moldavi to do it.

“Ah…the reason for the celebratory toast, I presume.” Voss forced his voice to remain steady. No.

What would be the best revenge for Moldavi to have on Chas Woodmore, vampire hunter? The man who’d stolen his own vampire sister from him?

Why…to turn Woodmore’s own sister into a replacement for Narcise. And all of the Draculia knew what Narcise was to Moldavi: his sister, his slave, his whore.

To humiliate Chas Woodmore as Chas had humiliated Moldavi.

Voss’s fingers were chilled, and he struggled to cut through the burn over his shoulder and the explosion of thoughts…and that odd sensation of helplessness that seemed to be growing. He vaguely noticed Moldavi pouring four drinks from the aubergine-colored bottle and when the man offered him one of the glasses, he took it.

At that moment, he knew. As if he were punched in the gut and his ears were boxed simultaneously. His lungs tightened. Harder to breathe, more difficult to control the grip of his fingers around the glass. Hyssop.

Here.

He looked around the wavering room. Where? The other two vampires had drawn nearer. There were no plants, no food seasoned with the herb. Nothing that could explain his sudden weakness.

The room swirled and tipped and Voss felt as if he were sliding into a pool of water, slogging and slow. Somewhere.

“A toast,” Cezar was saying, lifting his glass. He looked at Voss, who, with difficulty, managed to raise his to just below his shoulder.

Steady. Steady, focus.

He fought the weakness creeping over him, warring with the pain in his shoulder and his mental capacity. “What is it?” he asked, finding it nearly impossible to move his mouth in speech. Slowly he lowered the glass to the table next to him. Where is it?

He needed to get away. His head felt light and the room tried to spin, but he fought it still.

“Absinthe,” Cezar replied. He smiled with genuine pleasure, showing a fang studded with a tiny sapphire. “A bottle of the best French absinthe, which I have been saving for such an occasion.”

Absinthe. Not brandy or whiskey.

Lucifer’s nails… It was in the drink. Hyssop syrup. Of course.

“Drink, Voss,” Cezar told him. Looking at him oddly. “You must join us in the toast. I shall at last have the Woodmore bastard crawling on his knees. And Dimitri to follow.” The others had raised their own glasses.

It could kill him. Did Moldavi know? Could he know?

Voss had guarded his secret so closely. It was impossible for the other man to know. No. No one knew.

It was a horrible, awful coincidence.

Moldavi was looking at him strangely now. With suspicion. His eyes dark and piercing, the faintest warning of red glowing at the rims of his irises.

Voss couldn’t allow him to suspect, to question. He swallowed, tried to wade through the roaring in his ears, the tunneling of his vision as it narrowed and darkened. His hand trembled. Even Angelica’s alluring scent had faded.

“Drink, Voss,” said Moldavi. The glint in his eyes had gone beyond suspicion to something akin to delight. The fang’s sapphire winked and hypnotized and Voss realized that, for the first time in his life, he had wholly miscalculated.

14

WHEREIN A STUMBLE CREATES A GREAT DIVERSION

When she heard a familiar voice, Angelica opened her eyes in narrow slits. At first she thought she was dreaming.

Voss was here?

Immediately her heart swelled and a flush of relief and hope washed over her. Oh, God, thank you.

But then, just as suddenly, the warmth evaporated, leaving her cold and frightened again. If only Voss were the man he’d been…before. The one she’d begun to have feelings for. An actual man.

Knowing that, she was filled with trepidation as she watched him settle into a seat with Cezar Moldavi. Much too friendly. Much too companionable. What did he want? Had they been working together all along?

Chas. Where is Chas?

She’d been pretending to be unconscious for some time now. Chas would be after her as soon as he learned what had happened, and her hope had been to stall for time. So far, she’d been successful…but she’d only been here for a day. Perhaps not even that long.

Voss looked over at her and she held herself still, trying to keep her breathing steady. Despite her slitted vision, she could see him clearly and although she hated him, Angelica couldn’t deny that he was so handsome it made her heart hurt. And he seemed so capable and confident.

His honey-brown hair was ruffled around the collar and fell in a curling lock over one eyebrow that would have been endearing if she could trust him. Love him. His jaw, so masculine and chiseled, and those lips…and his fangs. This was the first she’d really seen them, fully exposed. They were wicked looking, long and lethal and in the fog of her weary, frightened mind, she remembered Maia waxing on about how she’d dreamed of being bitten by incisors like that.

If only… She snapped her eyes closed when he seemed to stare more closely at her. If only.

Something burned behind her lids and Angelica tried to squeeze them tighter so that the tear wouldn’t trickle down and give away the fact that she was conscious. Oh, Voss.

As she struggled to control her emotions—and it was no wonder she found it impossible, after what she’d been through in the last few days—Angelica realized that the mood in the chamber had altered.

“Drink, Voss,” Moldavi was saying. He was not a large or imposing man, for all of his feared reputation—but it was his eyes that bespoke of the perfidy and malevolence inside him. He had swarthy skin and an abnormally wide, square jaw. His hair was the same dark brown as his thick, straight brows, and he had hands as large as dinner plates. Large rings flashed on seven of his fingers. Now his eyes blazed red-orange and he was focused on Voss with an intensity that had Angelica opening her eyes fully.

Something was wrong.

Voss seemed…odd. She was across the chamber, and couldn’t quite understand it, but he was acting not unlike Corvindale had in the carriage just before they were attacked. As if he were having trouble breathing, and moving.

And then…ice washed over her. She recognized his clothing. Odd, dull and ill-fitting. More out of fashion than anything she’d ever seen Voss wear. Except in her dream.

The dream she’d had the night before she’d been abducted from Lord Corvindale’s carriage in London.

The dream in which…he’d died.

Angelica gasped and all eyes turned to her before she could figure out whether she’d done so purposely or not. Burned into her mind was the image of Voss, splayed on the ground in that awful dun-colored coat and purple and red neckcloth. Dead.

“My guest has awakened,” Moldavi said. He smiled a hateful smile and Angelica saw the flash of a blue gem in his fang. “Just in time to join us in our toast to her presence.”

So far she’d managed to keep him from biting her, although he’d been inordinately interested in the blood that erupted from her nose during her attempt to fight off one of his companions. She shuddered at the memory of him swiping his finger over her upper lip, and pulling it away, glistening with blood and then sliding it into his mouth. Watching her the whole time with glowing yellow eyes.

Angelica shifted, pulling herself up into a more stable position, and allowed herself a glance at Voss. His eyes met hers, and she was shocked by a blaze of awareness when their gazes clashed. Oh, Voss.