PROLOGUE
IN WHICH AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL PUTS A CRIMP IN HAZARD
London, 1804
“What in the dark Hell ishedoing here?”
Dimitri, the Earl of Corvindale, set his glass precisely on the table, then adjusted it with great deliberation. He still held his poker cards but was no longer looking at them.
The man in question had walked through the hidden door of the special apartments at White’s mens club. These rooms were reserved for Dimitri and those of his kind—that is to say, the vampires of the Dracule—and could only be accessed by someone who knew the right thing to say.
Obviously, the subject of Dimitri’s sudden dark mood had known what to say.
Voss, the Viscount Dewhurst, strode into the chamber and scanned the space. He was average in height, with thick hair the color of molasses and a square, dimpled chin—both characteristics which made him very popular with the females.
“I haven’t any idea what he’s doing here,” replied Dimitri’s companion, Giordan Cale. “The last time I saw Voss was…hell. Must have been in Prague—sixty, seventy years ago.” Cale’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “How time flies when you live forever.”
Dimitri didn’t respond. There were days when forever was interminable. And days when he found itconvenientto know he’d live forever—but those days were few and far between.
Voss moved with what could only be described as flair and confidence. Despite his long absence from London, he did have the right to be here, in the private, subterranean apartments at the famous White’s men’s club. The place Dimitri and his kind considered their own…the place where it didn’t matter what they drank or how they found their pleasure.
A place where they didn’t have to pretend.
Voss lifted an insouciant finger toward the footman in the corner and gestured for his drink to be brought to their table.
“Corvindale.” Voss greeted Dimitri by his title instead of his familiar name. That was interesting. “I’ve news for you. Consider it a gift of sorts.”
“The last time you brought me a gift, you cost me a generation’s worth of property.” Dimitri bared his teeth in a cold, humorless smile, showing a bit of fang.And you helped cause the death of a woman.
Voss smiled in return, showing just the tips of both pointed incisors as well. “I thought for certain you would have forgotten that by now. It’s been nearly a hundred years since Vienna—two generations past, Corvindale. Surely you haven’t been stewing about it for all this time.”
Light, light words. But the reality was much darker.
And though it had been decades since the incident, and Dimitri had come to terms with the fact that it mostly had been an accident, he still wished Voss to Hell on a more thanoccasional basis. Nevertheless, Dimitri didn’t rise to the bait. He kept his fangs sheathed, and hooded his eyes.
“The news?
Voss lifted the drink that had appeared a moment earlier and sipped, then nodded at the glass as if in agreement with it. “Mm…quite definitely French. Been doing a bit of smuggling, have you, Corvindale? Or is this not from your private stock?”
The Treaty of Amiens had dissolved more than a year ago, and war between England and France had flared again under Napoleon’s command, making it impossible to fill one’s cellar with any French vintage or fashion. Unless one had special arrangements.
Dimitri gave him a cool look. Naturally the cognac was from his private stock, acquired through illegal means. Neither legalities nor governing bodies affected the Draculia.
“Regardless of its origin, I approve—for I drink only for pleasure tonight, Corvindale,” Voss was saying. “I fed yesterday. A lovely, very promiscuous young woman and her two best friends. A plump and generous threesome, tasting of a hint of rose and coriander.” He lifted his square, cleft chin and smiled knowingly. “Warm and delightful.And fresh.”
“Mere country girls, I presume?” Dimitri said coolly. “What a shame the peerage aren’t foolish enough to lift their skirts for you. All those lovely white thighs and blue blood.”
Pure red burned in Voss’s eyes, making even his dark irises glow. “Ah, Dimitri…I can’t imagine what it would be like to deny oneself the pleasure of a real feeding for decades, as you’ve so foolishly done. To be resigned only to a bottle of pig’s blood—or worse—for sustenance. It would certainly make a chap cold and empty. Unpleasant—to say the least. Slow. And…repulsive.”
Within the Draculia—those who bore Lucifer’s Mark identifying the crack in their souls—it was common knowledge that Dimitri hadn’t fed on a living human for more than twogenerations. He’d taken up that abstinence not long after the events in Vienna.
“Do you have something to say, or are you merely wasting my bloody time?” Dimitri said.
Voss’s fingers traced idly over the sides of his cognac glass, giving him the appearance of being relaxed. But his expression was intense and his voice pitched low enough for only Dimitri to hear. “Narcise Moldavi has disappeared.”
Next to them, Giordan Cale stilled, and Dimitri flickered a glance at his companion. The man’s face was passive, his eyes flat and dark as he lifted his glass of wine. Yet, oh so tellingly, his friend remained silent.
“So Cezar Moldavi can’t keep control of his own sister. Why is that such great news?” Dimitri’s tone was flat and bored. Yet his attention sharpened. He had a bad feeling about this.
