To mortals, anyway.
Voss felt oddly prickly tonight, as if something irregular were about to happen.
Perhaps it was simply that he’d not been out in London Society for years, although he would never ascribe his unsettled feeling to something as banal as nerves. A hundred forty-eight-year-old vampire didn’t have nervous energy, as a rule.
The only thing that made Voss nervous was coming into contact with the unassuming hyssop plant, of all bloody things.
The hyssop plant was his weakness, something he’d acquired—along with the Mark on the back of his shoulder—when he’d made his covenant with Lucifer.
Each Dracule had what they called an Asthenia—an Achilles’ heel or vulnerability, or whatever one wanted to call it. It was something different for each of them—unlike the vampires sired from the line of Judas, where silver caused weakness and holy objects prompted terror in all of them.
Thus, other than a wooden stake to the heart, a blade bent on severing head from body, or full sunlight, his or her Asthenia was the only real threat to a member of the Draculia.
For obvious reasons, a Dracule vampire ever discussed or even disclosed the object of his Asthenia. It was a personal thing, rather like having a flaccid cock at the most inopportune moments. Never spoken of, never acknowledged, never dissected.
There was, as Giordan Cale had once said, honor among thieves, pirates,andthe Draculia.
Over the years, however, in an attempt to keep his mind occupied as well as for private amusement—as well as leverage in the event he needed it—Voss had made it a sort of personalgame to try and puzzle out the Asthenias of his Draculian brothers.
Some men collected horses or women or wine.
Voss collected information.
He was rich, titled, handsome, powerful, could bed any woman he wanted whenever he wanted, and he was never going to die. What else was he to do with his infinite amount of time?
What else?
He felt that rumble of discontent again.
Voss ignored it, pursing his lips as the carriage trundled along. His companions were conversing about some twilight horse race in which he had no interest. His attention was on how to woo a Woodmore sister out from under the Earl of Corvindale’s nose.
Just another challenge. Just another puzzle. Just another way to gather information.
Information was power.
Voss’s eyes narrowed as a movement in the shadows caught his attention. The carriage rolled along, but he could see well into the dark recess of the alley and he straightened in his seat as they went by: the flutter of a skirt, a tall, bulky figure swooping.
His eyes narrowed and he rapped sharply on the vehicle’s roof to signal the driver to stop.
Pleasure and adrenaline rushed through him as he sprang from the conveyance before it came to a full stop.
At last—something to do.
Ignoring the exclamations of his companions, Voss was out the door and streaking back down the street toward the long, dark passage between two close-knit buildings.
It was a matter of a breath before he arrived in the engulfing shadows that, nevertheless, appeared to him only like green haze mottled with gray. Although the details were obscured, he could still clearly see shapes and some texture in the dark. His fangs hekept retracted and he knew his eyes glowed faintly, but he didn’t allow them to burn very hot.
Not yet.
The muffled sounds of struggle filtered through the silence and Voss smiled in anticipation. Just a bit of a diversion before the propriety of the ball.
He moved so silently and quickly the man had no sense of his presence until Voss closed his fingers over the scruff of his jacket and hoisted him up and away from his prey. Nearly twice his size, the attacker flailed with a meaty arm, attempting to whirl about as Voss propelled him through the air like a child’s ball. The ruffian landed against a rough brick wall with a satisfying thump as Voss turned to the woman.
Blood scented the air—thick and full and tempting, trailing from her cheek and a cut on her lip.
Voss drew in a breath of pleasure and looked down at her. In the greenish-glowing dimness, he took note of her wide eyes and her dress—a frock that he could see was of decent quality. The daughter of a tradesman perhaps, or a servant, but certainly not a beggar or even a whore. Her clothing and grooming were much too nice.
She gaped at him, staggering back into the wall behind her as she stumbled away, clearly frightened of everything, including her rescuer.
