The Vampire Dimitri

Sired vampires could also make their own minions, but the further down the chain of evolution, so to speak, the less powerful and slower they were. Each of them acquired not only their own Asthenia upon awakening after being made, but they also inherited any weakness of their sire, and his or her sire, and so on.

“Moldavi acted more quickly in sending his men here than I’d anticipated, but it could have been worse if Iliana and I hadn’t been at the masquerade. She managed to alert me to their arrival, and staked one who apparently attempted to attack Angelica in the garden. And Dewhurst—er, Voss.

He’s taken to using his title again.”

“And now Voss has absconded with the younger one? Angelica?”

Dimitri submerged the bubble of rage at the thought of Voss seducing his way beneath the skirts of Chas Woodmore’s sister while she was on Dimitri’s watch. Certainly Voss would have his own reasons for choosing her in particular, but knowing that it would infuriate Dimitri was justicing on the bastard’s cake.

If he didn’t get to Voss first, Woodmore would do it—and shove a stake into his heart without hesitation. Good riddance, but Dimitri would rather have the honor himself if Angelica was ruined while he was responsible for her. Even though he didn’t hold Voss directly liable for Lerina’s death in Vienna, the tangled web of the other man’s games and manipulations had certainly set that path in motion. Since that night, Dimitri had been more than receptive to a reason for ridding the earth of the man’s presence.

“Voss has sent word that he’ll return her when he’s certain I can assure him of her safety, but of course he has some other reason for abducting her.”

“Of course he does. It’s Voss we’re speaking of. The man can’t keep his cock or his fangs put away,” Cale replied. “But he isn’t about to let Moldavi get to her any more than we are. So she’s safe—after a fashion.”

Unfortunately Cale was correct. Voss would keep Angelica for his own purposes, and then drop her as if she were a hot coal when he was finished. Dimitri doubted even the threat of Chas Woodmore and his ash stake would cow Voss. “Which is precisely the reason I’ve told Miss Woodmore that all is under control.”

“Three deaths last night at the hands—or should I say fangs—of Belial and his men?” Cale asked. “Or were there more?”

“Three in total. Iliana got one in the garden, and Voss witnessed two in the ballroom while I was attending to Miss Woodmore and Mirabella. He claims there would have been further carnage if he hadn’t intervened.” Dimitri was inclined to believe him, much as he hated to give the man credit for anything productive. “Although, of course, he didn’t lift a stake to any of them.”

“No, he wouldn’t. They were after the Woodmore girls without a doubt?”

“Of course. Now that Chas has run off with Narcise.” As he spoke, Dimitri watched Cale without appearing to do so. He wasn’t surprised when his friend’s face tightened almost imperceptibly, confirming his suspicion that Giordan Cale still had that unhealthy attachment to Narcise Moldavi.

The question that Cale was likely asking, just as Dimitri was, was whether Chas had abducted Narcise against her will, or whether they had eloped. Either was possible, although the irony of a vampire hunter eloping with a vampire made the latter choice rather fascinating.

“Naturally I spent the rest of the night doing the usual to hide the evidence of their visit,” Dimitri explained.

“I’ll give you some assistance today if you still need to close some holes,” Giordan offered. Dimitri nodded in acceptance, for despite his initiatives since the tragedy, there was still more to do.

Last night’s strategy had included a few stories told about masquerade skits gone awry, a selection of his own rumor mongering, and a bit of memory altering at White’s, Bridge & Stokes, and other mens’ clubs afterward—all so that no one would know exactly what had happened to leave three people dead.

Their deaths were tragic enough—not to mention unnecessary—that the actual cause would only make the event even more horrific. That would only lead to the same sort of public outcry and uprising against the Dracule that had occurred in Cologne in 1755. Even more people would die if that happened—fools who thought they could actually hunt and kill the strong, fast immortals. There were few who could hope to take a vampire by surprise and best them in battle, and they had to be well-trained, thus Dimitri ensured that most members of his household staff were as well-equipped as mortals could be for an encounter with Dracule.

And in addition, Dimitri had long made it a practice to hire made vampires whose sires were dead for a variety of tasks, including acting as guardians and protectors of the Woodmore sisters. There were, despite the link to Lucifer, quite a number of Dracule who weren’t blindly driven by the need for violence and power and sought only pleasure and immortal life.

Dimitri’s scowl deepened and the familiar burn of disgust billowed in him. Vampires like Moldavi and Belial who routinely left a trail of violence and dead mortals in their paths repulsed him. Voss might be a creature concerned only with himself, but he didn’t have the lack of respect for mortals that Moldavi and his ilk did—leaving children bled dry and to die in the fields.

Moldavi particularly enjoyed the blood of young, virginal boys.

“Woodmore is here in England,” Cale said, surprising Dimitri. “He contacted me. The assumption is that he knows where Narcise is, but he didn’t say that in the correspondence I received. He was careful. No one else would even know it was from him.”

“Moldavi wants his sister back and he’ll do whatever he must to retrieve her—including coming out of his position licking the bollocks of Napoleon Bonaparte. Woodmore isn’t about to take the chance of being found. He’s too damn smart.”

“We’re meeting at the inn in Reither’s Closewell.”

Dimitri looked at his friend sharply, but Cale’s face was carefully blank. Too blank.

Chas Woodmore couldn’t know the history between Narcise and Cale if he was turning to the latter for assistance. Satan’s bloody bones. If Woodmore would have been a bit more patient and waited for Dimitri’s assistance on the mission to kill Moldavi, none of this mess would have happened.

“When you see him, tell Woodmore to get his arse back to London and see to his sisters. You can attend to Narcise,” he suggested.

“Over my damned dead soul,” Cale replied. “She’s Woodmore’s problem now.”

4

AN INCIDENT IN VIENNA

Despite Dimitri’s easy conversation with Giordan Cale, he was unable to dismiss the fact that somehow, someone knew of his Asthenia for rubies. That conundrum couldn’t help but take him back to the night of the fire in Vienna, the night that had ultimately sent him back to England, and that had cemented his mistrust of Voss and the hatred between him and Cezar Moldavi.

He remembered the night as if it had happened yesterday, although it had been in 1690—more than a hundred years ago. He’d been celebrating the opening of the gentleman’s club he’d had built in the city of Vienna, which was going through a great architectural renewal now that the Turkish siege had ended.

“If Cezar Moldavi attempts to enter,” Dimitri had directed his manager, “inform me immediately.” At that time, he held a glass of whiskey that he’d hardly yet sipped. It was an exceptional vintage, of course, for he would offer nothing less to the patrons, especially on the opening night.

There were other forms of libation, of the fresh-blooded sort, too, of course. Dimitri did not stint on luxury, at least in his investments. The Puritan days of Oliver Cromwell were long gone.

But the one sort of vintage he didn’t offer was that which Cezar Moldavi preferred: that of young children. Boys in particular, but either gender would do. Dimitri’s mouth flattened with repugnance.

Only yesterday, word had filtered through Vienna of yet another child’s body found in the woods. The girl’s blood had been drained nearly away, and she’d been left to die.

She’d been eight.

The blame had been visited upon a group of Jews, as they were regularly accused of such a horror, but Dimitri knew better. Over the centuries, the Jews had been often accused of such blood libel—of taking blood from Christian or even Muslim children and using it for their religious ceremonies. But, in fact, it was certain members of the Dracule who not only murdered the children, but also perpetuated that myth. Just one of those ways Lucifer created chaos among the mortals.

That was part of the reason Dimitri had dissolved his partnership with Cezar. There were many things about the life as a Dracule that were violent, unsavory and base, but child-bleeding was one thing he wouldn’t look away from. Once he’d learned of Moldavi’s bloodthirsty propensity for children, he’d released him as an investor in the gentleman’s club.

“We are to disallow Moldavi entrance for any reason?” replied Yfreto, the club’s manager.

“Precisely. He’s not been invited,” was Dimitri’s reply, referring to tonight’s festivities. “Naturally that won’t keep the dog-licker away, so ’tis best to be prepared.”

“Of course, my lord. And, incidentally, we have more than half the private chests still available in the anteroom for the guests.”

Dimitri nodded in approval. Everyone who entered must leave weapons—stakes and swords in particular, along with all valuables, including jewelry and gemstones—in a private chest. Each with its own key, which was then given to the patron. By placing such a wide moratorium on articles that entered the establishment, Dimitri would ensure that no rubies made it to his vicinity, while at the same time precluding any accidental stakings or other violence.

The Dracule were a particularly savage lot.

Aside of being savage, the Dracule were patrons of pleasure. Night after night, they drank and fed and fucked—in as many different ways as they could, for there was none to stop them or to say them nay. That was, Dimitri had come to realize, the reason Lucifer had offered immortality to his earthly minions. When one had nothing to fear, when one had any and all sort of pleasure easily at hand, one became even more self-serving, greedy and base. Just the sort of person Lucifer would appreciate, and the sort who would do his bidding when and if he required it. Rather like an army—or, perhaps more accurately, a society of agents—in waiting. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">