But the culmination of his journey to the life he lived now—the rigid, solitary, ironically Puritan one—had been That Day. That morning, when he’d awakened to find that even a year of denying himself had not released him from Lucifer. It had, in fact, bound him to the devil all the more tightly because of his murder of the old woman whose name he’d never known. An old woman who’d simply tried to help him.
He’d not made the same mistake since. He now consumed sustenance, never allowing himself to become so desperate as to maul a person to death—as most vampires were able to do.
He simply no longer took the blood from living bodies, thus denying himself the pleasure and satiation of the past. There was hope that, perhaps one day, the self-denial would be enough to grant him release from a demon who thrived on selfishness and self-centeredness. In the meantime, he studied every ancient document he could get his hands on, looking for another way.
Any way.
And the ever-present ache from his Mark, radiating down and behind his left shoulder, was a constant reminder of Lucifer’s fury with him. The rootlike black marking extended from beneath the hair at the left side of his neck down over his shoulder and halfway down his back. It was a visible sign of his cracked and damaged soul, and the more annoyed Lucifer became, the more it throbbed and filled, rising up like twisting black veins.
The Mark twinged now as Dimitri edged against the wall to allow a promenade of three to mince past. They’d circled by thrice since he’d come to stand here, and he eyed them darkly. One of the women—the one in the center—met his yes boldly as they brushed by in a wave of at least five different floral scents, along with powder and body heat, and Dimitri acknowledged her with a cold, uninterested look.
Women, especially mortal women, were the last thing on his mind.
Miss Woodmore was smiling as Ainsworth hooked her elbow and spun her in a neat circle before moving on to the next steps in the dance that separated them, and then brought them back, glove to glove. At least the dress she wore wasn’t pink or yellow, but an unassuming blue with discreet pink roses on the shoulders. It clung and slid along her hips and thighs like damp silk as she moved through the paces, and Dimitri wondered darkly if Chas had seen and approved of that frock.
A sudden waver in his vision and a heaviness in his chest had Dimitri removing his gaze from the dancers and focusing on a couple strolling past. The female half was wearing ruby earbobs and a matching necklet, which was the reason for his flash of light-headedness. But she was far enough away, and she didn’t pause, so the weakness passed almost immediately.
Yet another reason to avoid fetes and balls and dinner parties and Almack’s and court. And even, as often as he could manage, Parliament. How he hated sitting in the House of Lords and listening to those mortals natter on about postage laws or minting coins or other inconsequential things like tea taxes. It had been the worst during that mess with the Colonies and the stamp tax imposed on them.
Yes, one never knew when one might be accosted by a ruby, and since Dimitri had been unfortunate enough to acquire that particular gemstone as his Asthenia, he must always be on guard from that danger.
Each of the Dracule, along with gifts of immortality, speed and extraordinary strength, also had a specific weakness endowed upon him by their partner in the dark covenant: Lucifer. Since the ruby festooning Meg’s neck was the first thing Dimitri had seen when he woke from that fateful dream one hundred and thirty-eight years ago, his Asthenia was the bloodred gemstone.
Thus, other than a wooden stake to the heart or a decapitating sword, which would kill him, sunlight and rubies were the only things that would weaken or harm him. Despite that inconvenience, he could appreciate that his Asthenia wasn’t something as commonplace as silver.
Suddenly Dimitri’s eyes narrowed. By the damned bones of Satan, there was Voss again, sniffing around Angelica Wood more.
Despite his reluctance for the guardianship, Dimitri took his responsibility seriously. Thus he was out from his alcove in a flash and making his way smoothly across the room. He would appear unhurried to anyone watching him, but in reality, he moved faster than a breath. He made his way from one side of the room to the other, through and around and between the crush of people, in an instant.
It wasn’t so much anger as it was annoyance that burned through Dimitri as he approached the handsome, well-dressed man. Also a member of the Draculia, Voss, the Viscount Dewhurst, had just returned to London from somewhere in the New World—Boston, perhaps—after a decade of absence. Dimitri would have preferred him to stay away even longer than that, but one couldn’t always have what one wished, as was evident by a variety of events in the past few days. This was the second time he’d found Voss accosting Angelica Woodmore tonight, however, and that fact did not sit well with Dimitri.
If he had to guess, he would surmise that Voss had heard the rumors that the middle Woodmore sister possessed the Sight. And Voss, being not only a rake of the highest order, but also a man who dealt with the buying, selling, and otherwise hoarding of information, was likely intent on taking advantage of the absence of the chit’s brother—and what he perceived as Dimitri’s lack of interest in the girls—to see what Angelica could add to his inventory of knowledge.
As he drew closer, he heard Voss murmur something to Angelica about a waltz. And at the same time, Dimitri became excruciatingly aware that Miss Woodmore was approaching from the opposite direction. Her bronze-honey hair fluttered in wayward wisps about her temples as she bore down upon Angelica and her erstwhile suitor.
Dimitri turned his attention to Voss, and, coming up unnoticed behind the man, said, “Miss Woodmore will not be hastening anywhere with you, Voss. Most especially not to a waltz.”
He heard the man’s annoyed curse under his breath, but to his credit, he turned without hurry. “By Luce, Dimitri, have you not yet attended to that violinist’s flat string I mentioned earlier? It’s beyond annoying. I’m certain that a mere look from you would tighten it up perfectly.”
“I don’t know what you’re after,” Dimitri said, shifting between Voss and the spicy-floral-scented Miss Woodmore, who’d taken her younger sister by the arm and was towing her off in a different direction, “but I suggest that you remain far away from Angelica Woodmore unless you wish to find yourself in a most uncomfortable position. Neither Chas nor I will suffer your attentions to her or the other Miss Woodmore.”
Voss gave him that lazy, hooded-eyed look that worked so well to seduce the ladies—even aside of the hypnotic thrall that the Dracule utilized to get what they wanted, when they wanted it. “Of course. The last thing a vampire hunter like Chas Woodmore would tolerate is one of the very creatures he hunts sniffing around his sisters. Never fear, Dimitri,” he continued in that smooth, mocking tone, “there are plenty of other fish in the sea—or, as I like to think of it—lovely, narrow wrists, or slender, delicate shoulders to slide into. There’s nothing like that pleasure is there? The penetration…sleek and quick, and then the sudden flood of liquid heat, rich and full.” His voice had dropped seductively.