The Vampire Voss by Colleen Gleason Page A

irony, the embattled sun had managed to emerge from its blanket of clouds beyond her. It shone through the window, bathing her in its soft glow ofwarm beams…warmth and light that Voss hadn’t felt or been touched by since he was twenty-eight.
    A hundred and twenty years without feeling the sun.
    For a moment, the ridiculous thought that Angelica Woodmore would be just as elusive as those golden rays worried at him. But that was absurd on so many levels. Nothing could keep him from what he wanted.
    Still. How was it she had positioned herself so perfectly: embalmed in a nimbus of light, which made her dusky skin glow and the edges of her hair seem to light—and yet, she was out of reach. Literally. The pool of light served as more of a deterrent than Corvindale ever could.
    â€œMy lord?” she asked, smiling at him. “What did you wish to speak with me about?”
    Was it possible she knew? Had Corvindale told her how to protect herself from the likes of Voss Arden, Viscount Dewhurst and Dracule?
    He eyed her closely, not yet employing his thrall, but trying to read anything in her gaze that might indicate whether she knew exactly what she was doing…but there was nothing in her expression other than curious pleasure. That was a fact which warmed him considerably.
    â€œMy lord?” she asked again. “Are you feeling quite all right? You look a bit…weary.” Her voice trailed off.
    Voss straightened in annoyance. He was perfectly groomed and attired. He looked bloody tantalizing.
    â€œHow is your friend Lord Brickbank?” she continued, before he could respond.
    And suddenly everything came rushing back to him: the images, the guilt and anger, the reason he was here. A heavy, dark ball settled in his belly.
    â€œIn fact,” Voss said, realizing to his shock that he neededto steady his voice, “he is not well at all. That’s the reason I wished to speak with you.”
    Angelica’s face drained of color and her eyes widened. “My lord, no.” Her fingers curved around the back of a nearby chair as if to provide support, and he wondered briefly if she might faint.
    â€œI’m afraid…yes.” His voice was curiously choked and Voss resorted to swallowing twice, hard, in order to continue. “He fell from a bridge last night and would have survived, I’m certain, if he had not impaled himself upon a piece of rotted dock.”
    She’d lifted her free hand to her mouth, her eyes no longer almond shaped but nearly circular. “I am so sorry, my lord. Apparently even my warning couldn’t have prevented such an event.”
    Voss shifted and tried to decide whether her comment was meant to stab him in the chest with reproach, or if she believed that her warning truly had been in vain. Unable to come to a conclusion, he opted to explain further. “The interesting thing, Miss Woodmore, is that my friend fell not from Blackfriars, but from Westminster. I confess, I didn’t fully disregard your warning. We avoided Blackfriars. You did name it as the bridge to be avoided, did you not?”
    She moved, a little jolt of surprise, and nearly stepped out of her safe circle of sunlight. Not that it would have made a difference if she had, for Voss was feeling uncomfortably cold at the moment. “Indeed, you are correct. I saw Blackfriars in my dream. It’s impossible to mistake it, don’t you agree?”
    He nodded.
    â€œBut what does that mean?” Her voice had dropped to nearly a whisper, and a range of expressions passed over her face: thoughtfulness, confusion, deep concern. “What can it mean?”
    â€œIt means, I believe,” came a deep voice from behind them, “that regardless of the irresponsibility of his companions, Brickbank was destined to die last night. And no precautions could have changed it.”
    Luce’s dark soul. Was he never to be able to finish a conversation with the chit without