Free The Vampire Voss by Colleen Gleason Page A

turned and started off toward the dance floor, fairly towing him in her wake.
    Now, Voss shifted away from the mirror and stripped off the mangled neckcloth he’d been wearing since leaving for the Lundhames’ ball last night. It was well past noon today, and he hadn’t arrived back to his house until the sun was well above the horizon—yet another thing that had gone wrong in a night that had started out so promising and that had turned so hellish. He was normally safely in bed before dawn, sleeping until noon like most other gentlemen.
    Fortunately the sun was weak today, shrouded in London fog and fighting through the accompanying mist, so at least Voss hadn’t had to content with being sizzled by its rays. An enveloping cloak and a bit of care had kept him from being exposed when the beams did peek out as he climbed into a closed carriage.
    His shirt had bloodstains on it and he tossed it onto a chair, knowing that Kimton wouldn’t even flicker an eyelash.
    Christ-blood . How could it have happened?
    They’d left Rubey’s an hour or so before dawn and somehow had decided to go to Vauxhall—for them, an easy walk down Whitehall and across the river a bit. Three Dracule on a tear, with nothing to fear from any mortal armed with any weapon who might lurk in the shadows. They were fast, strong and could see throughout the green-tinged night.
    There was nothing to fear. Always nothing to fear.
    Yet, somehow through the red fog of his frenetic pleasure, Voss remembered Angelica’s warning about Brickbank.
    I must beg of you to keep him away from Blackfriars Bridge. Especially tonight. It was that bridge, and his exact attire, that I saw in my dream.
    But they were going to cross Westminster Bridge, loudly and exuberantly, hopeful of finding some gang of thieves or other group of no-gooders in the Gardens that could be terrorized by a trio of drunk vampires. If not, there were always any number of young dandies and their companions who could be frightened.
    It was Westminster Bridge, far from Blackfriars, and Voss barely hesitated as they stepped on it.
    How could Brickbank die from a fall off a bridge, anyway? There was simply no manner in which he could.
    Voss laughed at the absurdity. Laughed, loud and long, exuberant, his mouth still wide with mirth as it happened.
    Whether it was Brickbank’s Asthenia (copper, the poor brute) that made him fall or merely that he was clumsy from all the drink, they would never know. None of the details were clear: how had he been so close to the edge, what had happened, how could it have happened? But something made the man stumble suddenly, and as he attempted to catch his balance, he fell from the bridge.
    Voss stopped laughing and ran to the side, expecting to see his friend bobbing in the water and chuckling about the fact that half of the premonition had come true…but that was not the case.
    He was not bobbing in the water. Nor was he chuckling.
    A freak accident was the only explanation. Brickbank had somehow landed on an old, rotting piece of dock jutting fromthe water not far from the shoreline, impaling himself through the chest.
    Dead. Instantly. One of the only ways a Dracule could die.
    The very thought made Voss’s blood run cold. Brickbank was dead.
    Impossible.
    Now, hours later, after the body had been retrieved and he and Eddersley had gone to the secret rooms at White’s and shared yet another bottle of something to take the sting away, Voss was home.
    Pounding headed, thin-blooded, filled with guilt and self-loathing. He could have prevented it.
    And on top of that, his Mark was throbbing.
    With a snarl, he rang for Kimton and ordered a bath.
    Thirty minutes later, despite no sleep, Voss felt marginally better—and that was only because Kimton had scrubbed his back (avoiding the Mark) and given him a shave. At least on the outside, he looked less like a man who’d allowed his friend to die. Dressing in neat,