And, naturally, much relocating. One couldn’t stay in one place for more than three decades without facing awkward questions.

“No mourning clothing in sight,” Dimitri observed. “Tsk, tsk. Of course, one shouldn’t be surprised, knowing how that puts off the ladies.”

Voss gave him a half smile along with a flash of eye-glow as if to let him know he was fully aware how annoyed Dimitri was. “Deal me in,” he said, dropping a stack of notes onto the table.

Satan’s stones. Dimitri was about to rise and toss his own cards onto the table when Voss looked over at him.

His face had lost that languid expression, the deviltry that so beguiled the ladies—and that got him into so many difficult circumstances—dissolved.

“Sit down, Corvindale,” Voss said. This time, he showed a tip of fang. “I’ve news for you. Consider it a gift.”

Dimitri’s own fangs extended in automatic reaction to the show of provocation. “The last time you brought me a gift, you did nothing but irritate me and cost me a generation’s worth of property, not to mention my heart nearly on a stake.” And helped cause the death of a woman.

The other man smiled, though it wasn’t quite as easy, still showing just a tip of both pointed incisors. “But I thought for certain you would have forgotten that by now. It’s been nearly a hundred years since Vienna, two generations past, Corvindale. Surely you haven’t been stewing about it for all this time.”

Light, light words. But the reality was much darker. And though it had been decades, and Dimitri had come to terms with the fact that it mostly had been an accident, he still wished Voss to hell on a more than occasional basis. Nevertheless, Dimitri didn’t rise to the bait. He sheathed his fangs and hooded his eyes, although he wasn’t able to resist letting his annoyance glow from them. “Then shall we dispense with hazard and discuss your tidings?” The bored tone had returned to his voice. “Why waste a perfectly good card game.”