The exception to the divide between himself and the wary deference of the others was Voss, who had only this sort of insolence to show, and Cale, whom Dimitri considered his only true friend.

Unlike Dimitri, Voss wore his dissociation from the other Dracule like a mantle of pride—mainly because it was of his own making. Voss, now the very wealthy Viscount Dewhurst, amused himself by seeking and collecting information that could be sold or bartered and, Dimitri suspected, he did so also in order to insulate himself from the others.

Dimitri, on the other hand, didn’t care what anyone thought of him and did nothing to challenge long-held perceptions. He simply wanted to be left alone with his studies and occasionally emerge to the gentlemen’s clubs for a game of chance or a midnight horse race. Or perhaps a bout of pugilism at Gentleman Jackson’s.

“If you have news, I suggest you share it. Sooner rather than later,” Dimitri said at last.

Voss’s contemptuousness seemed to evaporate as he leaned toward him, as did the anger in his eyes. For a moment, Dimitri sensed a sort of hesitation, perhaps, or doubt, from the younger man. Younger in years on the earth by perhaps a generation, but not in physical appearance. To an ignorant mortal, the two men would appear to be in their thirties instead of well over one century old.

Voss’s fingers traced idly over the sides of his cognac glass, giving him the appearance of being relaxed. But his face was intense and his voice pitched low enough for only Dimitri to hear.

“Narcise Moldavi has disappeared.”

Next to him, Cale stilled, and Dimitri flickered a glance at his companion. The man’s face was passive, his eyes flat and dark as he lifted his glass of wine. He remained silent.