The Vampire Narcise rd-3

by Колин Глисон

  “I propose a stake only for each of us, mademoiselle. You might remove the one from your hair, and also from the sleeve of your tunic, and choose only one of them.”

  Narcise hid her consternation at the prospect of fighting in such close quarters, hand to hand. She was lighter, she told herself. Lithe and quick.

  But then again…this was a man who’d somersaulted from a rooftop four stories down, merely for the entertainment of his friends. Or so she’d heard.

  “If you suggest stakes, that implies a conflict to the death,” she said, keeping her eyes cool. “You are a brave man, Monsieur Cale, for you are no stranger to my abilities.”

  The room was so quiet the only sound was the heartbeat in her ears and the crackle and snap in the fireplace on the dais.

  “If that is what you wish, mademoiselle, by all means I am agreeable.” There was a flicker in his eyes, something almost soft, and then it was gone. “You,” he said, commanding one of Cezar’s servants as if he were his own. “A handkerchief or scarf.”

  “What, will you fight blindfolded?” crowed one of the audience. “What a sight that will be.”

  “No, I do not think that is what Cale has in his mind,” lisped Cezar, delight in his voice. “He means for their hands to be bound together. Narcise.”

  This last was his order, and at first she simply couldn’t make herself move. They meant to tie their wrists together so that neither could retreat. Or leap or lunge.

  She had no breath. Her mind turned blank and fear took over. Already, she could feel his body on top of hers, his hands tearing at her clothes, his mouth and fangs on her.

  How badly she’d misjudged him.

  That interlude at his place, when he’d been more than a gentleman, more kind and unassuming than she’d ever experienced…had been a lie.

  He really was like the others: blinded by lust, fueled by bravado.

  Narcise moved numbly toward Cale, raising her right arm—for she was left-handed in battle. They faced each other, and his strong, bare fingers curled around her hand as if they meant to arm wrestle. The feel of his hand cupping hers reminded Narcise of the intimate moment when their fingers had intertwined so that she could feed on his open wrist. The servant wrapped the scarf around their hands, binding them firmly, and she noted with apprehension that his arm was nearly twice as wide as hers.

  Warmth flowed from his skin into hers, and she felt the slamming of a pulse where the delicate skin of their wrists met. Whether the beating was hers or his, she wasn’t certain. But she was fully aware of his smoky, rich scent, and the size of his long, bare feet only inches from her own.

  She couldn’t look at him, instead focusing her eyes over his shoulder as they prepared to face each other.

  “Begin,” cried Cezar, and so it was.

  At first, they minced in a maudlin circle, as far apart as their bonds would allow, delicate and arrhythmic as one attempted to read the other’s strengths, strategy and steps. After one quick glance, she avoided his eyes, instead watching the rest of his body. Then Cale lunged, and she danced out of the way with ease.

  But Narcise wasn’t fooled; she knew he hadn’t moved as quickly or sharply as he was capable. He was testing her, to see how tired she was from her first contest.

  She concentrated on watching the signals: his eyes, the change of breath, the balance and shift of his feet and center, and she was ready when he lunged again. Their free hands clashed as she raised hers to block his blow, and a slam of pain reverberated down her arm.

  Narcise swallowed a cry and attacked him before he could fully recover his stance, glancing a blow off his arm this time. Then without hesitation, she ducked beneath their twined arms and curled around behind him, but Cale was too fast, and he spun under and around at the same time, keeping her from getting to his back. She was tired, not moving as quickly as she normally would.

  But she must.

  Fury burned in her. She would kill him if she had the chance. There was no reason to hesitate, for if she didn’t, he would have her.

  And she couldn’t bear that. Not after these last weeks of dreaming, fantasizing, hoping.

  Bitterness galvanized her, and she whipped the stake, slamming it into the top of his shoulder with all of her force. He gave a surprised grunt, and she swore she saw a flash of humor in his eyes—but then she was dancing backward.

  He tripped her with his next movement, and her balance stuttered. She caught herself with her right foot, but not before he twisted suddenly. The next thing she knew, their bound arms wrapped her back up against his torso like the movement in a dance, and he had his stake, poised over her chest. Her own tied hand was pressed against her belly with his, and her body acted as a shield from any blow she might attempt.

  “Checkmate,” he murmured into her ear, and damn him if the low timbre sent tingles shooting through her.

  She tried to stomp on his foot to give her a target for her own stake, but he was ready for it and easily shifted, causing her to tip off balance again.

  “Are you certain you still wish to fight to the death?” Cale added, again close to her ear. “I had a different ending in mind.”

  Revulsion and hatred shot through her, and Narcise jerked hard at their tied hands, yanking his down with a savage twist.

  He gave a huff of pain and for a moment she thought she’d taken him by surprise…but his bicep tightened immediately and he whipped her back against his torso hard enough to knock the breath out of her.

  His stake came closer to her throat and poised there as one of his powerful legs shifted, curving in front of hers so that he tipped her forward but kept her feet immobile. Now she was slightly tilted toward the floor, her stake hanging from her left hand with no viable target.

  “So now you must slay me,” she said, grinding her teeth. “For it was agreed.”

  Cezar had been watching avidly, and now he began to clap his hands loudly and sharply. “Well done, Cale,” he said, standing. “You are the first to best Narcise in years.”

  She threw her brother a dark look and said, “And that’s only because he waited until I was weary. He could not have won if I were fresh.”

  Cale’s arms tightened around her a fraction, and she felt the vibration in his chest as he spoke, “But the woman is correct…she was already spent. Therefore, I will deny my right to take her life—as she offered—and instead accept the customary spoils. If you agree, Cezar.” He spoke lightly, but there was an edge to his voice that indicated he would accept no argument.

  “Oh, indeed,” Moldavi replied immediately. Narcise, who could interpret her brother’s slightest inflection, heard the hint of displeasure there, but she wasn’t certain whether it was because he’d wanted her dead, or because she’d lost.

  Despite the fact that he forced her into such combative situations, Moldavi had a warped sense of pride about her; thus a flaw or loss in her performance was a reflection on him.

  “Very well then,” Cale said, and he released Narcise so that she was able to stand on her own. “Drop your weapon, cher. I have the only stake we’ll need.” He flashed a quick smile toward the dais, and the other spectators rumbled with soft chuckles.

  The servant moved as if to untie them, but Cale stopped him with a raised hand. “No need for that. I will attend to it shortly.” He looked at Narcise again. “Drop the stake,” he repeated, a bit of steel in his voice. “I don’t wish to have to fend you off.”

  Narcise realized that her knees were shaking so badly she could hardly stand. Her stomach felt as if it were going to erupt at any moment, and she was certain her pulse was pounding so hard he could hear it. She could scarcely force herself to uncurl her fingers to allow the stake to drop, but at last it fell to the stone floor with a clatter.

  Cale glanced at her, a little frown between his brows, but she would not meet his eyes. Narcise drew in her breath and straightened her shoulders to stand proudly as he drew her toward the chamber door.

  Why was she so terrifie
d? She had outgrown the terror and paralyzing fear long ago. She’d learned to submit, to exist…to get through the demands of her own body’s bloodlust, the reflexive response to fresh blood and penetration. There was nothing she hadn’t lived through before. There was nothing he could do to her that hadn’t already been done.

  But she knew what the problem was. Not only had Cale betrayed her fantasy of him, but there was still that lingering need. The desire for his blood and the memory of his taste and touch still hummed deep inside her.

  Narcise was aware of herself being directed out of the room and down the brief corridor to The Chamber, but she felt as if she were outside of her own body, watching this event.

  Cale said nothing to her, nor to Cezar’s servant, who led the way to the room of hell. It wasn’t until they reached the heavy wooden door that her captor turned and offered their tied wrists to the servant. He obliged, using a dagger to cut through the handkerchief, and Narcise was free just as the door opened before them.

  With a rebelling stomach and weak knees, she forced herself to walk into The Chamber.

  She heard the sound of the door closing behind her, and of the metal bolt being shoved into place with its familiar, ominous snick.

  Gathering all of her courage, Narcise turned to face Cale and said, “How do you want me? Shall I fight you and make it rough, or shall I lie there and let it be easy?”

  4

  Giordan stilled at her words, at the revolting offer.

  Narcise stood no more than ten paces away from him, straight as a rail, her ivory face paler than usual and without its normal luminescence. The dark, scraped-back hair gave her an even starker appearance, verging on gaunt. Her fencing attire, those close-fitting tunic and breeches, had damp spots from perspiration and one red blossom on the shoulder from where someone had nicked her.

  Her blue-violet gaze was cold and dark, without a hint of Draculean glow.

  “Is that how you normally do it? Give an option?” he asked, legitimately curious and at the same time, repulsed by the very thought.

  “Not at first,” she said conversationally, though there was the faintest tremor in her voice. “I fought them all at first. It took me some time to realize that it was less painful, and often over sooner, if I lay there like a dead fish.”

  His gut tightened as his attention was drawn automatically to the large bed off to one side. The images flashing into his mind were unpleasant and dark; yet he couldn’t deny that the vision of her lying on the bed, naked and spread out, was compelling. More than compelling. Desire flooded him, compounded by the fact that the very room smelled of her—of that heavy, rich ylang-ylang and vetiver—and of coitus and blood.

  His veins began to swell as his fangs threatened to show themselves. He forced himself to look away from the bed…which wasn’t an altogether prudent thing, for his gaze then lit upon a variety of other accessories in The Chamber.

  Chains with manacles hanging from a plastered and painted, rather than stone, wall—which gave it an absurd appearance of civility. A rack of whips. A small metal box. Carved ivory phalluses, of varied sizes. Even small knives: too dainty to slice one’s head from one’s shoulders, but certainly dangerous enough to cut decorative nicks into one’s flesh.

  Giordan’s belly churned, knowing that each of those items had been used many times over. And those were only the items he saw at a glance. Narcise, Narcise…how can you be less than mad after this?

  “So which shall it be?” she pressed, her voice a little more tense now. She was as rigidly controlled as he struggled to be. “Surely it cannot be that difficult a decision.”

  “Where is the peephole?” he asked. For now, he must ignore her question. The very thought was enough to weaken his already stretched control.

  She looked at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes skittered to the wall across from the manacles and chains. Cezar hadn’t attempted to even hide the small holes through which he must observe. They were hardly larger than the arrow slits in a medieval castle, but there were several of them, at varying heights, in the plastered wall. Not obvious enough to distract one from one’s pleasure, but certainly there.

  Without preamble, Giordan walked across a thick rug to the wall and spoke into the dark slots. “I don’t wish to be spied on, Moldavi.” He could scent the stew of male need and lust through the holes, and knew that at least several of them from the previous room were there, prepared for even more entertainment. And, indeed, as he looked into the dark spots, Giordan saw the faint glow of several pairs of orange and red eyes, burning, blinking and then turning away.

  He suspected that his host might be annoyed, perhaps even furious, at his statement, but Giordan was confident that the man wanted badly enough to buy into the spice ship he was sending to China, and that he would acquiesce gracefully.

  His need for fresh opium was a strong incentive.

  But of course, too, Cezar Moldavi needed always to be in control, and a conflict that he couldn’t win—such as this with Giordan—would make him appear to be out of control.

  So, once the male scents had faded and he knew they were all gone, he turned back to Narcise. She was watching him warily, and as far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved.

  “What is it to be, Cale?” she asked a third time. “You only have until dawn.” The edges of her full lips were white with tension.

  “Neither. I’m not going to touch you,” he said.

  A strained silence settled over the room.

  “Are you mad?” she whispered. Her hand had moved, and he could see its faint tremble as she rested it against her throat. A bit of color rushed into her face.

  “Just a bit.” Giordan pulled his attention away and said, “Is there anything to drink in this torture chamber?” Blood whiskey would take the edge off his senses.

  Narcise didn’t reply; perhaps she didn’t trust herself to speak, either. But she walked over to a cabinet he’d hardly noticed and pulled out a bottle of, praise the Fates, brandy or whiskey. As soon as she removed the cork, its warm, pungent scent filtered through the air, telling Giordan that while Cezar didn’t provide his best brandy, it was still a far sight better than what most of the taverns in England served. The rush of the amber liquid sloshing into a small glass was the only sound for a moment. She poured a second one, surprising him faintly, and then turned to look at him. She left one of the whiskeys on the small table and stepped away, sipping from her own glass.

  “Your name…it isn’t French,” she said suddenly. Although they had conversed briefly before, Giordan hadn’t truly appreciated the low duskiness of her voice. But now, it curled around him like a smoky serpent and his belly twitched in response.

  “No, it isn’t, unless it is some shortened version of a name or place. Or perhaps my father was English. I don’t know. I don’t know much about my origins. I’m fairly certain my parents were from the countryside,” he said, willing to follow the brief diversion, for of course he’d been telling the truth when he told her he didn’t mean to touch her. Aside of that, conversation might perhaps relieve the pulsing gums pushing at his fangs and the bulge in his breeches.

  He walked over to pick up his own drink, wondering if leaving it there was a play for control on her part, or if she didn’t trust him to get close enough to hand it over. “They came into the city and then I don’t know what happened. We were poor. I have vague memories of my mother, but nothing very solid.”

  “But you are no longer poor. Was that…” She hesitated, looking at him with desperate eyes this time. “Did He promise you riches?”

  Giordan knew precisely what she meant. “Lucifer visited me after I was well on my way to becoming as wealthy as the king.” The old niggle of unpleasantness wormed into his belly. “He merely promised that things would never change, and that I would enjoy great wealth for eternity. And I… But I’d lived on the streets, slept in the alleys and beneath the sewer bridges. Once you’ve been hungry every day for five years, and haven’t had shoes
or a clean shirt for a twelve-month, you are desperate to keep that from happening again. At least…I was.”

  He took a large gulp and pursed his lips, ignoring the doubts and darkness that weighted him at the memories of his past. Why had he agreed to follow this conversational path?

  “Did Cezar make you?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied. “But in a matter of speaking, yes. It was he who arranged for Lucifer to visit me. If he hadn’t…” She shrugged. “If he hadn’t, he would only have had a plaything for perhaps two decades instead of eleven.”

  Her tones were nonchalant; something that Giordan could hardly accept. How long had she been her brother’s prisoner? And what could he do to take her away? “Luce came to you in your dreams, then?” he ventured, keeping his thoughts away from what he could not change. Yet.

  “Is that not always how celestial beings deliver their messages?” she said wryly. “Or invitations?”

  “I do not think of Lucifer as a celestial being,” Giordan replied with his own dry smile, and felt a sharp twinge on the back of his right shoulder, where the Devil’s Mark marred his skin. Luce’s annoyance or anger with him often manifested itself through the rootlike weals that covered the back of his shoulder.

  “No, of course he is no longer. But he once was friends with Uriel and Michael and Gabriel.”

  He noticed that her face seemed less taut, and as she chose a chair on which to sit—still a distance from him, but at least she was lighting somewhere—he sensed her beginning to relax. Because of course, their conversation had turned from dangerous things to angels, fallen and otherwise, and the world they had in common.

  “And then Luce fell,” she added, her face serious. Worn. “Just as we have.”

  “One does not have to live an evil, completely selfish life despite being Dracule,” Giordan said, then gritted his teeth against the sharp searing pain.