The Vampire Narcise rd-3

by Колин Глисон

  He had no real memory of where he went and what he did once out of Cezar’s place: it was dark, and his world became a hot, red rampage, filled with the taste and scent of blood, the heat and suppleness of living flesh, the rhythmic pulsing against his body, the slap and thud of flesh against flesh. There might have been screams, shouts, cries, moans and groans. There were certainly deaths and injuries.

  Giordan’s vision burned with red shadow. It was as if coals had been shoved beneath his lids and seared into his irises, coloring his sight.

  He supposed he went mad.

  Do you have any idea what I’ve done for you? His own hoarse words rolled in his brain, over and over, desperate and angry even as he sought relief. She wouldn’t even listen. She wouldn’t listen.

  He woke sometime, some hours, perhaps days, later in one of Paris’s narrow alleys. Tucked back in a corner. Alone.

  That moment was clear in his mind even today, a decade after: that moment of reemergence, of clawing up from the depths of a heavy, dark sea. As if he’d dragged himself awake from the worst of nightmares.

  But it had been no nightmare, those three nights of hell. And what he’d thought of as the light at the end of the tunnel, as the prize for his endurance and existence through hours of torture, turned only into the slap of betrayal. And the hot memory of humiliation.

  Narcise.

  Giordan rubbed gritty eyes with trembling fingers that smelled of blood and semen and opium and filth. He saw that the alley was hardly wide enough for him to extend his legs, but so long that he could see only that it angled into nothingness.

  The walls on either side of him loomed tall and windowless, like dark sentinels. The brick was cold against his bare back, chill and rough with dirt, sticky with unidentifiable substances. Even springy with a bit of moss. The ground below, uneven with cobbles and filtered with a random tuft of grass, seeped damply into his breeches.

  All at once, Giordan became aware of the sun. It emerged from a heavy cloud as if a curtain had been drawn away. The golden light spilled into the alley next to him and would soon filter over the spot where he lay.

  At first, he didn’t have even the energy to pull to his feet. Nor the desire.

  His mind was stark and empty, devoid of thought, even emotion. Just…empty.

  Finished.

  She’d finished him.

  But then, as the base need for self-preservation stirred with the shift of the sun, Giordan prepared to heave himself upright.

  At that moment, he saw the cat.

  She sat there, pale and blonde against the shades of indigo and violet and gray that filled the alley. Her blue-gray eyes were fixed on him in that way of her race, unblinking and steady.

  But there was no miffed accusation in this feline’s stare. Her tail, which curled comfortably around her, had no annoyed twitching at its tip. She exuded peace.

  She looked just like the cat who’d stared at him from a nearby roof some weeks ago. Just after he’d met Narcise.

  Giordan realized belatedly that some of the weakness in his body stemmed from the presence of his Asthenia, positioned just-so in front of him. She sat just far enough away that he wasn’t breathless and paralyzed, but close enough that he felt the essence of her presence like uncomfortable waves.

  And he realized that, until she moved, he could not escape from the alley.

  “Scat!” he said with as much sharpness as he could muster, but at the same time, a wave of grief for his own fat orange Chaton roughened the back of his throat. “Move!”

  The cat looked at him, her eyes intelligent and steady. And she didn’t move.

  Even when he threw a stone toward her, she didn’t flinch. She hardly deigned to notice when the rock scuttled across the stones next to her.

  Giordan looked up and saw the light blazing above in a perfect, cerulean sky. Hot and yellow and bright. The beams had begun to fill the alley in an ever-widening triangle of light, turning the stones lighter gray, glazing them with hints of yellow and rust, coloring the random tufts of grass green.

  It was only a matter of time until the rays would fall onto him; now they eased slyly against his breeches and filtered over the heel of his battered boot.

  He pressed himself up against the wall, crouched in the corner, glaring at the cat.

  “Move!” he shouted again, and looked for something else to throw at the stubborn creature. There was nothing. He managed to work one of his boots from his foot—a very long, difficult process in his weakened state—and when it finally came free, he flung it clumsily toward the thing.

  It tumbled just behind her and she barely lifted her chin as it thudded onto the cobbles.

  He began to heave himself to his feet, but at that moment, the cat decided it was time to move…and she sauntered toward him.

  As she came closer, the rest of Giordan’s strength fell away. His lungs slowed their movements, his chest felt heavy and constricted and his muscles ceased to respond.

  Giordan sank back onto the ground, leaning against the wall as the cat positioned herself directly in front of him. So close he could see the gray and black flecks in her unblinking eyes, and even the fact that she had whiskers in both white and black. Her ears were two perfect triangles sitting at the top of her head, and her fur was lush and long like corn silk. He had a moment of madness and nearly reached to touch that soft fur.

  Feeling ebbed from his body and he closed his eyes against the nothingness that swept over him. Blankness…something even beyond paralysis.

  After a moment, he opened his eyes and saw the sun just peeking over the roof above him. Soon, it would be directly overhead, pouring into the alley.

  He’d burn.

  If the damned cat didn’t move…he’d burn. He had nothing to cover himself with, nowhere to hide.

  “Go!” he shouted, but his voice was weak. And perhaps it even lacked conviction.

  The cat, of course, didn’t move, and although she continued to watch him with those wide eyes, her expression was not haughty.

  It was determined.

  Giordan closed his eyes when he felt the first brush of the sun’s warmth.

  It was an impossible juxtaposition of pleasure and pain…the warmth, as if someone’s hand brushed over him, warm and tender…and yet edged with sharpness, bespeaking of the agony to come.

  He huddled against the building, curled up like a cat—or a fetus—pressing as close against the bricks as he could. But the back of his shoulder was exposed, the only part of him that he couldn’t keep in the shadow, and the sun’s rays inched inexorably closer until at last they seared into his sensitive flesh.

  A wave of agony screamed through him and he realized from deep inside the white pain that it was coming from his Mark.

  The light poured onto him, battling with the dark, undulating roots that branded him Lucifer’s. They writhed and screamed with their own pain as the sun burned and burned and burned.

  The last thing he remembered was a light…bright and white and pure, burning inside his mind.

  Clarity.

  And a voice, deep inside him, that said, “Choose.”

  In the decade that followed Giordan’s betrayal, as the Reign of Terror in Paris ended and the Revolution metamorphosed into a new era under Napoleon Bonaparte’s leadership, Narcise came to a realization: despite her inability to banish the memory of what Cale had done to her, there were other men who wanted her, ones who could love her. At least for a time.

  There were other men who, if she found one who was infatuated deeply enough, could perhaps finish the job Giordan had begun—or at least had made her think he’d begun; she had no reason to believe Giordan had ever even truly meant to free her.

  She firmly pushed away her pang of unease as she remembered his face during their final confrontation. Everything from those moments was a blur of pain and darkness, of sordid, hedonistic smells assaulting and pummeling her with the knowledge of what he’d done…everything except the dull shock in his eyes.<
br />
  Narcise shook her head to banish the image.

  Now, perhaps she could find a man who actually would help her escape from her brother.

  She didn’t have to love him, or even care for him—she wasn’t certain she could ever open her heart again.

  She merely had to make them want to help her.

  Because it had become clear to her, with a bitter and terrifying finality, that she had no chance of escaping Cezar on her own. For too long she’d held out hope that she could find a way…but he was too smart and cunning. There were sparrow feathers, it seemed, everywhere in the house and in its adjoining tunnels, and he kept anything that could be considered a weapon far from her except when she was forced to entertain. Nor could she trust any of the servants, for they were all bound to her brother.

  She was utterly alone, and felt that loneliness more acutely than she ever had before—now that she realized what it was like to love someone, and now that she had lost hope of finding escape on her own.

  But if she had nothing else, she had strength and determination: the same characteristics that had helped her become a nearly undefeated swordswoman and had kept her from going mad during the years of rape and molestation.

  Perhaps that was why Lucifer had chosen her. An iron core beneath a seductive, beautiful woman was a formidable weapon.

  And so she looked more closely at her opponents when she faced them. Sometimes, she even allowed one to win, just to remind herself that she could still feel. Pain, pleasure, apprehension…whatever.

  Just so she could feel.

  London

  Chas Woodmore was surrounded by vampirs, which would normally be a convenience rather than a concern, since he was, in fact, a vampir hunter. And a damn good one at that.

  Some called those who shared his occupation Venators, but that was a completely different society—in fact, it was an entire family from Italy that spent their lives hunting and slaying the half-demon vampires that had descended from Judas Iscariot.

  Woodmore happened to specialize in the hunting and staking of the very different vampirs that originated in Romania, where Vlad Tepes, Count Dracula, had made his own deal with the Devil in the late fifteenth century. Unfortunately for his progeny, the unholy covenant applied not only to Vlad himself, but also to any of his descendants selected by Lucifer to participate. They had to agree, of course, just as Dracula had done, but Luce was a master at manipulation and it was rare that any of them declined his juicy bargain—partly because it was most often made during their dreams.

  Thus, some of the Dracule embraced their newly immortal lives, complete with bloodlust and damaged souls that belonged to the Devil for all eternity, and some of them existed more judiciously, realizing only after the fact that perhaps it hadn’t been such a good deal after all….

  And then there was Woodmore’s employer, Dimitri, the Earl of Corvindale, who fought the regrettable bargain with every breath he took, every single day.

  It was because of his association with Corvindale that Woodmore was not only surrounded by some of the less rapacious vampirs at this very moment, but also comfortably unarmed—and playing cards with the lot of them. This lot happened to be safe from Woodmore’s lethal stake because they were of the mind that, for example, one didn’t have to murder a mortal in order to feed.

  And Woodmore happened to be losing tonight because of one Mr. Giordan Cale, who seemed to have some sort of magic about him when it came to having the winning hand every time. Or at least when the pot was very large.

  “By the Fates, Giordan,” Corvindale said in disgust, tossing his cards onto the table. “You dragged me out of my study for this? What precisely is the benefit to me of being relieved of three thousand pounds in the space of two hours?”

  A fleeting smile curved Cale’s lips as he collected the pound notes and coins from the latest winning pot. “A change of scenery,” he suggested mildly. “Perhaps even some social discourse, no?”

  Although he spoke excellent English, he had a trace of French in his pronunciation. Woodmore knew that Cale was originally from Paris, but had left the city ten years ago, near the end of the Reign of Terror, and hadn’t returned. He’d been in and out of London for the past decade, but they had only become acquainted a few weeks ago.

  “Corvindale? Social discourse?” Lord Eddersley laughed, his gangly hands bumping the table, making the coins clink. “But Luce’s hell hasn’t yet frozen over.”

  The earl slid his companion a dark look, but Woodmore wasn’t certain whether it was because he took offense, which was bloody unlikely, or because he didn’t want to be here in the private apartment at White’s gentlemen’s club in the first place. His employer—which was a loose term, for they were more like associates working toward the same goals than master and minion, and, aside of that, a gentleman never actually worked for anyone anyway—rarely left his study unless it was to seek out more ancient books or parchments to add to his collection.

  Brickbank, a baronet from Derbyshire who was also a member of the Dracule, gestured to a hovering footman for a refill on his whiskey, complaining, “Wish those Brits would run that damned frog Boney out of Paris. Damned tired of drinking this rot from Scotland. Miss a good Armagnac.”

  “Those Brits? Do you not consider yourself one of them?” Cale asked, sipping his own “rot.”

  “I’m too old to be a damned soldier,” Brickbank replied, and all of the vampirs laughed. Even Corvindale managed the sharp bark of a chuckle. Of course they would: each of them was well over a century old, and they looked no more than in the prime of their lives. “And I don’t give a bloody damn about their Prinnys or their Parliaments or anyone’s cock-licking emperors.”

  Woodmore wouldn’t trade places with any of the Dracule, even to live and be forever young and virile…for when they died, they belonged to Lucifer. Even vampirs, like their mortal counterparts, had the illusion of free will and some choice to be good or evil; still, a life of taking sustenance from other living creatures, of the uncontrollable bloodlust that came with it…of being cloistered from the sun, and knowing that one would spend eternity in the bowels of hell—whenever eternity struck—such a life was repulsive to Woodmore.

  That was, perhaps, the only reason he and Corvindale had become friends—because he knew that more than anything, the earl wanted to sever his relationship with Lucifer. As proof, for over a hundred years, the earl had refused to feed as the Devil intended, and instead resorted to butchers’ bags of blood for sustenance.

  Among the Dracule, this long-term abstinence was routinely blamed for the earl’s irritable disposition and dark personality.

  “But of course Corvindale can get anything through the lines,” Cale said with a sidewise glance at the man in question. “He’s hardly noticed any inconvenience from the war between our nations, despite the problems crossing the Channel, have you, Dimitri? He’s kept me in supply of my favorite Bordeaux as well.”

  “You have a stash of Armagnac?” Brickbank said, looking at the earl in surprise. “And haven’t brought it here to White’s? Should move the game to Blackmont then.”

  Corvindale shot another dark look, this time aimed at Giordan Cale, who smiled as he lifted his own glass to drink. “Naturally I’ve charged you a substantial fee to keep you in such supply,” the earl replied to Cale.

  Woodmore hid his own amusement. The last thing his employer wanted was people at his home, bothering him while he was trying to immerse himself in old scrolls and ancient languages. Searching for a way to break the covenant with Lucifer.

  Which was why Woodmore felt particularly grateful that, some years back, Corvindale had agreed to play guardian and guard for his sisters should anything happen to him. He had three younger sisters—Maia, Angelica and Sonia, the latter of whom happened to be ensconced far north of London in a Scottish convent—and a dangerous occupation of which none of them were aware.

  “I’m of a mind to take the game to Rubey’s,” said Cale, “if we’re talk
ing of moving it. I suspect Dimitri has supplied her with some excellent vintages as well—and she won’t make us leave so she can hole herself up in her study.”

  Corvindale glanced at him, lifting one eyebrow with skepticism. “Spying on your potential competition?”

  “Not any longer. She’s convinced me that it would be futile for any establishment of mine to try to compete with hers here in London. Now I’m attempting to persuade her to take on an investor—namely me—to make some improvements to the place. Aside of that…ah, well, she meets another criteria of mine and she’s been rather accommodating.” Cale smiled with exaggerated modesty.

  Woodmore, along with every Dracule in London, was well-acquainted with Rubey’s—the luxurious brothel that catered to vampirs and, occasionally, a select few mortals who were aware of the Draculean underground. Rubey, a mortal herself, was a formidable character who reminded Chas of his half-part-Gypsy great-grandmother in personality, if not looks. She was sharp in business acumen, quick of wit and overly generous with lectures and advice—wanted or otherwise. Nearing forty, she was also very attractive, if not a bit long in the tooth for him.

  Because he needed to be so ingrained in his employer’s world of the Dracule, he’d visited her establishment on more than one occasion. But the most recent incident had been when he was too far into his cups and he ended up in one of the bedchambers with a female vampir make. That night of heat and pain and passion had been his first—and last—intimacy with a vampir, and one he did not intend to repeat…despite the fact that the very memory haunted him.

  He tried to feel only revulsion for the night of debauchery, but even two weeks later, the marks from bites he’d begged for in the blur of drunkenness and lust hadn’t quite healed. And remnants of the night’s pleasures still weaved within his dreams.

  As he picked up his drink, Woodmore noticed a little spider making its way along the edge of the table between him and Cale. He lifted his hand to smash it, but the other man raised his palm and said, “Allow me.” And as he watched, Cale scooped the spider onto one of the playing cards and dropped the creature in a corner, where, presumably, it scuttled away to safety.