by Колин Глисон
Just then, a streak of blonde shot around the corner of the house. It was a light-colored cat, and it appeared to be the one that had caused the ruckus out front. Once safely under a yew against the house, the feline stopped and looked up at him with unblinking gray-blue eyes.
“Merci,” Chas murmured to the creature as he slipped his package, coat and cap behind the bush and pulled a rope from inside his pocket. “You’ve given me an exceptional opportunity.” He swung the rope up onto one of the window gables and pulled tight when its hook caught around the lip of the peak.
The cat meowed, and to his amusement seemed to nod and then preen in acknowledgment, then ducked under the bushes and out of sight. The rope safely in place, Chas tested it and then began to climb.
He was quick and efficient, his movements smooth and sleek, and moments later, he pulled himself onto the ledge of the window to peer in carefully. Empty of everything but a rug and a single chair. He smiled, but there was also a nudge of disappointment that no one was waiting to try to stop him. It had been some time since he’d been in a good fight.
Gathering up the rope, he looped it out of sight onto the top of the little roof so that it would be accessible on his way out.
Then, grateful for the continued chaos from the street beyond, he climbed into the chamber and walked silently to the door. Before opening it, he waited for the familiar sensation to come over him…the sort of itching in his belly that told him a vampir was near. The closer one came to him, the deeper and more violent the odd feeling he had in his gut.
There was a time not so long ago when Chas would have sneaked through the home of a Dracule and staked any vampir he encountered—often while in their beds, sleeping away the daylight. Even after he met the earl, and learned that at least one of Lucifer’s stewards was not quite the evil being his granny’s stories had made them out to be, he hadn’t become any less discriminating in his work.
But in the last few years, since he’d come to know Corvindale’s friends and realized that despite the fact that they had all tied their souls to the Devil, there were various degrees of immorality and violence, Chas had become less rigid in his choices. In his mind, every vampir could be a threat to mortals, but there was a divide between those who truly were, and those who simply tried to live and let live.
He heard nothing alarming and went out the door into the corridor on silent feet. A little twinge in his belly told him a Dracule was near, but it was so subtle that he knew it wasn’t in close proximity.
As he made his way through the house, mentally reviewing the rough sketch of a map Cale had made for him, it became obvious that the top floors of the house were empty and unused. That made his job even easier, for he’d be less likely to encounter anyone as he made his way to Moldavi’s private quarters below the ground.
Nevertheless, he utilized the servants’ stairs down through the back of the house, noting to himself that there were no enticing smells coming from this kitchen. Draculean households didn’t really need to cook much.
The twitch in his gut was getting stronger, and he slipped a stake from one of his inside pockets. But as he passed silently by the main foyer of the home, which was furnished so as to impress any casual visitors, he saw that a cluster of people still gathered in front of the house and glimpsed the gleam of shiny black paint on the side of an upended Landau.
It was safe to say that everyone awake in this house was out in the street.
As he made his way toward the staircase Cale had told him led to the underground apartments, Chas couldn’t resist thinking: Could it simply be this easy? This Providential?
Sonia would say, yes, if he was doing God’s work, the Hand of the Almighty would arrange things so that it would happen. But Chas didn’t fully believe that such blatant miracles occurred like chess pieces being rearranged on their board.
His favorite Biblical maxim was “God helps those who help themselves.” And that was what he was doing.
He’d just about reached the entrance to the lower level when his belly gave a sharp twist and the odd itching feeling became uncomfortable. Just then a door opened in front of him.
Chas reacted before the vampir had the chance to see him: he lunged for the unsuspecting man, grabbed his arm and had him pushed against the wall, forearm up against his throat, before the sot could take a breath. All in complete silence. The vampir goggled up at him, his eyes wide and shocked. Then they narrowed a bit as he seemed to catch his breath.
“Where’s Moldavi?” Chas asked in a soft voice, the stake’s point just beneath the servant’s waistcoat, pressing gently into his breastbone as his powerful arm eased up on the man’s throat.
He felt the footman draw in a breath and just before the bastard was about to shout an alarm, he jammed the stake through shirt, breastbone and directly into his heart.
His victim jolted, shock rushing back over his face, and Chas felt him shudder…then all life abruptly cease. Swearing to himself—for now he had the smell of fresh blood in the house, not to mention the problem of a dead body to attend to—he wiped off his stake and stuck it back in his pocket. Then he heaved the corpse over his shoulder and slipped quickly back the way he’d come, toward the servants’ entrance.
Opening the back door, he dumped the corpse into the space between the house and the thick yew and boxwood that grew close to the wall, hoping it would obscure the body for some time.
Back inside the house, he moved with silent speed back to where he’d been when he encountered the vampir, all the while waiting for a renewed itch in his belly that told him more Dracule were near.
Before he started down the stairs, he paused, waiting, listening…feeling. There was a sound in the distance, voices rumbling…and the niggle started in his gut again. But it was some distance away and he started down into the depths of Cezar Moldavi’s lair.
There was a sort of finality about it. Perhaps it was because going below the surface was akin to being buried, perhaps because there was no way out but the way he came—or through the skull-lined catacombs on the north side—but Chas felt his nerves string tight. He was on his guard as he’d never been before, listening for the sound of approach, paying heed to his body and its innate signals. He had his stake in one hand, and his other fingers curled around the butt of his pocketed pistol.
Aside of it being cooler, and lit only with oil lamps and no natural light, the subterranean corridor appeared no different than one above the ground. It was painted and furnished, lined with doors just as any other hallway in a well-appointed home. But here he moved with more caution, listening at every door to see what he heard and felt.
The voices had become more distinct and Chas more cautious as he made his way along a stretch that seemed to make a large U-shape. When he reached a large door from which the voices seemed to be coming, he stopped to listen, scanning the hall as he pressed his ear to the wood, careful not to touch it and make it jolt in its hinges.
“And Corvindale,” said a male voice beyond the door.
A little prickle scooted up his spine and Chas pressed closer. He couldn’t make out all of the conversation, but he heard snatches of it.
“In London?” came a different voice, with a bit of a hiss to it. That must be Moldavi. “But of course. Perhaps you’d like to go, then, my dear?”
“Of course. I’d be more than delighted to see Dimitri again,” came a husky female voice. She must be sitting closest to the door, for her words rang fairly clear. “Since Vienna, you know.” She gave an arch laugh.
That had to be the sister. Chas leaned closer, his gut filled with that gnawing feeling from the proximity of vampirs.
Despite what Giordan Cale had implied about the sister Narcise being more of an ally than a threat to his mission, Chas had reserved judgment. Her brother might use and abuse her, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t malevolent in her own way. Anyone that close to Moldavi was most likely tarred with the same brush, and from the sound of her, he wasn’t far off i
n his estimation. A beautiful woman with fangs was a formidable force, particularly for a man.
A fourth voice joined the conversation—another male, which cooled any thought he might have had about bursting into the chamber. With four Dracule against one mortal—even with the mortal being himself—the odds were not in his favor. Chas heard something about spice ships just as something moved in the air behind him. He spun around in time for a slender, four-sided silver blade to rest right in the center of his chest.
“You don’t look like much of a fencing instructor,” said the woman holding the épée. This particular blade’s tip wasn’t blunted, however, and Chas could feel its point digging into his skin.
“What does a fencing instructor look like, per se?” he replied, keeping his voice quiet.
“For one thing,” she replied in a voice that was low and dusky and threatened to wrap around him like a velvet rope, “he would normally be armed with a blade of his own, instead of a stake.” She was strikingly beautiful, with deep blue-violet eyes and ink-black hair. So much so that he felt a little tremor of awareness beneath the adrenaline shooting through his body.
Now things were going to get interesting.
“Ah, yes,” he said, easing a bit away from the tip of her blade, feeling the door behind him and still taking care not to jolt it. Damn. He’d been wrong; this had to be the sister. “Perhaps it was an oversight.”
“Perhaps.” She followed him with the tip of her épée, and those lovely eyes narrowed. “There is only one way to find out then, isn’t there? We shall have to fence, and you will prove to me that you are accomplished. This way.” She used the tip of her weapon to prod him away from the door.
“But of course,” he replied readily, his brain working quickly.
Getting away from the others would hopefully give him the opportunity to disarm her without creating a disturbance that would bring Moldavi and his companions rushing from the chamber.
“I trust you have a place in mind?” he added. And not on the other side of this door…
“Walk, monsieur,” she said, not yet drawing blood, but coming dangerously close to doing so. He didn’t want that scent in the air, so he complied.
Chas walked quickly. If this was the sister, she was certainly not the downtrodden, dead-eyed creature Corvindale had described—a fact which heightened his suspicions even further. Perhaps that was the way things had been a hundred years ago in Vienna, but things had obviously changed. His fingers tightened around the stake.
“Here,” she said in that low voice when they came to a door near the end of the U-shaped corridor. “Open it and go in. Slowly.”
Feeling the sharp implement in his nape, Chas did as she bid and walked into the room. He took an instant to confirm that no one else was waiting beyond the entrance, and then he reacted.
Holding on to the edge of the open door, he used its leverage to whip himself around and behind it, away from her sword. She made a sound of fury, the blade clashing against the door, but he was already ducking below and erupting back out from its shelter, rearing up and knocking her against the wall on the opposite side.
A gasp of surprise burst from her as she slammed against it, her breath knocked out for a moment, and her lips curled back as she swung the blade down clumsily. He ducked again and, on her downswing, he slammed his entire body against her sword arm, smashing it against the wall, blade impaling the floor instead of his arm.
With his foot, he slid the door closed as he pushed his forearm beneath her neck and held her there.
Her eyes stormy, her breasts heaving between them, she glared up at Chas. A little ripple of attraction shivered through him, and he pushed it firmly away. She was a vampir, and lived to seduce.
Her breathing eased. “There is no doubt, then. You’re Chas Woodmore.”
12
Narcise recognized both surprise and satisfaction in his eyes. His body still held her sword arm in place against the wall. And his arm, wedged beneath her chin, was making it difficult for her to swallow, but despite the stake in his hand, she had no fear.
If he used it, then she hoped he’d make it quick and put her out of her misery.
But if he didn’t…perhaps he was the man she’d been waiting for.
“You’ve heard of me?” he said, easing up the slightest bit on her throat so that she wasn’t looking up so sharply.
“But your reputation precedes you, Monsieur Wood-more.” She switched from French to English, with which she was more comfortable even after more than a decade here in Paris.
Indeed, everyone knew of the fearless and clever vampir hunter Chas Woodmore. How he’d somehow scaled a sheer cliff and sneaked into the mountaintop castle of the bloodthirsty Darrod Firvin to stake the man in his sleep. And how he’d tricked the princes of Tylenia and Tynnien into climbing aboard a small ship so that he could slay them as well.
The Dracule all murmured of the dark-haired Gypsy gentleman who slipped in and out of the shadows like a vampir himself, silent and deadly like a servant of Death. Ironically those who told the tales were ones who’d never actually met the man, for those who did weren’t alive to tell the tales.
Which was probably why no one had included in their tales the fact that he was handsome as a dark angel, with thick black hair and intense green-brown eyes. And that he smelled like danger, tight and dark and manly. She scented a bit of blood on him, too, but it didn’t smell like it would be his.
“My reputation?” White teeth flashed in his swarthy face, and he inched his arm away a bit more, but kept her sword arm pinned to the wall with his solid body. “Is that so? And here I thought my accomplishments went largely unnoticed.”
“I do hope you don’t find such modesty too painful,” she replied. “And I would appreciate it if you’d either drive that stake into my heart or remove your arm from my throat.”
“You don’t have a preference?” he asked. He seemed sincere.
Narcise shrugged, and she realized that although she’d managed to catch her breath from their brief battle, she still felt a bit breathless. This man might be more than a match for her. “There are advantages to both.”
“Drop your sword and I’ll release you,” he said.
She complied, and he kicked the épée across the floor of her parlor. When he stepped away, his arm moving from her, she adjusted the sleeves of her manshirt, pulling them back down over her wrists. “Why are you here?”
He ignored her question and asked, “You’re Narcise?” She inclined her head and felt his eyes sweep over her. Before she could react, his hand whipped out and grabbed her arm, pulling it away from her body. “How did this happen?”
She didn’t have to follow his gaze to know that he was speaking about the bruising around her wrists from the manacles. That was nothing compared to the marks on the rest of her body, which was the reason she was wearing men’s clothing today. She couldn’t fit in her gowns without a corset, and it was simply still too painful to be laced into one.
“I lost a fencing match,” she told him, forcing her lips into a rueful smile, meeting his eyes blandly. “It happens occasionally.”
He watched her closely, as if searching for a lie, or waiting for more information, and then released her arm. “What happens when you win?”
“Whatever I choose,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m a vampir slayer,” he reminded her.
“Then why did you not slay me?” she asked, moving her arms back and away from her chest to give him a good target she suspected he wouldn’t use. “I thought Chas Woodmore was merciless.”
“You might be more beneficial to me alive than dead. Where’s your brother?”
“Are you truly here to kill him? I’d lead you to him in a breath if I—” Narcise stopped, her blood running cold. “He’s coming. They’re coming.”
She could hear the voices, and knew they’d smelled the faint blood and perhaps even the new scent of Chas Wood-more. Or that her b
rother had become suspicious when she didn’t return to the parlor, which was where she’d been going when she came upon this vampir slayer.
Woodmore looked as if he were ready to either lunge at her or duck behind the door, and Narcise made a quick decision. She was going to get away from Cezar, and this man was going to help her.
She opened her mouth and screamed as she dove for the épée on the floor.
One moment Chas was ready to duck into the bedchamber beyond the open door to hide from Moldavi, and the next, his sister was screaming for help.
Cursing, he spun after her as she rose to her feet, her sword back in hand. “You,” he snarled, deciding he’d take her to hell with him. “I knew better than to believe them.”
But her eyes had widened with fear—something he hadn’t seen before, even when he had her plastered, immobile, against the wall—and just as the pounding footsteps reached the door, she whispered, “I’ll save you. Help me. Please.”
When the door burst open, Chas got his first glimpse of Cezar Moldavi. But he didn’t have much time to observe the man in detail, for he was followed by three other vampirs, and they were all red-eyed and fanged-teeth. They surrounded him without hesitation, blocking the door.
“What is going on here?” said the man who was presumably Moldavi himself. Slight of stature, dark hair with an odd, wide jaw, and rings glinting on all of his fingers.
Chas stilled, his attention bouncing around the chamber to see what might be utilized for an escape, or at least for a weapon. The thing about stakes; they weren’t good for distance. One had to get up close.
Narcise, the madwoman, had her sword, and he looked down to notice that it was once again thrusting into his chest. “Look who’s arrived for a visit, dear brother,” she said. Her expression had changed into something hard and blank.
“Do I know you?” Moldavi asked, making a little hissing tsk sound. “Monsieur?”
Chas hardly took note of the other three vampirs, assuming they were the ones who’d been speaking with Moldavi earlier, and instead focused on gauging the distance and angle it would take him to thrust his stake into the man’s chest. He flickered a glance at Narcise, trying to read something in her eyes that would either support or deny her previous plea of Help me.
