The Vampire Narcise rd-3

by Колин Глисон

  What exactly was she asking him?

  “We’ve never met,” Chas replied to the man who’d walked around him as if he were a piece of furnishing he was considering for purchase. The hair at the back of his neck lifted, prickling uncomfortably at the man’s frenetic movements.

  Darkness rolled off Moldavi in silent waves, burning in eyes that seemed calm, but lurking deep within them was an odd light. He was too quick, too odd in his movements, yet the underlying energy bespoke of paranoia battling with control. There was no doubt in Chas’s mind that this man was malevolence personified.

  “Too dark and swarthy for my taste,” Moldavi murmured to one of his companions—not his sister. “But who are you, then, and what are you doing here?” he said, standing in front of him.

  “It’s Chas Woodmore,” Narcise said, sending Chas’s shocked attention back to her.

  How in the Devil’s name is that going to save me?

  Moldavi stilled and his eyes narrowed. “You’re Wood-more?”

  “I’m here to kill you,” said Chas, never one to beat around the bush.

  Moldavi turned to look at his companions, chuckling, and Chas felt the tip of Narcise’s blade shift a bit. Whether by accident or design, he didn’t know, but he didn’t hesitate.

  The next moment he was spinning away and then lunging toward Moldavi, stake raised to his shoulder. No one could react in time to stop him, and Chas felt a surge of triumph as his powerful thrust embedded the stake into the back of the man’s torso. Right at the heart.

  But instead of feeling the soft inside, the give of the heart after breaking through the skin next to the spine, Chas felt a shock of pain jolting his arm as he realized he’d struck armor—something metal, based on the strength of the reverberations trammeling through his limb.

  He swore as they descended on him then, all of them, fangs flashing, eyes red, hands tearing and clawing. He still had hold of his stake and, using his legs, he twisted and bucked, stabbing indiscriminately as countless hands and feet grabbed and kicked him. He felt something give in his shoulder, the tearing of skin, the burst of blood from his upper arm.

  Something sharp slammed into his back, then his gut, and one of them yanked him up and threw him through the air. He hadn’t caught his breath when he slammed into the wall and the world, mercifully, went black.

  His last thought before tumbling into darkness was Corvindale is going to kill me.

  When he opened his eyes again, Chas found himself reclining on a chaise or some sort of divan. A fire roared nearby, heating his skin uncomfortably. His body ached, his head pounded and he was thirsty.

  It took him a moment to realize that he was dressed only in his breeches and that his wrists were tied on either side of him, restrained with leather thongs to the foot of the divan. His legs were also immobilized in the same way.

  Something moved in his periphery and he looked over to see Moldavi, who’d shifted into his line of vision. He was with a young woman who seemed to stumble as she walked along with him.

  “I have my own special armor,” Moldavi said without preamble, directing the woman to sit on a chair directly in front of Chas.

  “My informants neglected to share that detail with me,” Chas replied wryly. “If they even knew.”

  “It’s saved my life more than a dozen times. Would you like to see it?” Moldavi pulled off his shirt to reveal a slender, ashen-gray chest dusted with shiny dark hair.

  The man was slender, nearly skeletal, and at first Chas saw nothing that could be considered armor except for a dark circular shape over the center of his chest. It gleamed and he saw that it was metal…set into his skin.

  “Look more closely,” Moldavi said, leaning toward him, gesturing to his breastbone. “Do you see?”

  And then Chas understood. The faint octagonal outline on—no, beneath—his skin, covering the entire breastbone and over his chest, was larger than that which was exposed beneath the skin. No larger than the spread of a hand, the whole was nevertheless generous enough to protect the heart from any stake.

  “It’s… Your skin has grown over it?” Chas asked, fascinated and horrified at the same time.

  Moldavi nodded complacently. “Some years ago I realized how prudent it would be to have a permanent protection. We Dracule heal so quickly, of course, and so I made a place for the medallions of protection—I have one on my back as well, of course—by cutting a place for it in my skin. Oh, it didn’t hurt, don’t be concerned. And it makes me feel quite powerful. I kept the medallions there until the skin grew back over them—most of the way, as you can see, some of it is still exposed. I rather like the appearance of it. I have similar protection in my neck, of course. For, you see, now I can’t be killed. Even by the fearsome Chas Woodmore.”

  Moldavi shifted, now standing behind the woman. He moved her hair away, leaving a shoulder and the side of her neck bare. “You come from London, do you not, Chas Woodmore? Where you live with your three very lovely sisters?”

  A shock of fear speared his insides. “You seem to be more familiar with me than I am with you.”

  “Oh, I am very familiar with you, Monsieur Woodmore, and Maia, Angelica and…Sophia? What was her name?” He gave a brief smile, licked his lips, then bent slightly to sink his fangs into the bare shoulder of his companion. She tensed, stiffening at the pain, then relaxed.

  The spike of worry for his sisters turned into a deep, heavy bolt of revulsion as Chas watched Moldavi gulp the coursing blood. His throat, visible above an elaborate neckcloth, convulsed as his jaw moved in the same rhythm—as if he couldn’t get enough of it fast enough. The woman’s reaction was nearly as unsettling: she closed her eyes, her face tightening with some expression that was neither wholly pain nor wholly pleasure.

  As he fed, Moldavi watched Chas, his burning red-gold eyes fastened on him as if gauging his response. Chas wanted to look away, but he could not, and he felt his own body begin to stir in response.

  No. He tried to force his attention away, but found himself trapped by the hypnotic gaze. The sounds of rushing blood and the quiet kuhn-kuhn-kuhn of Moldavi’s drinking filled his ears. Chas knew he was being enthralled, but in his weakened state, he could hardly drag his eyes away. Desire tingled inside him, teasing and coaxing a deeper response and Chas tried to focus on the pain throbbing through him instead.

  Moldavi released the pinch of pale flesh between his fangs, lifting his face with a slow smile. Blood stained his gums and the edges of his teeth, and Chas fancied he could even smell it on his breath.

  “Very satisfying,” Moldavi said, looking at him. “Would you care to sample?” He smoothed his finger over the oozing wounds on the woman’s shoulder, offering a red-tipped digit to Chas.

  He turned his face away, noting the pillow behind his head. His heart pounded rampantly as his stomach squeezed with queasiness.

  “No? Perhaps another time then. I hope you won’t think me rude, dining in front of you, but I offered to share, and you declined.” Moldavi licked the woman’s shoulder, which Chas didn’t see, but he could hear the sounds. Sloppy and wet, yet sensual.

  He swallowed, his throat prickly and rough. His cock had begun to fill and he willed it to subside.

  “Now,” said Moldavi, pulling the woman’s hair back over her shoulders, patting it into place and then giving her a sharp gesture to leave, “back to the matter at hand. London…and your informants. I must assume Dimitri has sent you here.”

  “No one sends me,” Chas managed to say, relieved that the feeding was over. The tightness in his belly released just that little bit, and he began to focus on his wrists…if there was anything that might be loose or weak. “I go where I will.”

  “But it is well known that you and Dimitri—what does he call himself in England? Corvindale?—are associates. I find it unlikely that he hasn’t at least encouraged you to find me. There was an incident in Vienna, you see, some years back…and Dimitri hasn’t quite gotten over it.”

  “I
needed no encouragement to come after a child-bleeder,” Chas told him.

  “Oh, who has been telling tales? Tsk.” Moldavi stood and turned toward the blazing fire. When he shifted back around, he was holding a slender metal spike, hardly thicker than the tine of a fork. It glowed white-hot for a moment, then settled into red, then black.

  A ripple of fear coursed along his spine, and Chas steadied his breath. This is going to be unpleasant.

  “Perhaps you might tell me a bit more information about Corvindale. What his recent investments are, perhaps?” Moldavi smiled and that slender spike moved closer to Chas.

  He steeled himself, his heart ramming furiously. “I’m not privy to that information,” he said.

  Moldavi’s fingers curled around Chas’s immobile arm, the digits ashen in color next to his olive skin. “I’m certain you know something.”

  Chas shook his head, and groaned at the sharp pain as the spike slid through the soft part of the side of his arm and emerged on the other side. He closed his eyes, shuddering as the little rod burned his flesh, inside and out. Agony reverberated from that center of pain, dulling his thoughts and thickening his mind.

  “Perhaps you might know when he is going to leave the country again? I’ve found it impossible to send anyone inside Blackmont Hall, for he has it well secured. If he travels, it will be much easier for me to…renew old acquaintances.”

  Through the haze of pain, Chas saw that Moldavi had turned to the fire, and then back again, holding another of the slender metal spikes. “Anything you can tell me will speed things up a bit here,” Moldavi said with a smile.

  Chas managed to shake his head, and wondered yet again what Narcise had been thinking to say I’ll save you. Help me.

  The woman was obviously addled, or else she was a consummate actress. Just as unpleasant and self-serving as her brother.

  Moldavi pinched a piece of flesh at Chas’s side, along his firm belly. “My,” he said, his voice shifting lower, “there isn’t much here to work with, is there, Woodmore? Nevertheless, I shall prevail.”

  He looked at his victim and said, “What about Giordan Cale?”

  Chas tried to shrug, but feared it came across as more of a convulsion than anything else. He braced himself, but it wasn’t enough to prepare for the sharp, searing pain as the thick needle went through the flesh of his abdomen.

  “Giordan Cale,” said Moldavi again, more urgently. His eyes glittered. “I understand he is in London now. What do you know of him?”

  Chas opened his mouth to speak, and perhaps might have said, “Nothing.” At least, that was what he attempted to say, but it wasn’t the answer Moldavi wanted. A rough jab through his bicep had him jolting and crying out in pain, and then before he could react, a second one in his other bicep. He was pinned to the divan’s upholstery.

  “Giordan Cale,” Moldavi said again. “What is he doing? Where is he? Where does he go?”

  “I don’t…know…much….” Chas stammered. “Water…?”

  Something splashed in his face a moment later, and he choked but licked his lips to get the essence of the water. Before he could fully recover, Moldavi had something else in his hand.

  Another metal object, this one with a blunt tip that glowed white-hot. “Tell me everything you know about Giordan Cale. Everything. Everything.”

  “Why?” he managed to ask. Why this obsession with Cale?

  Moldavi’s only response was to pull his teeth back in a feral smile and jam the poker into the top of his shoulder.

  The smell of burning flesh had Chas arching and twisting in his position, his body fighting the thongs as agony shot through him…from his shoulder, from the back of his knee, from the inside of the crook of his arm…all of it turned white-hot and red as he babbled.

  He didn’t know what he was saying, but the questions over and over were about Cale, Cale…always about Cale.

  At last pain claimed him, and he eased into a world of peace.

  When Chas peeled his eyes open next, he could hardly breathe for the pain. Nor could he focus, for the room tilted and spun so violently, he had to close his eyes. But someone was prodding him to move, forcing him to stand, to walk.

  Through a haze and with pure determination, he gathered his strength—both mental and physical—and concentrated on moving, thinking, banishing the agony. His eyes opened, his gaze focused, his limbs began to cooperate—if sullenly—and his thoughts cleared…albeit slowly.

  He wasn’t restrained, and was led into a room that was well-lit with many lamps and torches, along with another roaring fire. One side of the chamber was lined with a small dais, on which a dining table sat. Moldavi and another four or five companions sat at the table, which was littered with cups and goblets, bottles and flasks. They looked up at his entrance, and Moldavi said something that made one of them laugh, and the others look at Chas. At first he thought he was hallucinating from the pain when he recognized the short-statured man who was soon to be formally crowned the Emperor of France. But he blinked and refocused and could only come to the conclusion that he recognized him correctly.

  The remainder of the space was empty, long and narrow and open. The only other furnishing was a long table at the other end, and from here, he was fairly certain he saw two long blades lying on it.

  As Chas stood silently in front of the table, flanked by two burly—if unintelligent-looking—made vampirs, he tried to assimilate the fact that Napoleon Bonaparte was here.

  There’d been rumors of Moldavi’s allegiance to an alliance with the new emperor, but for him to be so intimate and in such close quarters was unsettling. It appeared to be a social engagement…but nevertheless, to have a powerful man so enticed by one like Cezar Moldavi…well, the Dracule were infamous for remaining uninvolved with politics or authority.

  Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing if Bonaparte was engaged with the likes of Moldavi—it might keep him from the invasion of England that Westminster seemed to think was imminent.

  Despite the obvious political fascination, Chas reminded himself he had more pressing matters to attend to. As he stood there, trying not to let his knees buckle, he realized he still wore his own breeches. They were sweat and bloodstained, but they were his, and that meant the inside pockets still held the little smoke packets he had.

  If he could get close enough to the fireplace and toss one of them in, an explosive puff of smoke would—God willing—roll into the chamber and give him the element of surprise…and the chance to escape. Hopefully after he sent at least one of those bastards to hell on his way out.

  Now that he knew Moldavi had protection, it made for a more difficult process. But there were other ways to get to the heart—through the throat, or shoulder, for example—although that would be much more difficult than pinning someone through the chest.

  But he was still alive, and he had options, and Chas focused on those thoughts, even going so far as to slyly move his arm along the side of his breeches to confirm that the slender smoke explosion packet was still there. It was.

  Yet, he was still wavering on his feet. His body protested with every movement, and the burns and piercings were tender and inflamed with pain. He wasn’t certain how long he’d been here—hours, days, weeks?—but certainly he hadn’t eaten for a very long time. The gnawing in his belly wasn’t merely due to the presence of the Dracule.

  The chamber door opened and in walked Narcise. She, too, was flanked by a pair of guards. She was also, again, wearing men’s clothing—tight breeches and a close-fitting tuniclike shirt. Her hair shone like blue-black coal from where it was pulled back tightly into a knot. Her feet were bare.

  She didn’t acknowledge him at all, and instead faced her brother and his companions. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “Entertainment, of course, my dear sister,” Moldavi said. “We have an esteemed guest tonight—” he nodded to Bonaparte “—and I have promised him something very thrilling. I hope you will do your best to make it so.” T
hen he gestured to Chas.

  Narcise turned as if noticing him for the first time. “Him? You want me to fight him? What sort of entertainment would that be? The man can barely stand,” she scoffed.

  Chas lifted his chin in annoyance. He wasn’t exactly ready to collapse, and he certainly didn’t feel as if his knees were going to give way. In fact, he was feeling stronger—and more furious—by the moment. More determined to get out of here alive, but taking one or two of the vampirs to hell first.

  I’ll save you. Help me, please.

  If there was a woman in the world who didn’t need his help, it was Narcise Moldavi.

  And if she thought turning him over to her brother for torture was a way to save him, she was even more disturbed than he’d thought. As far as he was concerned, all deals were null and void.

  “You’re correct, my dear sister…which is why I thought we might want to even things up a bit.” He lifted his hand from a small box on the table, withdrawing a long cord. Chas saw that he was holding a leather thong with two feathers dangling from it.

  She blanched, and even Chas could sense the tremor shuttling through her. Something changed in the chamber, some sort of ebbing of energy or life…and he realized that Moldavi must be holding Narcise’s Asthenia.

  Feathers.

  “You’ll fight to the death. There will be no stopping until one of you is dead,” commanded their host, tossing the chain to the floor in front of the table.

  Narcise stiffened and Chas felt her shock.

  “Yes, you’ve heard me correctly. He’s a vampir hunter, is he not? A killer? And that is what he came here for. I’d hate to disappoint him, and have him return to Dimitri only to complain about my lack of hospitality. Woodmore,” Moldavi said, looking at him, “if you succeed in killing this lovely sister of mine, I will generously allow you to go free…back to your own sisters.”