by Колин Глисон
Yet, the blind lust had eased and she was back inside her own control—if not fully aware of Chas Woodmore in a completely different way. Another dull thump had her attention swiveling back to the vampir hunter, even as she restrained Philippe’s enthusiastic and insistent hands. Wood-more had managed a step or two, then collapsed once again.
Narcise turned her thrall back onto Philippe with new intent, and coaxed him into her world. This time, she lulled him into a dreamlike state that would eliminate from his memory everything that had happened since she turned her thrall on him.
When she finally released him, he was back in front of the fireplace and she was sitting in the chair just as she had been. Woodmore, whose gaze burned in its own mortal fashion as he dragged himself back to his feet, had sunk weakly back onto the bed in a feverish stupor.
“Merci,” she told Philippe as he gathered up the pails and tub. The marks on his neck were hidden by his shirt, and hadn’t left even a drop of blood on the pale linen. “Would you be so kind as to bring a new bath?”
“But of course, madame,” he said, his eyes still a bit feverish…as if he couldn’t quite remember what had happened, but sensed that something had.
She smiled at him and gave a little flare of glow in her eyes, then sent him on his way.
Then she turned her attention to Woodmore. His breathing was off rhythm, rough and ragged, and if anything his skin had become hotter. His cock had softened back into a relaxed state, and his eyes remained half open but unfocused.
Narcise’s trill of panic returned and she looked again at the wound on his hip. It was likely causing the fever. The swelling around it, and the stench… The physician had helped, but the smell told her that he’d not been able to stop the infection.
And then a thought struck her. It was so unexpected, and yet so logical she could hardly believe it hadn’t occurred to her before.
If there was bad blood there, gathering and clotting around the wound…she could take it away. She could draw the infection from him, and then use her lips and tongue to cleanse and heal in their own effective way.
It could work.
And, she thought, swallowing hard as she looked down at his tight, battered body…it would give her an excuse to taste him.
Something she hadn’t realized how much she wanted.
14
Chas opened his eyes to find bright sunlight blazing through a half-shuttered window.
He lay there for a moment, looking up at the wood-beamed ceiling festooned with random cobwebs, then off to the side and around an unfamiliar chamber. He couldn’t remember where he was or how he’d come to be here.
Yet, shifting in the bed on which he lay, Chas felt hardly a niggle of concern. There’d been many a night that had taken him places he hadn’t expected to go; many times he’d awakened after too much drink or women or both…quite often after routing a group of vampirs.
But as he turned, he saw her, lying on her side on the bed next to him. And with that sight came the rush of memories—some strident and clear, others murky and hot and red.
But first, before he tried to make sense of what was real and what had been dreams…he just looked. Such beauty, such exquisite beauty was breathtaking. Even in repose, she appeared unimaginably lovely.
Her cheek, perfectly ivory, without a flaw, rested on hands folded as if in prayer—an irony in and of itself. The position caused her already full, sensual lips to plump out even more enticingly, and an endearing pudge to her face. Her eyes were closed of course, but that was one thing he remembered clearly: the intense blue-violet color in them, ringed with black, flecked with dark colors.
Long, shiny hair, the color of coal, clung to her face and throat, tumbling into a pool on the bed between them. He reached over and touched it to see if it was as silky as it appeared. It was.
He could see the shadow of her breasts where they showed through a low neckline of the chemise she was wearing, the curve of them as they bunched up against the mattress. A ripple of attraction seized his belly, but he ignored it.
This was Narcise Moldavi.
He was in bed with a vampir—and one he’d meant to kill, at least at some point.
Chas sat up gingerly, noting that Narcise slept on the side of the bed farthest from where the sun would stream through the window, and felt the remnants of aches and pains throughout his body. His naked body.
With that realization of pain, more details came filtering back…Cezar Moldavi and his metal spikes and the burning poker…the fencing match between him and Narcise…the smoke packets that had worked almost as well as they had during their trials…perhaps they’d gotten a bit damp during the trip across the Channel.
Things were murky after that. He remembered everything being slow and dark and red, of pain and agony with every movement, the world tilting and spinning. There were times of running, stumbling along as if forever and ever…up some stairs…
Here. Into this chamber.
There things turned darker and hotter, and memory confused with dreams and nightmares. He closed his eyes and saw an image of Narcise, rising naked and glistening from a bath…there, in the corner…of her with eyes red-gold and hot, her fangs long and white and lethal…blood…there was blood and pain, and he had an image of her on top of someone, tearing into him…
Narcise stirred next to him and then she opened her eyes.
When she saw that he was awake, she sat up abruptly. “You’re alive.” Her eyes were wide with shock and happiness, making her even more beautiful with her dark hair swirling about her shoulders against a thin white shift.
Chas felt another loosening inside his belly, deep and fluttery. She was right there, she was lovely and sensual and they were alone. He wasn’t so weak that he couldn’t reach over, pull her to him—
He closed his mind to the temptation. She was a vampir. She’d coerce, coax, lull…seduce him…drag him into the Devil’s dark world.
“I don’t remember much,” he said.
“You nearly died,” she said. “From an infection. The doctor came, more than once, but he wasn’t certain if you’d live.”
Chas sank down onto his back, remembering even more. The screaming pain on his side, the cool, quick hands administering to his wounds, the haze of heat and confusion that followed, Narcise… He stopped his thoughts, afraid of where they were about to lead. It was impossible not to be attracted to her.
He tightened his lips. That was Lucifer’s game, wasn’t it? She was irresistible for a reason.
“What day is it? How long have I—we—been here?” he asked instead.
“Nearly a week,” she told him.
“A week?” Shock and concern almost had him sitting up again. “It’s been a week since we left your brother?”
Narcise nodded.
Good Christ, Corvindale was going to be furious. Surely by now Maia had followed instructions—reluctantly of course—and contacted him about Chas’s disappearance.
He turned his gaze back to hers. “You stayed here with me?” he asked.
“Of course. I wasn’t going to let you die.” She frowned irritably. “I’m not my brother.”
An image of Narcise, bending over him, her slender hands on his skin, flashed into his mind with sudden clarity. Bending over him, near his—
Despite his lingering weakness and the raw pounding in his head, he sat up abruptly, yanking the coverings away from his right hip, knowing what he would find….
“What have you done to me?” he demanded, staring at the four neat little marks on his flesh. Repugnance and fury rushed over him as his belly tightened and fluttered. He stared at her, not trying to hide his revulsion. “You dared?”
Her eyes had widened again, then returned to normal. She tightened her full lips and lifted her chin defiantly. “The infected wound wasn’t healing, and the doctor could do nothing more for you. There is something in the saliva of a Dracule that promotes healing, and so I thought to help you by applying it.”
> Chas heard what she was saying, but it took a moment for her meaning to penetrate the fury. “There are bitemarks,” he said, still angry…feeling violated and unsettled, particularly by the sordid image that went along with the knowledge. Narcise, bending to him…her sensual lips closing intimately over his skin, the pain of penetration, but the release from swollen veins…nausea mixed with that shiver of lust, deep in his belly, and Chas swallowed hard.
This is what they do. They enthrall. And lure.
“I hoped that drawing out the poison, whatever was infecting you, removing it from your body, would help, along with my saliva. Whatever it was, it worked to keep you alive.”
He looked away, his heart beating too hard, his fingers curling into the blanket. “I’m finding it difficult to be grateful,” he managed to say. “But I suppose I must be.”
She’d withdrawn from the bed in the face of his blatant anger, and now she looked at him from where she stood on the other side. “At least you’re honest,” she replied, and turned her back to him.
As he watched, at once struck by the intimacy of sharing this space with a woman he mistrusted, reviled and yet desired, she began to braid the inky waterfall of her hair.
“Did you enthrall me?” he asked, lifting his head, still on edge and furious as he watched her slender shoulders and the delicate edge of her shoulder blades through the thin chemise. She had sleek and elegantly muscled arms, unlike any he’d ever seen on a woman, and he could see the roundness of her buttocks, the curve of her hips. He hated that he wanted her, that his body was changing and responding to her mere presence.
Narcise had stilled at his question, then turned slowly back to face him…so slowly, it was as if she were in agony. “Did I enthrall a helpless man? An unwilling one?” Her deep blue eyes were both fierce with rage and awash with pain. “If you knew what I’ve lived through, how I’ve been violated over decades of captivity, you would never have asked such a question.”
Chas felt as if he’d been struck, and he let his head fall back onto the pillow. Mortification and shame warred with that lingering revulsion and distrust, and he stared at the ceiling, utterly aware of her, knowing he’d wounded her deeply…asking himself why he cared.
She was a vampir. A handmaiden of the Devil. One of a race who preyed on living creatures and took from them, who’d given their souls for immortality, power, money…vanity. The very act of their feeding was an inherent violation of life and liberty. They were conscienceless, depraved, self-centered creatures, with Corvindale being the only real exception he had encountered—the only one who didn’t find it agreeable to feed on living humans.
Chas had been gifted with the ability to sense, stalk and slay these creatures—he knew there was a reason he had. That he was meant to do this as surely as a priest was meant to consecrate the hosts. But.
Narcise had finished her braiding in silence and now she walked over to the single chair on the other side of the chamber. Chas noticed how she avoided the sunlight spilling through the window, but that she looked at it with longing.
Yes. These were creatures who’d given up the light to live in darkness. And sometimes, they regretted it.
“What do you plan to do next?” she asked.
“I need clothing and food,” he replied, “and then I must send word back to London. To my sisters.”
“London. Is that where Dimitri is? I’d like to find him, and see if he would…well, I know he and my brother are sworn enemies. And I hope that he might help me.”
“Corvindale? He might be willing to be of assistance. I suppose you want me to bring you to him.”
Her expression, which had been taut with anger and hurt, lightened. “Is it possible? To get to London, through the blockade?”
He had a mild wave of surprise that she would even be aware of the war between England and France, but then he recalled who her brother’s companion was. Surely even Narcise had been privy to some of the political discussions between Bonaparte and Cezar. “Yes, but it will take some preparation.”
It could be a fortnight or more, and all the while, Corvindale would be saddled with Maia and Angelica. Chas would never hear the end of it.
Then a terrible thought struck him, turning him ice-cold. Moldavi would want revenge on him for escaping, and for taking Narcise with him. And the first place he’d look to do it would be with Maia and Angelica.
He was up and out of bed in an instant. “Where are my clothes? My breeches? My shoes?” He must send word to Corvindale, at least, that the girls would be in danger. The room tilted but he didn’t care.
“They’re gone. You only had your breeches, and they were so—”
“I need something, I must get word back to London.” He looked around the chamber as if expecting clothing to materialize.
She’d risen from the chair and before he’d even taken a step, she was handing him a neatly folded pile. “You didn’t allow me to finish. I was able to obtain clean clothing for you.”
Chas took them silently. If he weren’t so intent on getting out of the inn to see to business, he might have been chastened by her tone. But he couldn’t worry about that now. Moldavi had had a week. A week. Through his alliance with Bonaparte, he could have sent people after Maia and Angelica already, crossing through the blockade.
His knees wobbled a bit as he drew on the breeches, but Chas ignored it. There’d be time for weakness later. The shirt fit well, but the boots were a bit tight—although certainly adequate. As soon as he was dressed, he started for the door…then stopped, with his hand on the knob as he turned back to Narcise.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I trust…I trust you’ll be well alone here?”
She lifted her brows in a wry expression. “I’ve been alone for the last week, Woodmore. I suspect I’ll do just fine in your absence.”
Narcise wasn’t at all oblivious to Chas Woodmore’s revulsion toward her. She didn’t completely understand it, but it gave her a sort of comfort, knowing that he wasn’t about to force himself on her.
Or try to, anyway.
She had no worries about protecting herself from him. Aside of the fact that he was still weak enough to be wavering while on his feet, she was also, of course, stronger and faster than he was even in his prime. Nor did he seem inclined to attempt to slay her, either…although she wasn’t completely certain he wouldn’t try.
The last week of tending to him, however, had helped to ease Narcise into her new life: a life where she was beholden to no one, a life where she made her own decisions, procured her own nourishment, clothing and even drawing supplies.
Nevertheless, she was never wholly comfortable leaving the public house—especially at night, when she knew Cezar or his makes could be out looking for her. She’d become adept at enthralling mortals to gain whatever it was she needed: pencils and paper, a pouch of sous or livres, clothing for herself or Chas…even a full, hot vein on which to feed.
Philippe had visited her chamber more than once. She wasn’t certain if it was coincidence that he was always the one to bring new water for the bath, or whether he sensed that there was a reason he was drawn to this particular chamber.
Until now, Narcise had always approached feeding as some necessary evil akin to submitting to her brother’s friends. A mortal was brought to her, and she fed. Or, during the span of months when she attempted to starve herself rather than submit to Cezar, a jug of fresh blood was forced down her throat.
There was a residual layer of eroticism that always aroused her when she was in such an intimate situation, but it never required satiation—at least on her part.
Philippe seemed eager enough, and more than once during the three times she’d enthralled him had he managed to get himself—or herself—half unclothed. There were moments when she nearly allowed herself to finish what they, or more accurately, their bodies, obviously both wanted…but she never could succumb so far.
For decades, she’d protected her emotions and her heart—not to
mention her mind—by separating herself from the reaction of her body and keeping all but the physical response locked deeply away. She was fully aware of that, cognizant of that steely control.
The one chink in that armor had come with Giordan, and since then, she’d melded it back together so tightly she suspected it would never soften again.
Now that she was free of Cezar, however, Narcise realized there could be a chance for her to open herself again. And after ten years, she hadn’t forgotten nor forgiven Giordan. No, in fact she burned with revulsion and loathing for him…but she remembered how it had felt to be awakened. Not with malice or control, or even by reflex.
But with love and affection.
Neither of which, of course, young Philippe possessed toward her—but at least he had no malice or control.
Or so she was thinking as his insistent hand slipped beneath the hem of her chemise. Her fangs pulled free from his flesh and he tried to find her mouth, desperate for a kiss, but she refused, nipping instead at his ear and feeling his cock slide against her belly through layers of cloth. “S’il…vous plaît,” he whispered thickly, and when she pulled away, he frowned petulantly.
Narcise shook her head, looking into his glazed eyes, knowing that he didn’t truly know what he was doing—or wanting—any more than she ever had during those dark nights in The Chamber.
She released him, pulled him free from her thrall and from her arms, and was just stepping back when she heard the doorknob rattle.
Philippe was still too numb and slow to react, or even to understand what was happening, but Narcise knew, and she turned away an instant before the door opened. Chas swept into the chamber in the dark swirling scents of wine and power.
Later, she never fully understood why she felt the need to try to hide what had been going on—but it didn’t matter. Chas’s eyes flashed to her and then around the chamber. The expression on his face spoke clearly of his disgust and aversion.
“Leave,” he snapped at Philippe, the poor confused boy, who stumbled awkwardly from the room with, Narcise knew, half-formed memories of a very intimate situation.
