by Колин Глисон
She had a moment to wonder briefly if he’d ever come back, but then irritation and affront spurred her to face Chas. “If you’re afraid your sensibilities will be offended, perhaps you should knock the next time you decide to enter.”
“Perhaps it would be best if you found another place to…do…that. I don’t wish to be any sort of party to your depravity.” His eyes flashed with that cold loathing…yet Narcise felt a shifting in his breathing, an awkwardness in his heartbeat. He strode across the chamber, much steadier on his feet than he had been when he left. She scented food along with the heavy weight of wine, tobacco and smoke, and realized he must have eaten belowstairs. And, from the smell of it, drank quite a bit of wine.
She knew her fangs were still slightly extended, and that her eyes had just banked from their burning glow, but she turned away.
“I have no choice,” she said. “If I don’t feed regularly, then it becomes more difficult for me to control my…” She bit her lip, her cheeks warming.
He’d walked over to the window and snapped the shutters closed, as if shutting out the cool night air would cleanse the room of tension. In fact, it did just the opposite—trapped the scent of blood and wine and musk, and of Chas Wood-more and his energy, his nobility, all the more tightly into the chamber.
Narcise felt a stirring low in her belly, a little flutter that she hardly recognized. No. Not him.
She turned, fighting to pull her fangs back into place. Perhaps she should leave. The sun had nearly set. She could do what she needed to do away from his judgmental, greedy eyes.
“Word is out that we’ve escaped from your brother,” Chas said flatly. “Not only does he have his makes pouring through the streets and along the Palais searching for us, but because of Bonaparte, he’s got the soldiers on the watch during the day.”
A tremor of fear shivered in her belly. “Are we trapped? Will they find us?”
“Of course we aren’t trapped,” he replied, disdain replacing revulsion. She found she preferred that reaction to the disgust in his face. “I can get us out of Paris and across the Channel, but it will take more planning than I’d anticipated.” His face turned expressionless and his eyes skirted away. “We’ll have to stay here for a few days longer.”
Narcise nodded. A bolt of relief that he didn’t intend to leave her alone made her smile a bit and relax. She wasn’t quite ready to be completely on her own yet, particularly in the same city where her brother lived.
There was still that blind fear of being found, and dragged back to his chilly, dark chambers. “Did you send word to Dimitri?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How will you get a message through the blockade?”
“We have several methods of communication. In this case, I used a blood pigeon, which navigates across land and sea, and will find the particular person to whom it’s trained to scent by following his or her blood.”
“It smells Dimitri’s blood from London all the way here?”
“No, no. We have many pigeons cloistered about the city, and they each have a location to which they fly, or return home. Once in the vicinity of its home area, the bird will scent the blood and go directly to its master, wherever he is.” Chas had taken a seat in the chair. He rested his elbow on the table next to him and turned up the gas lamp for the darkening room.
“You’re very concerned about your sisters,” she said, wondering what it would be like to have a brother like Chas Woodmore instead of Cezar Moldavi.
“Our parents died more than ten years ago, and since then it’s been just the four of us. We’re very close, of course, but I travel a lot, and so they are often left to their own devices under the watchful eye of their chaperone. But I miss them always, for each of them is so different.”
“Tell me about them. I’ve heard rumors…your family is quite special, isn’t it? You have what is called the Sight?”
“Thanks in part to my great-great-grandmother, who fell in love with her late husband’s groom. He was a Gypsy and since she’d already been married once according to her father’s wishes, now that she was a widow she decided she’d wed whoever she wanted. And so she married her groom. Her great-granddaughter, my Granny Grapes, used to tell us stories about vampirs when we were younger.”
“That’s why you are so successful with hunting the Dracule. Who could be better than one whose family comes from Romania? How did you ever decide that it was important to seek us out and kill the vampirs?”
Chas rose abruptly and walked to the bellpull, ringing it sharply. “Forgive me, but it seems odd to be talking about such things with you.”
“Because you’re sworn to kill me? But you haven’t. In fact, you helped me. Perhaps you aren’t such a merciless hunter after all.”
He looked at her suddenly over his shoulder. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am only now planning how to slam a stake into you, pinning you to the bed.” His eyes were dark and glittering. And that was when she realized how very drunk he was. “Or perhaps there are other thoughts weighing on my mind.”
Narcise’s breath clogged and a sharp spear of desire shot through her belly. Her first reaction wasn’t revulsion, however. And that frightened her nearly as much as the thought of being taken back to Cezar.
She was saved from replying by a knock at the door, and as Chas was speaking sharply to whoever had come, she went over and opened the shutters again. Drinking in the cooling air, scenting the chill breeze wafting from the Seine, mixing with smoke and trash and stewing meat, she looked out over the street below.
What if Cezar was out there, right now, looking for her? What if he looked up and saw her peeping down at him? Or across the way—there were windows across the narrow street so close she could jump to them.
Narcise ducked back inside the chamber and realized she and Chas were alone again. “Your sisters? It’s said it is they who have the Sight,” she said, hoping to keep the conversation light…at least until one of them decided to go to sleep.
“The two younger ones do,” Chas replied. “After a fashion.” He still stood at the door, now positioned there with his arms folded over his chest. “But Maia, the oldest, who is still younger than I am by nearly ten years, does not. However, she makes up for it by commanding every aspect of everyone’s lives in the entire household.”
His lips relaxed and nearly eased into a smile—the first one she’d seen on him, it seemed. The effect was very nearly devastating, giving him a soft, sensual look in a highly shadowed face. A dark angel, she thought again—and not in the same way of Lucifer.
“I can hardly imagine how she and Corvindale will get on,” Chas continued, the smile going even wider. “For in my extended absence, I’ve arranged for the earl to attend to them.”
“You speak of her with such affection,” Narcise said. “My brother cared for me so much that he sent Lucifer to me.” She made no effort to hide her hatred and bitterness.
“And so that is how it happened? You blame your brother?” Chas’s voice was whip-sharp and filled with judgment.
But Narcise had come to terms with her fallibility long ago. “I blame my brother only for begging Lucifer to turn me Dracule, for sending him to me, but it was of my own will that I agreed to it.”
“He came to you in a dream?”
“He came, as I believe he must always do, at a most crucial moment, and yes, in a dream. Where one is the weakest, the most vulnerable to his suggestion. I know of no one who was given the opportunity and who declined the Devil’s bargain. If I ever met such a person, I would like to know how he did it.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, curling her lips into themselves. “Someone once said to me that I was the strongest person he’d ever met. But by the time I became strong, it was much too late.” Her insides heaved at the memory of Giordan—and she locked it back away. “I’d already given my soul.”
Someone knocked at the door again, and Chas, who she realized had been waiting for the arrival, opened it. A servant brought in a large
jug of ale and two cups, placed them on the table, and left without a word or glance at either of them.
Glad for the interruption and the distraction, Narcise watched as her companion sat back down at the table and poured himself a cup of ale.
“Do you want some?” he asked, then commenced to pouring one for her without waiting for a reply, then set the cup near the opposite edge of the table. He settled back in his seat and took a drink.
She walked over hesitantly and picked up her serving, sipping the strong, bitter drink. It was heavy and warm, and she didn’t particularly care for it…but she found that having something for her hands to do, and her mouth and thoughts to focus on, was a good thing.
“What was the crucial moment?” he asked, pouring another slug into his cup.
“Why do you want to know? So you can find a way to my weakness and slay me?” she shot back, affronted by his curiosity when he seemed so reticent and judgmental.
“Perhaps I only wish to understand you better,” he replied. His words were gently slurred. “I haven’t had the occasion to converse with a vampir on such a subject.”
“Because you’re usually trying to kill them.”
“Yes. I should have killed you when I had the chance,” he said. His eyes were dark and unsettling. “But it would be a sin to destroy one with such beauty.”
“I’m certain it wouldn’t be your first,” she answered, sipping again from her cup as she leaned against the wall, keeping herself distant from him. “Sin, of course.”
“No, indeed not. I’m nearly as evil as you are, Narcise,” he said. “What was the crucial moment? Or will you not assuage my curiosity.”
“As you can imagine, vanity was my great weakness. I am fully aware of how my appearance affects those around me. Men have only lust in their eyes and hearts when they look at me, women hate me or envy me. I had a lover when I was sixteen. Rivrik. My first, and…only…in all the ways that matter.” She nearly choked on the lie, but in her mind it was true.
What she’d had with Giordan could not be classified as love. At least, not anymore.
“Poor Rivrik,” murmured Chas. “I can only imagine his terrible fate.” He refilled his cup again, and she could tell that the jug had become much lighter.
She wasn’t alarmed by his obvious intent to drink himself into oblivion, but rather curious about it. And, she suspected, in the morning he’d remember very little of what she told him tonight. “I had an injury—a burn, from an oil lamp. It was on my face, and I was terrified that it wouldn’t heal, that I’d have scars forever. And that Rivrik would no longer love me.”
“Because, of course, there was nothing about you to love other than your face and body,” he said.
Narcise ignored him. “When Luce came to me and promised that I’d live forever, that I’d never age and that I’d heal completely…I didn’t have the strength to decline. And that’s how it happened.”
“And Rivrik? I’m certain he was delighted to have you intact—except for your damaged soul, of course. But why would he care when he had the rest of you?”
Since these were thoughts Narcise had already considered and raged over, torturing herself with them decades ago, his words didn’t sting. Too much. “He died not long after. I’m fairly certain Cezar had something to do with it.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t offer to turn him Dracule so he could stay with you and your beautiful, youthful self forever.”
Now she was annoyed and pushed herself away from the wall. “Almost immediately after I accepted Lucifer’s covenant, I realized what a mistake I’d made. I never even considered visiting such a fate on Rivrik.”
“Ah, then. A Dracule with a conscience. With regret. They are so very far and few between.” He upended the jug and the last bit of ale sloshed into his cup.
Then he lounged back into the chair, his legs spread haphazardly, his head tilting back so much that she thought he’d fallen asleep. But then he moved, loosening the knot at the top of his shirt, and yanking it from the waist of his breeches. He’d already toed off his boots some time earlier, and now she noticed his dark, long feet, bare on the wooden floor.
“And so, then, Narcise,” he said suddenly, sitting up. His face had turned dark and fierce, and he set the cup on the table without looking. His eyes, lit to glowing by the gas lamp, pinned her gaze. “Here we are.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but he’d heaved himself from his chair, and now he made his way to the other side of the table. His fingers brushed the top of it as if to give him balance, and he walked smoothly but with the slightest bit of stagger that indicated just how far into his cups he was.
Narcise’s heart began to thump very hard, and her mouth dried. Even drunk and sloppy, he was dark and exotic looking. Intimidating with his superior height and broad shoulders.
Yet, she made no move to recoil or otherwise back away, even when he came right up to her. But when he grabbed the front of her chemise and slammed her up against the wall, she was so shocked she didn’t have time to react before he put his face right up close to hers.
Eyes furious and dark, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a ferocious grimace, he said, “If you ever attempt to enthrall me, I’ll kill you.”
15
Chas opened his eyes. The room was dim with threatening dawn, a pale scrim of light cast over the furnishings.
He sat up, still feeling the remnants of last night’s wine and ale. The empty jug sat on the table where he’d left it and the scent of stale hops permeated the chamber.
Narcise slept next to him on the bed, warm and close and smelling of sleep, of her. Fully clothed. Out of reach.
A rush of desire flooded him and he closed his eyes again, trying to push it away. He couldn’t allow his thoughts to go along that route. Too dangerous, too degrading.
She was a practiced seductress. Aside of the fact that eroticism and sensuality always went along with the Draculia, he’d seen evidence of it when he came in upon her little tête-à-tête with the servant Philippe.
The poor sot had been out of his mind with desire and need…and the devil of it was, he had no idea what was happening. He had no control over himself or his actions.
Chas’s mouth tightened and he settled on disgust. He’d not fall prey to that sort of lure. He’d never allow himself to be used thus, to lose mastery over himself. He recalled the fury he’d summoned when he dragged her up against the wall last night and threatened to kill her. He would. If she ever turned those lulling, coaxing, burning eyes on him, he wouldn’t hesitate to do it.
He slid off the mattress, one of those rare people who hardly felt the effects of overimbibing. There was a dull, gentle pounding in the back of his head, but other than that, and the need for a drink of water, he felt as he normally did in the morning. Although it really was much too early to be up and about for a gentleman; normally one didn’t see the light of the sun before noon.
Yet, despite the early hour and the large amounts of wine and ale he’d consumed, Chas’s head was clear. He remembered everything from the evening before—including the way he’d had to fairly thrust Narcise away after getting so close to her in that moment of fury. Too close.
Especially when, after the surprise, her eyes had narrowed in interest and admiration.
He used the chamber pot—which was the cause for his early rousing—and then the water in the basin to wash his face and rinse his mouth of the vestiges of stale drink. Then he turned back to the bed.
The shift Narcise had taken to wearing as a night rail gapped away from her throat and shoulders, exposing delicate collarbones and the shadow of other delights deeper still.
Chas pivoted away, opting for the chair to finish his slumber. He remembered full well the feel of her body pressed against his when he shoved her against the wall, his face close to hers.
That had almost been his undoing…she was just there, in front of him. He’d even had a handful of her clothing, his fingers curling into the fles
h above her breasts just before she shoved him away. His caution was just that much dulled by the drink, and the knowledge of what she’d been doing in the chamber with that servant boy still lingered in the back of his mind. His imagination filled in the details of what had gone on before he interrupted…what would have happened if he had not.
And as much as he’d attempted to drink himself into oblivion, he was fully aware of his body’s response to her, his attraction to and curiosity about her.
Why did she have to be a vampir?
The pounding in his head had become stronger and he abandoned the idea of slumping in the chair and trying to sleep there. He’d fallen into…onto…the bed before she had last night, and she obviously had no qualms about sleeping next to him, and so why should he be concerned?
He climbed back into his place on the mattress, noting that the blankets were still warm from where he’d lay moments earlier, but that her hand had crept away from her cheek and now lay just beneath his pillow.
All thoughts of sleep fled as he settled down next to her, his face very close to hers, but yet distant enough that he could focus on her features. A soft, warm scent filtered from her hair and skin and he found it difficult to dismiss.
He found her impossible to dismiss.
The sun seemed to be taking her time rising today, and the chamber continued to be filled with indistinct shapes except in a rectangular patch beneath the window. But Chas could somehow make out the fringe of Narcise’s dark lashes and the little accent line at the corner of her mouth. And he noticed, for the first time, a tiny beauty mark at the corner of her left eye.
Before he could stop himself, he reached and settled his hand, open, onto the cascade of hair falling over her shoulder. Slowly he traced its smooth sheen along her head and over her shoulder and arm, lightly, lightly…hardly more than a feather touch. Her warmth seeped from beneath the silkiness into his palm, and although she gave a little tremor in her sleep, she didn’t waken.
