The Vampire Narcise rd-3

by Колин Глисон

  “Except when I’m locked away by my brother.”

  Giordan looked at her. His eyes were cold and flat brown today, icy and blank and so very angry. “Even then, you were formidable,” he said. “In your own way.”

  “I don’t know why Chas sent you here, but I’m not leaving. Especially with you. Just go.” Please. Go.

  “You don’t know why he sent me here?” His laugh was more like a whip crack than a bell of humor. “I certainly do. Here, where I could smell him all over you. Where I could scent both of you on the bed and against the wall and everywhere else. The entire place reeks of you two, together. That, my dear, is why he sent me here.”

  She had to taunt him, to drive him away. “Then why prolong the agony, Giordan? There’s no reason for you to stay and stew in your jealousy.”

  And that was when he’d moved. The next thing she knew, he was there, right there, so close, in front of her. His fingers gripped her chin. The scent of his blood so close made her dizzy. The smell of him, the warmth, the familiarity… She summoned the image of him with Cezar, the two bare shoulders, one golden and sleek, the other swarthy and frail, the firelight playing intimately over them.

  Nausea pitched in her belly and her awareness of him returned to loathing.

  “Jealousy? You believe that’s what I feel? You’re a fool, Narcise.” He shifted his fingers to cup her jaw no less gently. “If I still wanted you, a bloody damned vampire hunter wouldn’t keep me away.”

  And then he’d kissed her.

  Not savagely, not as she’d expected, with his eyes blazing red and his fangs long and sharp…but so gently and softly. As if he were taking a moment to savor. Lightly, lightly, over her lips…

  And Lucifer’s black soul, she’d kissed him back. She’d fallen into the moment of heat and desire, the memory and beauty rushing through her—

  And then Giordan had thrust her away, his eyes hot and knowing, arrogance in the very essence of his body. And disgust, there, too.

  “We’re nearly there.”

  Chas’s voice, rough with sleep, sudden in the silence, jolted Narcise from her memory. Her cheeks blazed with shameful heat, her heart thudded as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t even as she felt a renewed surge of hatred for Giordan and his games…and the twinge in her Mark reminded her of who she was.

  “To Rubey’s,” Chas added, as if responding to her startled look. “She’ll feed us, and we can rest. I can also use her messengers to get word to Dimitri and Voss that we’ve returned.” His voice flattened a bit at the mention of his future brother-in-law.

  “I thought Rubey’s was a pleasure house,” Narcise replied with an arch look, forcing herself firmly into the present.

  Chas’s mouth twitched becomingly. “It is, but it’s much more than that. The Dracule also use it as a central location to meet up and for communication. She houses a flock of blood pigeons there…and sometimes, Rubey’s is preferable to White’s. It’s more comfortable and, as Dimitri would say, there aren’t any mortals about, making ludicrous bets in their blasted book. And as I said…she’ll feed us. Or, me, at any rate,” he added quickly.

  “Did you send Giordan to me? When you left for Paris?” Narcise asked.

  The bit of levity drained from Chas’s face and he sat upright. His expression had gone carefully blank. “I don’t know exactly what occurred between you and him,” he said, “but it’s clear to me that whatever it was has made you unwilling to trust or love.”

  Not quite an admission, but close enough.

  A spike of anger shot through Narcise, and her Mark eased in agreement. “What happened with Giordan has nothing to do with how I feel about you,” she responded sharply. “I care about you…I desire you and enjoy being with you. But, as you’re fully aware, Chas, I’m a Dracule. I am a selfish, self-serving, damned soul—and I’m immortal. Loving anyone besides myself is in direct opposition to who I am…to who we of the Draculia are. Who Luce has forced us to be.”

  His face tightened and she saw the flare of hurt and anger in his hazel eyes. “You made the choice.” He spoke hardly loudly enough to be heard over the rumble of the carriage. “To be that way.”

  Pain sliced through her, not from her Mark—it was strangely quiet—but from her heart, down to her deepest core. A choice? The thought was ludicrous. How could anyone make a clear decision when they were tricked and manipulated in their dreams by the most cunning demon of all?

  In her case, it had been the choice between living a forever youthful, immortal life as a great beauty or one with a no longer perfect face, burned down one side of her cheek. The result would have been one of horror, with ropy, burned-away flesh where her smooth skin had once been.

  In her dreams, Lucifer had helpfully shown her the image of what she would have been like after the burn healed…and offered her a way out. For a twenty-year-old girl whose vanity knew no bounds, there was hardly a choice. She had no real comprehension of the deal she’d made.

  And…she realized later that Cezar must have arranged the incident that caused hot oil to splash and spill on her. It came from a lamp mounted high on the stairwell she frequently used. Her brother didn’t want to live his immortal life alone…he wanted to live it with her.

  In spite of his controlling, abusive ways, he worshipped her.

  “Don’t you ever regret it? Don’t you ever want to change it?” Chas persisted, drawing her back from those horrible memories.

  She held back a snort of disgust. “Do I want to be beholden to Lucifer? Do I want to be damned?” She shook her head, suddenly empty and dark everywhere. A cold knot sat heavily in her stomach. “Just because Voss claims a miracle happened doesn’t mean it will happen to me. Hasn’t Dimitri been trying for a century to break his ties with Lucifer?”

  Her Mark was throbbing now, and she could feel its rootlike lines raging through her skin like tiny rivers of fire. She breathed deeply, trying to send the pain away.

  Chas sank back into his corner, his expression weary and shadowed: another tacit admission. “Yes. There seems to be no way.” His voice was bitter and soft. His eyes were closed and he became bathed in gray shadow.

  “Chas,” she began, then her voice filtered away. What was there to say? Her heart stirred for him in some soft, unlustful emotion, and her Mark raged so sharply that she had to smother a gasp. Lucifer had no patience for sympathy.

  They trundled along in silence, the cloudy day filled with the sounds of city life: shouts, calls, barking, rumbling, clashing and rattling. The smells of baking bread, of coal smoke, of wet animal and roasting meat, of stagnant water and rotting waste.

  Chas looked at her suddenly, from where he brooded in the corner. His eyes gleamed in the shadows and they fixed on her, dark and steady. “You once said you knew of no one who was visited by Lucifer and who yet declined the Devil’s bargain. But that isn’t true. You do know someone who has.”

  Somehow, Narcise was able to ignore the shuttle of renewed heat blasting over her shoulder’s Mark. “Who is that?” she asked, suddenly feeling light of head. Suddenly afraid she understood.

  “Me.”

  They arrived at Rubey’s late in the afternoon of a dreary, foggy day.

  Narcise was still stunned and silent from Chas’s confession, and he, for his part, had offered no other details. When she pressed him, he merely shook his head, closed his eyes and replied, “I’ve never told another soul. There’s a reason I don’t want to talk about it.”

  But now, at least, she understood his consistent, barely concealed disgust toward those of her race—those who had made what he clearly saw as the wrong decision.

  How fitting, in a terrible, ironic way, that he should be judge, jury and executioner of those very people. For he could have been one of them himself.

  Inside Rubey’s, Narcise was whisked away for a warm bath—something their hostess was particularly fond of herself, according to the maid—and Chas disappeared in another direction, presumably to eat a
nd clean up after the grueling journey.

  As she settled in the large vessel of steaming water, Narcise was offered a sip of dark red libation from her choice of three small decanters. The cup was no larger than a sherry glass, fluted with tuliplike edges, and hardly taller than her little finger.

  Narcise smelled the three options and selected the lightest of them. It wasn’t until she actually sipped that she realized the drink was laced with… “What’s in it? Some sort of elixir?” she asked the maid, who’d begun to wash her hair.

  “Mistress Rubey’s finest,” was the vague reply. “She ’as a few such for the likes of ye. Some-at for rest, some-at for waking, some-at for…ye ken-at.”

  Narcise blinked. Her English was still that bit better than her French, but this moon-faced young woman’s accent was so thick and her slang difficult to follow that she wasn’t at all certain what she’d just been told. But she settled back into the hot, scented water and sipped as her hair was scrubbed and her head massaged.

  Sometime later, the water had cooled and the maid had gone. Narcise settled in an armchair in front of the hearth, swaddled in a thick quilted wrapper with her damp hair drying in the fire’s heat. From the street below, the sounds of living wafted up through the half-shuttered windows.

  The sun was nearly gone, and Narcise imagined there were young ladies like Angelica and Maia Woodmore preparing for visits to the theater or to dances…and the men to visit their clubs or to escort their women to parties. There would be courtship and romance; perhaps erotic interludes in dark corners, gossip and rumors, giggling and whispering…

  And the tradesmen were closing up their shops, and the businessmen their offices, and the mamas were sending their children off to bed with or without a governess—depending upon in which area of town they lived—and the lords were leaving Westminster after a contentious day of arguments and debates.

  Life.

  Narcise breathed deeply of the fresh air, which was rapidly cooling with the loss of the sun. Although it was only late September, the air was damp and bone-chilling, reminding her of her girlhood in Romania.

  Despite the cold and damp, she’d had a comfortable life there, for her father was a close confidant of the ruler of their province. With two older brothers, one of whom married the voivode’s daughter and was the conduit for Cezar’s eventual gain of that throne, Narcise had been spoiled and petted and worshipped by family and neighbor alike.

  She’d thought to marry one day, and the young, virile Rivrik had been her first real lover. She likely would have wed him if things hadn’t changed…if Cezar hadn’t found his savior in Lucifer and manipulated their lives into what they were now.

  She closed her eyes and thought about where she’d been, what she’d dreamed of…and what was to become of her now.

  There would be no wedding a man and bearing children, which was what she’d always hoped for as a girl. No family, no household to run. No friends with whom to gossip.

  During the years of captivity with her brother, her only goal had been freedom—she’d never thought about what her life would be once she had her independence.

  But now that she had freedom, now that she no longer had a goal to strive for and to dream about…what did she have?

  Who would she be? What would she do, day after day? How would she pass this immortal, infinite life that would, on some Judgment Day, end with her entwined with Lucifer in hell forever?

  This wasn’t the first time these thoughts had entered her mind, but on this occasion, she was unable to dismiss the niggling and nagging that settled in her mind.

  It had been well over a hundred years since she’d had a choice—what to wear, what to do, where to go and with whom to go. But now that she had it…what now?

  The thought of centuries upon centuries stretching on and on into forever… The wrapper had become as stifling as her thoughts and Narcise tossed it away. Standing, she paced the chamber, dressed only in a thin, borrowed chemise, her damp hair seeping through the fabric over her back and shoulders.

  Since leaving Paris, she’d either been hiding or traveling or waiting for someone to tell her what to do—none of which was particularly fulfilling or pleasant.

  It was not something she meant to do for the rest of her life.

  Beginning now.

  Spurred by the jolt of decision, she rang for the maid. At least she could leave this room and find Chas below with their Irish-flavored hostess.

  Rubey had been warmly welcoming, although Narcise had felt the weight of more than casual attention as she glanced over her. The proprietress sported shiny, curling hair that conveniently (and possibly unnaturally) complemented her name: it was reddish-blond and had been done up in a most fashionable style, with little curls around her cheeks and sparkling combs tucked in place. Her clothing was just as modern and extremely well-made, and Rubey’s silk gown of robin’s-egg blue had made Narcise feel as if her muslin day dress was little more than a servant’s castoff, which was part of the reason she’d eagerly accepted the offer of a bath before taking any time for conversation.

  The other woman was younger and more attractive than Narcise had expected, for the establishment had been a popular place for the Dracule for decades. She’d expected someone much older than the two-score Rubey appeared to be—and a well-preserved four decades she was.

  The maid was as efficient and businesslike as her employer, and when Narcise was dressed in a much cleaner, softer and more becoming gown than her muslin print she took her leave from the chamber and slipped out into the hall without waiting for the maid’s direction.

  Rubey was obviously a successful proprietress, if the decor and luxurious appointment of her house was any indication. But Narcise wasted little time admiring the ornate mirrors and elegant furnishings, although she did pause at some of the paintings. There was a Vermeer! And a van Honthorst that made her smile because it was so appropriate for a house of pleasure: a woman playing a lute, which was a blatant sexual pun.

  But even the mastery of the Dutch painters wasn’t enough to keep her from her need to move. Suddenly all she wanted was to be alone, and away from everyone in this place.

  She wanted to be out, under the night sky, alone…for the first time in more than a century.

  She was done with huddling and hiding.

  Narcise’s excellent hearing and sense of smell allowed her to avoid the various servants and other occupants of the pleasure house, including Chas, whose voice was coming from behind a door on the first floor. The low, lyrical responses were obviously from the Irish proprietress, and Narcise didn’t wait to learn the topic of their conversation.

  She found her way to a side door and slipped outside.

  Her hair was still damp, but despite the lift of the cooling breeze, Narcise wasn’t cold. She was free!

  This little alleyway was silent and dim, but beyond, Narcise could hear the sounds of the rest of the world. As she made her way out of the narrow space between the house and its neighbor, she felt the air stir. With the soft buffet came the scent of something familiar and pleasant…damp wool and cedar. It reminded her of Giordan, and she paused with one hand resting against ivy-covered brick.

  Her heart pounded and she listened, lifting her nose to better smell the breeze…but the aroma was gone as quickly as it had come and she heard nothing. A phantom memory perhaps, or another man who wore wool and the scent of cedar.

  When she moved at last, a brief shower of drops sprinkled onto her shoulders and head from the fog-drenched ivy and she stepped out into the street.

  From the front, Rubey’s establishment rose as high and forbidding as the home of a duc back in Paris, with many windows and an intimidating entrance. Narcise had learned that the proprietress actually lived in a smaller home nearby, and she wondered that a woman was able to keep up and furnish two such residences.

  Then she walked brusquely past the pleasure house, with no destination in mind, but wholly aware of the fact that she had never, eve
r walked on a city street by herself. And that she had no one to return or answer to.

  Exhilaration spurred her and she drew in a deep breath, becoming more aware of her surroundings, hardly noticing that she was the only pedestrian not dressed in a cloak or other evening wrap. Carriages clattered by, couples walked together or in groups, dogs slinked in alleys and cats peered from the lengthening shadows.

  Narcise walked and walked, through the affluent residential area where Rubey’s was located and, after many turns and crossing two small squares, onto a street lined with shops now closed for the evening. She passed a theater or some place of entertainment, noticing conveyances lined up, waiting for their riders to return, and night watchmen strolling along.

  “Well, now, ain’t this a foin surprise.”

  Narcise halted when a large hulk of a man emerged from a dark spot between two buildings to block her way. She realized belatedly that she’d turned down a passage that was deserted but for a slight figure in the distance, just turning the corner onto another street. It was a narrow way, with a sewage canal on one side, and lined on the other by houses or shops with dark windows—either vacant or filled with slumbering residents.

  Something moved behind her, and from the corner of her eye, she saw two more shadows sliding into the glancing moonlight in her wake.

  A little trip of unease quickly faded. Not only were these mere mortal men, but she was neither a captive nor prisoner weakened by a necklace of sparrow feathers.

  “I tol’ ye, Griff, it would be a lucky even’n’, comin’ out this a-way,” said one of the others, nearer now, behind her. His companions laughed in agreement.

  They moved closer, bringing their smells of desperation and lust, as the first one smiled and reached lazily for her. “An’ she’s a looker, ain’t she?”

  She smiled back. Allowed her eyes to glow just a bit of red. “Take your hand off me,” she said calmly—and was delighted when the fool didn’t comply.

  Instead he laughed and tugged her closer to him so that she bumped against his torso. He reeked of sweat and smoke and old ale, and despite her height, he was taller than she. “A furriner, listen to ’er, will ye,” he said. “Well, we’ll ’ave to show the lady a good time ’ere in ole Londontown, aye, boys?”