by Колин Глисон
The other two were just behind Narcise, blocking any escape she might attempt, and one of them slid his hand down her spine and over her rear, his fingers scoping intimately around the bottom cleft of her arse. Narcise’s reflexive spark of fear at being touched dissolved instantly and she slid into action. With one smooth move, she flung the big man’s hand away and spun to face the one who’d groped her.
Grabbing him by a woolen coat crusty with stains and smelling of smoke and vomit, Narcise lifted him up and tossed him into the air. His arms flailed as he flew back against a shuttered window on the brick wall.
“’Ey!” shouted the big man, as if offended and affronted by her reaction. “Wot the hell d’ye think yer doin, foin lady?” He lunged for Narcise again, but she easily ducked out of his way and then grabbed his arm, using his own weight and momentum against him.
“I told you to take your hands off me,” she reminded him as she spun him sharply into the third man. They tumbled together like a load of boulders and she stood over them, looking down as they scrambled to their feet in fury. Her pulse had kicked up and she felt a rush of energy through her. Even her Mark was more at ease than it had been for days.
“Ye loose-lipped bitch,” growled the big oaf, and his insult was echoed by the one she’d whipped into the wall a moment ago. The three of them, as cowards often do, shouted encouragement to each other as they bolted toward her in a rage.
Narcise didn’t flinch, and in fact, was enjoying herself as she fought them off. Despite her restrictive clothing—a corset, slippers, and shoe-length skirts—and the loose braid that whipped around with her every movement, she was quick and efficient. It was a testament to their stupidity that it took three rounds before they realized she would neither go with them, nor suffer being touched. She didn’t even have to bare her fangs in order to stave them off—it was a matter of strength and speed, both of which she had as an advantage over the three men.
When they were at last in an unmoving heap on the ground, their noses bloodied—the scent not even the least bit tempting to her—and lips cut, perhaps an arm broken or an eye blackened, she stood over them. “Don’t ever accost a woman again. The next time, I’ll kill you.”
The largest one whimpered when she bared her fangs at last and swooped toward him, her eyes glowing bright and red as she yanked him up by his shirt. “Do you understand?” she demanded, breathing through her mouth so as not to inhale his putrid odor, now colored with the scent of terror.
“A-aye,” he managed to say, closing his eyes and turning away as if expecting her to take a hunk out of his skin.
“Good,” she breathed, and licked her lips enticingly. “Because I’ll be watching you…and the next time you even look at a woman, I’ll find you. And I’ll be hungry.” She showed him her fangs, long and wicked.
Then she smelled the pungent odor of fresh urine and shoved him toward the half wall along the sewer, satisfied that he’d been well and truly frightened. “Go off with you. All of you,” she ordered, standing there in the dark street, feeling as strong as she’d ever felt—as powerful, as sure of herself.
And as her would-be attackers scuttled off into the night like frightened beetles, she felt a bubble of laughter come up from inside her. Joyous and warm, delight swelled inside her as she realized who she was.
And what she could do. And—
“How startling. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you laugh.”
Narcise’s stomach seemed to plummet to the ground. Choking off her laughter, she spun, her insides turning inside out and upside down, her thoughts scattering. “What are you doing here?” she managed to say as she swallowed her heart and felt her cheeks burn.
Giordan sauntered toward her with studied casualness. The moon was kind to him, filtering silvery light over the thick, dark curls on his head and the broad shoulders encased in a dark coat. It was open to reveal a silver-buttoned waistcoat and white shirt, brilliant and crisp, fairly glowing in the low light. His boots were soundless and his eyes dark and glittering, focusing on Narcise with unpleasant intensity. His comment had been laced with irony.
“I’ve been following you since you left Rubey’s,” he said. “At first I thought you had a destination in mind…but then I realized you were simply walking.” So she had scented him, and, Giordan being the cunning, manipulative man he was, had probably kept himself downwind from her as he followed her through the streets. Bastard.
Their eyes met and Narcise found that she couldn’t pull hers away. Her heart pounded high in her throat and she tried to dig down inside to pull out her anger and revulsion toward him…this man who’d destroyed her.
This man who was looking at her as if he’d never seen her before.
“I thought—” She stopped herself. She had nothing to say to him. Nothing at all.
“If I didn’t feel such sympathy for the way you flayed those poor bastards, I’d have found the entire scene more than a little amusing,” he said, gesturing in the direction where the cowardly beetles had gone. “Is that why you were laughing?” His tone had softened, perhaps, a bit.
She drew herself up, still searching for that deep betrayed feeling, and replied, “No.” Her fingers were shaking and her insides were doing unpleasant and pleasant things at the same time.
Handsome as sin he might be, familiar and beautifully scented…but she couldn’t feel anything for him. Nothing but that old hatred and revulsion. She stoked it so that it burned stronger inside her, giving her a barrier behind which to hide.
She told herself that she had nothing to say to him, that she had no desire to even be near him, yet her mouth moved and the words came out before she could stop them. “Why are you following me? Surely you don’t think I need protection.”
“Are you going to Paris?” he asked, stepping closer, pinning her with his eyes.
“Are you mad? Go back there? Never.”
He nodded briefly. “I didn’t think you’d be that foolish.”
Giordan was very close now, standing so that his scent filled her every breath, overwhelming even that of the nearby sewer, battling for her consciousness. Her insides fluttered wildly and Narcise felt a rush of heat and desire. She swallowed hard, willing herself to step back and away…but her feet wouldn’t move.
His eyes found hers, holding her gaze and her heart thumped madly as he came nearer. She took a step back and he smiled knowingly.
“What are you afraid of, Narcise?” he taunted, his gaze melting into something hot and warm.
All she need do was turn and walk away from him. There was nothing more she needed or wanted to say to him. She didn’t want to even breathe him in the air.
But her knees trembled and she felt a rise of heat billowing, filling her. “I’m not afraid of you,” she replied, even though her veins were pounding and surging, reacting to his nearness. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth, his lips slightly parted, full and beautifully shaped in the silvery moonlight. No.
“No?” he asked sardonically.
“Why were you following me? Because you thought I was going to Paris?” she asked, desperate to change the subject…and to ease away from him. His glittering gaze made her insides tickle and flutter.
“Either that or you were making an escape from your vampire hunter,” Giordan replied. “Is that why you were sneaking off from Rubey’s? Have you tired of Chas Wood-more now that he’s served his purpose?”
She knew that to respond was just to bait him, to continue to keep him there, looking at her with his cold eyes. But, though she ignored his obvious lure into a discussion about Chas, she had to know something else. “Why would you think I’d go back to Paris?”
The moonbeams played over his face, swathing half of his square chin and mobile lips in silvery light and leaving the other side in shadow. His gaze searched hers and her heart skipped a little. She willed it to stop jumping around.
“Woodmore went to Scotland to see his sister. Weren’t you with him?”
“I c
ouldn’t go into the convent,” she replied. “Luce’s hold is too strong for me to enter. But I’d like to know how you were able to enter the old monastery—”
“So that’s why,” he murmured, half to himself. “He didn’t tell you what he learned about your brother.” A little ironic smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “He doesn’t trust you. Imagine that.”
“What are you talking about?” Narcise demanded stridently enough that a trio of passersby paused and looked over at them. She turned her back to them.
“Perhaps you’d best ask your lover what he doesn’t want you to know,” Giordan replied.
“How can you know about what happened in Scotland?” she said from between clenched teeth. How could he know when Chas hadn’t even told her? He’d been vague when she asked, telling her that Sonia hadn’t had a clear vision and he hoped to get a message from her later with more information.
Which meant that Chas had either lied to her or…something.
“I know because he told Rubey, and Rubey tells me everything,” Giordan said. His accompanying smile was both condescending and meaningful. “She has nothing to hide from me.”
Rubey. A little shaft of pain zipped through her as she realized the layers of meaning there. Narcise struggled for something to say that would wound him right back. “Rubey?”
He merely held his smile in place and looked at her.
Narcise’s mouth tightened as a wave of memory and hatred rushed over her. She’d trusted him, opened herself up to caring about him…and he’d destroyed her. “I certainly hope she doesn’t have a brother,” she said stiffly. “I don’t think she’d take kindly to a betrayal when she’s served her purpose.”
Even in the faulty light, she saw his expression settle into one cold and hard. “There can be no betrayal, for there’s no love between us.”
Frustration and pain reared inside her and her vision tinged red. “There’s never any love with a Dracule. Lust and the moment of pleasure, yes, always…but love?” she scoffed. “Never.”
“I loved you.” He spoke so quietly his words were nearly lost by the sound of a passing carriage…yet they rang hard and cold and angry.
“You used me, Giordan. I believed you were trying to build my trust, that you truly cared about me. You did everything so perfectly when all along, you had other interests. It took me some time, but I finally realized why you never wanted Cezar to know we were…were friends. Lovers. Because you didn’t want to ruin your chances with him. He was the bigger prize, wasn’t he?”
She hardly comprehended what she was saying, just that she’d waited so long to spew her hatred and agony at him. She wanted him to understand what he’d done to her. She wanted to inflict the same pain on him, but she didn’t know how, other than words. “Of course you would want him. He was the one with the power, with all of the money and control. I was merely a way to get to him.”
“You believe that?” he said, his words choked and low. His hand whipped out and his fingers closed around the front of her gown. “You truly believe that I wanted Cezar? Even after this?” He gave her a rough jerk and she flew up against him.
His mouth covered hers, hard and warm and angry, and Narcise closed her eyes at the familiar taste of Giordan, the demanding press of his lips, sliding against hers…roughly forcing her mouth open to take the sweep and slide of his tongue.
Her hands settled on the front of his shoulders, fingers curling around the top of his wool coat, the edges of his curls brushing their tips. She kissed him back, keeping the kiss one of ferocity and fury instead of tender and sensual, trying to remind herself how much she loathed him…how well she’d despised him…even as their lips mashed together, sliding and caressing in all the sleek, sensual heat.
She pressed herself against him, angry, wanting him to want her as much as she’d wanted him…then. Wanting him to feel the rise of desire—and hope—only to have it torn away.
Her breasts shoved into his chest, his arms closed tightly around her as one hand caught the back of her neck and held her immobile. He delved deep, matching her now with temper, his tongue hot and slick and strong, his mouth firm and knowing. A rolling, expanding heat filled her, turning her damp and soft, in spite of the undercurrent of violence, and she closed her eyes, trying to keep hold of her hatred.
Narcise bit deliberately at his lip, her teeth sharp and fierce as she nipped, then pulled sharply, drawing blood. Her fangs had come forth and when she eased back, his red eyes glowed down at her, the tips of his fangs showing beneath well-kissed lips, now bloodied and gleaming with a red mark.
He was breathing heavily, his irises blazing around steady dark centers, and she lunged forward to taste his lips again. The bit of warm, coppery blood settled over her lips and tongue, shooting desire down, deep into her core. Giordan. Narcise sucked on his lip, drawing the blood, and realized that little sample was not enough.
She tore at the collar of his coat, baring the side of his neck, and pulled away from his lips. Just below his ear, she viciously sank her fangs in—hating him and wanting him at the same time. Giordan jolted against her with a low cry, and the surge of blood flooded her mouth, exploding as if released from a dam. She sighed in relief, sucking in the clean, warm lifeblood.
Desire and memories filled her, his scent and taste became her world: his strong shoulders and powerful body, the soft silk of his curling hair, the hot erection swelling against her beneath layers of clothing…it was Giordan, after so long, after such pain and deep betrayal…
And yet it was not him. Not the same.
Never the same.
He was shuddering against her, his arms tight but trembling, his body sagging somehow back against the half wall along the sewage canal. She found warm skin beneath his shirt as she tore it from his breeches, her fingers brushing the dust of hair on his belly, the smooth muscles that shuddered at her touch. When Narcise pulled away to look up at him, he bent to capture her mouth again—roughly and with some deep, driving anger, his fingers curled deep into her braid, gripping her head. She tasted heat and blood, felt his fingers tightening against her, his fangs scraping against her lips. He seemed to want to punish her.
It was a battle—their mouths, their bodies, there on the street, now in a shadowy corner: lips, hands, teeth, tongue. Hot, sleek, pounding.
He covered her breast with one rough hand, sliding his palm over her curves as she leaned against him, still angry, still hating him, but unable to stop. Unwilling to.
Narcise twisted her face away and caught against one of his fangs. Her lips split and now her own blood mingled with his, in the air and on her tongue.
Giordan stilled, his chest moving with rough heaves against her, and she saw desperate hunger in his eyes. She licked her lips, watching him, tasting the blood—their blood, together—warm and rich and potent.
“Do it,” she taunted softly, holding his gaze, her breathing unsteady. “Taste me. Take me, Giordan.”
He shoved her away, suddenly, his mouth flat and hard, streaked with blood. His eyes furious and filled with revulsion, burning her, as he dragged the back of a hand over his mouth.
Narcise took a breath to steady herself, her insides twisting at the ugliness in his eyes…yet her heart was pounding from desire as much as from anger. At herself and at him. She trembled with pain and lust as they glared at each other.
“See,” she managed to say, licking the last bit of blood from her lips. “Lust and pleasure, even in the face of such hatred. I could have lifted my skirts right here, but I’d still loathe you afterward.”
“Narcise—” he began, his bruised lips hardly moving.
But with the pleasure and the familiarity, she’d fallen back into those horrible memories, the black, dark days of his betrayal…the pain was fresh and raw once again.
“By the Devil’s dark soul, yes, I hate you. I saw you. With Cezar. It’s hard to miss the expression of erotic pleasure on a man’s face—the Fates know I’ve seen enough of that.”
She swallowed, her throat dry and scratchy. “I believed you. I believed in you. You destroyed me.” Her voice broke a little at the end and she swallowed again hard, angry at her show of weakness. “And I’ll hate you forever for it.”
There was a long silence as they stared at each other. Loathing and dark emotion vibrated between them as they faced each other on the dark and busy street.
“Forever is a very long time,” he said at last, his voice a mere rumble.
“And we’ll both be alive for it, won’t we? Goodbye, Giordan,” she said, and walked off, her knees trembling, her insides twisting. She squeezed her eyes closed against threatening tears.
She suspected that he would follow her again, and when she got to the end of the street, she looked back covertly.
But he was walking away, his hair and the tops of his shoulders dusted with moonlight as he strode off.
18
Giordan hardly made it around the corner before his belly rebelled.
By God, he hadn’t even fed on her, but it didn’t seem to matter. His body was reacting to the unfamiliar and fierce show of violence and hatred he’d just lived. As he sagged against a brick wall, emptying his stomach, he prayed that Narcise wouldn’t see or hear him.
When he finally finished, still trembling with the force of it all, he swiped the back of a hand over his mouth as he walked off into the night.
Wrung out from more than simply the evacuation of the contents of his stomach, aware that Narcise hadn’t finished off the bite on the side of his neck so that it still oozed a bit of blood, Giordan found himself back at Rubey’s, where he’d been going when he first saw Narcise leaving. He’d been briefly at Rubey’s private residence earlier, where he’d been keeping his own rooms for the last few months. She’d told him the news from Woodmore about Scotland, and Giordan was on his way to meet her at the pleasure house when he spied Narcise. He had no choice but to follow her.
