The Vampire Narcise

1

Fifteen years later

The Estate of the Voivodina of Moldavia

Narcise curled her fingers around the slender grip of her saber and steadied her breathing. Her fangs had sprung free, filling her mouth.

Her opponent leered at her, his own fangs thrusting long and bold as he lifted his own blade. Its silver gleamed red-orange in the low candlelight that danced around the edges of the chamber. The man was taller than Narcise, and much stronger, and thus he was certain he’d take her down.

That bravado, that certainty, was apparent in the haughty glint of his burning red eyes, the swagger in his step, and the ready bulge behind the flap of his trousers.

He wasn’t fighting for his sanity.

But Narcise was fighting for hers.

She wore her hair scraped back in a tight knot to keep it from flying into her face. Her clothing was nothing more than a short, tight tunic that bound her breasts close, along with slim-fitting trousers. They allowed her not only freedom of movement, but also provided nothing loose or flowing for her partner to grab on to. Her feet were bare.

She started it, knowing her best chance was to take him off guard and to keep him that way. She rushed toward him, then feinted nimbly to the right as he lunged awkwardly and swiped his sword through empty air.

She heard the little gasp of anticipation for a good fight. It came from the spectators sitting just above them in the balcony, but Narcise spared no attention for her brother Cezar and his companions. She fought for the right to leave this chamber alone tonight, to be sent to her private room unaccompanied and untouched…instead of with the man who now spun on his feet and leaped back toward her.

Her lips closed around her fangs, she pivoted and ducked beneath the swing of sword blade. She felt the heat of her own eyes, burning with fury and intent, and knew they glowed just as red-gold as the candles studding the walls and the blaze of fire in the corner. Blood rushed and pounded in her veins, her body’s reaction to the desperation and fear she tried to quell.

Her opponent grinned as he vaulted over the table after her, his feet landing heavily on the stone floor on the other side. There were two chairs in the space as well, and a tray of food and wine that wouldn’t get eaten—for Cezar liked to set the scene. It wasn’t merely a battle, like that of the Roman gladiators, where the fighters were released into the arena. No, he had to make a story around it, create a setting.

It enhanced the pleasure of watching his sister fight for the right to sleep alone that night.

Narcise felt the stone wall behind her, and a flicker of fear as her attacker stepped closer, blocking her view of the space behind him with his bulk. He grinned down at her, his fangs glinting and his lips wet and full. Her mouth dried and she fiercely drove the apprehension back.

I will not yield.

She glanced to the left, drawing his attention that way, and then streaked like a cat beneath his arm to the right, somersaulting herself over the table and landing with a little bounce on two steady feet. A soft murmur of approval from the balcony reached her ears, but Narcise didn’t give in to the distraction of those who watched her as if she were some trained fighting bear.

No sooner had she landed on the far side of the table than she vaulted back, once again taking her larger, slower adversary by surprise when she used her hands to spring from the tabletop and slam her feet into his hard belly.

He gasped, stumbled backward, and she followed him, her saber ready as she landed on the ground, standing over him. Before he could blink, she had the blade settled at the side of his neck, and, firmly in her hand, the wooden stake she kept jammed into the knot of her hair.

“Yield,” she said, pressing the metal edge into the side of his neck.

If he did not, she had no compunction about using either the sword or the stake to send him to hell right then and there.

“I yield,” he growled, his eyes flashing with red fire.

Narcise kept the stake in her hand and the blade poised just-so. “Drop your weapon,” she ordered. She’d been caught unawares before by a challenger who’d yielded, only to attack her moments after she released him.

That had only happened once. And that was why she had yet another stake shoved in her tight sleeve.

With a furious grimace, he tossed the sword to the floor and, still with the blade in place, Narcise kicked the other one far away, under the table. She noted with grim satisfaction that the bulge of his cock had softened into nothing more than a little bag of flesh, hardly even filling out his breeches. She liked it when the bastards wet their trousers, but apparently this one hadn’t been sufficiently frightened for his life.

“Too easy!” shouted Cezar from the balcony, his lisping voice rising with mirth. “She bested you too easily, Godya! You lasted a mere fifteen minutes. What a sot!”

Narcise ignored her brother and, keeping the blade in place, stepped back and motioned for the man apparently named Godya to rise. “Slowly,” she warned, her eyes never wavering until he’d risen and she’d backed him out of the chamber, courtesy of the edge of her blade.

She’d made the mistake of underestimating her rival only once before. No one could ever say she didn’t learn from her errors.

Not until the door closed behind Godya did she lower her blade and turn to look up at Cezar.

“So sorry to have ruined your evening’s entertainment,” she said, taking no care to hide her loathing for the man.

“No sorrier than I, dear sister,” he hissed morosely. “I can’t remember the last time you were bested and gave us a real show.”

Narcise did. It had happened eleven months ago, when she’d tripped over the blade of her saber as it caught on the rug. She’d lost her balance and rhythm, and that was the end of the battle. Cezar’s colleague, whose name she’d never cared to learn, had wasted no time in slamming her onto the table, holding her hands pinned above her head as he used his own blade to cut down through her tunic and tear it away.

In an effort to add to the entertainment for the audience above, he’d fondled her breasts with rough fingers, then, breathing hot and hard, shoved his fangs into her shoulder. He sampled her for a moment, drinking deeply as she fought against the reflexive rush of arousal that always came when her blood was released thus.

Then, with her torso bare and her wrists pulled behind her back, he’d dragged her off to what she thought of as The Chamber for the rest of the night.

She hadn’t lost a battle since and, in fact, had sent three Dracule permanently to hell during three previous engagements.

Now she sneered at Cezar. “What a pity I didn’t provide enough entertainment. I’m certain it would be worth watching if you had a big enough bag between your legs to take me on yourself.”

And then I could skewer you with a stake and I would be free.

But of course, he would never risk it. Nor would he dirty his pasty-white hands.

Her brother was older than she in both mortal years as well as vampir years. He’d been twenty-two when Lucifer visited him and offered him a life of power, wealth and immortality. That was more than fifteen years ago, and he looked exactly the same as he had at that time. Even the crooked tooth and the awkward set of a broken jaw that had never healed properly remained unchanged. It was that malformed jaw that gave his voice the faint lisp.

Cezar had waited three years, until Narcise turned twenty, before he arranged for her to be offered to Lucifer. During that time, their elder brother, who’d become the voivode, or ruler, over Moldavia through his marriage, had conveniently died…and Cezar had married his sister-by-law, thus becoming the new voivode. Their father and the original voivode had died just after their brother’s wedding, and Narcise had come under Cezar’s control shortly thereafter.

She always counted herself fortunate that she’d managed to lose her virginity to a man she fancied she loved before being turned into an immortal Dracule. And that female Dracule couldn’t get with child—for they didn’t have their monthly flow.

Since then she’d had little power over her own body.

The door behind her opened and Narcise didn’t have to turn to know what was there. The rush of weakness flooded her and she gritted her teeth against the wave of paralysis.

It was, she thought dully as two of Cezar’s thugs approached, a good thing that her brother liked to watch her win more often than lose. For, despite his earlier comments, Cezar would have the loss of a titillating form of entertainment, as well as a bargaining tool, if he didn’t have his sister to beat up his friends and enemies alike.

Narcise remained still as her brother’s men flanked her on each side. One of them fastened a cuff around her wrist. Woven of three brown feathers that were soft and delicate against her skin, and yet burned as if they were a branding iron, the bracelet leached her strength by its very proximity.

Her knees trembled but Narcise kept herself as tall and straight as she could. It never ceased to amuse her that, despite them being armed with the one thing in the world that could weaken her, there needed to be two strong, burly Dracule who escorted her back to her chamber.

That knowledge was the only thing that kept her hopeful as, day after day, she lived an eternity under her brother’s control.

The knowledge that they were all terrified of her.

God and Lucifer help them if she ever got free.

Paris

September 1793

The first time Narcise set eyes on Giordan Cale, she was fighting for her safety.

It was yet another of countless evenings of entertainment for Cezar, and this time, he was seated off to the side on a raised dais with a single companion: a broad-shouldered man with tight, curly hair and handsome, elegant features.

Normally Cezar liked to display his sister’s capabilities to a small crowd of spectators. It was his way of advertising her abilities. But tonight, there were only the two of them watching from the unobtrusive corner as she fenced and fought with some man who’d angered her brother.

Her orders, tonight, had been to fight to the death, and Cezar had warned that she wouldn’t be released from the small arenalike chamber until she either killed her rival, or he bested her—which didn’t mean death for her, but something worse.

The poor fool was no match for Narcise, who’d been taught in swordplay and other acrobatic fighting skills by the best trainers Cezar could find. He wasn’t about to have his favorite amusement killed by an overzealous suitor or an angry enemy.

Tonight, her opponent was a “made” vampir, one who’d been turned Dracule by another vampir instead of being invited into the Draculia by Lucifer himself. Narcise wasn’t aware of what he’d done to insult her brother, for, in truth, Cezar could interpret the twitch of an eyelid or a simple cough as an insult. She didn’t particularly care.

Nor did she spare much pity for the man. She couldn’t afford to if she wanted to remain unscathed.

But as she whirled around to face her adversary, readying the saber for its cleaving blow, she glanced over and happened to catch the eye of her brother’s companion. He was watching her intently, and she had the brief impression of a tanned wrist and hand settled with its index finger thoughtfully against his mouth.

She also noticed, in that blink of an eye, that, rather than focusing on her, Cezar sat back in his seat, covertly studying his companion. Without pause, Narcise finished her flowing movement, slicing the head from her opponent with a clean stroke.

Ending with her back toward the dais, and her audience, Narcise remained thus as she wiped her blade with a pristine white tablecloth. Then, with no acknowledgment to her audience, nor to the dead vampir whose damaged soul was filtering permanently down to hell, she stood, waiting for the door to be opened and her guards to appear. Grateful that tonight’s competition had been relatively easy, she slipped the clean saber into its sheath.

She could hear the murmurs from behind her, the slightly sibilant hiss of her brother’s voice, and the answering rumble of his companion, neither of which induced her to acknowledge them. Any intimate of her brother’s was automatically an enemy of hers.

It wasn’t until weeks later that she even learned his name.

Giordan Cale was all about money.

His ability to earn it, find it, inherit it, save it—and then, to multiply it several times over—was what got him into the predicament he was in: an immortal lifetime in which to spend more money than Croesus ever dreamed of. In fact, it seemed that Giordan couldn’t lose money if he tossed buckets of it into the Seine, or had the servants burn it in his fireplace, for the funds simply reappeared in some other form—of a long-shot investment coming due, or even an inexplicable inheritance.

And it was precisely his flair with funds that drew him to the attention of Cezar Moldavi.

But of course Giordan had heard of the man…and his sister…even before Moldavi arrived in Paris, for the world of the Dracule was exceedingly small and tightly interwoven. Despite the vast geography of the earth, the members of Lucifer’s secret society traveled and resided in only the largest, most cosmopolitan of cities: London, Vienna, Prague, Rome, Morocco and of course, Giordan’s beloved Paris. And they tended to congregate at the same private clubs, interacting in the same high levels of society, a happenstance which Giordan used to his financial benefit. He was the owner or a majority shareholder in the most luxurious and private of these havens in every major city except London. And, he determined, it was only a matter of time until he was established there as well.

He had an eternity to make it happen, no?

Cezar Moldavi had come to the City of Light after spending several decades in Vienna, where, apparently, there had been an unfortunate incident with another of the Dracule—along with some increasing, unpleasant attention being given to Moldavi’s propensity for bleeding children. There were those who risked their lives in order to hunt those of the Draculean world, sometimes even successfully. Giordan understood that Moldavi had decided it was best to evacuate from Vienna before one of those so-called vampire hunters was lucky enough to stake him to death.

Aside of that, one couldn’t stay in one place for more than two or three decades without one’s non-aging appearance being remarked upon, which required these powerful men to uproot and move their households every few decades or so. And now, after living in Vienna, Prague and even Amsterdam, Moldavi seemed intent on not only making his home in France, but also establishing himself as the leader of the Draculean underground therein.

Paris herself had changed during the last five years, during which Giordan had been in Morocco. Now, his City of Light roiled with tension and fear. Nerves crackled on the very rues, unease simmered in the Seine—for The Terror lived and seeped into every corner of the city. It had begun with the execution of the king by guillotine—and then shortly after, his wife Marie Antoinette, sniffing vials of her personal perfume tucked inside her bodice, met the same fate. And now every day, as Robespierre and his cronies struggled to maintain the burgeoning revolution, more and more people were dragged under the shining silver blade and relieved of their heads.

One who was required to live on the lifeblood of man—or whatever other living being one chose—might find it convenient that the mortals in Paris were being slaughtered in great numbers (for it wasn’t only the Widow—the guillotine—that caused their demise; there were shootings and beatings and other random murders fueled by desperation and suspicion), for it certainly provided a vast opportunity for sustenance. But while Giordan Cale had no qualms about killing in general, he found such rampant, widespread actions distasteful and unnecessarily violent.

This was, apparently, only one of the many ways in which he and Cezar Moldavi differed.

In fact, there were painfully few ways in which he and Cezar Moldavi were in agreement. After spending only a brief time with a bottle of excellent wine (which Giordan had sent over) and discussing a possible investment with Moldavi, Giordan came to the conclusion that his friend Dimitri, known as the Earl of Corvindale across the Channel in England, was being kind when he described Moldavi as being the lowest form of a bollocks-licking, bitch-in-heat, Lucifer’s-cock-biting bastard.

Giordan had just decided that, since he had no interest in continuing any form of discussion with Cezar Moldavi, he was going to excuse himself with great expedience and decline to watch the swordplay entertainment he’d been promised. But before he opened his mouth to do so, the man’s sister entered the opposite part of the chamber, below the dais.

Everything in his mind whirred into silence and he found that his body, too, had stilled.

She was carrying a long, sheathed sword, with a slightly curved blade. A saber, then: a type of single-edged weapon just coming into fashion. In fencing, one most often used a straight, slender blade such as an épée, or even a blunted foil. The lethality of this blade was Giordan’s first indication that the woman wasn’t merely engaging in sport.

“My sister, Narcise,” Moldavi murmured. He gestured to their empty cups on the table, and his steward moved quickly to fill them.

Giordan realized his breathing had ground to a halt and he reminded himself that, even though a vampire couldn’t die from suffocation, one did have to breathe or become weakened.

She was lovely. Incredibly lovely.

He’d heard about her, of course. Who hadn’t? Rumor had it that Cezar Moldavi’s sister was bait, a tool, and even a bargaining chip for her brother. But Giordan, who’d met—and had—many lovely and exotic women during his travels hadn’t expected to be so thoroughly entranced, and from a distance.

From his seat on the dais, Giordan studied her, attempting to be objective. And yet, one could be objective and still describe her as the most beautiful woman one had ever seen.

She was tall for a woman, and her rich, black hair was pulled into a large, tight knot at her nape. Her skin glowed like a pearl; it was fair and yet rosy luminous. He caught a brief glimpse of startling blue eyes that tended toward the violet end of the spectrum. They were outlined by dark lashes that made it appear as if she wore liner, as the Egyptians had to emphasize their eyes. But for her, it was a natural occurrence, and such artifice would be unnecessary.

And her face… Her features were incredibly perfect, magnificent really, with a lush, dark pink mouth and a straight, delicately formed nose.

If her face was exquisite, one could hardly expect that her figure would match it with such perfection…but it did. And the clothing she wore, unusual garb that clung to every curve, including her bound breasts, displayed the fact that Narcise Moldavi was this millennia’s Helen of Troy: the face and figure that could launch a thousand ships.

The only element marring the perfection of countenance and form was the dull fog that veiled her expression, clouded her eyes. She was an empty doll, an emotionless puppet.

So distracted by his examination of her figure was he that Giordan didn’t listen to the short commands given by his host, nor did he notice at first when another man joined them in the room.

But then he saw. Her opponent appeared larger and stronger than she, and like Narcise, he carried a deadly sword. But his was a broadsword, dual-edged, and heavier than her more elegant weapon. For the first time, Giordan understood that this was no simple fencing bout with foiled blades.

He turned to his host, intending to ask—and demand, if necessary—not to observe such an unmatched battle, but Cezar made an abrupt gesture. “Watch,” he said. And then to the rivals, who stood mere feet away from the raised table, he said, “To the death.”

Giordan stifled a reflexive response, and felt his muscles ready themselves to interfere if it became necessary. And surely it would.

Even the fierce expression that transformed Narcise’s face didn’t ease his concern, yet the change in her countenance Giordan found fascinating and quite striking. Her eyes flashed with loathing and determination, but she appeared so slight and much too elegant next to her burly rival.

And when she whirled into action, all taut grace and feline movement, Giordan’s breath caught yet again. He was alternately entranced and tense, watching and waiting like a parent seeing their child make a jump on horseback for the first time.

Her dark hair gleamed in the light flickering from the sconces studding the walls, her slender arms were quick, and her teeth, fangs extended, were bared with ferocity. But her eyes did not burn red, and she seemed calm. Very much in control.

Giordan watched closely, his concern easing, as he saw her weight shift on her feet, and how she changed her center of balance to launch herself smoothly over one of the chairs, then used her momentum to fling that very chair back toward her rival. Admiration grew as he noted her employment of excellent fencing technique while moving her body in a more forceful, combative fashion than such an activity normally required.

He almost missed the nearly imperceptible circle made by her wrist in a counterparry, which might have caught him off guard if he’d been her opponent. Pursing his lips, Giordan’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to watch more closely, trying to understand her strategy. This was most certainly not a fencing match, with parries and ripostes and the formal dance of back and forth and lunge…and yet she went through those motions like an expert.

And then…she ducked nimbly beneath her lumbering opponent’s arm, spun around behind him, sliced her saber down the back of his shirt and then met his blade as he twisted and swooped toward her with a great, ringing clash of metal.

The clang reverberated in the close room, followed by the slide of metal against metal. Then once again, she stepped out of the routine and somersaulted away as the man, now obviously frustrated by his lack of progress, lunged for her.

After that, the neat fencing bout deteriorated into a battle-field matchup of two lethal weapons. Giordan felt his arms tense once again, readying to interfere, and he spared a glance toward Moldavi. But his host was watching him, as if to gauge his guest’s reaction to the battle, his gaze contemplative and yet hooded.

As their eyes met, Moldavi raised his glass and sipped, then slid his attention to the battle beyond.

Giordan’s attention returned as well, just in time to see Narcise rise up to make a perfect arc on her feet, her blade free and ready, and in one burst of speed, she clove the head from her opponent in a powerful stroke.

She completed her turn, then stood, her slender back toward Giordan and her brother as she wiped her sword. The back of her shirt clung damply to her lower back, but not one strand of inky hair had escaped from its fat knot. Nor did her shoulders or arms seem to be moving with labored breaths.

She never looked back at them as she replaced her saber in its scabbard and stood, waiting.

Giordan was about to speak when a door opened and two large men—vampires—walked in. As he watched in astonishment and growing revulsion, they flanked and escorted Narcise from the chamber.

She never once acknowledged Giordan or her brother, a fact which both fascinated and irked him.

At that moment, Giordan decided that he might indeed continue discussing his next Far Eastern spice ship with Cezar Moldavi.

Giordan’s private club and residence in Paris was what he thought of as his flagship establishment. Everything from the women and other entertainment, to the wine and liquor, and the other vintages, exuded luxury, pleasure and perfect taste. But of course, it was also ridiculously expensive. And every night, and through much of the day, Draculean patrons—along with a limited cadre of mortals—filled the seats and clustered around illegal gaming tables. For despite what the city’s residents had begun to call the Reign of Terror, life—and business—did go on.

There were dinner parties, theater and balls, the women shopped for fashionable gowns, and men visited their clubs—though now, they did it with worried glances over the shoulder and a definite strain in one’s smile. The whispers and low-voiced conversations in corners were no longer confined to gossip about who was doing what to whom, but were filled with warnings and worries. Who would be next?

Little of this, however, affected those of the Dracule. In fact, not only did government and authority mean nothing to the vampires, but such upheaval only made their lives easier. The more chaotic, the better.

Which was why Giordan suspected that Moldavi was more than a little involved in the ongoing rivalry between Robes pierre and his so-called “terror as a virtue” campaign, and that of Hébert and the proposition of his atheist cult—both factions which promoted reason over religion, government over church. While the two factions argued, fought and executed, the turbulent fallout was beneficial to Moldavi who sought to exercise as much control as possible over his mortal counterparts.

Giordan had extended a particular invitation to the cloistered Moldavi to join him at the club this evening. He wasn’t at all certain that the man would accept, for he rarely left his subterranean residence, but he was hopeful that the possibility of continuing discussion on their potential business arrangement would draw him out. Aside of that, people rarely declined an invitation from him, simply because Giordan’s parties and fetes were known for being lavish and exciting and, quite often, with unique entertainment. He didn’t specifically ask that Moldavi bring his sister, but he knew it was likely that Narcise would accompany him.

Through the time Giordan had been absent from Paris, Moldavi had become entrenched in the underworld of the French Dracule. And on the rare occasion that he participated in social activities, he was usually accompanied by his sister. The better, Giordan had come to learn, to tempt friend and enemy alike into engaging with Narcise in battle.

There would be few men—mortal or otherwise—who could resist an opportunity to win a night with a woman such as she. The most troubling aspect of that particular arrangement was, in Giordan’s mind, whether Narcise’s brother forced her to engage in those gambles, or whether she did it of her own free will. If it were the former—and he was fairly certain it was, a suspicion supported by the empty expression on her face—there was yet another reason for him to disdain Moldavi, for exercising such influence over a woman was just as abhorrent as bleeding children to death.

And so when Giordan, who’d been sipping a very fine French brandy with two companions in his favorite private parlor, was advised that both Cezar and Narcise Moldavi had arrived, he merely nodded to himself. The bait had been taken, and he hoped to have his curiosity assuaged.

He was more than a bit curious to see what Narcise would be like in a less combative, restrictive environment, whether that dull glaze would be gone from her eyes, and whether a woman who looked like her, and fought with the ferocity of a man, had any social skills at all. Or whether she was merely a well-trained puppet.

Giordan was master enough of himself to admit that his interest and attraction had been piqued, and sharply. And honest enough to note that he would suffer even the presence of the repugnant Moldavi to pursue it.

It didn’t take long before the invited guests found their way to Giordan’s presence, and his host duly welcomed the siblings, introducing them to Eddersley, Voss, and indicating the latter’s latest mistress, Yvonna. She was a mortal, and her eyes had sunk half-closed due to the earlier employment of an opium pipe. Now, she sagged quietly in a corner chaise while the men conversed.

Clearly Cezar Moldavi had been in his early twenties when he’d been turned Dracule. His facial features and the swarthiness of his skin betrayed a strong Romanian heritage despite an underlying pastiness; in fact, Giordan knew that Moldavi had only permanently left Romania within the last decade, although he’d made extensive trips throughout Europe prior to settling in Paris. His voivodina in Moldavia had been very remote, yet the army within was the most fearsome and powerful in its nation.

He was many pounds lighter than Giordan, and slighter as well, but he had a square jaw that made his face seem oddly proportioned, verging upon awkward. His dark brows hung thick and straight over small blue-gray eyes, and his hair grew unfashionably like a thin walnut cap over his forehead and ears. He had surprisingly elegant hands that were covered in rings, and he was fashionably attired in a long-tailed, cut-away coat of dark red brocade and dun-colored knee breeches. His waistcoat did not stint on color, of course, for dull hues were only for the lower class. Moldavi moved with a barely perceptible limp that had to be from an injury prior to becoming immortal.

“We’ve met, albeit briefly,” Voss, the Viscount Dewhurst said, nodding to the new arrival. His attention strayed, as of course it would, to Narcise.

“Ah, yes,” Moldavi replied, his face flattening in annoyance. His French wasn’t perfect, but certainly serviceable. “In Vienna. On that most unfortunate evening some years ago. If I recall, you left before the fire that destroyed the house, did you not?”

But of course Giordan knew about the incident that had burned Dimitri’s house in Vienna. “Some years ago” had actually been more than a century, but such was the life of an immortal when decades became mere flashes in time.

Voss and Moldavi had both been there in Vienna that night, and had both contributed to the tragedy in their own ways—although literally passing by each other as Voss departed and Moldavi arrived.

“Perhaps you might recall I was there as well,” Eddersley said in his deep, cultured voice. He had large, knobby hands and wrists, and lots of dark, curling hair. His attention, as it was wont to do, barely touched on Narcise and instead glanced more contemplatively over her brother. But the short, slender Moldavi was no more Lord Eddersley’s preference than Narcise was. He veered toward elegant, fair-haired men with broad shoulders and significant height when it came to feeding, and other pleasures. “But we haven’t formally met.”

“It was a rather…eventful night.” Moldavi sketched the briefest of bows to the lanky, strong-featured man without comment, and Giordan fancied he saw him even sniff in disdain, for Eddersley made no effort to hide his preference for men. The latter gave no response aside of a similarly brief nod and then glanced at Voss, a little annoyed smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth as he greeted Narcise politely.

Next to her dark, awkward brother, Narcise appeared a swan. Giordan had to work to keep his attention from fastening on her and remaining there. But in the short moment his eyes swept her figure, he noted the detailed arrangement of her dark hair, tonight soft and loose around her porcelain face, and the sharp, sharp notice of her eyes.

The dullard look had gone.

Diamonds and ice-blue topazes glittered in her hair and at her throat. She wore a silk gown in the robe à la Anglaise style, which meant there was a significant expanse of bosom exposed and, if one were to get technical, ripples known as gathers all along the back of the bodice and bustle. The blue-and-cream-striped overdress and lacy underskirts lay flat in the front, but were gathered up in the back to create a silhouette that Giordan found most appealing: the elegant rise of a lady’s rump, then the skirts falling in a short, smooth train to the floor. Fine lace decorated the edges of her sleeves and bodice, and even peeped from the layers of crinoline beneath the skirts.

He knew from experience that the weight of corset, chemise, as many as four crinolines, along with underskirt and overdress was significant, and he wondered how she felt to go from the light, clinging attire that she wore while fighting to such restrictive, heavy ones. He also contemplated the pleasure of peeling away her clothing, one layer at a time, like those curious paper boxes from China that nested one inside the other. Each one revealed a new delight and design just as did the layers of a woman’s clothing.

“Please, sit,” Giordan said, realizing he’d allowed his thoughts to go wayward. He gestured with his glass of brandy to encompass the chamber’s hospitality, and one of the footmen poured a glass for Moldavi.

It was decorated in a relatively restrained style in comparison to that of other wealthy French residences—including Versailles. Giordan preferred the spare, simple elegance of the early Greeks and Romans over pastel colors and gilt. Thus, the furnishings were solid, yet inviting and comfortable, with cushions and pillows arranged freely. Large paintings hung on the otherwise bare white walls, except for one corner where a small collection of framed etchings of Parisian streets clustered. He kept them there to remind himself from whence he’d come.

“I am gratified that you saw fit to accept my invitation,” Giordan added, sipping from the glass.

“I accept very few,” Moldavi said as if bestowing some great favor. “But I am most interested in continuing our discussion begun last fortnight. And I have come to understand that one does not wish to miss a party given by Monsieur Cale.” His lips moved in a brief smile. As if to punctuate his reference to joviality, a burst of laughter erupted from the public parlor below.

“Indeed,” Giordan replied as Moldavi sat in the chair next to him, gesturing to his sister to alight nearby. “But before we turn our thoughts to business, perhaps a bit of pleasure first? I’ve just added some new vintages on which I would appreciate your opinion. We were just about to sample them.”

“I would be delighted,” Moldavi replied in his low, sibilant voice.

For the first time, Giordan scented Narcise—or, more accurately, he was able to identify and extract her specific essence from that around him, and it was just as decadent and alluring as the woman herself. Musky, spicy, dark, and yet elegant. Notes of smoky vetiver…clary sage…and sweet ylang-ylang. Lush, sensual, tempting.

Giordan swallowed, feeling his gums begin to swell as they prepared to thrust his fangs forth, and the further deep stirring of desire inside him. Narcise Moldavi was potent on so many levels.

She’d chosen to sit, not where her brother had indicated, but in what Giordan sensed might be more than a bit of defiance, on a chaise just to the right of her host. He didn’t fool himself into believing she’d chosen proximity to him because she wanted to be near him, for it was the farthest available seat from her brother.

Turning his thoughts and attention from her, Giordan rang a little bell next to him on the table. “Then let us commence.”

The door to the chamber opened and his private steward and valet, Mingo, stepped in. He was one of the few made vampires that Giordan employed, simply for the fact that he rarely chose to sire a new immortal. They were most often more trouble than they were worth, and there were plenty of other makes available for hire—most of them foolish mortals who’d been lured into a false sense of security by choosing to live forever. But Giordan found it necessary to have a Dracule, and one that he trusted, in the position for obvious reasons—otherwise, it would be like having a wine steward who had no taste for the beverage.

“Send in the newest acquisitions,” he commanded. “And prepare a new plate, if you will.”

Moldavi leaned closer to Giordan and murmured, “My sister has recently fed and will decline any offerings tonight.”

Giordan was aware of the waft of patchouli and cedar that accompanied Moldavi’s movements, along with a note of something mildly unpleasant. “I have already fed as well,” he replied with a bland smile. “However, the purpose is not for sustenance, but merely to enjoy a sampling of an excellent varietal.”

Moldavi smiled, displaying his fangs. In the right one, a bit of gold glinted. “I merely wished to explain in order to forestall any offense. Please understand that none would be intended, but she will not partake.”

Indeed. Giordan kept his features smooth with effort, and his attention from sliding to the woman in question. We shall see about that. However, he merely said, “I do hope she will change her mind.”

“She is quite stubborn,” Moldavi said with a low chuckle, absently tapping his fingernail on the glass.

Before Giordan could find some unassuming response, the door opened and in filed two men and four women. There was no way to immediately identify them as mortal versus Dracule, but they were, indeed, mortals who were here to provide whatever Giordan’s guests required.

“And here we are,” he said, looking around at his companions, including Narcise. She fixed him back with a calm stare, and he felt certain she would have heard the exchange between him and her brother. Draculean hearing, along with sight and smell, was superhumanly acute.

“As you may be aware, I am particular about the sort of libation offered to my guests, both here and in my other establishments,” Giordan explained. “Please note that all of them are willing participants…provided they are tipped well…and that they are kept in the most comfortable and regimented accommodations.”

“There are no restrictions, of course,” Eddersley said. His fangs had slipped free a bit, and his eyes glowed softly.

“Indeed, none,” Giordan replied, knowing precisely why his friend had asked. One of the six was a strapping blond man from Russia. “As long as you cause them no lasting or mortal injury, and as long as you can afford the fee,” he added with a brief smile, “there are no restrictions. Now, if you will allow me to introduce our selections. They are all new here at Château Riche, and tonight is their debut. I’ve found Damaris, the dark-skinned girl there in the blue gown, to be extremely rich and full of body. She is my favorite of them.” He smiled at her, his fangs extended just a bit at the memory.

Moldavi looked at him sidewise and then back at the young woman, whose hair was scraped back into a high, exotic tail. Her skin was the color of dark tea and she was tall and slender, from Egypt or somewhere in the vicinity of the Holy Land.

“We keep each of them on a specific diet, strictly to maintain the integrity of their blood,” Giordan continued. “Have you noticed how the taste can differ, depending upon the type of food intake, as well as origin? Rather like the types of soil that grow grapes or hops. The diets are as individual as they are. Some of them, like the lovely Drishni there, in the red gown, eat only vegetation. Others eat highly spiced foods, or drink an inordinate amount of champagne. And so on.”

Once again, he gestured to his guests to partake, and then crooked a finger for Damaris to join him. She wafted over, her blue gown flowing loosely over long limbs. Unlike the ladies who wore high fashion, she didn’t have the layers of crinoline and corset to peel away. One could see everything she had to offer as the silk clung to her from breast to hips to pubis.

As Damaris settled on the arm of Giordan’s chair, just between him and Moldavi, Mingo entered the room again. He was carrying a plate with the pressed and rolled hashish. Without waiting for his master’s direction, he arranged it on the low, central table and lit the small pyramid-shaped block.

“Please,” Giordan said, looking at Moldavi with a nod of hospitality. Damaris, also well-trained, offered one wrist to each of them as she sat on the chair arm.

Giordan felt Moldavi’s eyes on him as he extended his fangs and slid just the tips into the curve of her elbow. The release of blood into his mouth, warm and rich—and in this case, heavy with a note of spice—filled his senses. The taste, the smell, the way his body leaped and responded, skin prickling and warming, had his own blood surging.

For him, as well as for all Dracule, it was difficult to separate the primitive need for sustenance from the accompanying titillation and arousal that came with penetrating flesh and ingesting hot, thick blood, of the intimate slide of mouth against skin—and most of the time, it was neither necessary nor desirable to do so.

But tonight, now, Giordan was merely sampling. He had no need for sustenance, nor was he interested in engaging in any other erotic pleasures in his current company—although that wasn’t due to any modesty on his part.

The simple fact was, despite the taste and smell of the exotic Damaris—who was beginning to breathe heavily as her own pleasure increased with both men feeding from her arms—it was the awareness of Narcise, and her smell, her essence and presence, that attracted Giordan. But he sensed that it would be best not to reveal his deep interest to her brother so overtly. So he kept his gaze strictly away from her.

As the sweet, peppery smell of burning hashish filtered through the chamber, and the arousing flow of blood settled over his tongue and rushed through his body, Giordan felt his world turning warm and red, hazy and lulling. He withdrew from Damaris and he’d barely turned away when another of his “vintages”—the Viennese girl Liesl—appeared in front of him. She was petite and blonde, and her lifeblood was just as light and pure as her appearance. She offered a slender shoulder, bared by a low-rising bodice, and as he tugged her onto his lap to take a taste, he allowed his attention to slide toward the chaise where Narcise was sitting.

Had been sitting.

She was gone now.

Combing through the miasma of pleasure and sensuality, Giordan paused before sliding his fangs into the delicate woman in front of him. The smoke from the hashish had cast a filter over the room, and Mingo had turned the oil lamps down to a soft glow. It took Giordan a moment to look around and see a lone figure standing near the corner, looking at a painting on the wall.

Instead of slipping his fangs in, he softly murmured instruction to Liesl to join Damaris with Moldavi, and to block the guest’s view of the chamber.

He was under no misapprehension about Moldavi’s need to control his sister. He’d also sensed that any attempt to speak privately with Narcise would be thwarted by her brother.

Aside of that, she would need to be approached with care. Despite the spark of life he’d noticed in her eyes, surely she must be skittish and leery of any male.

“Keep him occupied and distracted, and you will be well-compensated,” Giordan murmured into Liesl’s ear, then nicked her with his fang. Just to taste, for it was his duty as host to ensure that everything on the menu was exquisite. And it was. He slicked his tongue briefly around the edge of her ear and she shivered, her hands settling onto his shoulders as she sagged into him, clearly wanting more.

“More of my lord would be compensation enough.” Her fingers slipped into his hair and she pressed her breasts into his collarbone.

But Giordan flashed his eyes in warning, for there was a fine line between making one’s services available to a guest and overstepping one’s bounds. His vintages must learn to finesse the difference. He eased her firmly from his lap. “Go on,” he said quietly.

He took great care in extricating himself from the chair, attempting to be unnoticed by Moldavi, who seemed very content with Damaris. He watched as Liesl positioned herself, along with Damaris, nearly in the man’s lap. And then, as much as every muscle in his body desired him to do so, Giordan did not walk directly over to Narcise.

Instead he wandered toward Voss, who seemed to be more than a little delighted by Drishni, the third of the female vintages, who was kissing one of the two male specimens. But of course Giordan must pause and ask whether Voss was enjoying himself, and if there was aught he needed, and they had a brief conversation about the variety of vintages, including those of the male gender.

“It is true, occasionally I prefer the taste of male lifeblood,” Voss said, his softly glowing eyes never leaving the intertwined couple.

Both of the mortals had been bitten and fed upon, and the unique scents of their blood, and the combination of their essences mingling along with the aroma of desire was heady to Giordan as well. “I find it bold and strong, and a welcome change from the thinner feminine sort,” Voss continued. “But Drishni… She is lovely as well. Pure and sweet.”

She was Giordan’s most recent addition, lately come from India. In fact, she had presented herself on his doorstep one day after hearing that he hired exotic girls. Giordan nodded complacently to Voss. “But that is precisely why we offer such a variety. To meet the varying needs of anyone.”

Feeding on a male Dracule was not at all the same as fucking him, although Eddersley would of course prefer the latter. Gender mattered little when it came to feeding, but because of the intimacy that action promoted, most often a Dracule fed on a mortal of the opposite gender.

Yet, it was a rare vampir who hadn’t had at least some intimate interaction with a member of the same gender, even if it was in a sensual, pleasure-induced ménage or orgy. Arrangements like that of this very evening were common and often led to such experiences. That sort of unfettered eroticism was part and parcel with the infinity of immortality, the need to puncture and draw blood from a living body…the knowledge that one could do whatever one wished as a member of the Dracule, and have little to answer for.

Even Giordan, who still fought horrible memories from his childhood, had been caught up in red-hot moments of pleasure when he wasn’t entirely certain whose hands were stroking him, whose skin was sliding against his or whose body part he was driving his fangs into.

But there was no question that the woman across the chamber, who seemed to have moved on to examine another painting, was the only thing on his mind tonight.

Giordan made his excuses from Voss, smiling wryly at Yvonna, who’d slumped into a stupor as her lover indulged as only he knew how, and confirmed that Eddersley had slipped into a private alcove and was clearly occupied. Then he was finally able to skirt the edge of the room toward Narcise.

Whether by accident or design, she’d positioned herself in the only corner of the chamber out of eyesight of her brother. It was also the most well-lit area of the room. She seemed to be entranced by Jacques-Louis David’s second rendition of Paris and Helen. It was a painting that Giordan had had specially commissioned for this particular parlor, and for which he’d paid an exorbitant price because of some of the changes he’d requested.

And how apropos that Narcise should be drawn to an image of the same legendary woman with whom Giordan had compared her.

The spicy hashish scent clinging to him, slipping into his nostrils and curling around inside his head, he allowed his mouth to settle into a faint smile as he drew near…and considered how to approach her.

Although she must sense his presence as he came to stand next to her, Narcise gave no indication.

This, in turn, gave Giordan a moment for admiration—the ivory curve of her neck and bare shoulders, the thick blue-black mass of hair sparkling with pale blue topazes, the perfect slope and tip of her nose, and the full, dark pink mouth.

He needed a moment, too, to steady his breath, control the swelling beginning in his gums…and elsewhere. For, truly, the very proximity of the woman sent his thoughts to the wind and his stomach to quivering.

As he stood there, next to and slightly behind her, forcing himself to stare at the painting in tandem with her, Giordan felt a wave of annoyance and frustration at his powerful reaction. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t care for the way it made him feel.

But, yet, he remained. Curious and infatuated.

“Is it the talent of the painter that has you so entranced?” he said at last, stepping into her line of vision. “Or merely the need to separate yourself from the others in the room?”

She turned to look at him then, covering him with deep blue eyes that made his belly twist awkwardly. By the Fates, he felt like a bloody schoolboy. Not that he’d ever been one. A boy, yes. In school, no.

“Well, Monsieur Cale, I must credit you for a most creative approach.” Her French wasn’t even as practiced as her brother’s, barely passable, and despite the brilliant hue of her eyes, the expression therein was nevertheless cool and remote. And, perhaps, fearful.

“Indeed? I thought it a rather mundane one, myself,” he replied, switching experimentally to English.

Narcise returned to looking at the painting. “Monsieur David is making quite a name for himself,” she replied, following his language shift to the Anglican. Here, she clearly had more confidence. “And with good reason. He is very talented. Such attention to texture and detail.”

Giordan found himself absurdly pleased that she seemed willing to converse, and could string thoughts together with ease—for not every woman could. Those who could not made for very dull bed partners and companions.

And the dull glaze in her eyes was gone. Wariness lurked there, but that he could manage.

He smiled. “And yet, is it not ironic that a painting commissioned for the king’s brother is in reality a harsh statement about the superficiality of the royal family? Choosing fleeting physical pleasures over responsibility to one’s country?”

“Monsieur David is clever like that,” Narcise replied. “But this is not the same painting commissioned by d’Artois.”

“But of course you are correct,” Giordan replied, wondering on what occasion she’d seen the original. “The first Paris and Helen was a bit too floral in hue for my taste—that flowing rose-colored gown too soft and feminine for this chamber. And it was missing some important details, no?” He smiled down at her, allowing a bit of mischief into his eyes.

“Hmm…yes, I don’t recall Paris showing his fangs in the previous edition.” The expression in her face eased a bit and the resulting softness made her even more lovely.

His heart stuttered, but he added smoothly, “Nor the marks on Helen’s arm from said fangs.”

“No, of course not. I don’t believe the comte would have appreciated his mistress being portrayed as the victim of a Draculean lover,” she replied, once again focusing her attention on the work of art. “You do know that if my brother sees us conversing privately, he will put a stop to it.”

Just as she had followed his change of language, Giordan easily followed her non sequitur. “He is well-occupied for the time.”

“Don’t underestimate Cezar,” Narcise told him. “Too many have, and most of them are no longer here to warn you themselves.”

“And so you take it upon yourself to point out the obvious? I am just as able to take care of myself as you appear to be, mademoiselle. Wherever did you learn to fence with such skill?”

She stiffened next to him, but did not turn, leaving him to scrutinize her profile. “And how would you know of my skill with the saber, Monsieur Cale?”

2

Narcise stared up at the painting and tried to concentrate.

He was standing too close to her, this man named Giordan Cale. This man who’d hardly glanced her way all evening as he played host…but who, when he did, made a rush of heat flood her body.

She had lied, of course. By implication. By implying that she hadn’t noticed him watching her that night when she’d killed a man to keep herself free. Or, at least, implying that she didn’t remember him.

But she did remember him. Very well. In fact, she’d made a sketch of Cale later that night, in the privacy she’d won by sending her opponent to hell. Despite the fact that he was a friend of her brother’s, Cale had provided an interesting subject for her creative mind.

She’d drawn the thick curling hair that capped his skull with glossy brown texture, shadowed in the square chin and fine lips in a strong, handsome face. Now, after seeing him tonight, she realized she hadn’t quite got the shape of his eyes, nor the correct angle of his jaw and the proper shading of his cheekbones in that first sketch—but she’d been working from a brief glance. That glance from a distance hadn’t given her the details, either: the blue flecks in his brown eyes, the small scar near his right eye, the element of controlled determination rumbling beneath his easy smile.

And now he stood near enough that his particular scent rose above that thick, hazy smoke and the strong aromas of mingled lifeblood and arousal. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, as if he were so close that his breath brushed over the sensitive skin there.

She prayed that he was right, that Cezar was too occupied to notice.

Cale hadn’t yet responded to her gentle taunt asking how he’d known of her skills, and at last she could no longer keep from looking at him. But when she turned, she had to resist the desire to step back. Instead she drew in a shallow breath and steadied herself.

Too close. Much too close.

Not because he threatened her—at least, not in the way other men did, with their leering faces and hot eyes and determination. But because he affected her with a strong tug, deep inside.

His appealing face was right there, a breath away, and he was looking down at her. She was tall for a woman, and her chin was almost level with his. The corners of his brown eyes crinkled a bit, and she saw not the lust she expected, that she was accustomed to in a man’s gaze, but a sort of taunting challenge laced with levity.

As if to say, Oh, this shall be the game, no?

“Your skill with the sword,” he said at last, neither acceding to nor challenging her lie, “is legendary. At least among the Dracule.”

An unexpected bitterness swept her. Unexpected because she was adept at keeping that emotion well in check. Her swordplay and her beauty, known throughout the Draculean underworld, contributed not only to Cezar’s power and fame, but also to her captivity. If she had neither, would her brother even care?

Of course, if she had no beauty, she would never have become part of this world. He would have let her die—perhaps even helped her—just as he had their brother and father, and even his wife. Instead Cezar had found a way to preserve her, along with himself.

Uncertain how to respond to Cale’s statement, Narcise gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. “My brother has employed a variety of excellent trainers to tutor me.” The chamber had become close and warm, and the lure of pleasure and satiation tugged at her. Her gums filled and a little flutter grew stronger in her belly.

“He must take care of his investment, no?” Cale replied. His voice was light, but she saw a flash of anger in his eyes and tightness at the corner of his mouth.

Her throat had gone dry and she found it difficult to swallow. Was it possible he understood? “My brother certainly doesn’t wish any serious injury on me,” she said, keeping her voice steady. It was a true statement, though barely so.

Cale hadn’t released her gaze, and she found herself trapped in it, looking at the blue and black flecks in his rich brown eyes. “I was prepared to intervene that night,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

Narcise felt the bottom of her belly drop. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think at first; her lips had formed a silent O. She clamped them closed as she tore her eyes from him.

“Monsieur Cale,” was all that she managed to say, even as her heart pounded and an odd fluttering rushed through her. “That would have been foolish.”

All pretense that she hadn’t remembered him was now gone in the face of astonishment and gratitude. He would have intervened? He would have helped her?

What would Cezar have done?

Suddenly she felt warm and shaky, breathless—and foolish, for the light-headedness was sudden and unexpected. The air had turned so thick, lush with the sweet-peppery smoke, and the deep, dark allure of fresh blood. Her fangs were trying to thrust free, her hands trembling. Before she quite realized what was happening, she felt his fingers close around her wrist, and another strong arm sliding around her waist.

“Some air, mademoiselle,” he said, leading her away. “It has become too close in here. And you have not fed.”

“No,” she protested, determination penetrating the haze. Cezar wouldn’t permit such a thing. She dug her heels in, despite the pressure on her arm, despite her need to escape the dangers of this place.

“When is the last time you fed?” Cale demanded, his mouth too close to her ear. Warmth flushed through her; his scent enveloped her along with the heat of his body.

The world swirled a bit, glazed with red heat, then as she blinked and steadied herself, she focused. “I will feed in the morning,” she told him. “When we return.” If Cezar permits.

That was his way of enforcing her good behavior on social events such as this. He didn’t starve her; that would be foolish. But he withheld just enough, just long enough, that she was in need. And pliable. And she knew better than to partake without his permission.

The air had cleared a bit and Narcise realized that, despite her efforts to the contrary, Cale had managed to guide her out of the close, warm chamber. Nervousness seized her, and she yanked out of his grip. “Please,” she said, forcing her voice to be sharp and strong instead of desperate. “I must return. Cezar will be searching for me.”

Cale was looking at her searchingly, his eyes still too close, his mouth near enough that if she turned her head, the pouf of her hair would brush against it. He’d caught up her hand in his, drawing her toward him. “Very well,” he replied. “But you must feed. I can see the need in your eyes.”

Somehow, the rumble of his voice, the low dip of the syllables, was so intimate that a little pang twisted inside her. There was compassion there, compassion and admiration…and anger.

He made no move to stop her when she tugged free of his grip, noticing for the first time that they were in a dim corridor. A door behind her was ajar, and beyond she could see into the chamber they’d just vacated.

Heart in her throat, she peered into the hazy, golden room, her fingers on the edge of the door. Even through the filtering smoke, she could see the chair in which Cezar sat, its back facing her, his head barely rising above it. He couldn’t see her from that position, thank Fates, and Narcise noticed the other two figures settled in front of him.

He did indeed seem to be well-occupied.

Her pounding heart slowed a bit, but before she stepped back into the chamber, those strong fingers were back, gently curling around her wrist.

“Do you see?” Cale said, drawing her back toward him, away from the door. “He has no notice of you.”

“But—” she began, and then she stopped, her breath catching.

He’d moved sharply, jerking his arm, and all at once the scent of fresh blood permeated the air. “Merde,” he muttered. “What have I done?”

What have you done indeed. Narcise felt almost dizzy from the rich aroma as it seemed to embrace her, sliding into her consciousness. “Monsieur,” she managed, her fangs suddenly filling her mouth, thrusting sharp and hard as her veins pulsed with the rush of need. She was under no illusion that his sudden wound had been an accident.

“You would do me a great service,” murmured Cale, eyeing her steadily. “If you would attend to this.” He lifted his arm.

He’d hardly needed to move, for despite her resistance, Narcise’s attention had already slipped down to his bare wrist. His cutaway coat was gone, his shirtsleeve pulled away to expose a golden forearm, muscular and smooth but for the ooze of dark red blood.

“Please, mademoiselle,” he said, and she felt the wall crushing the full bustle at the back of her gown. “You need to feed, and here I am in need of assistance.”

Narcise should have been angry at him for such a trick, but she didn’t even bear that strength of mind at the moment. The blood…his blood, his scent…that of the man whose presence had set her off-kilter, who hadn’t made a single reference to her beauty or to wanting her…who’d been willing to intervene in a sword fight…. his blood tempted her, and in her weakened state, she had no real chance to deny it.

As if knowing she were light of head and uneasy, Cale slid an arm around her waist, positioning it between the hollow of her back and the wall behind. She had the sensations of heat and solidness enveloping her, the alluring scent of his presence, the warm cotton of his shirt.

She licked first…just a delicate slide of her tongue over the pool of blood collecting in the hollows of his wrist. He gave a little start, the tiniest of jolts, and she felt his arm tense beneath her mouth. Heavy and rich, his lifeblood settled over her tongue and lips and a great surge of desire rushed through her.

But somehow she held her instinct in check and swirled her tongue over and around the small wound, inhaling his scent, tasting his life. Pure, hot, lush…strong. He was powerful. She could no longer wait, and sunk her fangs into the surging veins on the inside of his wrist.

Now he flowed into her mouth with the delicate rhythm of his heartbeat, the veins filling and surging against her mouth. She drank, breathed, her knees buckling so that she sagged against the wall and into his arms. Lust and need swelled her body, in her veins and beneath her skin, pulsing and dampening her far beneath layers of clothing.

The wall was solid behind her, and Cale to the side, his arm still curved around her waist. She was faintly aware of his body trembling against hers, of the rough movement of his chest. As she held him with both hands, bending his hand back to open palm and wrist, their fingers curled together. She was aware of the heavy ring on his finger, biting into her smaller digits as he gripped tightly.

Narcise drank, sucking gently, her swallows quiet and rhythmic as the ambrosia filled her mouth, funneling through her body. She found herself caressing his warm, smooth skin with her lips as she pinned him with her fangs, using tongue and lips to sip up every bit.

There was a moment when she’d regained some of her strength and she glanced up to see Cale’s eyes fastened on her. Blazing red, they glowed like a banked fire beneath heavy lids. His lips had parted, his fangs thrust long and tempting. His expression shot a sharp pang into her belly, and down. Hard and strong, exploding into heat and dampness.

Narcise looked back down, away from that gaze burning into hers, steeling herself for him to pull away and tear his fangs into her throat. But instead of revulsion, she felt another rush of desire at the thought. Her belly trembled, her breasts and tight nipples thrusting against their silk chemise, her lungs constricted.

She pulled her fangs free, reality and fear sweeping into her glazed mind. Cezar. She swallowed, tasting the last bit of his essence, and felt him release her. Narcise bumped lightly against the wall, suddenly standing on her own balance, and looked up at him. His eyes still glowed in an orange-red ring around the hazel iris, his lips still parted, showing the tips of fangs. Cale’s chest moved as if he’d been running, and for a moment, that fear…that thrill…that he might reach for her and crush her against the wall rose to clog her thoughts.

But he didn’t. “Merci,” he said in that delicious, low voice that said much more than the simple syllables. “But perhaps you might finish?” He’d slipped back into French again.

Narcise knew what he meant, and for a moment she was terrified to risk tasting him again. But at the very least, it was courtesy. And at the most, it was one more moment of pleasure before she must return to a world of fear and desperation.

With delicate fingers this time, she lifted his arm and, casting him one quick glance, she kissed the wound. She used her tongue to slip away the last vestiges of blood, knowing that her saliva would cause the blood to stop flowing and the wound to heal quickly. And then Narcise released him and stepped back, waiting for him to lunge at her. And wondered how soon it would be before Cezar came out to find them.

“Perhaps,” Cale said, still in French, still in that low voice, “if David had been witness to such a display, his painting might have had more authenticity. A bit more…heat.”

Narcise could do nothing but nod dumbly. Her head was clearer than it had been for a while, but her body still hummed with desire.

And when Cale turned to pull on the coat he’d slung over a nearby table, she managed to say, “Cezar will know.” A knot formed quickly in her belly as the reality set in. He would know and he would exact a punishment from her.

Cale looked at her, his eyes no longer burning, but now inscrutable. “But of course he will know. In fact, perhaps he likely even planned this. But I will ensure you’ll have no repercussions, mademoiselle. You may trust me.”

Trust me.

The last time she’d believed those words from a man, they’d come from Cezar. More than a hundred years ago, on the night she was visited by Lucifer. Narcise choked back a bitter laugh. And look what trusting a man had given her: an infinite life of captivity.

Cale offered her his unwounded arm, and she slipped her fingers around it. Lifting her chin high, she allowed him to return her to the chamber, ready to face what would come.

She would either live through Cezar’s anger, as she had so many times before…or he would kill her in his fury. And that, she thought, could very well be the lesser of the two evils.

Cezar Moldavi was fully aware of his sister’s disappearance, and with whom.

Certainly he was, for he rarely allowed anything out of his control to happen. Those days of being pummeled and pushed and bullied were long behind him. Now, everything he did was carefully planned, every possible outcome examined, accepted or rejected, and Cezar Moldavi had long since destroyed anyone who could remember him as the sniveling, snot-nosed coward he’d once been.

Except for his sister, whom he loved.

And hated.

Despite the stimulation of two lovely mortal women who fondled and stroked and tempted him to feed on them, his mind was elsewhere. He knew precisely when Narcise and Cale left the chamber, how long they were gone and who had fed upon whom by the time they returned.

And although he was disappointed with the turn of events, he’d expected it. It had been one of the possible—and, in fact, most probable—outcomes. He would have liked to have been surprised, but the fact that he wasn’t surprised wasn’t such a great tragedy, for, again, he’d been prepared.

Cale was a striking, powerful man, absurdly wealthy and well-thought-of in both the Dracule and the mortal worlds. He was used to getting all that he desired.

And so was Cezar.

But then again…nothing had truly happened between Cale and his sister. Cezar could smell it: a brief feeding, nothing more. Narcise would pay for her disobedience…but not in the way she might anticipate.

And that was why Cezar allowed himself to be convinced by Cale’s smooth explanations for what had obviously happened. The scent of satiation was everywhere in the chamber, clinging to Narcise; there was no way to hide what had occurred. And so, admirably, Cale didn’t attempt to do so.

“And see how I injured myself,” he said, gesturing to his wounded arm. “I imposed upon your sister, and was able to convince her to assist me. I’m deeply gratified that she agreed, for I fear my shirtsleeve would have been stained otherwise.” His smile was charming, even reaching his eyes. Yet, behind the smile, there was a hint of warning. “And Mingo—you understand how valets can be—would be beside himself.”

“Certainly,” Cezar replied, approving of the very well-cut lines of the other man’s clothing. Not as ostentatious as some of the other high fashion here in Paris, with the brocade cutaway coats of pastel, but nevertheless extremely well-made and perfectly fitted. He must get the name of his tailor. “I’m certain Narcise had no real qualms about assisting our host.” His expression and voice were bland, and as he glanced over, he saw the flare of nervousness in her eyes.

Good. But do not expect the sword to drop so soon, my dear sister. I have need of you first.

If nothing else, Cezar Moldavi had learned to plot and plan and manipulate instead of rushing in. And until he got what he wanted from Giordan Cale—which was more than a mere share in his next spice ship to China—he would look aside and allow Narcise to help him.

At the very least, it would provide some very stimulating activity.

Giordan looked out over the glittering lights. There were gently rocking carriage lanterns, and higher, stable street-lights. The glow of oil lamps, from bright yellow to dull amber, shone from unshuttered windows. The City of Light, named for being the center of education and enlightenment since the medieval monks built their narrow streets, was a more apt nickname than most realized.

He was high enough, here on the silent rooftop, that the shouts and cries from below were indiscernible, mingling with the low hoot of owls and the distant rattle of bridles and carriages. Bonfires blazed in red-orange pockets as spectators waited, reserving their places for the morning’s executions. Giordan fancied he could even see the wicked gleam of the guillotine blade in its large black frame.

He wondered how long this madness would last, how long the likes of Robespierre and Hébert would escape a similar fate. Giordan had lived more than a hundred years, and one thing he’d come to realize was that fanaticism and violence had a way of turning on to those who wielded them.

A cool breeze ruffled his curls as he lifted a glass to sip his favorite Armagnac. Warm and pungent, the brandy’s potency was a different experience than that of the lifeblood he’d enjoyed earlier this evening, courtesy of Damaris. Not for sustenance did he enjoy the liquor, but for pleasure and weight and taste, and the different sort of looseness it gave him.

So it was for the Dracule: when they ate cheese or fruit or pastries, or any sort of food, or partook of wine or ale, it was purely for pleasure. Texture, taste, scent. A reminder of their enjoyment from mortal days, a social activity. But not at all necessary.

He allowed the brandy to settle on his tongue, swirling it thoughtfully in tandem with a myriad of thoughts, a spectrum of emotions. A burst of laughter erupted below, coming from one of his balconies on a lower floor. Ah, good. His guests were enjoying themselves.

What more could a man ask?

Friends, companionship, social engagements… He was rarely alone. He need never be lonely.

Yet…he’d escaped from his own lavish party to find solitude on the private rooftop. Potted lemon and orange trees, surrounded by luminaries, released their scent into the breeze. A long ledge, planted with rosemary and thyme, contained the low bushes as they sprouted fragrantly. There was a bench if he chose to sit, and even a small pit should he wish to burn the neatly tied fagot resting in it. A fat beetle scuttled across the edge of the bench and Giordan smashed it with his boot.

Pity that he could only utilize the space once the sun went down, for he wondered how different Paris would appear in the daylight. What the creamy rows of houses and their peaked roofs would look like, neat and perpendicular and shoved together like rows of pointed teeth, knit together like the patterned stitches of a shawl.

Perhaps if he had such an unobstructed view, he might see La Chapelle-Saint-Denis from here: the place of his origin, of his birth.

Not his literal birth. He wasn’t certain where that had been; in the countryside, he suspected. But the place where he’d lived—no, no, where he’d existed. Merely existed.

Those memories still pierced him, still caused his throat to close up. Still, more often than he cared to admit, had him waking, desperate, in the middle of the day, wondering if there would be enough bread for dinner or a place to sleep. Remembering the scrap of wool he tried to huddle beneath during the snows. Fighting off the memory of rough hands and the stink of unwashed men unlacing their breeches, shoving him into dark alleys.

Here he was, rooftops and decades away from those days, from his own Terror.

And, here in Le Marais, only a few streets from a new obsession: Narcise Moldavi.

A shadow moved on an adjacent rooftop across the way, but he’d already sensed the cat. Elegant and slinky, padding four-footed across the ridge, it turned and looked at him with knowing blue-gray eyes. The moon stroked its pale fur with a hint of blue and silver, leaving the creature to look almost luminous.

Giordan paused with the glass halfway to his mouth and lowered it, watching. Waiting.

The cat’s long tail twitched and it gave a low meow, as if to taunt him.

But there was a street—albeit a narrow one—five stories below, between his balcony and the cat’s roof peak. That was far enough that Giordan wasn’t overly affected by the feline’s presence. This was just about as close as he could get to a cat now without becoming weak or even paralyzed, a fact that he despised.

His only friend from those years living hand to mouth, dirty and cold, had been a large, fat orange tabby with yellow eyes. When things had started to change, when he’d had two sous to rub together, and then four clinking in his pocket, and then eight and then they began to multiply faster than Giordan could believe, Chaton (a decidedly uncreative name to be sure) had been with him.

The night Lucifer visited, deep in Giordan’s dreams—or perhaps they had been nightmares—Chaton had been curled next to him on the bed, purring. This was long after Giordan had bought his own well-appointed home, with the largest, softest goosedown mattresses he could find, after his incredible financial luck had taken hold. And so it was that, when Giordan awakened the next morning after a hazy, dark dream in which the Devil had promised him immortality and power and even more riches, the first thing he saw was Chaton.

And that, horribly enough, was also the last time he would pet or hold or come near the companionable feline.

For, along with life everlasting and the requirement of fresh blood to live, along with the Mark of the Devil like evil black roots on his back, Giordan had also acquired his own personal Asthenia. His Achilles’ heel.

Each of the Dracule had a specific weakness, the proximity of which tightened the lungs and weighted the limbs, making one feel as if they were trying to slosh through water. The nearer it got, the more helpless one became until, at the mere touch of the item, one felt as if one were being branded.

Thus, Giordan, who’d given up death and age, had also given up his pet to become his Asthenia as soon as he laid eyes on Chaton that morning.

It was a sacrifice he bitterly regretted, a hundred fourteen years later.

He turned his attention from the blue-eyed cat, who’d positioned itself to watch him with an unblinking stare, and toward the east. Toward the roof of Moldavi’s home, which would soon be lit by the pink icing of dawn.

Cezar owned a narrow house near the edge of Le Marais, but most of his living quarters were located safely under the ground. Giordan had walked through skull-lined catacombs well beneath the rue to find his host. The subterranean lair was radically different from where most Dracule resided, and he couldn’t help but wonder about the reasons for it.

Security, most likely. To keep both him and his valuable sister safe.

Giordan took another sip and at last allowed his thoughts to go where they wished.

It had been two weeks since the evening she was here, the night things had changed. Since he’d fallen in love with her…just like that.

Ever since the moment she’d fed on him, her full lips pressed to his skin, her teeth sinking into his flesh, he’d known. He’d never felt such strong emotion. Such…completion. Such—

A raucous burst of laughter exploded in the silence, and Giordan turned as someone called his name.

“There you are,” cried Suzette, a made vampire who’d shared his bed—and blood—on many occasions.

She and a small group of his acquaintances were just emerging from the door that led to the rooftop. They chatted gaily, bottles of wine and ale dangling from their fingers. And, of course, in their wake trailed two of Giordan’s well-trained servants, available to set right anything that might go amiss.

“Whatever are you doing up here alone, darling Giordan?” asked Felicia, another sired vampire with whom he’d traded bodily fluids. She slinked her way over toward him, and Suzette merely rolled her glowing eyes and turned to the man on her arm. Jealousy was not one of her vices.

He smiled at them, his host smile, his not-quite-mirthful-but-very-friendly-one, and gestured out to the City of Light. “But I was merely waiting for you to join me. The view is lovely, no?”

“Not nearly as lovely as this,” crowed a drunken Brickbank, one of Voss’s friends. He was leering down Suzette’s exceedingly low-cut bodice, which, due to the size of her breasts and the way they were plumped up, had a deep, dark vee between them into which a man might slide his entire hand, sideways. Giordan knew this from personal experience, and although the thought might have tempted him in the past…tonight it did not.

“What sort of treat do you have planned for us this evening?” asked the Comte Robuchard, walking idly about the small space. “Some music perhaps? A blazing fire on which we can roast chestnuts?” He was one of the few mortals who knew about the Draculia, and who was invited to some of their activities. Paris was rife with secret societies, but the Dracule was one of the few that was truly underground and unknown, even by some of the upper class.

Ever the good host, Giordan pushed away his lingering thoughts of Narcise and immediately responded, “I thought perhaps I might jump from the roof tonight.”

This suggestion—which he’d only just thought of—was met with squeals of delight and masculine roars of approval.

“That will be even more exciting than the night you danced among the flames in front of a crowd of varlets,” cried Felicia. Her fangs had slipped free, and now they dipped into her lower lip as she smiled. “They thought they were witnessing the Devil himself!”

“It would be most exciting,” Suzette agreed, her arm now slipped through that of a different one of their male companions. “Shall you do a flip, or merely swan dive from the edge?”

“Hmm,” he said with a grin. “I must do something fantastic, no?” Giordan had begun to peel off his favorite coat of bronze brocade, and he tossed it to one of the ladies with whom he hadn’t shared a bed. Loosening the ties at the knees of his breeches to give himself more freedom of movement, he looked down to the street below.

A fall or dive wouldn’t injure a Dracule, unless, by some unhappy event, he or she impaled oneself on a piece of wood, through the heart. Or if some guillotine-like metal happened to be there on the way down to slice one’s head from one’s shoulders. Neither of which were the case.

Such a feat would, to be sure, frighten or startle any mortal who might witness it, but that was part of the thrill. This was no worse than a mortal riding a horse at full speed and leaping over a high fence: dangerous but hardly lethal unless something went wrong.

And nothing would go wrong for Giordan. He was an entertainer, not a fool.

“Bernard,” he said, gesturing to one of the hovering servants, “go below and ensure that I have a clear area to land.”

Once having ascertained that there was nothing that might hinder his fall from this angle, he undid the cuffs of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves and poised at the edge of the roof.

Amid the shouts of his friends, his companions, those who filled his nights with activity, he flashed a bold smile and jumped.

He’d purposely launched himself at an angle away from the roof, and caught the railing of a lower balcony on the same opposite building where the cat had been. He swung briefly, then released and somersaulted away from the landing, flipping so that he ended feetfirst onto the narrow cobblestone street.

The force of landing on half-bent legs caused him to stagger into another two steps, making it less than perfect—but at least he didn’t land on his arse or head. Then, breathing heavily, Giordan looked up at the shadows lining the edge of his rooftop and executed a neat bow.

Cheers and applause filtered down, and a pair of hack drivers gaped from where they’d been chatting next to his faithful servant Bernard, but despite the commendation lauded upon him, Giordan didn’t feel like smiling.

He’d entertained. He’d gifted his acquaintances with food and drink and entrée to his home and club. He had conversationalists all around him, at all times.

But inside, Giordan felt as if he was missing something.

And he knew exactly what it was.

3

Narcise swung around, saber high above her head, and slammed the flat of its blade against her much taller opponent’s skull.

He staggered, his red eyes springing wide-open, and his arms flailed awkwardly.

Her teeth gritted in a feral smile, she followed through on the stroke, spinning on the balls of her bare feet, and then nearly gasped, and definitely slowed, when she saw Giordan Cale sitting next to her brother.

He hadn’t been there a moment ago.

The angry roar of tonight’s opponent dragged her attention back to the battle, and Narcise tightened her suddenly sweaty fingers over the sword’s grip just as he lunged at her. She couldn’t lose focus; she couldn’t let her guard down.

She’d been ready to finish this off, and would have ended with the blade against his throat if the sight of Cale hadn’t distracted her.

He was sitting slightly behind her brother, as if a chair had been pulled up for the late arrival at the table, which boasted several other spectators. Though they were in shadow, she could tell that his eyes were fastened on her, and even from here, she felt the heat in them.

I would have intervened.

Damn him to hell, he might have to intervene tonight if she couldn’t get her concentration back. Not that Cezar would let him.

Narcise’s thoughts had thus been divided as she vaulted over a low table, giving herself space to think and distance from her adversary. Now, she had her back to the dais where the onlookers sat, and though she could feel Cale’s gaze boring into her shoulders, she was in no danger of locking eyes with him.

A burst of anger flooded her, fueled by uncertainty, and that gave her the rush of speed and strength to duck beneath the other sword’s blade, spin around and take a slice out of her assailant’s arm.

He cried out again in fury, but she was faster than his tall, lanky body allowed him to be—and than his lust-fogged mind could follow—and she snagged a chair, whipping it back at him. The crash of wood into flesh and bone, then its clatter onto the floor, told her she’d hit her mark even blindly. She followed through by pivoting on her toes, spinning back to face him. And then she was there, lunging, and used her blade to pin the man through his shirt and arm to the table before he could recover.

The stake was in her hand a breath later, and she positioned it over his heaving chest. “Surrender,” she demanded.

He surrendered and she stepped back, removing her weapons carefully as she always did, and watched as he mopped his face with a sleeve. “Big-pussied bitch,” he said, his expression ugly. All lust had faded from his eyes.

“Cock-sucker,” she replied with calm and disdain to a common reaction. “No entertainment for you tonight.”

She watched as he limped toward the door, which had been opened by Cezar’s guards, and slammed the saber into her sheath. Then she drew in a deep breath and turned to wait for her own guards to take her to the solitude of her own chamber.

Hot, heavy eyes bored into her back, and she knew without any doubt that it was Giordan Cale who stared at her. She swallowed and realized her fingers were trembling, and that her body had begun to waver between hot and cold.

Three weeks ago, it had been. Three weeks, and not only had Cezar not punished her for feeding on Cale, but he hadn’t remarked on it at all. Very odd, and certainly disconcerting.

And though Cezar hadn’t seen fit to mention the incident that night, Narcise couldn’t banish it from her thoughts and dreams. Even now, she felt her veins pulsing and surging with desire and unfinished need.

She became dimly aware of voices behind her, voices from the dais, and the low rumble that she recognized as Cale’s…followed by a short laugh and then affirmation from Cezar.

“Narcise,” her brother said peremptorily.

She had no choice but to turn and face the audience. A quick scan identified three pairs of male eyes, filled with lust and determination—likely future opponents—and her brother’s bemused expression. Cale… He had stood and was moving toward her.

“What do you wish to say?” she replied just as shortly. Don’t look at him.

“Monsieur Cale has expressed disappointment that he missed most of this evening’s entertainment. And he has made a special request.”

All at once, her body went cold, her stomach plummeting. Cale had a sword in his hand and he was examining the blade.

“He wishes to participate in a bout of entertainment himself.”

A flash of light clouded her vision, then receded. Two battles in one evening? Despite the fact that she’d been over-matched for her previous opponent didn’t mean that she could win against a second one in the same night.

Particularly against the broad-shouldered man stripping off his coat in front of her.

Cale didn’t spare her a glance as he tossed it to the table, and commenced with unbuttoning his waistcoat. He flung that aside as well, then unfastened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to the elbows.

As she watched with rising trepidation, he glanced toward her bare feet and then pulled off his own buckled, heeled shoes…and then the stockings that went up to his knee breeches. Narcise glanced at his bare, muscular calves, then tore her eyes away.

She was to fight him?

And if he won, he would drag her off to The Chamber.

A knot in the pit of her stomach grew tighter and heavier. I cannot let him win.

“I wish to change weapons,” she announced. A double-sided broadsword would be heavier, but it would give her that much more of an advantage.

“I was just about to suggest the same,” Cale said, speaking to her for the first time.

She couldn’t help but look at him, and to her dismay, the heat was gone from his eyes to be replaced by cool determination. Her belly pitched sharply, for she would have preferred to see an emotion she could use against him. Like lust or desire.

“I propose a stake only for each of us, mademoiselle. You might remove the one from your hair, and also from the sleeve of your tunic, and choose only one of them.”

Narcise hid her consternation at the prospect of fighting in such close quarters, hand to hand. She was lighter, she told herself. Lithe and quick.

But then again…this was a man who’d somersaulted from a rooftop four stories down, merely for the entertainment of his friends. Or so she’d heard.

“If you suggest stakes, that implies a conflict to the death,” she said, keeping her eyes cool. “You are a brave man, Monsieur Cale, for you are no stranger to my abilities.”

The room was so quiet the only sound was the heartbeat in her ears and the crackle and snap in the fireplace on the dais.

“If that is what you wish, mademoiselle, by all means I am agreeable.” There was a flicker in his eyes, something almost soft, and then it was gone. “You,” he said, commanding one of Cezar’s servants as if he were his own. “A handkerchief or scarf.”

“What, will you fight blindfolded?” crowed one of the audience. “What a sight that will be.”

“No, I do not think that is what Cale has in his mind,” lisped Cezar, delight in his voice. “He means for their hands to be bound together. Narcise.”

This last was his order, and at first she simply couldn’t make herself move. They meant to tie their wrists together so that neither could retreat. Or leap or lunge.

She had no breath. Her mind turned blank and fear took over. Already, she could feel his body on top of hers, his hands tearing at her clothes, his mouth and fangs on her.

How badly she’d misjudged him.

That interlude at his place, when he’d been more than a gentleman, more kind and unassuming than she’d ever experienced…had been a lie.

He really was like the others: blinded by lust, fueled by bravado.

Narcise moved numbly toward Cale, raising her right arm—for she was left-handed in battle. They faced each other, and his strong, bare fingers curled around her hand as if they meant to arm wrestle. The feel of his hand cupping hers reminded Narcise of the intimate moment when their fingers had intertwined so that she could feed on his open wrist. The servant wrapped the scarf around their hands, binding them firmly, and she noted with apprehension that his arm was nearly twice as wide as hers.

Warmth flowed from his skin into hers, and she felt the slamming of a pulse where the delicate skin of their wrists met. Whether the beating was hers or his, she wasn’t certain. But she was fully aware of his smoky, rich scent, and the size of his long, bare feet only inches from her own.

She couldn’t look at him, instead focusing her eyes over his shoulder as they prepared to face each other.

“Begin,” cried Cezar, and so it was.

At first, they minced in a maudlin circle, as far apart as their bonds would allow, delicate and arrhythmic as one attempted to read the other’s strengths, strategy and steps. After one quick glance, she avoided his eyes, instead watching the rest of his body. Then Cale lunged, and she danced out of the way with ease.

But Narcise wasn’t fooled; she knew he hadn’t moved as quickly or sharply as he was capable. He was testing her, to see how tired she was from her first contest.

She concentrated on watching the signals: his eyes, the change of breath, the balance and shift of his feet and center, and she was ready when he lunged again. Their free hands clashed as she raised hers to block his blow, and a slam of pain reverberated down her arm.

Narcise swallowed a cry and attacked him before he could fully recover his stance, glancing a blow off his arm this time. Then without hesitation, she ducked beneath their twined arms and curled around behind him, but Cale was too fast, and he spun under and around at the same time, keeping her from getting to his back. She was tired, not moving as quickly as she normally would.

But she must.

Fury burned in her. She would kill him if she had the chance. There was no reason to hesitate, for if she didn’t, he would have her.

And she couldn’t bear that. Not after these last weeks of dreaming, fantasizing, hoping.

Bitterness galvanized her, and she whipped the stake, slamming it into the top of his shoulder with all of her force. He gave a surprised grunt, and she swore she saw a flash of humor in his eyes—but then she was dancing backward.

He tripped her with his next movement, and her balance stuttered. She caught herself with her right foot, but not before he twisted suddenly. The next thing she knew, their bound arms wrapped her back up against his torso like the movement in a dance, and he had his stake, poised over her chest. Her own tied hand was pressed against her belly with his, and her body acted as a shield from any blow she might attempt.

“Checkmate,” he murmured into her ear, and damn him if the low timbre sent tingles shooting through her.

She tried to stomp on his foot to give her a target for her own stake, but he was ready for it and easily shifted, causing her to tip off balance again.

“Are you certain you still wish to fight to the death?” Cale added, again close to her ear. “I had a different ending in mind.”

Revulsion and hatred shot through her, and Narcise jerked hard at their tied hands, yanking his down with a savage twist.

He gave a huff of pain and for a moment she thought she’d taken him by surprise…but his bicep tightened immediately and he whipped her back against his torso hard enough to knock the breath out of her.

His stake came closer to her throat and poised there as one of his powerful legs shifted, curving in front of hers so that he tipped her forward but kept her feet immobile. Now she was slightly tilted toward the floor, her stake hanging from her left hand with no viable target.

“So now you must slay me,” she said, grinding her teeth. “For it was agreed.”

Cezar had been watching avidly, and now he began to clap his hands loudly and sharply. “Well done, Cale,” he said, standing. “You are the first to best Narcise in years.”

She threw her brother a dark look and said, “And that’s only because he waited until I was weary. He could not have won if I were fresh.”

Cale’s arms tightened around her a fraction, and she felt the vibration in his chest as he spoke, “But the woman is correct…she was already spent. Therefore, I will deny my right to take her life—as she offered—and instead accept the customary spoils. If you agree, Cezar.” He spoke lightly, but there was an edge to his voice that indicated he would accept no argument.

“Oh, indeed,” Moldavi replied immediately. Narcise, who could interpret her brother’s slightest inflection, heard the hint of displeasure there, but she wasn’t certain whether it was because he’d wanted her dead, or because she’d lost.

Despite the fact that he forced her into such combative situations, Moldavi had a warped sense of pride about her; thus a flaw or loss in her performance was a reflection on him.

“Very well then,” Cale said, and he released Narcise so that she was able to stand on her own. “Drop your weapon, cher. I have the only stake we’ll need.” He flashed a quick smile toward the dais, and the other spectators rumbled with soft chuckles.

The servant moved as if to untie them, but Cale stopped him with a raised hand. “No need for that. I will attend to it shortly.” He looked at Narcise again. “Drop the stake,” he repeated, a bit of steel in his voice. “I don’t wish to have to fend you off.”

Narcise realized that her knees were shaking so badly she could hardly stand. Her stomach felt as if it were going to erupt at any moment, and she was certain her pulse was pounding so hard he could hear it. She could scarcely force herself to uncurl her fingers to allow the stake to drop, but at last it fell to the stone floor with a clatter.

Cale glanced at her, a little frown between his brows, but she would not meet his eyes. Narcise drew in her breath and straightened her shoulders to stand proudly as he drew her toward the chamber door.

Why was she so terrified? She had outgrown the terror and paralyzing fear long ago. She’d learned to submit, to exist…to get through the demands of her own body’s bloodlust, the reflexive response to fresh blood and penetration. There was nothing she hadn’t lived through before. There was nothing he could do to her that hadn’t already been done.

But she knew what the problem was. Not only had Cale betrayed her fantasy of him, but there was still that lingering need. The desire for his blood and the memory of his taste and touch still hummed deep inside her.

Narcise was aware of herself being directed out of the room and down the brief corridor to The Chamber, but she felt as if she were outside of her own body, watching this event.

Cale said nothing to her, nor to Cezar’s servant, who led the way to the room of hell. It wasn’t until they reached the heavy wooden door that her captor turned and offered their tied wrists to the servant. He obliged, using a dagger to cut through the handkerchief, and Narcise was free just as the door opened before them.

With a rebelling stomach and weak knees, she forced herself to walk into The Chamber.

She heard the sound of the door closing behind her, and of the metal bolt being shoved into place with its familiar, ominous snick.

Gathering all of her courage, Narcise turned to face Cale and said, “How do you want me? Shall I fight you and make it rough, or shall I lie there and let it be easy?”

4

Giordan stilled at her words, at the revolting offer.

Narcise stood no more than ten paces away from him, straight as a rail, her ivory face paler than usual and without its normal luminescence. The dark, scraped-back hair gave her an even starker appearance, verging on gaunt. Her fencing attire, those close-fitting tunic and breeches, had damp spots from perspiration and one red blossom on the shoulder from where someone had nicked her.

Her blue-violet gaze was cold and dark, without a hint of Draculean glow.

“Is that how you normally do it? Give an option?” he asked, legitimately curious and at the same time, repulsed by the very thought.

“Not at first,” she said conversationally, though there was the faintest tremor in her voice. “I fought them all at first. It took me some time to realize that it was less painful, and often over sooner, if I lay there like a dead fish.”

His gut tightened as his attention was drawn automatically to the large bed off to one side. The images flashing into his mind were unpleasant and dark; yet he couldn’t deny that the vision of her lying on the bed, naked and spread out, was compelling. More than compelling. Desire flooded him, compounded by the fact that the very room smelled of her—of that heavy, rich ylang-ylang and vetiver—and of coitus and blood.

His veins began to swell as his fangs threatened to show themselves. He forced himself to look away from the bed…which wasn’t an altogether prudent thing, for his gaze then lit upon a variety of other accessories in The Chamber.

Chains with manacles hanging from a plastered and painted, rather than stone, wall—which gave it an absurd appearance of civility. A rack of whips. A small metal box. Carved ivory phalluses, of varied sizes. Even small knives: too dainty to slice one’s head from one’s shoulders, but certainly dangerous enough to cut decorative nicks into one’s flesh.

Giordan’s belly churned, knowing that each of those items had been used many times over. And those were only the items he saw at a glance. Narcise, Narcise…how can you be less than mad after this?

“So which shall it be?” she pressed, her voice a little more tense now. She was as rigidly controlled as he struggled to be. “Surely it cannot be that difficult a decision.”

“Where is the peephole?” he asked. For now, he must ignore her question. The very thought was enough to weaken his already stretched control.

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes skittered to the wall across from the manacles and chains. Cezar hadn’t attempted to even hide the small holes through which he must observe. They were hardly larger than the arrow slits in a medieval castle, but there were several of them, at varying heights, in the plastered wall. Not obvious enough to distract one from one’s pleasure, but certainly there.

Without preamble, Giordan walked across a thick rug to the wall and spoke into the dark slots. “I don’t wish to be spied on, Moldavi.” He could scent the stew of male need and lust through the holes, and knew that at least several of them from the previous room were there, prepared for even more entertainment. And, indeed, as he looked into the dark spots, Giordan saw the faint glow of several pairs of orange and red eyes, burning, blinking and then turning away.

He suspected that his host might be annoyed, perhaps even furious, at his statement, but Giordan was confident that the man wanted badly enough to buy into the spice ship he was sending to China, and that he would acquiesce gracefully.

His need for fresh opium was a strong incentive.

But of course, too, Cezar Moldavi needed always to be in control, and a conflict that he couldn’t win—such as this with Giordan—would make him appear to be out of control.

So, once the male scents had faded and he knew they were all gone, he turned back to Narcise. She was watching him warily, and as far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved.

“What is it to be, Cale?” she asked a third time. “You only have until dawn.” The edges of her full lips were white with tension.

“Neither. I’m not going to touch you,” he said.

A strained silence settled over the room.

“Are you mad?” she whispered. Her hand had moved, and he could see its faint tremble as she rested it against her throat. A bit of color rushed into her face.

“Just a bit.” Giordan pulled his attention away and said, “Is there anything to drink in this torture chamber?” Blood whiskey would take the edge off his senses.

Narcise didn’t reply; perhaps she didn’t trust herself to speak, either. But she walked over to a cabinet he’d hardly noticed and pulled out a bottle of, praise the Fates, brandy or whiskey. As soon as she removed the cork, its warm, pungent scent filtered through the air, telling Giordan that while Cezar didn’t provide his best brandy, it was still a far sight better than what most of the taverns in England served. The rush of the amber liquid sloshing into a small glass was the only sound for a moment. She poured a second one, surprising him faintly, and then turned to look at him. She left one of the whiskeys on the small table and stepped away, sipping from her own glass.

“Your name…it isn’t French,” she said suddenly. Although they had conversed briefly before, Giordan hadn’t truly appreciated the low duskiness of her voice. But now, it curled around him like a smoky serpent and his belly twitched in response.

“No, it isn’t, unless it is some shortened version of a name or place. Or perhaps my father was English. I don’t know. I don’t know much about my origins. I’m fairly certain my parents were from the countryside,” he said, willing to follow the brief diversion, for of course he’d been telling the truth when he told her he didn’t mean to touch her. Aside of that, conversation might perhaps relieve the pulsing gums pushing at his fangs and the bulge in his breeches.

He walked over to pick up his own drink, wondering if leaving it there was a play for control on her part, or if she didn’t trust him to get close enough to hand it over. “They came into the city and then I don’t know what happened. We were poor. I have vague memories of my mother, but nothing very solid.”

“But you are no longer poor. Was that…” She hesitated, looking at him with desperate eyes this time. “Did He promise you riches?”

Giordan knew precisely what she meant. “Lucifer visited me after I was well on my way to becoming as wealthy as the king.” The old niggle of unpleasantness wormed into his belly. “He merely promised that things would never change, and that I would enjoy great wealth for eternity. And I… But I’d lived on the streets, slept in the alleys and beneath the sewer bridges. Once you’ve been hungry every day for five years, and haven’t had shoes or a clean shirt for a twelve-month, you are desperate to keep that from happening again. At least…I was.”

He took a large gulp and pursed his lips, ignoring the doubts and darkness that weighted him at the memories of his past. Why had he agreed to follow this conversational path?

“Did Cezar make you?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “But in a matter of speaking, yes. It was he who arranged for Lucifer to visit me. If he hadn’t…” She shrugged. “If he hadn’t, he would only have had a plaything for perhaps two decades instead of eleven.”

Her tones were nonchalant; something that Giordan could hardly accept. How long had she been her brother’s prisoner? And what could he do to take her away? “Luce came to you in your dreams, then?” he ventured, keeping his thoughts away from what he could not change. Yet.

“Is that not always how celestial beings deliver their messages?” she said wryly. “Or invitations?”

“I do not think of Lucifer as a celestial being,” Giordan replied with his own dry smile, and felt a sharp twinge on the back of his right shoulder, where the Devil’s Mark marred his skin. Luce’s annoyance or anger with him often manifested itself through the rootlike weals that covered the back of his shoulder.

“No, of course he is no longer. But he once was friends with Uriel and Michael and Gabriel.”

He noticed that her face seemed less taut, and as she chose a chair on which to sit—still a distance from him, but at least she was lighting somewhere—he sensed her beginning to relax. Because of course, their conversation had turned from dangerous things to angels, fallen and otherwise, and the world they had in common.

“And then Luce fell,” she added, her face serious. Worn. “Just as we have.”

“One does not have to live an evil, completely selfish life despite being Dracule,” Giordan said, then gritted his teeth against the sharp searing pain.

Narcise fixed him contemplatively with her gaze. If she was experiencing similar discomfort, she hid it well. But then, she had a lot of practice. “I’ve yet to meet a vampir,” she said, using the old Romanian term for the Dracule, “who does not live only for himself, at the cost of life, dignity or pain of others. Including myself. Is it not the way we’ve been made? What we agreed to?”

Giordan could scarcely account for the fact that they were having such a conversation. Surely Lucifer would burn them alive through their Marks, for he was finding it difficult to even breathe in the presence of scalding pain. At least it had distracted him from the lust and desire she caused in him.

Perhaps this blunt conversation was due to the whiskey. Perhaps it was because she felt the same connection—albeit unconsciously—that he did. Perhaps she’d never had anyone to talk with about such things. He could hardly fathom her and Cezar having a discussion of this sort.

“It is possible to live an honorable life as a Dracule. I know of one who does, in fact,” he said.

“You?” She narrowed her eyes skeptically.

“Well,” he said, allowing a bit of levity into his voice, hiding the agony burning over his shoulder, “I have been known to make noble gestures. But I spoke of my friend Dimitri, who is the Earl of Corvindale. He has not fed on a mortal for more than a hundred years. He is, in fact, searching for a way to break the covenant with Lucifer.”

“Impossible,” she said.

“I know it. But he’s trying. He rarely comes out of his study for any reason except to search out new manuscripts or writings.”

“And so that is why…” Her voice trailed off, and she rubbed her lips together thoughtfully.

Giordan suspected he knew what she’d been about to say. Although he hadn’t been there, he was aware of the night in 1690, in Vienna, when Dimitri’s house had burned. That was the night that Cezar had forced his way into the place and presented Narcise as an offering to his host—who had declined, having not the least bit of interest in her.

How Dimitri could have been indifferent to the woman in front of him, Giordan couldn’t imagine, but he was grateful for that fact in many ways.

“What’s in the box?” he asked, once again noticing the small metal chest that sat amid the sorts of accessories the Marquis de Sade might use.

“If you truly mean me no harm…please don’t open it,” she said quickly. That tension had returned to her beautiful features.

“It must be your Asthenia,” he said. “And your brother allows it to be kept in here with you, when you are already at a disadvantage?” Anger chilled him. Cezar Moldavi was one Dracule who deserved to burn in hell for eternity.

Instead of responding, Narcise merely looked at him, which was as close to an admission as he expected.

“Perhaps someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me,” he continued.

He stood, walking over to the bottle of whiskey, and poured himself another drink. As he sipped, he turned back to look at Narcise. Overwhelming desire caused his heart to stutter and his breathing to alter, but he buried it firmly.

Not now.

Not here.

Not tonight.

He gripped his glass tighter, focusing on the scent of the alcohol and not the essence of woman that filled his consciousness. Not the enticing curve of her jaw, one that he suddenly wanted to brush his lips against, nor the ivory column of her neck, so slender and elegant.

“Why did you do this?” she asked.

“A variety of reasons, all of them—well, most of them—quite noble.”

Narcise’s eyes lifted, focusing on him over the rim. “Such as?”

“I’d seen you fence, and I wanted to test your skill myself. I wanted the opportunity to talk to you.”

Her eyes had narrowed and she flung the rest of her whiskey down her throat. “But we did not fence, Monsieur Cale,” she said, her voice even smokier, now baited with whiskey. “And you knew that I wasn’t at my best—”

“Which was precisely why I chose this way to do it. I wasn’t completely certain I would best you, of course, and so I thought it best to ensure that it all worked out in my favor.” Giordan realized that he didn’t at all mind admitting that fact. However… “I realize you don’t know me very well, but I confess that I find it no little insult that you assumed I wanted to win so that I could lock you in a room with me and rape you.” He sipped from the drink, his fingers so tight around the glass he feared it might shatter.

Her chin had snapped up at his blunt words, a shocked expression flickering across her face. “Why should I have thought any differently?” she asked…but the tone in her voice wasn’t accusing or even defensive. It was weary.

“Because,” he replied, watching her, “when you fed on me three weeks ago, I didn’t so much as breathe lustfully in your direction, Narcise. Although all I wanted to do was drag my arm away from your mouth and push you up against that wall and dig my own fangs into your shoulder…and then your arm…and your breast…the inside, that very tender, most sensitive part of your thigh…” His voice grew lower, unsteady and rough. “And then I would use my tongue, long and slick and warm…all along your skin.”

She gasped audibly, and the color rose higher in her face. Their eyes met, and he allowed her to see the glowing flame of desire in his. The bald need.

“I wanted to fill my hands with you, taste you. I suspect you’ll be rich and warm, like a custard, sweet and yet strong. I wanted to slide my warm body against yours, feel the two textures of our skin melding. The heat generated by the friction.”

He knew his words were so soft they barely reached her ears, but the rise and fall of her chest and the growing blaze in her eyes told him that she heard him.

“When you sank into me,” he continued, making love to her with his words, caressing her with his tones, “I realized it was you. It would only be you. Narcise.”

She moved sharply, that high color easing from her cheeks. “Lovely words, Monsieur Cale. But what a ridiculous thing to say, from a man who will live forever.”

Giordan shrugged and concentrated on the way his feet were planted on the floor. Rooted, cemented there, keeping him from moving to her, and taking her face into his hands to show her how certain he was. “I’ve never felt that way before, Narcise. And I’ve lived a long time.”

He felt the weight of her own gaze on him, and saw the bare hint of a glow there. His gums tightened, swelling more, and he thrust away the memory of her mouth closing around his arm, and her lips tracing the ridges of his wrist. He couldn’t dismiss the memory of her tongue sliding through the heat of his blood, and the need burning in her eyes.

“I said I’m not going to touch you,” he heard himself saying. “But that doesn’t mean that you cannot touch me.”

5

Narcise’s breath caught and a rush of heat flooded her.

That very thought, that very temptation, had been teasing her, and now it bloomed, full and hot and sudden, in her thoughts.

“You would allow that?” she said carefully.

“I would welcome it,” he replied. His voice, so low and filled with desire, sent a stab of desire into her middle. “Narcise.”

The thought was titillating…and freeing. To have control, here, in this very chamber that epitomized her captivity, her complete dependence. And to have such a man beneath her hands and body and fangs.

His unique scent, fresh and warm, tinged with cedar and wool, had already seemed to overtake all of the other smells of memories—dark, awful ones—in this chamber, and now sat fully in her consciousness, reminding her of how he tasted and felt.

“But then…” No. She shook her head.

Temptation thrilled her…and eased into despair. But no. How long would his resolve last, if indeed he truly had resolve and it wasn’t merely a trick?

As if he read her mind, Cale said, “I won’t touch you. Even if you bid me.” He glanced at the manacles on the wall, then back at her. His eyes challenged her, dark and intense.

Narcise was aware of a light fluttering in her center, broadening and spreading like the delicious heat of a fire on a cold Romanian night. Those compelling eyes still fastened on her; he walked over to the smooth white wall, marred only by the chains that hung there.

“I understand why you hesitate to trust,” he said, slipping one of the cuffs over his wrist and locking it into place, where it held his wrist just away from his head. “Perhaps this will help.” Then, unable to close the other manacle with his chained hand, he stilled and met her gaze. A sharp twinge pierced her inside.

“Narcise. Believe me when I say nothing you could do would make it more difficult for me than standing here, keeping my word not to touch you.”

Trust me, he’d said before. He seemed to be saying it again, wordlessly this time.

She looked at the band encircling his wrist, wide and, she knew, cold. He would give her that control?

Wholly? Willingly?

In a place where she’d fought for so long to keep her own?

The irony touched her deeply.

And then all mundane thoughts of irony and the like fled as she realized what she had. Here. Giordan Cale: handsome, strong and virile. Offering whatever she wanted, great or small, as she wished.

Narcise’s mouth dried and she found it hard to swallow as she walked toward him, her bare feet padding from cool stone floor to lush rug back to stone again. Her middle was filled with fluttering moths, her gums swelling as they pushed out her fangs.

All the while, their eyes met and held, and it seemed as if she could feel his heart, thudding inside her own chest. Their heartbeats pounded together, their breaths seemed to work in tandem, and for the first time, in this room, she felt…womanly.

Womanly, and powerful, in a way she hadn’t felt since she’d loved Rivrik.

Standing there in front of him, Narcise lifted his free arm, and felt the little ripple of a shudder beneath his skin. Her upper fangs brushed her lower lip, and without thought, she took him and brought his wrist toward her mouth.

Cale went still. Even his breath ceased as she watched the blue veins seem to surge and pulse amid the tendons in his golden skin. Instead of plunging in her fangs, Narcise flicked her tongue over the delicate ridges there, tasting the salt on his warm flesh, sensing the flavor of his scent and the essence of lifeblood pounding beneath its thin covering.

When she lifted her face, she heard the soft hiss of his breath and saw the faint smile lifting his lips. There was heat in his eyes, but no tension, no conflict in his face. Merely pleasure.

For some reason that comforted her, and she allowed her eyes to narrow and crinkle at the corners. Allowing almost a smile. And then she clicked the second manacle around his wrist, and stood back to survey her captive.

As the thought flitted into her mind, at first her reaction was one of horror that she should even have thought the word. She knew what it was like to be a captive, held immobile and helpless and at the mercy of the whims of others.

But this was different, she told herself. He gave up control willingly. He offered. He wanted to be here, he wanted her to touch him…and whatever else she chose to do.

And, she found, there was no doubt that she wanted to do…many things.

That alone was a welcome revelation, a relief, to a woman who hadn’t willingly responded to the touch of a man for decades. For once the fangs protruded and the bloodscent filled the air, and the penetration began, even Narcise couldn’t control her own body’s instinctive reaction. But those occasions hadn’t been real pleasure, or true satiation. They’d been wrung from her like some unwanted and terrible purging.

But now, tonight, this was for her. All for her. And Cale seemed to have understood that.

“Are you going to stand there all night while the blood flows from my arms,” he said in that mellow voice, “and make me only imagine what you might do? Or are you going to kiss me and make the discomfort worth my while?”

“I never kiss,” she told him, nevertheless moving closer. Her fingers itched to tear that shirt away and see what was underneath. She had a sudden fantasy of muscles shifting and bulging from the effort of pulling on the chains, in his biceps and rippling over his chest, and she wanted to see if it could be real.

His shirt was made of the finest linen, warm and damp from his skin. She tugged it loose from his tight breeches, noticing the very healthy bulge rising behind them. The sight and accompanying thought sent another spear of lust into her belly, and she boldly smoothed her hand down over that tempting ridge.

Cale gave a soft sigh and when she looked up, his smile had grown that much hotter and his eyes darker. “Is it becoming warmer in here, or am I imagining it?” he managed to say.

“I’m perfectly comfortable,” she replied and smoothed her hands beneath his loose shirt. His firm belly, warm and textured with a light dusting of hair that she imagined would be as dark as that on his head, skittered and trembled beneath her fingers. And as she slid her hands farther up beneath the shirt, she covered hard slabs of pectorals and then her fingers curled up over smooth shoulders. The tips of her fingers brushed over what must be the ridges of his Mark from Lucifer: slender, raised, veinlike markings spreading from beneath his hairline down over the back of his shoulder. As she slid over that unholy branding, her own Mark twinged and she brought her hands to rest flat on the front of his chest, pressing into the wiry hair growing there.

Narcise was aware of him watching her as she stepped back and removed her hands from those warm planes, then realized there was no way to pull the shirt over his head while his wrists were chained.

“Cut it if you like,” he said, reading her thoughts. “I have many more.”

“As you will,” she replied, but instead of reaching for one of the daggers, which had been used on her, she grasped the shirt at his throat and ripped. The heavy linen made a satisfying, powerful sound as it tore, and left his chest bare to her avid eyes. “It’s no wonder Suzette talks about you the way she does,” she commented, and tore one of the sleeves free, jolting his arm against the wall.

The chains clinked with her violent movement, but he made no attempt to pull or wiggle in his confinement. She eyed the bulge of muscle in his arm as his elbow bent in an L-shape, his wrist fixed at the level of his head. His skin, even beneath his shirt, wasn’t the normal pasty-white of the sun-banned Dracule, but was golden, as if tanned by a sun that never touched it.

“In what way does Suzette talk about me? I do hope it’s—” His breath caught as she plunged her fangs into the soft inside of his bicep, and he gave a short, sharp groan as his lifeblood burst free.

The taste and scent of his skin, so silky and soft around that firm bulge of muscle, mingled erotically with the rush of coppery blood over her tongue, and Narcise closed her eyes as a long-subdued desire rushed through her. His bare chest brushed against her cheek, and the long line of his legs paralleled her body as she pressed flush against him.

The hard rise of his cock nudged her hip, so close to that suddenly throbbing, hot and damp center between her legs. She held on to his forearm with one hand, and the other planted flat on the rough hair covering his chest. Texture, taste, scent…and his lean, muscular body sandwiched between her and the wall.

She pulled away after two long drags on his veins, swiping her tongue over the wound in a delicate little farewell, and looked up at him.

His eyes burned bright red-gold, and yet the centers were dark and intense. He had a sort of pained half smile fixed on his full lips, a bit of fang showing. For a moment, she almost shifted to cover them with hers, to taste him in yet another, more intimate way.

But she didn’t. Instead, testing herself and testing him, she stepped back, realizing that her breathing had become unsteady and shallow. Her nipples swelled behind the bindings she wore beneath the suddenly too-tight tunic.

“More,” he said, his eyes compelling her. “More, Narcise. I want to feel you against me.”

She saw no reason to hesitate, and peeled off the close-fitting tunic. The freedom to do what she wished, to be in control and to enjoy the pleasure of the moment, emboldened her. Flinging the shirt aside, she untucked the binding around her breasts and began to unroll it, conscious of his intense regard.

Her relief at the release of her bosom was echoed softly by his rough intake of air when she pulled the last strip away and at last jounced free. She raised her arms, feeling the pleasant sensation of her breasts lift prettily.

“More lovely than I’d imagined,” he said, the timbre of his voice skimming over her like a low and deep caress. “Will you take your hair down?”

“For one who has given over control,” she said wryly, “you certainly have many requests, Cale.” But nevertheless, sparked even further by her power and the pleasure simmering beneath the surface, she began to pull the pins from the huge knot of her hair.

“My given name is Giordan,” he said. “Use it.”

Narcise paused in the process, one heavy hank of hair tumbling down her back while the rest remained anchored in a sagging bundle. It was the first time she’d heard that tone of command from him. She found it curious…and unsettling.

As if reading her thoughts, he spoke again. “Very well, then, cher. No real intimacy yet. No kissing, no familiar names. When you’ve come to trust me, then I would that you’d call me Giordan. But to me, already you are Narcise.” His eyes blazed fiercely, not with lust or desire, as before, but now with annoyance.

“I think you’re mad, Cale,” she said. “We’ve hardly met, and barely spoken. How can you say such absurd things when you don’t even know me?” Of course, she was thinking of Rivrik, back when life was life and not infinite rote…and much easier than this. Back when she knew she would die someday, and when she was naive and young and in love with someone who truly knew her.

Cale gave what passed for a shrug, and despite the awkward angle of his arms, it was smooth and laced with conceit. “Sometimes, a man just knows.” His eyes fastened on her, the glow receding into an intense brown-blue gaze.

Unbalanced and unsettled by the certainty in his voice, she yanked a few more pins from her hair. Narcise was mollified when she saw the way his eyes narrowed in appreciation as she combed her fingers through the thick tresses.

Her hair was one of the reasons for her great vanity, for it hung to her hips. All one length, it was a pure blue-black, thick and smooth as a waterfall even after being bound up in braids or twists. Next to her pearly skin and brilliant blue-violet eyes, the color was intense and striking.

Now she stood there, bare from her ankle-length breeches up, her hair swinging around her shoulders and waist. His eyes never moved from her as Narcise came closer, feeling the gentle sway of her bare breasts, nipples tight and high and throbbing to be touched. Her fangs were still extended and she allowed their tips to show just below her upper lip.

As she drew near, she scented his arousal, smelled it rolling off him in waves, and her stomach tightened and pitched in response. Lush and heady, it filled her nose and swelled her veins, settling into her so that she swelled and dampened and throbbed. She pulled out of the pleasure for a moment to remind herself: this was so different from the other times, when the overwhelming scent of lust was pungent and stinging, and as repugnant as the bitter smell of death.

Now, The Chamber was filled with the scents of desire, male and female alike, mixing and stewing together to create an even headier perfume. The last bit of his lifeblood lingered in the air and she sniffed, drawing it in, tasting it once again.

“Narcise,” he whispered, his voice taut and low.

She came to him, her hands settling on his hips, then sliding up over the ridges of his belly and the rise of the planes of his chest…and brought herself closer. She arched a bit, lifting her breasts so that her hard, sensitive nipples brushed against the wiry hair there, rubbing lightly back and forth against him as their bellies and thighs pressed together. The light prickling sensation against her breasts and nipples was pleasant and tingly, offset by the hard, hot length of his cock against the rise of her pubis.

His chest moved against her, expanding as he drew in deep, ragged breaths, and when she became bold enough to look up into his eyes, the stark desire there shot a spike of lust in her own belly. His lips were parted, showing the sharp, strong gleam of his fangs. She felt a little shiver of want, imagining those sharp points sliding into her skin, and the glorious release of her surging blood over his warm lips.

The soft clink of chains, every nuance familiar to her, told Narcise precisely what he was doing—shifting, clenching his fingers and tensing his muscles. But he wasn’t struggling to free himself. He didn’t pull or twist as she’d done, trying to loosen them.

Now, she slid her hands back down along his torso, pausing to unlace his breeches and drawers, and then tugged them down over his lean hips. His cock surged free as soon as it was able, thick and tumescent, and Cale gave a soft sigh of relief at its release.

Narcise eyed him appreciatively, her mouth watering a bit and her quim full and tingling with interest and curiosity. Her cheek brushed deliberately against the hot, velvet skin of his erection as she worked his breeches down from knee to ankle, and she inhaled the very male, very aroused scent emanating from that center of heat.

When she got to the floor, he obliged by silently lifting his long, elegantly arched feet, and she slipped the tight breeches away. And then she settled back, her palms flat on the cool stone floor, and looked up at him.

Magnificent. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a more perfect specimen of maleness—and, unfortunately, she’d seen far too many. He was as sleek and muscled as Michelangelo’s statue of David, and even had the same head of thick, curling hair.

Or perhaps she was merely inflicting such a comparison on the moment, as she didn’t generally stop to admire—or criticize—the bodies she normally came in contact with.

“I cannot help but wonder if your silence is due to disappointment or awe,” he said, a bit of taut humor in his voice. “I hope it’s the latter that has you dumfounded.”

“Oh,” Narcise said, her eyes traveling up along tight, muscled calves and impressively sturdy thighs, “I think it is safe to say that Suzette did not exaggerate.”

She pulled to her feet, unwilling to remain in such a supine position any longer and, tossing her hair back over her shoulder, stripped off her own breeches and drawers.

His rushing exhale was audible, and when she stood in front of him, as naked as he, the heat in his eyes nearly set her on fire. The chains clinked audibly and she saw the muscles in his arms tighten even more. His cock twitched enticingly.

“What now?” he said in a dusky voice.

Narcise couldn’t remember the last time her body felt so warm and lush and alive, swelling and throbbing with arousal. Power and desire gave her courage, and she stepped away for a moment, presenting him with her backside as she went over to the array of daggers and whips. The edges of her hair brushed pleasingly over the top of her buttocks.

“You’ve vowed not to touch me,” she said, picking up one of the finger-length daggers. She remembered this one, remembered the tiny little cuts that had been made all down one side of her torso, little Xs, neatly and carefully so that a delicate patchwork of red had been left. Time to banish that memory. “And you’ve claimed that I can do anything I wish.”

“Indeed,” Cale replied. His voice, still dark and low, was a bit stronger now. Perhaps a bit wary.

Narcise walked toward him, feeling the hot glow in her eyes and the insistent press of her fangs. She held the slender dagger, sliding her fingers thoughtfully over its hilt. The Devil’s Mark on her own shoulder throbbed and swelled in encouragement.

“Do you like pain, Monsieur Cale?” she asked when she came to stand very close to him. So close that his breath stirred her hair, and she could smell the blood leaping beneath the wound she’d given him. Her mouth watered at the memory of his taste and scent, and she swallowed hard.

His glowing eyes, still dark and intense at the centers, bored into hers. “You may do what you will, Narcise, I will not fight you. But I am not one who enjoys receiving—or inflicting—pain on my lovers.”

The rumbling sound of those last syllables—my lovers—sent another shock of desire into her center. Such a beautiful voice, and the caressing of those syllables was a figurative stroking of her skin. Such an intimate word, so foreign to her, so out of reach. To be one’s lover presumed a span of time. Perhaps even some tender emotion.

And…the bald truth in his words, for she could read it in his eyes, released a last bit of tension she hadn’t even realized existed. I am not one who enjoys receiving or inflicting pain.

“Very well,” she said, and raised the dagger. With a sharp, deliberate movement, she sliced a nick in the soft part of her palm.

The blood burst into a thick red line, half as long as her finger, as Cale gave a little jolt, then went still.

Narcise tossed the dagger away and lifted her hand, the bright red blood shiny and slick on the plump skin. “Taste,” she said, bringing it to his mouth.

He hesitated, and she could fairly see his fangs quivering with need as she brought her hand to his lips. The chains shifted and clanked, and his torso pressed against hers, hot and damp.

“You aren’t breaking a vow. You won’t be touching me,” she said when his only reaction was a slight flare of his nostrils, followed by a ripple in his throat. “Just taste. Sip.”

He moved then, at last, his mouth covering the soft, blood-drenched skin of her hand. His lips were warm and gentle, full but firm, as they covered and caressed the wound there. The effect was the same as if he’d covered her breast with his lips, or her quim with his mouth: sensual and erotic, soft and sleek and cunning. He used his tongue to slip around, just as she had done to him, lapping and stroking the sensitive flesh, sucking and drawing in her blood. The release of pressure that had been building inside Narcise swelled and washed through her as he teased and licked with his magical mouth.

Though his teeth and fangs scraped against her, and though he gave a soft, deep groan in the back of his throat, he never drove them into her flesh, penetrating and taking more than she was offering.

Narcise, her body damp and loose, pressed herself all along the front of him, sliding and rubbing for her pleasure as much as to tease him. As he licked at her hand with full, slick lips, she curved her fingers around his cock, moving them idly up and down the length of it. He jolted and trembled against her, pulling away from her wounded hand to rest his head back against the wall as she stroked faster, then slower, then faster, faster, faster— “Narcise!” he groaned, and she felt his body ready, gathering up.

“Not quite yet,” she warned and slowed her last slide. Then, removing her hand, she drove her fangs into the soft part of his shoulder.

He jolted again, and cursed in pain and relief as the blood burst into her mouth like a hot, coppery orgasm. Narcise’s world turned warm and damp, pounding and pulsing, as she drew on him, hard and fast, desperate and needy. Her vision darkened and became red; her consciousness was filled with the texture of sweet, bloody ambrosia and damp skin, and an erotic mélange of sensation.

Now they were vibrating against each other, the rich smells of arousal thick and full, the taste of his lifeblood filling her mouth, and her own, still on his breath. She released him and bit again, roughly, driven to devour him, to take him all in—taste, scent, touch—singe her tongue to explore those small wounds, the curve of his shoulder and neck, the taste of his skin, salty and hot.

Her bloody hand curved around his cock and guided it to her, as she lifted on her toes. She raised a leg, settling it around his hips, and he groaned in desperation when he was unable to help steady her, to settle her in the right place, and she felt the tension rippling through his body. But Narcise had an arm around his neck, her ankle curved behind him, opening her legs so that he could fit into her. She was swollen and ready and with one measured thrust, she impaled herself against him.

Cale gave a sharp cry, echoed by her own gasp at the intense, brilliant pleasure. Oh my, oh my…was all she could think as every bit of awareness faded into a ball of heat that expanded as she moved against him, and he thrust smoothly, forcefully against her.

She wrapped her other hand around his neck, too, fairly hanging there, and planted her feet against the wall at his hips so she could leverage herself within the pounding rhythm.

The ball of heat and pleasure grew and swelled until it filled her center, rolling into a great undulating explosion of pleasure that had her crying out, and then sobbing with relief and satiation as he shuddered his release against her.

She felt the tremors through her body, inside and against her, for a long time…and after a while, she realized she was sliding down off him, her knees weak and her limbs loose and soft.

The wall was cool and smooth under her fingers, and she heard the faint clinking of the chains, the soft rasping breaths of his pleasure and the stone floor beneath her toes.

After a long moment, she opened her eyes, stepping away from his warmth with a shameful little stagger. Her fingers trembled, but there was a warmth in her belly that had spread throughout and made her want to smile. And perhaps even to cry.

“Narcise,” he said after she’d stepped back and gathered up her tunic and breeches, then turned to pick up the dagger and to return it to the table: focusing on those mundane tasks instead of the tender emotions that seemed to be threatening.

There was an odd note in his voice and she looked over to see—

“How did you do that?” she said. He was standing there, one of the manacles hanging free. A chill raced over her.

She didn’t need him to answer, for she realized that his free wrist was the one he’d clasped inside the manacle. And that he must have connected it loosely or even not at all…so that he could—

“You could have freed yourself at any time,” she said, needing to speak the words out loud in order for them to penetrate. As she watched, he reached over and unlocked the wrist manacle she’d connected. It wasn’t difficult: there was a small little pin that held it closed and could be adjusted by the size of the wrist. Her world had begun to tilt.

“You can trust me, Narcise,” he said.

Something unsteady bumped in her heart and a little coil of fear started in her belly. Her Mark twinged sharply. Now that he was free, now that she’d aroused his lust and shared some of herself with him, he’d take and take—

Narcise shook her head to force away the rising panic, and realized she still had the dagger in her hand, behind her back, and she gripped the hilt comfortingly. The blade was cool against her bare skin, but she shifted so that Cale couldn’t see it. She wouldn’t allow him to touch her. He’d promised.

By now, to her faint surprise, he’d pulled on his breeches, and then scooped up his shirt. “But of course I want to stay, Narcise,” he said, his voice very even and very low, his eyes penetrating. It was as if he could see the change in her emotion: from ease to terror. “However, I’m not going to impose my presence on you any longer, for the temptation to forget my vow is much too great. Particularly after…that.” The low rumble caught on that syllable and dropped even lower as he made a slight gesture toward the wall of chains. “But I’ll return. Until then, remember what I said.” His gaze held hers for a long moment, as if to nudge her thoughts.

Trust me.

It’s only you, Narcise.

Sometimes a man just knows.

She shook her head, more in confusion than negation. In an absurd display of betrayal, her body still hummed and the little knot in her quim still throbbed pleasantly even as she sifted through truths and lies, flattery and appreciation.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I pray you are safe until we meet again, cher.”

And then he unbolted the door and slipped through, closing it tightly behind him.

6

Giordan closed the door behind him and walked only a few steps down the narrow, torch-lit corridor before stopping to collect himself. His hands were bloody damned shaking and his gums were sore from thrusting their fangs uselessly. Lucifer’s Mark screamed with rage, radiating pain sharply through his body in affront for his sacrifice.

It had taken a good deal of control and prudence to turn and walk out of that room, and if he weren’t certain his every movement was being accounted for, he’d stand here longer.

That was, in fact, the only reason he hadn’t dragged her out with him to freedom.

He looked around, sharpening his thoughts to take in the details of his surroundings. Of course he’d passed through this same area some hours earlier, when he was following Narcise…but understandably, his mind had been elsewhere and he’d been in no state to absorb all the details. Unlike The Chamber he’d just quit, this space was roughly hewn stone walls and an uneven floor. Very different from the dining room that doubled as a fencing arena.

But of course he was already considering how to get Narcise out of this place. It wasn’t something he could rush into, much as he wanted to—needed to—get her free. He must plan his steps carefully, he must be patient.

For surely Cezar wouldn’t even allow him free access after his “winnings”—and, ah, yes, there it was. The sound of approaching footsteps. Someone had heard the door opening from some nearby vantage point, or there was some other notification that he’d left. Perhaps a bell that rang in an above-stairs chamber.

“Leaving so soon, monsieur?”

Giordan was more than mildly surprised to see the host himself striding toward him, bringing that patchouli and cedar scent into the narrow corridor. “Yes, indeed.”

“I trust that there were no problems, no concerns?” Moldavi asked, his eyes bright and his voice placating. “All was to your…liking?”

“If one considers a woman terrified at the mere thought of being touched by a man no little problem, then, no, I had no problems.” It was only with great difficulty that Giordan was able to keep the great loathing from his voice and expression.

“She did not give you difficulty?” Those eyes looked closely at him, then slipped away to scan over his torso as if to look for signs of wounds or injury. An unnaturally slender brow lifted at the sight of the bite marks on his bicep.

“But of course not.” Giordan was fairly certain there had been no witnesses—either visual or aural—during the events of the evening, for he surely would have scented the presence of anyone near enough to see or hear. But, yes, he had been a bit distracted, so he couldn’t be completely certain. “I had all that I wanted, and now I have finished.”

“Very good. Very good. It’s just that I find it unusual for a man to leave my delightful sister any earlier than he must, hmm?”

Giordan gave a meaningless shrug and said nothing more as they walked along the corridor.

Moldavi continued smoothly, “Would you care to join me for a drink, then? I have just received a most delightful vintage from Barcelona. They are calling it a champagne, but of course that is impossible if it is grown in Spain, is it not?”

Giordan hesitated for a moment. He wanted more than anything to get away from this abhorrent man, out of this dark, close place and back to his own…but the more time spent in his presence, here in the highly secure, subterranean locale, the more he could learn about its layout and his host’s habits…and the sooner he could find a way to relieve Cezar Moldavi of his favorite plaything.

His fingers curled into each other as he thought of having to leave Narcise here…but he forced them to smooth out. Patience.

Thus, although he truly wanted to be alone—with his thoughts, his memories, his fears—his concern and care for Narcise’s future easily prevailed. “Perhaps…perhaps, yes, for a brief time. I would be delighted to sample your offering. It sounds most intriguing.” He kept his voice mellow and even enthusiastic with effort.

Moldavi’s face changed, a brief contortion, and his eyes widened a fraction…then it was gone. “Please, then, with me,” said his host in his imperfect French. “And, if you like, Cale, I would be happy to provide you with new attire. I suspect you don’t wish to be traveling back to your home in nothing but breeches. I have retrieved your coat from our dining area, of course, but perhaps you would accept my gift of a shirt and shoes as well.”

Giordan realized that his host was correct, and that he hadn’t given his bare feet, legs and chest any thought at all. Ah, Narcise. You’ve already destroyed me. “I would be very grateful.”

As he walked along with Moldavi, Giordan considered the option of killing the man right here, right now. It was an efficient way to resolve things; one he’d employed far too many times, if the priests had anything to say about it. Which, of course, they didn’t. It was a plain truth: Giordan had grown up with violence and poverty all around him, and was more likely to kill a man who crossed him than he was to waste time trying to find other resolutions.

That was yet another reason, he was certain, that Lucifer had found him an appropriate addition to the Draculia.

Killing Moldavi would end the man’s domination over Narcise, and they would find their way out of this labyrinthine lair beneath the rues of Paris.

But Giordan was forced to reject the fantasy nearly as soon as it presented itself, for a variety of reasons, the simplest being, he didn’t have a weapon. It wasn’t as if he could choke the man to death or pummel him into the ether like one could do on the streets. Either a wooden stake or a sword that would take the man’s head off were the only ways, and aside of the wooden sconces, there was nothing else that would work. And to tear down a sconce, break it into a ragged point and then attack Moldavi…even Giordan wasn’t confident it could be done quickly and without mishap.

Aside of that, to do anything that would make the man suspicious would ruin any chance he might have of further access to Narcise.

Patience.

“So you have lived in Paris since you were a child?” Moldavi asked as they approached a heavy wooden door.

“Yes. Although the place I lived while a boy was much different than Le Marais,” Giordan said with a sidewise, wry smile.

“I have come to prefer Paris myself,” Moldavi said. “Romania is rough and wild with its own beauty, but also dark and sharp and difficult to navigate…and I find the City of Light a much welcome change.” He had the key on a ring at his waist, but there was a guard stationed there to provide additional security.

“Although I travel much now for business purposes, I always return to Paris, for it’s my home,” Giordan replied.

It appeared even the guard didn’t have access to the door, for it was his master who used the key to unlock the door. From what Giordan had observed on his journey to and from, the single purpose of this corridor was to provide access to The Chamber where he and Narcise had been. There was no other entrance or exit along here, no other rooms, and certainly no other way in or out of the room in which they’d been.

He wondered, suddenly, and with a painful shaft of horror, whether Narcise was kept in that place of torture all the time, or if she had some other sort of living space.

They walked through the door and Giordan took in the details of what he’d only vaguely noted the first time through. This underground tunnel had been in Paris much longer than Moldavi had.

“How did you come to choose the catacombs as a place to live?” Giordan asked as they passed along the corridor. What he really meant was how had Moldavi taken over control of these underground tunnels where varlets and vagrants had lived for centuries. “I would have thought you’d prefer a château or some other mansion.”

The walls of this hallway were lined with neat rows of skulls, their empty eyes and toothy upper jaws an eerie and morbid decor. Above each row of skulls were lined several layers of large bones—femurs, he guessed by the size of them, with the joint ends facing out. They made for bumpy texture, and the hollows provided homes for spiders and other insects.

Giordan made no attempt to hide his surprise that a man as refined as Moldavi—at least in attire and his selection of food and drink—would choose to live in such base surroundings. But then again…this was a vampire who bled children to death and who imprisoned his sister for the pleasure of others. He tightened his jaw to control the rage. Perhaps he would kill the man now.

“It is a bit gauche, isn’t it?” his companion replied, brushing a hand lovingly over one of the skulls. “But I find it such an interesting topic of conversation. At the least,” he said with his faint lisp, “they are long dead and gone and we don’t have the rot and smell of the decomposing bodies in the…the place where they are moving all of them now…what is it called?”

“The Ossuary,” Giordan replied, having regained control of his temper. He noted that the skull-lined corridor had branched off into two different directions and that they’d taken the eastern route. “In the old stone quarries.”

He recognized that the tunnels they now traversed were old quarries as well, but that these bones must be the original ones from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The placement of these bones decades ago were the inspiration for the disposal of the bodies from the overcrowded church cemeteries, the newest wave which had begun thirty years earlier from parishes like Holy Innocents.

Giordan had traversed many of these underground tunnels even before he was turned Dracule, and now he was redrawing a map in his head. Combining his memory of the network and the actual route they took, he was attempting to connect the two areas. That would come in handy if—when—he helped Narcise make her escape.

They came to another door at a T-intersection of the corridor. When they passed through the entrance into a hallway that looked exactly like one in his own home, Giordan realized that Moldavi must simply use the skull-lined quarry as a conduit between his torture chamber and his real living space.

This suspicion was confirmed as they strode through, chatting amiably about a variety of things, and Giordan smelled Narcise, among other aromas. She obviously spent much time here, as did Moldavi and others.

That was an optimistic sign. If she were kept here, in this furnished, plastered and painted area, Giordan would have a much better chance of freeing her from it. And perhaps not quite as many nightmares about her cloistered in the torture chamber.

“Please, sit,” Moldavi offered as a steward opened a tall, white door at the end of a gently ascending hallway. Inside there were many comfortable chairs and a roaring fireplace. “I hope you do not mind,” his host said, gesturing to the flames. “But I tend to easily take a chill and I prefer a blaze in every chamber.”

“I find it rather chill and damp beneath the ground, so I welcome the heat,” Giordan told him.

Glasses clinked and Moldavi offered him a small ornate vessel shaped like an upside-down bell. They talked for some time about the spice ship, and all the while Giordan kept his ears and nose attuned for the presence of Narcise.

But it was when Moldavi, after a long moment of silence, said, “I find that I will need to be absent from Paris for a week or more to attend to a business interest in Marseilles,” that Giordan’s body came to full awareness.

Something prickled over the back of his shoulders and he sipped the very fine sparkling wine that had come from Barcelona. “Do you travel by coach or horse?” he asked just to keep the conversation going, even as his mind worked madly. He kept his eyes heavily-lidded and his attention purposely jumping about the chamber. “I cannot help but admire your selection of artwork,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve noticed I am a patron of Monsieur David.”

“I did notice,” Moldavi replied. “He has given my sister painting lessons, and in fact, that is one of her works.” He gestured to a small square painting, surrounded by an ornate frame as wide as the image it embraced.

Giordan had already taken note of the dark, stark image of a city beneath the moonlight. The rows of buildings appeared like angry gray teeth thrusting up into a dark sky. Out of politeness, he looked again, and then, because he couldn’t appear too interested, he drew his attention away almost immediately.

“I see little resemblance between her work and that of David,” he commented, thinking of not only the lack of hue but also the subject matter. Monsieur David generally concentrated on portraits rather than landscapes, and even his stark portrait of the murder of his friend Marat wasn’t as angry and undulating as Narcise’s world.

How does she live?

Cezar gave a short laugh. “I certainly concur, but the painting keeps Narcise occupied.” He spoke as if she were some young girl who tended to be around underfoot.

Giordan had to raise the drink to keep from speaking his mind…and from lunging for the repugnant being next to him…and found that his fangs threatened to clink against the edge of the delicate glass. He drew in a slow breath and sipped, willing his teeth to resheath themselves, his eyes to keep from burning with an angry glow. Calm. “I suppose she cannot practice her fencing all day,” he managed to say.

Aside of his surprise that the painting was Narcise’s, Giordan was also taken aback that Cezar obviously allowed his sister to interact with people—men—other than when she fought for her own body. Through general conversation with Moldavi and others of those who moved in their circles, he was aware that Narcise often helped her brother entertain, and of course, very occasionally accompanied him on social engagements. He also realized why Narcise had seemed to be so familiar with, and interested in, the David painting in his own parlor.

“No, indeed not,” Moldavi agreed. “But a thought has just occurred to me.”

Giordan raised an eyebrow in question and tried not to look back at that dark, hopeless painting.

“I must be gone for a week perhaps, as I mentioned. I have no desire to bring Narcise and the entire household with me. Perhaps since you both are so appreciative of Monsieur David—although for different reasons, I venture—perhaps you might be willing to see to Narcise in my absence?”

Giordan went cold for a moment but recovered immediately as he saw the trap. Clever, Moldavi. Very clever. It wasn’t difficult to force a grimace of distaste. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I decline,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I expect to be very busy in the next fortnight, and might even need to travel outside the city myself.” He watched the other man closely and was rewarded when he noticed the slightest release of tension in his fingers.

Giordan had obviously made the right move in such a blatant denial of interest.

But whatever it was that Moldavi intended, Giordan had also learned one other thing: without a doubt, the man was exceedingly cunning.

He would have to be very careful in how he proceeded. To give a man like Cezar Moldavi any sort of knowledge was also to give him the greatest of power.

And to make a move in haste or desperation could be a fatal mistake.

Trust me, Narcise.

I pray you are safe until we meet again.

Narcise woke suddenly, those words echoing in her mind. Remnants of dreams. As she stared into the soft candlelight, a bitter laugh formed in the back of her throat, startling her with its ferocity, and she pressed her lips together.

Trust me, Narcise.

Her fingers shook as she skimmed them over her naked belly, then curled them between her breasts, where her heart beat roughly, and held her hand there. Oh, yes, she had a heart, and though it had become enclosed by stone, she still felt its soft core.

What had Cale meant by saying such things? Particularly the absurd I pray you are safe until we meet again.

Dracule didn’t pray.

And how would they ever meet again? Did she even want to meet him again?

A little twinge deep inside told her that, yes, she did. She would. He had touched her without actually touching her.

Climbing out of her bed, Narcise let the covers fall. It was always damp and cool here, below the ground where Cezar insisted on living. Even here in her private chamber, which was comfortably appointed with an attached parlor furnished with upholstered chairs, a mirror and dressing table, a wardrobe, and even a place for her easel and paints, the chill was never fully banished. There were no windows, of course, and the only indicator of time was a clock which she kept wound.

A stone and brick hearth held the fire that never ceased blazing, and it was only when she drew near it that Narcise was able to completely stop the little shivers of cold and dread. She stood there now, staring into the tongues of flame, feeling its warmth seep into her skin, heating the sheer lace gown she wore.

The orange and yellow fire mesmerized her, and Narcise felt her eyes begin to burn from the heat and lack of moisture from not blinking. But deep in the hot glow, she saw Giordan Cale, in her mind, strung up on iron manacles, his dark, intense eyes boring into her.

Trust me, Narcise.

He’d certainly proven his trust that night. She shivered, but not from the chill. No, thoughts of Giordan Cale invariably brought heat, not cold, to her body.

Yet, it had been more than a week since he’d left The Chamber, closing the door behind him and leaving her to her thoughts and confusion—not to mention a warm, sated body. Since then, she’d drawn and dreamed of him, even as she tried to keep herself from hoping…for something.

A log shifted in the fire, loud and sudden, sending sparks scattering on the hearth. The noise brought Narcise from her musings back to the reality that she was still Cezar Moldavi’s sister, still his toy and bargaining chip, and still unwilling to trust anyone.

Unwilling was the wrong word. She was unable to trust.

With a sudden burst of frustration, Narcise turned from the fire and rang for Monique, her maid. Monsieur David would arrive soon for their weekly lesson, and he did not like to be kept waiting. And since the murder of his friend David Marat, he’d become even more ill-tempered and fanatical. Narcise had mused privately more than once that her brother either paid the artist exceedingly well for his continued lessons, or that he had some other hold over Monsieur David that required the man’s presence on a weekly basis, despite his complete immersion in Robespierre’s movement.

It was ironic: despite the fact that Narcise was Cezar’s prisoner, in many ways he treated her as a beloved sister. She had lovely, fashionable clothing, comfortable accommodations, activities to keep her mind occupied and her body in good form, and servants at her beck and call. She was invited to participate in her brother’s social appointments, which most often occurred safely in his own residence, and was treated as respectfully as he was.

The one thing she had no control over was her body.

But that was something she would change. She must. And nary a day went by that she wasn’t considering some plan or possibility, gathering some information and tucking it into the recesses of her brain. After decades of captivity, most prisoners might have long given up hope of escaping or changing their situation, but Narcise would not. After all, she had immortality. She had forever.

She watched and listened, honed her fighting skills, made friends with some of the lesser servants and slowly, but surely, built a refuge within her prison.

Perhaps it was Monsieur David’s fiery rhetoric, fueled by the Revolution happening beyond the walls of her home-like prison. Perhaps the artist’s determination and belief that one should rule oneself, that no royal family or clique had the right to impose control over another, had given Narcise hope. After all, if an entire city, no, a country, could overthrow its reigning family and weaken the grip of an entire privileged class, why could one woman not overthrow her own personal dictator?

By the time the maid Monique had helped Narcise with a simple day dress and covered it with a painting smock, she had hardly enough time to plait her mistress’s hair in a fat black braid.

The knock on the door to her adjoining parlor heralded Monsieur David’s arrival and Narcise followed her maid into the next room. Monique answered the door to the artist as Narcise began to sort through her canvases, but when she turned to greet her teacher, she faltered.

Confused, but recovering, she turned to her maid. “Monique,” she said in a brusque tone, “you may go. Bonjour, monsieur.” Something was not right, and awareness teased her consciousness along with an odd mixture of scents lingering in her nose. She swallowed, tasting and smelling a familiar presence.

The artist, wearing a low-brimmed hat that showed his dark brown curls, strode into the chamber with his familiar satchel of paints, brushes and palette. He appeared to have had his hair trimmed since she’d last seen him, a week earlier. His long coat, perhaps one too long for the summer, swirled about his powerful, breech-covered legs as he placed the bag on a table.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said. His words were thick and oddly pronounced due to a tumor that deformed his cheek and mouth, but were perhaps a bit deeper in tone today. “Shall we begin? But no, you are not yet ready for me.” His disgust at the delay was clearly apparent in his voice and stance, and Monique, intelligent girl that she was, beat a hasty retreat.

David was not known for his patience nor his tact.

By now, Narcise’s palms were damp and her stomach had filled with swirling, fluttering emotions. Was it possible? “Of course, Monsieur David. I am nearly ready. I was only looking for the camel hair paintbrush that you insisted my brother have made for me.”

All of her brushes had handles made of bamboo or light metal, for Cezar would not allow anything resembling a wooden stake into her chambers. Her rooms were regularly searched for such contraband as well.

The door had closed behind Monique, and for the first time, the man’s eyes, still shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, met Narcise’s. The irises were brown, flecked with blue and ringed with black, and the last time she’d seen them, they’d been hot with desire.

Narcise’s stomach did a quick flip, leaving her unsteady and weak. It was him. She’d scented Giordan Cale beneath the cloak, hat and satchel that also smelled of Jacques-Louis David, but until their gazes locked, she wasn’t certain.

She gave a little warning shake of her head even as she turned to gather up her painting accoutrements, trying to keep her suddenly nerveless fingers from dropping the brushes and palette. “Ah, here it is,” she said, producing the brush in question. She could see, now that she actually looked at him, the way his right cheek bulged—just as Monsieur David’s did. It changed the shape of his face, and along with the heavy brim of the hat, there was little to see unless one looked very closely.

“So now you are at last ready for me?” he asked, still in that thick voice of disguise, still managing to make it sound annoyed. “But you will not need that brush today.”

You are at last ready for me…. His words held the most subtle of underlying meanings that made her cheeks warm like that of a schoolgirl’s.

“But of course, monsieur. I believe that our last lesson was in relation to perspective.” As she spoke the words, Narcise wasn’t certain whether Giordan Cale was at all familiar with the particulars of drawing and sketching, and she hoped she wouldn’t inadvertently expose his masquerade.

For, although at least in her chamber she had privacy from prying eyes and ears—she knew this because she examined every inch of wall, floor and ceiling every month to ensure it—Narcise also knew that at any moment…

Ah. There it was. The knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called, trying not to sound breathless as she dug through her paints. Cale removed his coat to lay it over one of the chairs, but he still wore his hat, and she was suddenly nervous that it would cause comment, or that he would need to remove it.

Cezar’s trusted steward, Belial, entered the chamber. “Bonjour, Monsieur David,” he said with a bow. “What is your desire today?” His sharp eyes scanned the room, and Narcise held her breath, praying that Cezar’s sired vampire wouldn’t notice that this David was several inches taller and with broader shoulders than the previous one had been, and that there was another scent mingling in the room with them.

Cale didn’t pause in his action of moving a stool to the center of the room, and perhaps his half-bent, facing-away position helped to camouflage his physical appearance.

“I shall have the usual, of course,” he said in that clumsy voice, and with the same peremptory tone David always used. He fussed with the stool as if needing to position it just perfectly in the light. “Mademoiselle, I shall act as your model today to continue your lesson on perspective. The very brim and angle of this hat, which I have borrowed for such a purpose, will be an excellent study in the aspects of perspective. You will need a charcoal and several soft lead pencils. Put away the paints, mademoiselle. I have already told you you won’t need the brush today. How many times have I said that you must start with the drawings and sketches before you can think to paint?”

Narcise forced herself to relax slightly. He sounded just as Monsieur David would have. Cale had obviously planned this well—but what was he planning? “I am sorry, monsieur. It is just that I ordered new paints and hoped to be able to use them today.”

“Always so impatient, the women, no?” Cale said to no one in particular, but Belial gave a soft knowing chuckle.

“I will shortly return with your refreshments, monsieur,” the steward said.

He left the room as Cale ordered, “Mademoiselle, please. You are wasting my time.”

The door closed behind Belial, and Narcise turned to face Cale. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a low voice.

“Can we be heard or seen?” he replied in matching tones, looking around the room. It was clear he had something in his mouth that caused the deformity of voice and face, but now his tones at least sounded familiar.

“No, but Belial will return shortly. How did this come about?” Narcise’s hands were shaking, trembling furiously, and she could not understand her reaction to this. What did it mean? Why was he here? And why did she suddenly feel such warmth and light inside her?

“I told you you could trust me, Narcise,” he said, sitting on the stool. “Get your papers ready and begin to draw, or I fear Belial will be suspicious. Once he is gone again, I will tell you more.”

She did as he bid, feeling his eyes on her as she pulled out the rough papers that curled from being rolled for storage. A hunk of burned coal and her Italian pencils—too slender and short to be used as wooden stakes—joined the parchment on her drawing table, a few stones anchored the paper from rolling up, and then Narcise got to work.

She noticed that Cale had arranged his position on the stool so that he wasn’t directly facing the door, nor the table where Belial would place the tray of coffee and sweet breads when he returned. And once she acknowledged that added attention to detail, along with the deliberate tilt of his head to shadow his face even further, she concentrated on her own work.

Despite his disguise, what a pleasure it was to draw the man she’d previously had to sketch from memory. She saw, too, that he’d affixed some sort of false, papier-mâché nose to his elegant one, widening it slightly, and as she looked even closer, she noticed faint markings on his face, smudges to emphasize lines and nonexistent dimples.

Narcise had become so engrossed in her work, drawing the angled guiding lines for the hat that would give the sketch depth and an accurate sense of space, that she was startled when the door opened and Belial strode in.

But she felt his sharp eyes scan the room, and her drawing, and was pleased that she’d accomplished as much as she had. The steward set the tray on the table then approached her as if he were master of the place, looking over Narcise’s shoulder—something that he occasionally did, but never in the presence of Cezar. She heard, and felt, him test the air about her in a soft, long intake of breath. The fine hairs at the back of her neck lifted and prickled, but she didn’t move except to continue her work.

“You are very talented,” he said, low and much too close to her ear and Narcise tensed. “Perhaps you will give me some private lessons?”

She resisted the urge to spin and shove the dog away for his boldness. Cezar had left three days ago, and had named Belial head of the household during his absence. Apparently this expression of trust had given the man an unwarranted sense of entitlement.

“Perhaps you will leave me to my work,” she replied from between tight jaws. “Your smell is disturbing me.”

She felt him stiffen behind her then relax slightly. “Is that so?” he said, obviously attempting to force amusement into his voice. “But I cannot say the same for you, Narcise.” He drew in another long breath near her ear. “Your scent is as enticing as you are.”

“Cezar doesn’t value you that much, Belial,” she warned. “You are replaceable and I am not.” Rather than fear, it was anger that made her hand unsteady. As if her brother would allow a servant to touch her. Even he was not so base.

The steward made a sound filled with arrogance, but Narcise had no concerns about anything he might attempt. And despite the annoyance, she was glad his attention was focused on her and not Cale.

She dared a glance at the model sitting on his stool, and caught a flash of fiery eyes beneath the brim of his hat. Firming her lips she sent a silent warning back at him and resumed her drawing. She didn’t need Cale’s anger, nor his meddling in this.

“You’ve completed your task, Belial,” she said, replacing her pencil that drew light, thin lines with the heavier charcoal. Broad strokes emerged, dark and bold, filling in the shadows beneath the curve of the hat brim. She itched to work on those lips: so full on the bottom and with a soft line along the top one that would require delicate shading. “You may leave.”

“So I am distracting you?”

“No,” she said, putting the charcoal down and fixing him with fury in her eyes. “You are tempting me to introduce you to my saber. Intimately.”

Belial’s eyes flashed red, but he drew himself up and away. “Do not be so certain of yourself, Narcise.” And with that comment, which she assumed he meant to sound ominous, but which nearly made her laugh, he turned and stalked from the chamber.

“Cock-licking snake,” she muttered. Belial was a fool who’d become too important for himself. She took out her annoyance on the charcoal, crumbling a corner of it and creating an unnecessary smudge when she raked it too hard across the page.

“Does your brother allow all of his servants such freedom?” Cale asked quietly.

“He won’t come back until the lesson is finished,” she told him. “We are private. And, no, Cezar would not allow such effrontery if he saw it. Everything must be well under his control, and a servant—no matter how trusted—who over-steps his boundaries will find himself turned out or otherwise disposed of.”

“Good.” Cale moved, sliding off the stool. He raised a hand to his face, and the lump in his cheek moved, then disappeared as he caught whatever it was in the palm of his hand. “Peach pits,” he told her with a sidewise grin. “Two of them, in fact.” He placed them in a handkerchief on the stool. When he took off his hat, then tousled his curls from where they plastered to his skull, she found herself wanting to assist him.

But Narcise remained in her place, a distance away. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?” She noticed a fat black spider making its way along the edge of one of the wood planks on the floor.

“Since I doubt your brother would allow me to court you in a normal fashion, I decided I had better take matters into my own hands.” A glint of humor that she’d come to realize was part of his personality shone in his eyes, and then it disappeared.

“Court me? Are you mad?” No man courted the sister of Cezar Moldavi. They merely took—or, at least attempted to.

“I would have come sooner, but the arrangements took some time. But in the end, Monsieur David was grateful for my large donation to his cause, and the extra time with which to spend it. Are you well?”

She realized her brows had drawn together in a frown. He spoke to her with such familiarity; as if they’d known each other forever, as if they were friends and intimates. “We’ve only met twice,” she blurted out, hardly realizing what she was about to say. “But I feel rather as if I’ve come to know you even more than that.”

He still wore the false nose; perhaps that wasn’t so easily removed and replaced as the other elements of his disguise. Nevertheless, it was clearly Cale, with his steady eyes and the full lips that had traced the oozing blood on her palm so tenderly. “I couldn’t be more pleased to hear that, for I feel as if I’ve known you forever…even though I hardly do, in all the ways that matter. I must know, Narcise…have there been any other fencing matches since our last? How have you fared in them?”

She knew what he was asking—whether there had been any other men since him, and whether she had been forced or not. “There are not so many now who are brave enough to face my saber,” she said by way of answer. “Few men are willing to expose themselves to the possibility of the humiliation of being bested by a woman.”

“Which is precisely why I took measures to make certain I would win,” Cale replied. His roguish smile was infectious enough, even from a distance, that she couldn’t keep her own in check.

A ridiculous thought: that he was here to court her. Yet, deep in the softest part of her stony heart, she felt a twinge of lightness. A girlish leap inside the hard heart of an old crone.

“But you did not answer my question,” he pressed. He was leaning against the table where Belial had set the tray—still some distance from her. She noticed absently that the spider had made its way into the center of the room and was heading toward the opposite side with eight-legged efficiency.

“Other than ours, I haven’t lost a fencing match for more than five years,” she told him. “And before that, after the first five years in Romania, before I had my lessons, it was a rare night that I lost. Perhaps two or three times a year.”

Cale’s eyes were somber now. “I’m sorry it was that many times.”

“So am I. But I’ve become stronger for it,” she said, in a reminder to herself as well as to him. “And no one has touched me—against my will,” she added with a quick glance at him, “for many years.”

“Will Belial bother you? Cezar is gone, is he not?”

Narcise waved the steward away with a charcoal-smudged hand. “If he acts inappropriately, I know how to handle him.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

He didn’t speak after that, but his eyes scanned her. The hunger therein was bold and obvious, but again, he made no move toward her. Narcise wondered about that, and felt herself tensing in readiness. And, if she must be honest, anticipation.

“Are you and David lovers?” Cale asked abruptly.

She couldn’t control a shocked expression, nor a shiver of distaste. “No, of course not.”

“Good.” He nodded once. With a deliberate movement, he smashed the spider under his foot, as if to emphasize his response.

Narcise blinked then redirected her thoughts. “Once again, I must ask, Monsieur Cale, why you have gone through so much trouble to come here.”

“I wanted to see you, of course, but I didn’t want your brother to know it,” he explained.

“Because he wouldn’t like it?” Narcise frowned. “I am not so certain of that. He was mightily impressed that you won our sword parley, and I believe he finds it amusing that you’re very well-matched in skill with me. He wants to forge a business relationship with you.”

Cale was looking thoughtful. “I’m not certain whether he would or wouldn’t like it, but either way, I’m not inclined to give him the benefit of the knowledge that you belong with me.”

She drew herself back in affront. “I don’t belong to anyone.” A blast of rage shuttled through her, but when he lifted a hand she allowed him to speak.

“I said you belong with me, Narcise. Not to me. We belong together. I can feel it, and you will, someday, as well.”

She looked away. “You’re mad.” But even she knew her words sounded weak and unconvincing. The truth was something tugged deep inside her, throughout her whole being, when he was near. This was so different from any of the other men who’d claimed to love her, to want her, to own her.

It was different because, damn the Fates, she felt it, too.

“He knows that I could take you away from him, from here,” said Cale. “He knows that I’m the one.”

Narcise raised her eyebrows skeptically.

“When you trust me.” He smiled, but this time there was a bit of an edge to it. “And since I cannot come near you today or that low-crawling rodent will smell us, you’ll see once again that I mean to take nothing from you that you aren’t willing to give.”

The flash of disappointment took her by surprise, and yet at the same time, Narcise felt a tide of relief sweep over her. “That’s why you asked if David and I were lovers,” she said wryly, a twinge of annoyance replacing her relief.

“No,” he said.

She waited for him to elaborate, but he did not. A heavy silence descended, one in which the drumming of her heart seemed to grow louder, filling the chamber, and his as well, and she swore she could hear them beating in tandem. Warmth and softness flooded her, and if she didn’t know that it was impossible for a Dracule to enthrall another Dracule, she would believe it was happening.

“And so,” he said after a long moment, breaking the connection, “these are your private apartments—where you sleep? Where you paint, and entertain?”

“I do very little entertaining, as you can imagine,” she replied, picking up the charcoal, then choosing one of the heavy pencils instead. There was a place that needed a darker shadow, but it was at the outside corner of his eye and required a delicate touch. “But I paint and draw here. There is another larger room where I practice with my sword.”

“Does Cezar allow you any freedoms? Do you ride, or shop, or visit the cafés and museums?”

“I do not leave this premises without him,” she replied. “I haven’t been on a horse in years. He brings entertainment here, and the seamstresses and cloth merchants. He’s afraid to go above ground very often.”

“It must be related to his Asthenia. Despite my generous bribes, no one has even a suspicion of what it is,” Cale said. “Do you?”

She shook her head. “Do you not think I would have found a way to use it by now if I did? It is an immensely well-guarded secret. I do not believe there is anyone beyond Cezar and Lucifer himself who knows.”

“But what of his makes?” Cale asked. “Would it not be clear from them?”

It was a logical question, for when a Dracule sired, or made, a new vampire, his or her Asthenia was passed on to the new immortal. In addition, the immortal gained a unique Asthenia of his or her own. Thus, the further down the evolution from Lucifer’s personally invited vampires, the weaker and more vulnerable the makes were, for the more Asthenias they acquired.

But Cezar was much too smart to make such a mistake. “Contrary to what my brother implies and wishes for people to believe, he has not made any vampirs himself. At least, of which I’m aware.”

That surprised Cale, for his brows rose in shock. “How can that be true? He is known for his clan of loyal servants—most of them makes—and for his influence over even the mortal world in Paris.”

“But it is true. For many years, he held three Dracule captive and forced them to sire vampirs for his use. Early on, he used me in the same manner.” She spoke matter-of-factly as she reshaped the line at the lower part of his ear.

Cale seemed to digest this for a moment. “Very clever. And if the sires of the vampires are under Moldavi’s control, then so are the makes themselves. But you are his sister, and you cannot guess what his Asthenia is, even now?”

“All I can suspect is that it is something so common that it keeps him away from the mortal world unless the environment is very much controlled.”

“Then I must count myself flattered that he accepted the invitation to visit my club.”

“He admires you—your business acumen, and your wealth.”

Cale nodded. “Many do,” he said with that sudden smile. “I am gifted in that way. But I think your brother is more interested in my Chinese contacts, and the partnerships for the opium I can help him get.”

“Cezar won’t allow himself to be weak enough to become an opium eater,” she told him. Then she added, “Perhaps you could sit again, monsieur. I cannot seem to get this particular…” She squinted, forgetting what she was about to say as she tried to imagine the shape that the now-absent hat had made above his right ear.

Cale sat, an amused smile softening his mouth. “So he does not want the opium for himself?”

“Oh, he does, but he doesn’t indulge very often. He avoids anything that lessens his control of himself or a situation.”

“I have come to that conclusion.”

“Now, if you could cease from speaking for a moment, monsieur,” she commanded. “I must get your mouth.”

“I will if you will continue talking to me.”

“Very well. Cezar wants the opium for his own occasional use, but also so he can use it to influence and control not only his allies, but also the powerful people in Paris. Mortals and otherwise. They’ll buy it from him, or he’ll gift them with it in order to get what he wants done.”

Silence descended again as she concentrated on making the shape of his mouth perfect. With an artist’s detachment, she drew the lips and shaded them, the top lip always darker than the bottom because of the way it was formed and the way it slanted out and curved into the seam of one’s lips…but as she finished, her femaleness began to take over. Remembering how those lips had molded to her palm, the slip of his tongue over the sensitive skin there, and the delicate brush of his mouth, hot and tender…she had to close her eyes for a moment to steady herself.

“When you trust me enough, you’ll kiss me,” he said, reading her thoughts with uncanny ability. Her eyes shot open and were captured by his. “And,” he added, “you’ll tell me what was in the little lead box in the other chamber.”

Narcise licked her own lips nervously, and felt his eyes slip to her mouth. If nothing else, the man owned his control. His desire, his taste, for her was palpable, undulating through the chamber. Her own want made her fingers shake so that she couldn’t finish the stroke.

“Feathers. Brown sparrow feathers,” she said softly, ignoring the sharp slice of pain from Lucifer’s Mark. Even though it was no great secret—many of her rivals obviously knew what was in the lead box, and Cale could easily find out himself. But he asked, and she wanted to give him the information freely. She wanted to give him something of herself. “The first thing I saw when I woke the morning after…the morning after Luce visited me…was a sparrow, singing in the tree outside my bedroom window.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Narcise. That’s a beginning. And that’s all I need from you now.”

He looked as if he were about to say something more, but then his body tensed. At the same time, Narcise turned to look toward the door. She heard the footfalls, too. By the time Belial and Monique entered the chamber, Cale had stuffed the peach pits back into his mouth and replaced the hat. He was holding a cup of the coffee, and a piece of the sweet bread David enjoyed in the other hand.

Narcise positioned herself closer to Belial in order to distract him from Cale as the latter packed up his satchel and prepared to leave. She was favored with one covert glance, warm and intense, from beneath the hat brim, and then her false tutor was walking out the door.

She wondered when and how she’d see him again, and realized all at once how badly she wanted to.

Was she falling in love again?

7

Giordan Cale found a way to visit Narcise three more times during her brother’s absence in Marseilles. Each time, he took her by surprise, each event was carefully planned and executed, and each time, he remained at a physical distance from her—despite the fact that she could feel the heat and desire between them the moment he walked into the chamber.

If he was trying to prove his trustworthiness to her, he was succeeding. If he was trying to breach the walls around her protected heart, his attempt was formidable.

Although she didn’t fully understand why Cale was so intent that Cezar not know of their meetings—after all, he’d been instrumental in that first night they spent together in The Chamber—Narcise didn’t argue, nor did she attempt to make their liaisons open. Instead she found herself growing more and more enamored with him, with his sense of humor and element of levity, and more and more desirous of tearing off his clothes and kissing him.

When she thought about what it would be like to cover those warm lips with hers, to taste a bit of lifeblood if she nipped one of them, mingling with their lips and tongues…to have their bodies lined up, mouth to mouth, breast to breast, hip to hip…Narcise could hardly imagine why she’d resisted so far.

But kissing, in her mind, was the last frontier of intimacy. The one thing that she could control; the thing that the men who wanted her body didn’t particularly care about. Kissing, which was often the first stage of love and lust—and had been for her and Rivrik—was now the last step for her, and one she guarded jealously.

When Cezar arrived from his travels, he called her to his private parlor within hours. As he always did when they met alone, he had a tray of three brown sparrow feathers sitting on the table next to him. They were close enough to sap her strength, yet far enough away that she could talk and move, albeit a bit more slowly than usual. But most of all, they were a deterrent to her getting close enough to attack him.

He’d made that mistake once, fifty years ago. One thing about Cezar—he had absolute attention to detail, and a long memory.

“You look well, dear sister,” he said, his eyes scoring her. He didn’t appear pleased, but then, he never particularly did. “How have you been amusing yourself during my absence?”

“Other than fending off the hot-breathed stink of your friend Belial, nothing out of the ordinary,” Narcise replied flatly, selecting a seat as far from the feathers as possible. Already, her body felt slower and heavier, and her lungs tight and constricted.

“Belial?” Cezar’s face tightened, and for a moment, she felt a notch of pity for her brother. To believe that one of his most trusted allies and servants—for no one was a confidant of Cezar Moldavi—would betray him and his trust in that way was a blow to his carefully controlled world. “He attempted to touch you?”

Narcise gave a particularly unladylike snort. “He went further than that, dear brother,” she said with a sarcasm-laden voice. “He wore a ring of feathers around his wrist one day when he came to deliver some wine to me, and attempted to convince me that I should allow him to feed on me.” The tremor was more from anger than anything like fear; Belial was a make, and she could squash him like a bug if he didn’t have the cowardly feather bracelet on his arm.

“Indeed.” Cezar’s voice was cold. “Did he succeed?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, despite the fact that her blood had begun to surge and race. “He did not, which was fortunate. I would have been powerless against him in the presence of those feathers—for no sooner had he backed me into a corner than one of the fabric merchants arrived. Monique interrupted and I was forced to decline Belial’s proposition.”

It must have been coincidence that the fabric merchant had, in fact, been Giordan Cale, in another of his disguises. He had sensed her upheaval, and when she told him about Belial, he became so still and quiet that she feared he would expose his identity and attack the servant. It was only her assurances that she was untouched and that Cezar would manage the problem on his return that kept Cale from throwing off his cloak and wig and going after the man.

“I suggest,” she now told her brother firmly, “that you keep him away from me in the future. Or I’ll kill him.”

Cezar nodded, and it was to her credit that he didn’t ask how she would do that. “I’ll see that he won’t bother you again. Perhaps you’d like to take matters into your own hands?”

Narcise smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Very well. I don’t wish you to kill him,” Cezar ordered. “But do whatever else you wish. I’ll arrange for him to select his sword tomorrow night.” He picked up his ever-present glass and looked into the blood-red liquid that clung to the sides when he swirled it. “But tonight, we have been invited to Monsieur Cale’s private club.”

Narcise’s heart skipped a beat. “Have you accepted the invitation?”

Cezar looked at her as he raised the glass of blood-drenched Bordeaux, one of his favorite drinks. She wondered whose blood was in there, and shuddered at the thought—the certainty—that it might be that of a child. He sipped, then drew the glass away. “I want you to seduce him.”

She didn’t have to feign surprise, and quickly changed her expression to include distaste. “I have no desire to seduce anyone, let alone Monsieur Cale. Might I remind you that I’ve already been at his hands. Against my will.”

“Consider this a different test of your skills. I’m not altogether certain you’ll succeed, in fact, Narcise. And that’s precisely why I wish for you to do so.” He tapped his fingernail against the side of the glass.

“No,” she said.

Cezar turned to look at her fully, and a dart of fear shot through her. “Are you certain of that?” he asked, the hiss in his voice more pronounced. “Perhaps I’ll give you to Belial after all. And Morderin as well.” His eyes burned orange-yellow. “I could dress you in that special cape I’ve had made for you…and then let you fight your way out of their hands.”

Narcise swallowed. The cape…the very words made her knees weak and her stomach swim. It was soft and light and made of dark, gossamer lace, and it was lined with sparrow feathers. The very thought of those feathers, in such abundance and such proximity against her skin made her feel faint.

He’d forced her to wear it one time, merely, he said, to see if it would fit. Thank Luce it had only been for a few moments. Belial and Morderin had had to hold her upright while her brother draped it over her shoulders, for she not only had no strength to stand, but the pain was so excruciating, she felt as if her skin was burning off. She could hardly breathe when it was on her, and even when he’d first pulled it out of the lead chest, her body had gone numb and weak with paralysis.

Perhaps if she wore it long enough, she’d die. And perhaps that was why Cezar hadn’t yet employed it other than that time.

“Very well,” she replied, forcing her voice to be strong.

He gave her a brief nod. “Excellent. And, now, of course, once you seduce the man, he’ll want to keep you.”

She was relieved that her gaze had been downcast when he spoke, otherwise, she might have given away her feelings. “Don’t they always?” she muttered loudly enough for him to hear.

“They do,” he replied. “But you might wish to stay with a man like Giordan Cale.”

Again, she kept her eyes down, praying he wouldn’t feel the way her heart leaped in hope. They would be at Cale’s house tonight. Perhaps she might never have to leave.

“To ensure that you don’t find yourself convinced to stay,” he continued smoothly, his lisp whistling more loudly again, “or if you don’t do precisely as I bid, I have a few reasons that might assist you in complying with my desires.”

Her heart swelled with dread and now she looked up at him, certain that naked fear and loathing showed in her eyes. “You are pure evil,” she said even as he gestured to the curtained window on the opposite end of the room.

“All Dracule are evil at heart, darling Narcise,” he reminded her. “After all, we wouldn’t be Dracule if we weren’t self-serving and greedy. Please. Open it and see.”

She stood on shaking knees, her belly swishing with nausea. The curtains covered a window that led not to the outside, of course, for they were underground, but that gave visible access to the next chamber. She was fairly certain what she would find when she opened the drapes.

But she had to be certain; she had to know what he would use to bind her to him this time. The heavy drapes swished open and she only needed a quick glance to see what was there. “Lucifer’s dark soul,” she whispered when she saw the children.

“One of them is a prince,” her brother told her proudly. “Or a comte or something of that nature. The royals are desperate to save their children from the guillotine, and will do anything to protect them—including pay for their safe passage to Romania.”

There were a dozen or more, of all ages from toddler to young teen. Mercifully all were sleeping—drugged, she assumed—which explained why she hadn’t heard cries or shouts from the next room. “That’s where you were,” she said, her voice still low, but now it was shaking. “When you claimed you went to Marseilles.”

He nodded, tapping his fingernail against his glass again. “I’ll take one for every hour that you disobey me, or that you are gone,” he said. “They’ll be awake and aware, and know everything that’s happening to them. I’ll even let the others watch in anticipation.”

“And if I comply? Will you release them?”

His brows lifted as one M-shaped line. “But of course not. I went through considerable trouble to obtain them. However, if you comply with my wishes and commands, I will leave them asleep until I am in need. They’ll never wake from their drug-induced state, and feel nothing when I feed.” His eyes danced. “I confess I rather prefer that option, for to feed whilst the young ones fight and cry is rather upsetting to the digestion and detracts from the moment. But if their blood is laced with the opium of sleep, it’s all that more pleasurable for all of us. The choice is up to you, my dear sister.”

Narcise felt unfamiliar tears gather at the corners of her eyes. Only Lucifer could be more black-hearted, more evil than the man sitting across from her. And yet…she remembered him when he was a boy, playful and yet awkward—only five years older than she. He’d played with her, plaited her hair, helped her care for her dolls, took her for long walks to pick the rare flowers that grew in the mountains. And then when he turned twelve or thirteen, everything changed.

“What has happened to you, Cezar?” she burst out. “How could you have changed so? You used to dote on me, and I was no different than the little girls in there. Now you would bleed them to death.”

“We will leave at half past eight. Wear the black dress,” he told her, his eyes cold.

“I have no black dress,” she replied, turning from the window as she pulled the drapes closed. Black was for widows or mourning, and as often as she felt dark and drab, it wasn’t a color she wore. Although perhaps after tonight…

“You do,” he said, and gestured to a large white box. “And when you are ready to leave, attend me, dear sister. For I have a new piece of jewelry for you.”

Giordan wasn’t surprised when he received word that Moldavi and his sister would be accepting his invitation for that evening. He’d waited until the day after Moldavi returned from his travels and then extended the invitation under the guise of welcoming him back.

Interestingly enough, although he hadn’t specifically invited Narcise, the response had indicated that she would attend as well.

He sat thoughtfully, awaiting his guests’ arrival, pondering the next step in this imaginary chess game with Moldavi. Perhaps tonight, at last, he could somehow extricate Narcise from beneath her brother’s thumb, stealing her away forever. After all, how could Moldavi stop him, in his own house?

Tomorrow, perhaps tomorrow morning, he would slide into bed next to the woman he loved.

Less than an hour later, Narcise entered Giordan’s private parlor on her brother’s arm. He sensed her presence even before Mingo announced the Moldavi siblings, and allowed his conversation with Voss and Eddersley to trail off.

When Giordan turned and saw her face, he knew immediately that something was wrong. That knowledge was closely followed by the shock of attraction and desire that assaulted him when her brother removed her cloak, revealing her gown.

Merde.

The chamber had gone silent and all eyes focused on Narcise. Giordan tore his gaze away, his mouth dry, fury pumping through his body, tightening his fingers, and he glanced at Cezar Moldavi. The man had a tight smirk on his face, and he was looking directly at him.

Take care. The warning was to himself and served as a mantra to control his reaction. He met the man’s eyes briefly, forcing himself to keep his expression blank and certain he failed, then lifted his glass.

If his hand was unsteady, it was camouflaged by the way he sloshed the drink in it. “To Mademoiselle Moldavi,” he said, “the first woman to ever rend Eddersley speechless.”

Since Eddersley’s sexual preferences were well-known, Giordan’s jest served to break the tension in the chamber, and everyone—except the Moldavis—laughed, including Eddersley himself. Then his friend caught Giordan’s eyes for a moment, and he saw the same shock and distaste lingering in that of Eddersley’s.

Narcise, once disrobed of her cloak, had hardly moved more than a step into the chamber. Giordan was compelled beyond imagination to go to her, but somehow, conscious of Moldavi’s regard, he refrained, keeping his shoes rooted to the rug.

Instead he watched as Voss made a straight line toward the woman, trying not to want to put the man’s head through a wall.

Giordan found himself unwilling to chance looking at Narcise, yet unable to put the image of her out of his mind. Her face, ivory with nary a hint of color to it tonight, was stark and bare. Even her lips were pale, and her eyes had that dull look he’d seen before—a look he hadn’t noticed since the last time she was here. Her night-black hair was pulled back from her face, and twisted and braided into some huge, intricate knot at the back of her head. Diamonds hung from her ears, long teardrops nearly brushing her shoulders, and more of them sparkled around the bulging knot of her hair.

But it was her gown—what there was of it, and gown was not really an accurate term—that had struck every man in the room dumb. It was unlike anything in the shops of the modistes anywhere in Paris, and Giordan couldn’t help but wonder where Moldavi had had it made. The dress was in the style of centuries ago, that of a medieval lady: a simple, high-necked frock that laced up between the breasts and along the sides, clinging to every curve of the body from shoulder to knee. From there it flared out in a train onto the floor. Her sleeves were tight from shoulder to elbow then flared in long points nearly to her feet. And though the cut of her attire was unusual and revealing, it was its very substance that caused comment—for the entire dress was made only of black lace.

The gown clung to Narcise and revealed more than any whore’s undergarments ever had. It was clear to Giordan that she wore no corset, no chemise or undergarments of any fashion. The only nod to propriety—not that such a thing existed in the world of the Dracule—was a black silk triangle at the juncture of her legs, and the triangular panels of her skirt, where it flared below the knees, were alternating black silk and black lace. Even the bodice was lace. Her breasts were uncovered, her nipples hidden by accident or design by a heavy part of the lace…but even the undercurves of her breasts were evident.

He knew without a doubt that Moldavi had forced her to wear it, and Giordan burned to kill the man. But something else bothered him, and it was the only reason he didn’t pin Narcise’s brother to the wall with a stake: the look in her eyes.

His Narcise, the one he’d come to know and respect and love, might not choose on her own to wear such a gown. But, even if forced, she would never show shame or even submission while wearing it. She would walk boldly into a chamber and ignore the openmouthed gaping of every man in the room.

There was something else.

It took him some time, mingling with the other guests, directing his vintages about, but Giordan at last made it to Narcise’s side. She’d hardly moved from where she entered the room, and he could see the drawn expression in her face, the emptiness in her eyes even more clearly as he approached.

“Find some other skirt to chase,” he told Voss flatly. “She’s mine.”

Voss’s quickly checked surprise told Giordan that he, at least, hadn’t sensed the sizzling connection between Narcise and him. And Voss, no matter how much he enjoyed variety in the shape of women, was not at all a stupid man. He gave his host a brief salute with his glass and sauntered away, a bemused smile curving his lips. One thing about Voss: he never tired of the courting, the chase or the variety.

“What is it?” Giordan asked immediately. “By the soul of Luce, Narcise, what has he done?”

“Don’t you wish to compliment me on my gown, monsieur?” she asked in a detached voice. “It was specially chosen to help me in my task of seduction.” Her cool smile didn’t reach her eyes. They remained blank, blue circles. Her cheeks were pale; her lips were nearly colorless.

“And who are you supposed to seduce?” he replied with ice in his veins.

“Why, you, monsieur,” she said, leaning into him, placing a slender hand on the center of his chest. “I am to seduce you. Here. Tonight.”

Giordan stared down at her, his heart thumping madly, her scent and her very proximity luring him into distraction…yet he knew he couldn’t allow his brain to go to mush. It was the first time she’d touched him since the night he spent hanging from a pair of manacles. The sight of her in a gown that amounted to nothing more than a lacy glove, along with her pronouncement, set his thoughts to reeling. But…

“I cannot help but wonder,” he said carefully, resisting the need to touch her, to close his large hand over the one that rested on his shirtwaist, “why you seem to be less than eager. Is seducing me still that revolting to you, Narcise? I thought…I’d hoped…”

He stopped, aware that he sounded pathetic and desperate. If the woman hadn’t come to feel anything for him in the last weeks—which had been tortuous for him, being unable to touch her with anything but his eyes—perhaps he was wasting his time trying to convince her otherwise.

“It’s Cezar,” she whispered, seeming hardly to be able to form the words.

But before she could continue, Narcise clamped her lips closed, her eyes focused on something behind him, which could only be the man in question. Giordan felt and scented her brother’s presence, that heavy and familiar aroma, tinged with something else he found inexplicably unappealing.

He felt the weight of the man’s attention on them, and then it lifted and moved on.

“But then, mademoiselle, perhaps we ought to commence with the seduction. I am certain you know precisely how I feel about it.” He managed to make his words sound light, despite the dark overhang of the situation. “Will you put on a good performance for your brother? And should I pretend to resist, or should I drag you eagerly from this chamber as I’ve longed to do these last weeks?”

The column of her throat, slender and elegant and so very bitable, convulsed as she swallowed hard. What is it, Narcise?

“Be reluctant,” she whispered as if she could hardly form the words. “I believe he is testing you—or us—somehow.”

That chill came back, ice in his veins again. Then Giordan pushed it away. The man was in his home. He could do nothing.

Yet…he’d been in Dimitri’s place, that night in Vienna, and somehow Moldavi had caused the building to burn to the ground and resulted in the death of Dimitri’s mistress.

“Very well,” he told her, turning slightly away. “I will play the reluctant target. For now. But take note, Narcise…once you are in my bed, my chamber, you’ll never leave it. I won’t let you go back with him.”

He’d delivered these last words in an undertone for her ears only, but she stiffened and curled her fingers into the lapel of his coat. “No,” she said. “I cannot stay. I won’t stay, Giordan.”

He stilled. Her refusal, coupled with her first ever use of his intimate name, told him much. Yet his emotion that overrode it all was that of anger. “Do you think I won’t be able to protect you from him, in my own home?”

“It’s not me. I don’t fear for me any longer. It’s…there are children. Hostages.”

So that was it. “I’ll kill him then. Now.” He turned away, already considering where the closest stake or sword would be, but she caught his arm. Her fingers felt frail and he could easily have shaken her grip away.

Her words were low and desperate. “If he doesn’t return tonight, the children are to be given to the servants to be fed on. They’ll tear them apart. There’s one in the carriage, waiting now with Belial. It’s a girl-child, a young one—no more than eight. His orders are that if he doesn’t return to them by midnight, Belial can do what he wishes.” She seemed out of breath, exhausted by this long speech. “There is no way. Not tonight. One more night…it will make little difference.”

Giordan was aware of a numbness creeping over him. “There must be a way. There is a way, Narcise. You have no idea what I’m capable of,” he said, thinking back to those days on the streets when sticking a blade in someone who crossed him was as common as sleeping in the gutters.

“Please,” she said, and she stumbled into him a bit. Her eyes were dark blue pools. “I can’t risk it. Not tonight. It must be when he isn’t expecting it, when he hasn’t planned it all. Tonight is a test. Do you not think he will have considered every possible outcome and planned for it? Whatever you might attempt…he’ll be one step ahead.”

Then she smiled, but it was tight, and it worried him—along with the fact that she seemed to underestimate him.

Yet, when she pressed her body against his, the warmth from her presence, her heavy, erotic scent, the feel of her curves, all set his skin to tingling and his gums to swelling. She murmured as she looked up at him with hooded eyes, “I am certain we’ll both enjoy what’s to come. Can we not leave it at that? Just for tonight?”

“Very well,” he said, yet unwilling to put the possibility of her freedom from his mind. But if she was willing and able to return with Cezar to save the children, how could he argue with her? Giordan wasn’t certain he’d be able to make the same choice, but he must respect hers.

He slid an arm around her slender waist, pulling her close to him so that her breasts pressed against his chest. Surely she could feel his cock filling out his breeches. He was already imagining pulling the pins from her heavy hair, peeling the lace from her curves, sinking his teeth into the soft side of her belly while his fingers found her swollen quim. His breathing became rough and unsteady, his fangs long and hard.

“May I succumb to your wiles now, then, Narcise? Have I been reluctant enough?”

“Yes, I believe I’ve done my duty and convinced you,” she said, and for the first time, he saw a spark of heat in her eyes.

“Will you allow me to touch you tonight, cher?” his voice dropped low. “Are you willing? Tell me the truth, Narcise.”

“I am more than willing.” Yet…something still lurked in her eyes. Some hesitance.

Confused and angry with whatever it was, he nevertheless offered her his arm. “Shall we? I’m certain you’d prefer all of this to happen somewhere a bit more private.”

When she hardly moved, he looked down at her again. Her eyes had that dull look, her lips were slightly parted. She was either deathly afraid or in great-hell.

“Where the devil is it?” he demanded, taking her shoulders and turning her to face him. Fury at his stupidity, his blindness rushed over him. “Where’s the feather? You’re wearing one, aren’t you?”

She nodded slightly, relief swimming in her eyes. “Around my neck. But not…here.” Her eyes focused on him, and now he recognized the pain behind the emptiness. “He can’t see….”

“Yes, here,” he said in a low, furious voice. But he turned so that his body blocked the view of anyone watching.

Cezar would die. Slowly. Giordan would ensure that it took days. Perhaps weeks.

He found the slender golden chain at her throat in seconds, and began to pull it from her gown. It was very long, and the single feather that hung from it had been slipped down the back of her gown, between the lace and her skin. Which meant it had been burning into her for at least an hour.

No damned wonder she’d hardly moved. She couldn’t.

Giordan snapped the golden chain and pulled the feather away, already seeing the relief in her face and eyes. Color came back into her skin and life in her blue-violet irises.

“Now,” he said, “let me have you.”

Cezar Moldavi watched as Cale led Narcise from the chamber. It had been a battle between them, he noted with satisfaction. She’d had to beg and plead, to coerce.

That Cale hadn’t immediately followed her like a besotted dog from the parlor gave Cezar hope. Perhaps he was wrong.

After all, every test he’d given Cale so far had turned out to be unnecessary. How many men would have declined the offer to “watch over” Narcise during her brother’s absence?

And even if Cale was smart enough to see that he was being set up and to refuse the offer of having—what was it they said here? carte blanche?—with Narcise, surely he would at least have attempted to visit her or otherwise see her during Cezar’s absence.

But, no. All of his prying eyes in the household had assured him that Giordan Cale hadn’t so much as sent a message to the Moldavis, let alone attempted to call, until the day Cezar returned.

Anticipation bubbled deep within and it was all he could do not to smile broadly. He knew nearly everything he needed to about Giordan Cale. The last would become clear tonight, and then he would determine how to proceed.

A burst of laughter from the corner drew Cezar’s attention to Lord Eddersley, the dark, gangly fop from London. He subdued the sneer that threatened his upper lip. Men like him, so open and obvious about their preferences, disgusted him.

Cezar turned away, sipping the fine vintage Cale had poured tonight. The man had excellent taste, along with his broad shoulders and thick, curling hair. He could hardly wait to taste the man himself.

8

Now let me have you.

Cale’s words rang in Narcise’s head, and now that the agonizing feather had been removed from the back of her dress, she could actually feel. And breathe. Her strength came rushing back, the numbness deserted her.

She wanted him to have her. Her fingers shook, her belly fluttered and leaped, she wanted him so badly.

He directed her out of the parlor, the door closing behind them and shutting off the voices and revelry—and Cezar’s watchful eyes. They were walking rapidly down a corridor furnished with an occasional painting, as well as several tables with statuary, vases and other items. Cale led her past several closed doors, and she was certain he meant to take her to his bedchamber. Once you’re in my bed, my chamber, you’ll never leave it.

Her heart slammed behind her ribs, and she nearly pushed it all away: Cezar, the worries, the children…and gave in. For she knew he was right. Once she was in his bed, safe and sated, loved, she would never be able to make herself leave.

So she must not go there.

She stumbled purposely and when he paused to see to her distress, Narcise wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her, backing herself against one of the doors. Before he could speak, or even react, she sank her fangs into the side of his neck.

Cale went rigid, and she felt his body jolt in a great shudder as the hot blood coursed into her mouth. He swore, in some low, dark curse that she couldn’t hear. For a moment, she nearly forgot her purpose…the pleasure was so intense, so long awaited. And they were in this together, as equals. Equals.

The realization surged through her, strong and powerful, and she dragged deep, pulling him into her mouth, all the hot, coppery flavor of him.

He groaned deep and low, the cords of his neck swelling in response beneath her mouth. She pressed herself all along his body, feeling the welcome ridge behind the crotch of his breeches, the heat and strength she desired and no longer feared.

“Narcise,” he managed to gasp, but his hands had covered her breasts, finding her tight nipples through the rough lace, and he seemed unable to finish. Molding her curves, sliding a thumb over her breasts, he had her flat against the door, his head tilted back, baring full, throbbing veins as she drank. His pulse pounded, sending little surges of his lifeblood into her mouth, and she sucked and licked, using her lips and tongue to taste him. He was rich and sweet, strong and yet comforting. Familiar.

She felt for the doorknob she knew was behind her, and uncaring what sort of room they would stumble into, managed to twist it. The door gave away behind her as she withdrew from the hot, soft skin at his neck and backed inside, pulling him by his lapels into the warm, dimly lit chamber.

“Out,” she heard him say roughly over her shoulder. As she tore at his coat, yanking it from his shoulders, she was aware of some sort of skittering movement, quick and clumsy, and then the stirring of the air as the chamber’s previous occupants quickly vacated.

Cale muttered something unintelligible, whipping the coat to the ground as she fumbled with the tie at the throat of his shirt, aware that his rich red blood had stained the white cotton. She tore it away and there was his bare chest beneath her hands again, as warm and solid as she remembered it.

He was pulling at the pins in her hair, yanking haphazardly and dropping them to the wooden floor with little scattering sounds. “So beautiful,” he murmured, sliding his hands into her hair, lifting its weight from where it rested at the back of her neck, untangling the mass of coils and braids and twists, spreading it wide and full so that it shimmered down her back. She felt it through the thin lace, heavy and warm, and then he lifted the whole of it to one side, baring her neck.

“Narcise?” he asked, his voice rough in her ear, his other hand firmly on her arm.

“Yes—” She’d barely breathed the syllable when he slammed his fangs into her at that soft, sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder. She gave a little shriek of pain and pleasure, and he stilled for a moment, one hand cupping her shoulder, and the other curved around the back of her head, holding her steady when she would have sagged weakly.

The release of pressure inside her, fairly exploding into his hot mouth, combined with the sting of pain and the sensual tracing of his lips made Narcise weak and dizzy in the most pleasurable sort of way. Her lips moved in a smile, taut with need but real nevertheless.

It had been so long…so long since this pleasure hadn’t been taken from her, forced from her. So long since it had been good, pure pleasure instead of terrible and dark.

But her knees were buckling and she grasped at the remnants of his shirt, holding on as he drank deeply. One of his hands slipped down to drag her bottom close, her torso sharply against the cock raging behind his tight breeches. She arched low, pressing against the tempting bulge, rubbing her own swollen self against him in the rhythm they both craved. Their breathing matched and mingled, hard and rough and heated, spreading over her skin where he latched on to her shoulder, his tongue caressing her behind his fangs.

There was a clink, and a jolt, and she realized they’d bumped into a table or something, and the next thing she knew, something was behind her legs. The arm of a sofa.

“Let’s do it horizontally this time,” he murmured, releasing his fangs and then sliding hot, slick lips over her wound, tenderly, gently, to close it up. She shivered at the sensation over her taut, sensitive skin, closing her eyes as her body seemed to turn to liquid, hot and pounding inside. Her breasts strained behind their lace confines, the rough material erotic and irritating to her thrusting nipples. But the pleasure rolling from belly to quim, undulating through her limbs, was delicious and unbearable, and Narcise found herself sighing and moaning in delirium, needing more.

Then he was easing her to the floor, pulling her down with him onto a thick rug. The glow of a fire spilled in a golden pool on the red wool. “The sofa…too narrow,” he murmured, pulling at the laces that bound her into the sleevelike dress, opening it along the side of her torso, pulling it with gentle hands, her skin freed from the rough lace, open to the heat of the fire, and then—

Oh.

He bit her there, in the soft side of her belly, just above her hip, and Narcise jolted as pleasure shot to her quim in a hot, soft swell, then burst into a spiral of release. Her breathing went out of control and her world turned dark and red, pounding and rising, her center throbbing and pulsing as warmth and release surged through her.

“So you like that?” he said, his voice deep and filled with delight.

Then he—Giordan—was over her, one hand moving up under the lace to cover the top of her breast, smoothing his palm rhythmically over the needy tip of her nipple, and the other sliding up beneath her skirt, behind the black satin triangle between her legs.

His lips moved over the soft, delicate skin of her torso’s edge, sipping and gently sucking at the new wounds there. Her belly shivered and trembled, and when his fingers found her swollen quim, slick and full, she closed her eyes and breathed long and deep. The pleasure and need rose again immediately at his touch, and she could picture his long, elegant fingers as they explored, stroking her back to a new peak.

“Yes,” she murmured, arching into his hand, but he pulled back, teasing his fingers along the inside of her thigh, then up and away to look down at her. She was aware of his weight bearing down on her, solid and comfortable, one solid leg between hers, the other alongside the outside of her thigh.

“Kiss me,” he said, his hands now covering her shoulders through the flimsy lace. “Narcise.” His eyes bored into her, penetrating the haze of her pleasure, and she recognized the need, a vulnerability there—not so very different from what hers had been.

A rush of warmth, of certainty and desire, spread through her.

She cupped his warm face, sliding her hands along his jaw, felt the faint tremors deep beneath her fingers, the beginning of stubble on the very bottom of his chin. Her thumbs crept up along the sides of his face, her fingertips in the thick curls around his neck.

His gaze never wavered, dark and heavy on her, drilling deep into her soul. Deep into her damaged, warped, damned soul. Her heart shifted, shuddered and broke open.

He’d given her back so much: herself, her freedom, her body.

When she pulled, guiding him down, he lowered his face to hers. He murmured her name against her mouth, then their lips met gently, fusing together without hurry.

Giordan sank onto her, gathering her close as he shifted to go deeper, delved into her with soft lips and sleek tongue, still scented and flavored with the essence of her own lifeblood. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, such relief and emotion swelling strong inside her, bursting to come out from this unfamiliar intimacy.

The kiss turned from a sweet proclamation of tenderness, then to something fierce and hungry. Their tongues clashed and stroked, delved deep and furious, their lips catching on fangs and scraping tender skin. Little surges of blood mingled with the kiss, mixing with their breath, tasting sweet and thick as their bodies slid and bumped against each other. His fingers moved between them, pulling at the buttons of his breeches, the back of his hand sliding teasingly against her swollen center.

Narcise helped him, blind but efficient, and heard the soft scatter of the buttons as they flung beyond the rug to the floor. Quick and furious now, her skirt was flipped up and aside, his breeches and drawers yanked away until the heat of him lay against her thigh.

“Giordan,” she pleaded, spreading herself up and against him freely, wantonly, and she heard his great gust of relief as he found the hot, sleek place between her legs.

They both gasped when he filled her with one sharp movement, and then there was no longer time for play. He seemed to have run out of patience and teasing, for no sooner had he slid deep than he was moving again, harder and faster, bending forward to nip at her mouth, to slick up another taste of her as her hips moved to meet his rhythm.

The rug burned into her buttocks and Narcise felt her hair caught beneath her shoulders, but that discomfort was lost in the hot, driving pleasure that she suddenly reached in an explosion of pleasure, grasping it just before he did. He made a low noise, strangled and deep, and thrust deep and hard one last time, then buried his face in her hair and collapsed into her arms.

Narcise closed her eyes, her body still shuddering pleasantly, rippling from her center out to each finger and toe, remembering what it was like to feel happy, and complete after this…and not dark and damaged and used.

His lips moved against her neck, saying something she couldn’t hear, but the gentle movement sent delicious little shivers along her shoulder and she smoothed her hands all along his back.

The curling, rootlike ridges of the Devil’s Mark bumped beneath her fingertips on one side, and she felt the faint pulsing therein. She wondered if he’d done something to anger Lucifer, or if his Mark was always full and throbbing like that.

Hers rose and fell depending upon her mood and that of the demon who’d put it there, and right now, now that she was sated with pleasure, it was hardly a twinge over her shoulder blade.

Giordan—he was no longer merely Cale to her—shifted and pulled away, his hands sleek and smooth as they moved down over her throat and shoulders. “I hope you don’t mind my saying that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he said. “But you’re also the strongest. Here.” He rested his fingers over her heart. His eyes burned dark and steady as he looked down at her, his lips, those perfect ones that she’d learned so well from her sketching, were full and glistened a bit.

She shifted and he eased back farther, helping her to sit up.

“Narcise,” he began, covering her with his eyes, determination in his jaw.

She knew what he was going to say, and she stopped him with a finger over his lips. “Don’t ask me to stay. I can’t—”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said, easing away from her fingers. A note of annoyance colored his tone. “I was going to say, I think it’s important to keep this from your brother.”

“Why—and how? He ordered me to seduce you—he’ll smell you all over me,” she began, confused and yet relieved that he wasn’t going to try to convince her to stay.

Giordan was nodding. “I know. But why? To see if it would work? To see if we have an attachment?” He frowned and Narcise was surprised when a wave of affection swept her at the sight of the furrow between his brows. She wanted to touch it. She wanted to touch him again, everywhere, in fact…to lie next to him in a soft, luxurious bed, naked and sated, and to hear him talk. He must have noticed the heat in her eyes, for he paused and, eyes narrowing with desire, he bent forward to kiss her.

Another sweet brushing of lips, but then she slipped her tongue out and there was still the essence of blood on him, and the kiss became deeper and more thorough. She curved an arm around him, sliding it along the curve of his bicep as a tingle began to grow inside her again.

When he pulled away, it was with obvious reluctance. His brown-blue eyes, ringed with black, now glowed with fire again. But then he blinked and it eased into seriousness. “I don’t trust anything about him, or anything he does,” Giordan continued. “But it seems as if he is trying to push us together. And if he wants that, then there’s a reason to benefit him. I think it would be best if you went back alone, and I’ll be along shortly. He’ll know you did what he bid, but he doesn’t need to know that we…well, that it was like this.”

His voice dipped low and sent another pang deep in her belly.

Narcise leaned forward to capture his lips again, sliding seductively against his mouth, her hand flat on his chest. “Very well,” she said, and left.

Giordan took his time returning to the parlor, partly to allow Narcise to make her appearance first, and partly because, aside of getting new clothing, he had things to attend to.

Narcise might think she was returning with her brother tonight, but that wasn’t going to happen. He’d take care of Moldavi himself, and then attend to Belial and his hostage in the carriage. Voss and Eddersley would help, and after that, they’d all go back to Moldavi’s residence.

Then all of the child hostages would be free, as would Narcise.

Giordan slid a stake into the inside pocket of his coat. A different weapon than what he used on the streets—then it had been a slender but wicked blade that slid between ribs like butter—but they were both used in the same way.

He was waylaid by a question from one of his footmen, and then Suzette, who’d been entertained by one of Giordan’s male vintages, caught him in the corridor to ask when he might plan another party. “I was hoping for a rooftop ball,” she suggested with a smile. “During the full moon would be perfect.”

Giordan smiled. “Very soon, ma cherie. Perhaps within a week.” He could introduce Narcise to his friends, and he imagined that she’d enjoy the fresh air.

He excused himself as quickly as he could and returned to the private parlor at last.

The first thing he noted was that Narcise wasn’t there. He frowned; she’d had ample time to return. Then, when he scanned the chamber and realized that Moldavi was absent as well, his stomach plummeted and a rush of anger stopped him cold.

“Where are they?” he asked Eddersley, who’d paused to look at him as if he were mad.

“The Moldavis? They left. Perhaps a quarter of an hour past.”

Giordan rushed out of the parlor, knowing it was futile, that they’d already gone…but somehow hoping that he was wrong.

But he wasn’t. Outside, beneath the swath of stars and sliver of moon, he found one of his grooms and demanded to know where the Moldavi carriage was.

When the groom explained that it had left some time earlier, and that, oui, the mademoiselle was with her brother, and, no, she was not in distress, she was walking of her own volition, Giordan stepped back and whirled away. His heart pounded violently and he knew his eyes were burning red and gold, fairly flaming with rage.

He had a terrible, sinking feeling that he’d never see Narcise again.

9

It was more than three weeks after Narcise seduced him that Giordan received word from Cezar Moldavi.

At first, he had no concerns about the silence. Playing the game he and Narcise had agreed upon, he waited for two days before contacting Moldavi again, under the guise this time of formalizing the details of the spice ship. When there was no response to that dangling carrot of business investment and money, Giordan was concerned, but not terribly so.

Perhaps Moldavi had been called out of town again.

He attempted to visit as Monsieur David again for Narcise’s painting lesson, at least in order to see her, and ensure himself that she was well. When he was turned away from the door with the explanation that mademoiselle was no longer interested in lessons, Giordan had that awful sinking feeling again.

What did that mean?

Another attempt to deliver fabric as an elderly merchant as he’d done once before was also foiled when he was advised that no one was in residence to see him.

Thus Giordan spent the next two weeks in varying stages of fear, fury and loathing. The helplessness was the worst. Was she alive? Was she dead? Was she here in Paris? Had she been fencing? Winning or losing?

He made personal calls three times after that, and each time he was turned away with vague explanations that the master was gone.

He began to plot with Eddersley how he might gain entrance to Moldavi’s lair through the catacombs, sneaking in through the rear.

He paid Mingo handsomely to debase himself and attempt to seduce any or all of Moldavi’s servants regardless of how homely they were when they visited the market, providing his own steward with enough funds to pay for an entire ship in order to incent tongues to wagging. The only information he was able to glean was that the mademoiselle was cloistered in her private apartments and had hardly been seen for more than a week. However, she had had no visitors at all.

“But she is well?” he demanded, his fangs flashing, his hand pressing his valet and steward’s chest against the wall.

Mingo’s eyes widened and he nodded. “So far as I can ascertain, she is well, sir.”

Giordan remembered himself and released his servant, turning away with trembling hands and a stomach that gnawed with emptiness. I should have forced her to stay with me. I shouldn’t have let her leave.

At last, he received a response to the five messages he’d sent, and the three he’d left in person. It was absurdly mundane: I would be honored by your presence this evening. Moldavi.

He had four stakes secreted on him when he entered Moldavi’s stronghold, and was determined to use at least one of them before he left. As he’d anticipated, three of them were discovered by the butler when he was offered entrance at the street level. But the fourth one remained tucked in the underside of his loose shirtsleeve.

Whatever he’d expected, Giordan had not anticipated the beaming, cordial host who greeted him as he entered the spacious, well-appointed parlor they’d used previously.

“I’m so terribly sorry for the confusion,” Moldavi said, gesturing to a pair of chairs pulled up cozily next to a piecrust table.

As always, he was dressed formally in well-tailored clothing: a snowy-white shirt, brocade waistcoat, knee breeches and stockings. Instead of the wigs currently in fashion, Moldavi wore his hair combed neatly over his face and ears, and his wide-jawed face was clean-shaven. Several rings winked on his fingers as he gestured with his speech. “I understand you’ve been attempting to reach me. It was terribly rude of me not to provide an explanation for my sudden departure, and that of my sister, from your engagement a few weeks ago. I was called away on an emergency, and quite frankly, I was too distracted to even think to send you an explanation or apology.”

Giordan accepted the speech in silence, eyeing the man thoughtfully, but he did not take one of the offered seats. He’s lying as easily as the Seine in its bed. And there was a different air about him tonight, one of anticipation, perhaps, or nervous energy.

“And Narcise—I’m afraid the servants didn’t quite understand. I would certainly have allowed you to call on her in my absence…but apparently, that was not made clear to them.” Moldavi, also still standing, opened a small cupboard, peered at the cluster of bottles within and selected one. He examined the label, then returned it with a tsk, clinking around until he chose a second one. “Ah. Perfect,” he said in satisfaction. “I do hope you like it,” he added, glancing at Giordan.

“I wasn’t offended that you left my gathering as much as I was concerned,” Giordan offered as his host poured two glasses at the sideboard. The titillating scent of fresh blood mingled with liquor filled the room. He wondered uncomfortably from where the blood had come. “After all, that night I had been the recipient of an unexpected gift,” he said. “I hadn’t had the opportunity to thank you.”

“Indeed. I do hope you enjoyed it,” Moldavi said, handing his guest one of the glasses, brushing his fingers as he did so. “In all honesty, I wasn’t certain if it would be to your liking. In fact, I’d rather hoped it wouldn’t.” The other man’s eyes fastened meaningfully on his and for the first time, Giordan saw something there besides cunning and intelligence.

Admiration.

Fascination.

Desire.

He recognized it and nearly stepped back, his stomach twisting unpleasantly, shock and comprehension rendering him silent. All at once, the dark memories rushed to the fore-front of his mind—the grasping hands in the alleys, the smell of men, the humiliation and pain.

Giordan shook the images away and speared Moldavi with his own flat gaze. “As a matter of fact, that evening was very much to my liking,” he replied so that his position couldn’t be misunderstood. “Where is she?”

All pretense had dropped; they were man to man, staring at each other, no longer hiding anything.

“She’s gone,” Moldavi said.

“I want to see her.”

Moldavi shrugged. “She has no desire to see you.”

“You’re lying,” Giordan replied with confidence. “She’s in love with me.” He knew it for a fact; he never doubted it, for though she hadn’t said the words, she had proven it when she kissed him.

She’d kissed him more than once, more than in the heat of passion, more than when he’d asked it of her. She’d kissed him with love and tenderness, and freely. He had no doubt of her feelings for him, and every bit of confidence in her brother’s attempt to manipulate.

“And, to my dismay, you’re in love with her,” Moldavi said. He pulled something from his pocket. “You hid it very well. I wasn’t certain at all, for you seemed immune. I had hoped—” He shook his head, pressing his lips together in dismay as he cut off his own words. “This is what confirmed it for me.”

He held a long, slender gold chain with a single feather dangling from it. The one Giordan had removed from Narcise and tossed to the floor of his parlor the night she’d seduced him.

Moldavi’s smile was a bit crooked. “If you didn’t love her, you wouldn’t have noticed or cared. Nor,” he added, “would you have visited her disguised as Monsieur David.”

Giordan couldn’t keep his eyes from flickering in surprise. “You knew of that?”

His host’s lips twisted in reluctant admiration. “Not at first. You fooled everyone. Not until after I found this—” he gestured with the feather “—and began to suspect. But when I went into her chamber and scented you in there…” His voice trailed off, his eyes settling heavily on him. “I’ve become quite familiar with your scent.”

Giordan kept his face blank despite the increasingly uncomfortable churning in his belly. He was emotionless, feeling not even the animosity or affront he should. He tried to picture how Dimitri would respond in this situation: cold and lethal. But Dimitri had not lived through what Giordan had.

“I suppose I could consider myself flattered, but I do not,” he replied coldly. “You understand, I have interest in only one member of the Moldavi family.”

“I was afraid of that, Giordan—ah, forgive my informality. I’ve long thought of you that way. These last few weeks have been rather difficult for me, not knowing for certain. Particularly the time we spent in here after you fought with my sister that night.” His dark gaze settled meaningfully on him.

Giordan realized with a start that that night, he’d been sitting in this very chamber dressed only in breeches, and likely smelling of arousal and maleness after the session with Narcise. His mouth dried and he realized now what he’d scented beneath Moldavi’s cologne of cedar and patchouli. It was the essence of desperate desire that he’d found unpleasant.

Moldavi continued. “I had held out hope that you might be of the same mind as Eddersley—albeit much more subtle and reserved about it. After all, no man could resist Narcise and you appeared to do so.”

“A man who doesn’t force himself onto a woman isn’t necessarily a molly,” Giordan said with disdain. “He’s a gentleman.”

“Despite your protestations to the contrary,” Moldavi said as he moved away from the sideboard and closer to Giordan, “I happen to know you’re no stranger to buggery, particularly from your teen years.” His eyes burned red and hot.

Giordan went cold, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. “The correct term would be rape,” he said from between numb lips. He tried to summon the dark rage that he knew simmered deep inside, but somehow Moldavi’s words and knowledge had catapulted him back to those dark days and evil memories. They’d grabbed hold of him and smothered his instinctive response, setting him off balance and out of sorts. He felt as if he were swimming deep in a very murky pond: half-blind, sluggish, breathless.

Moldavi seemed to realize this, and he was now standing very close to him. His scent rolled off in heavy waves, thick with lust. “Why are you here, Giordan?” he asked, the sibilant hiss very pronounced in his voice. A fang flashed, the gold chip in it winking coyly as he looked up at him.

“You know why I’m here. I want Narcise.”

“Hmm. Yes. I wonder what you’re willing to do to have her.” Moldavi reached up as if to touch him, and Giordan knocked the man’s hand away with a sharp, controlled movement.

“You overstep,” he said with a calm he didn’t realize he currently possessed. The anger simmered faster and harder now, nearer to the boiling point. He stepped back and took a large sip of his drink. When he raised his arm, the weight of the stake shifted in his sleeve, reminding him that he did have a chance to end this now.

“You want Narcise, but so do so many other men, Giordan. It’s really quite a quandary for me. She’s very valuable in a variety of ways—you understand why I cannot give her up. Because, of course, if you fancy yourself in love with her, you’ll want her with you—at least for a time. Decades perhaps. And then what would I do?”

“You can have the ship,” Giordan said. “All of it. Two ships if you want.”

“Shall we make it three?” Moldavi asked with an intimate chuckle. “No, no, I don’t want that. Although from what I understand, you can afford it.” He clicked his tongue, his eyes dancing with pleasure. “Forget about the stake you have hidden on you, Giordan. You can’t murder me. Do you think I’m that much of a fool? What do you think will happen to Narcise the minute you attempt it?”

“Why should I believe you?”

Moldavi sighed. “For an intelligent man, you’re being tiresome. Have you not learned that I don’t make mistakes, nor do I make empty threats?”

Giordan could hardly disagree. All along, he thought he’d been clever, but it appeared that Moldavi was a step ahead of him. “What do you want? My house in Paris? Four ships? Access to my bank accounts? You can have it all.”

The other man continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “She’s perfectly content here, Giordan, truly. We’ve come to an arrangement after so many years and I rarely have to discipline her anymore. She’s kept in comfort, like a princess, dressed in the most fashionable of clothing. She has everything she could want. And she hasn’t lost a fencing match for years—except to you.” His voice dropped and his eyes heated again. “I did particularly enjoy watching that.”

“She’s a prisoner.”

“I prefer to think of it as house arrest,” he replied with a smile that showed a tip of fang. “I have something else I’d like to show you. Something special I’ve had made for Narcise.”

He walked over to a table. On top of it was a box, and Moldavi turned to lift the lid.

With a sharp jerk of his arm, Giordan had the stake through the loose cuff and into his hand. He launched himself across the room, and in a half breath he had Moldavi against the wall, slamming the slighter man there with his hand, the stake poised.

“By the Devil, you are magnificent,” said Moldavi in a rough, breathless voice. His eyes burned with an orange glow.

“I want Narcise,” Giordan said from between tight jaws.

“She isn’t here,” replied Moldavi, his gaze growing hotter. “I took the precaution of removing her from the premises.” He looked up into Giordan’s eyes, his lips parted slightly in a provocative show of fangs. “There’s only one way for you to have her.”

Revulsion and fury took hold, and Giordan slammed the stake down into Moldavi’s chest, propelling himself closer with the effort. The man jolted, grunted against him but something stopped the pike from penetrating fully. Armor.

His adversary looked up at him, his pale, beringed hand suddenly fisted in Giordan’s shirt, holding him still, leaning into him with his own vampiric strength. His fangs were fully visible, his breathing rough.

Luce’s black soul.

Giordan pulled free and spun away. His heart was pounding, his stomach roiling, the stake useless in his hand. “What do you want?”

“Don’t be a fool. You know what I want.” Moldavi’s voice was hard, and yet sensual at the same time. The words hung there for a moment.

He stepped away from the wall where he’d remained after the attack, and adjusted his waistcoat. “Perhaps you’d like a bit of incentive, Giordan? I wanted to show you what I’ve had made for Narcise. What she’ll wear when I give her to Belial if you and I don’t come to an agreement.”

He turned back to the table and finished removing the top to the box. As Giordan watched, his host removed a lacy, filigree object that looked like the same black lace of Narcise’s gown. It was a cloak or cape, and it shivered and flowed as Moldavi shook it out, holding it by the collars.

Then he turned it around so that Giordan could see the other side.

It was lined with brown feathers. Rows and rows of them.

“No,” he whispered, turning to Moldavi in shock. “No, by hell.”

“Now, then,” he said. “Are you ready to negotiate?”

“Negotiate?” Giordan said. The numbness had eased away to cold fear and impotent anger. “You seem to hold all the cards.”

Moldavi liked that, and he laughed with delight. “I do hold most of them, that’s true. I spend much of my time arranging things.”

“I want Narcise,” Giordan said, his lungs aching, his knees watery. “Name your price. Whatever it takes to get her out of here.”

Moldavi showed his fangs, a light dancing in his malevolent eyes. “I want you.”

Even though he’d expected it, Giordan couldn’t control the sharp, dark twist in his middle. “Be more specific,” he managed to say.

“Three days and three nights. Naked. Willing.” Moldavi’s smile couldn’t even be described as maniacal; it was too calm and controlled. Satisfied. “Is that specific enough?”