The Vampire Narcise

17

September 1804

Narcise stared out the carriage window. The rough, craggy hills of Scotland had long given way to the more rolling familiar green ones of England, and now that she and Chas were nearing London, the land had flattened even more.

The roads were crowded now, straight, and lined with rows of houses…and the smells! Even if she’d not been peering from the window, Narcise would have known they were approaching the city, for the air was filled with all of the aromas and odors—pleasant and otherwise—that came with it.

Angled back from the dangerous sunlight that still managed to filter through a blanket of clouds, Narcise settled in the corner of the carriage and watched the slices of life from her restricted vantage point.

So many things had happened since her arrival in London, and that unsettling night at Dimitri’s home, that she could hardly conceive of it all.

The fact that she’d seen Giordan was only the least of it…or that was what she tried to tell herself when she woke, damp and warm, from unwanted dreams.

And dark nightmares. Narcise’s insides tightened.

She glanced at Chas, grateful for a distraction. He looked almost angelic—an odd thought, to be sure, about a man who lived a life of such violence, always hunting, always killing—with the waves of his dark hair swirling around a face slack with repose. His lips were full and sensual, and his nose, straight and prominent beneath eyes fringed with heavy dark lashes.

He’d been to Paris and back since that night he’d left her in the old monastery ruins. Angelica was safely returned to London, and to the surprise of everyone, Voss had been instrumental in the girl’s release. Yet, because Voss had already freed Angelica by the time Chas had found them, Cezar still lived safely in the bowels of Paris. Chas had brought his sister safely back to London, but meanwhile, he was even more determined to find a way to kill Cezar.

And now, something inconceivable had happened.

Voss and Angelica were to wed…and Voss had done the impossible: he’d somehow thrown off the bonds of his covenant with Lucifer. He was mortal and man once again, and it was only because of this change that Chas had agreed to give his permission for them to wed.

Now, he stirred, shifting, his heavy boots brushing the hem of her skirts where they mingled about her feet at the bottom of the carriage. Since all of this had happened, Narcise had seen the hunger in his eyes, the desperation and hope that somehow, something might change for her.

That she, too, might shed her allegiance to the Devil and become a mortal woman that he could love without reserve.

For, since his return from Paris, Chas had changed as well. The pain was deeper in his eyes, grooved more sharply at the corners of his mouth, and she could fairly feel the battle he fought with himself as he came to her. He loved her, of that she was certain, but he still hated himself for it.

And, of course, love was not only as long as one’s lifetime, but also a concept of selflessness…something that, still, a Dracule like Narcise couldn’t fully embrace. Chas seemed even more fully aware of that than ever.

And as if he knew he’d lost a battle, but was determined to win the war by maintaining his hold, Lucifer had raged in her mind and in her body. Her Mark blazed and roiled with his fury and control, reminding her that there was no way out.

At least for her.

She hadn’t even been able to leave the carriage when she and Chas reached St. Bridie’s—the convent school deep in rugged Scotland where his youngest sister Sonia lived. The religious symbols and holy presence were too much for her, a woman who bore the Mark of the Devil, and she was forced to wait while Chas went inside.

There’d been those religious markings throughout the monastery cellar where Chas had left her while he went to Paris. They’d formed a safe barrier against any immortal finding his or her way into the old safe haven.

But what haunted Narcise, what she tried to banish from her thoughts, was the fact that somehow, Giordan had not only found her there…but he’d come into the chamber by crossing that barrier only hours after Chas had left.

She’d met him at the door, saber in hand, heart racing madly out of control.

“Woodmore sent me,” Giordan had claimed coolly. “He indicated there was something I was to retrieve. Now that I’ve arrived, I can only presume he meant you.”

“Certainly not,” Narcise had replied, trying to keep her breathing steady. She’d cut his hand with her saber—or, rather, he’d sliced his palm open when he yanked her blade away. And his bloodscent filled the air. Her fangs threatened to shoot free. Her knees felt as if they were about to give way. “I’m to stay here—perfectly safe—until his return with Angelica.”

“And if he doesn’t return?” Giordan had walked across the floor to wipe the blood from his wound. Slowly. So slowly, as if to allow her plenty of time to inhale his scent…to watch his body with its sleek, confident movements. He seemed to fill the room.

“I’ll go to Dimitri. He’ll protect me,” she’d managed to respond.

“I never thought of you as one who needs protection, Narcise. You take very good care of yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he’d kissed her.

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

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

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

“We’re nearly there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not quite an admission, but close enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beginning now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was done with huddling and hiding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The other two were just behind Narcise, blocking any escape she might attempt, and one of them slid his hand down her spine and over her rear, his fingers scoping intimately around the bottom cleft of her arse. Narcise’s reflexive spark of fear at being touched dissolved instantly and she slid into action. With one smooth move, she flung the big man’s hand away and spun to face the one who’d groped her.

Grabbing him by a woolen coat crusty with stains and smelling of smoke and vomit, Narcise lifted him up and tossed him into the air. His arms flailed as he flew back against a shuttered window on the brick wall.

“’Ey!” shouted the big man, as if offended and affronted by her reaction. “Wot the hell d’ye think yer doin, foin lady?” He lunged for Narcise again, but she easily ducked out of his way and then grabbed his arm, using his own weight and momentum against him.

“I told you to take your hands off me,” she reminded him as she spun him sharply into the third man. They tumbled together like a load of boulders and she stood over them, looking down as they scrambled to their feet in fury. Her pulse had kicked up and she felt a rush of energy through her. Even her Mark was more at ease than it had been for days.

“Ye loose-lipped bitch,” growled the big oaf, and his insult was echoed by the one she’d whipped into the wall a moment ago. The three of them, as cowards often do, shouted encouragement to each other as they bolted toward her in a rage.

Narcise didn’t flinch, and in fact, was enjoying herself as she fought them off. Despite her restrictive clothing—a corset, slippers, and shoe-length skirts—and the loose braid that whipped around with her every movement, she was quick and efficient. It was a testament to their stupidity that it took three rounds before they realized she would neither go with them, nor suffer being touched. She didn’t even have to bare her fangs in order to stave them off—it was a matter of strength and speed, both of which she had as an advantage over the three men.

When they were at last in an unmoving heap on the ground, their noses bloodied—the scent not even the least bit tempting to her—and lips cut, perhaps an arm broken or an eye blackened, she stood over them. “Don’t ever accost a woman again. The next time, I’ll kill you.”

The largest one whimpered when she bared her fangs at last and swooped toward him, her eyes glowing bright and red as she yanked him up by his shirt. “Do you understand?” she demanded, breathing through her mouth so as not to inhale his putrid odor, now colored with the scent of terror.

“A-aye,” he managed to say, closing his eyes and turning away as if expecting her to take a hunk out of his skin.

“Good,” she breathed, and licked her lips enticingly. “Because I’ll be watching you…and the next time you even look at a woman, I’ll find you. And I’ll be hungry.” She showed him her fangs, long and wicked.

Then she smelled the pungent odor of fresh urine and shoved him toward the half wall along the sewer, satisfied that he’d been well and truly frightened. “Go off with you. All of you,” she ordered, standing there in the dark street, feeling as strong as she’d ever felt—as powerful, as sure of herself.

And as her would-be attackers scuttled off into the night like frightened beetles, she felt a bubble of laughter come up from inside her. Joyous and warm, delight swelled inside her as she realized who she was.

And what she could do. And—

“How startling. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you laugh.”

Narcise’s stomach seemed to plummet to the ground. Choking off her laughter, she spun, her insides turning inside out and upside down, her thoughts scattering. “What are you doing here?” she managed to say as she swallowed her heart and felt her cheeks burn.

Giordan sauntered toward her with studied casualness. The moon was kind to him, filtering silvery light over the thick, dark curls on his head and the broad shoulders encased in a dark coat. It was open to reveal a silver-buttoned waistcoat and white shirt, brilliant and crisp, fairly glowing in the low light. His boots were soundless and his eyes dark and glittering, focusing on Narcise with unpleasant intensity. His comment had been laced with irony.

“I’ve been following you since you left Rubey’s,” he said. “At first I thought you had a destination in mind…but then I realized you were simply walking.” So she had scented him, and, Giordan being the cunning, manipulative man he was, had probably kept himself downwind from her as he followed her through the streets. Bastard.

Their eyes met and Narcise found that she couldn’t pull hers away. Her heart pounded high in her throat and she tried to dig down inside to pull out her anger and revulsion toward him…this man who’d destroyed her.

This man who was looking at her as if he’d never seen her before.

“I thought—” She stopped herself. She had nothing to say to him. Nothing at all.

“If I didn’t feel such sympathy for the way you flayed those poor bastards, I’d have found the entire scene more than a little amusing,” he said, gesturing in the direction where the cowardly beetles had gone. “Is that why you were laughing?” His tone had softened, perhaps, a bit.

She drew herself up, still searching for that deep betrayed feeling, and replied, “No.” Her fingers were shaking and her insides were doing unpleasant and pleasant things at the same time.

Handsome as sin he might be, familiar and beautifully scented…but she couldn’t feel anything for him. Nothing but that old hatred and revulsion. She stoked it so that it burned stronger inside her, giving her a barrier behind which to hide.

She told herself that she had nothing to say to him, that she had no desire to even be near him, yet her mouth moved and the words came out before she could stop them. “Why are you following me? Surely you don’t think I need protection.”

“Are you going to Paris?” he asked, stepping closer, pinning her with his eyes.

“Are you mad? Go back there? Never.”

He nodded briefly. “I didn’t think you’d be that foolish.”

Giordan was very close now, standing so that his scent filled her every breath, overwhelming even that of the nearby sewer, battling for her consciousness. Her insides fluttered wildly and Narcise felt a rush of heat and desire. She swallowed hard, willing herself to step back and away…but her feet wouldn’t move.

His eyes found hers, holding her gaze and her heart thumped madly as he came nearer. She took a step back and he smiled knowingly.

“What are you afraid of, Narcise?” he taunted, his gaze melting into something hot and warm.

All she need do was turn and walk away from him. There was nothing more she needed or wanted to say to him. She didn’t want to even breathe him in the air.

But her knees trembled and she felt a rise of heat billowing, filling her. “I’m not afraid of you,” she replied, even though her veins were pounding and surging, reacting to his nearness. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth, his lips slightly parted, full and beautifully shaped in the silvery moonlight. No.

“No?” he asked sardonically.

“Why were you following me? Because you thought I was going to Paris?” she asked, desperate to change the subject…and to ease away from him. His glittering gaze made her insides tickle and flutter.

“Either that or you were making an escape from your vampire hunter,” Giordan replied. “Is that why you were sneaking off from Rubey’s? Have you tired of Chas Wood-more now that he’s served his purpose?”

She knew that to respond was just to bait him, to continue to keep him there, looking at her with his cold eyes. But, though she ignored his obvious lure into a discussion about Chas, she had to know something else. “Why would you think I’d go back to Paris?”

The moonbeams played over his face, swathing half of his square chin and mobile lips in silvery light and leaving the other side in shadow. His gaze searched hers and her heart skipped a little. She willed it to stop jumping around.

“Woodmore went to Scotland to see his sister. Weren’t you with him?”

“I couldn’t go into the convent,” she replied. “Luce’s hold is too strong for me to enter. But I’d like to know how you were able to enter the old monastery—”

“So that’s why,” he murmured, half to himself. “He didn’t tell you what he learned about your brother.” A little ironic smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “He doesn’t trust you. Imagine that.”

“What are you talking about?” Narcise demanded stridently enough that a trio of passersby paused and looked over at them. She turned her back to them.

“Perhaps you’d best ask your lover what he doesn’t want you to know,” Giordan replied.

“How can you know about what happened in Scotland?” she said from between clenched teeth. How could he know when Chas hadn’t even told her? He’d been vague when she asked, telling her that Sonia hadn’t had a clear vision and he hoped to get a message from her later with more information.

Which meant that Chas had either lied to her or…something.

“I know because he told Rubey, and Rubey tells me everything,” Giordan said. His accompanying smile was both condescending and meaningful. “She has nothing to hide from me.”

Rubey. A little shaft of pain zipped through her as she realized the layers of meaning there. Narcise struggled for something to say that would wound him right back. “Rubey?”

He merely held his smile in place and looked at her.

Narcise’s mouth tightened as a wave of memory and hatred rushed over her. She’d trusted him, opened herself up to caring about him…and he’d destroyed her. “I certainly hope she doesn’t have a brother,” she said stiffly. “I don’t think she’d take kindly to a betrayal when she’s served her purpose.”

Even in the faulty light, she saw his expression settle into one cold and hard. “There can be no betrayal, for there’s no love between us.”

Frustration and pain reared inside her and her vision tinged red. “There’s never any love with a Dracule. Lust and the moment of pleasure, yes, always…but love?” she scoffed. “Never.”

“I loved you.” He spoke so quietly his words were nearly lost by the sound of a passing carriage…yet they rang hard and cold and angry.

“You used me, Giordan. I believed you were trying to build my trust, that you truly cared about me. You did everything so perfectly when all along, you had other interests. It took me some time, but I finally realized why you never wanted Cezar to know we were…were friends. Lovers. Because you didn’t want to ruin your chances with him. He was the bigger prize, wasn’t he?”

She hardly comprehended what she was saying, just that she’d waited so long to spew her hatred and agony at him. She wanted him to understand what he’d done to her. She wanted to inflict the same pain on him, but she didn’t know how, other than words. “Of course you would want him. He was the one with the power, with all of the money and control. I was merely a way to get to him.”

“You believe that?” he said, his words choked and low. His hand whipped out and his fingers closed around the front of her gown. “You truly believe that I wanted Cezar? Even after this?” He gave her a rough jerk and she flew up against him.

His mouth covered hers, hard and warm and angry, and Narcise closed her eyes at the familiar taste of Giordan, the demanding press of his lips, sliding against hers…roughly forcing her mouth open to take the sweep and slide of his tongue.

Her hands settled on the front of his shoulders, fingers curling around the top of his wool coat, the edges of his curls brushing their tips. She kissed him back, keeping the kiss one of ferocity and fury instead of tender and sensual, trying to remind herself how much she loathed him…how well she’d despised him…even as their lips mashed together, sliding and caressing in all the sleek, sensual heat.

She pressed herself against him, angry, wanting him to want her as much as she’d wanted him…then. Wanting him to feel the rise of desire—and hope—only to have it torn away.

Her breasts shoved into his chest, his arms closed tightly around her as one hand caught the back of her neck and held her immobile. He delved deep, matching her now with temper, his tongue hot and slick and strong, his mouth firm and knowing. A rolling, expanding heat filled her, turning her damp and soft, in spite of the undercurrent of violence, and she closed her eyes, trying to keep hold of her hatred.

Narcise bit deliberately at his lip, her teeth sharp and fierce as she nipped, then pulled sharply, drawing blood. Her fangs had come forth and when she eased back, his red eyes glowed down at her, the tips of his fangs showing beneath well-kissed lips, now bloodied and gleaming with a red mark.

He was breathing heavily, his irises blazing around steady dark centers, and she lunged forward to taste his lips again. The bit of warm, coppery blood settled over her lips and tongue, shooting desire down, deep into her core. Giordan. Narcise sucked on his lip, drawing the blood, and realized that little sample was not enough.

She tore at the collar of his coat, baring the side of his neck, and pulled away from his lips. Just below his ear, she viciously sank her fangs in—hating him and wanting him at the same time. Giordan jolted against her with a low cry, and the surge of blood flooded her mouth, exploding as if released from a dam. She sighed in relief, sucking in the clean, warm lifeblood.

Desire and memories filled her, his scent and taste became her world: his strong shoulders and powerful body, the soft silk of his curling hair, the hot erection swelling against her beneath layers of clothing…it was Giordan, after so long, after such pain and deep betrayal…

And yet it was not him. Not the same.

Never the same.

He was shuddering against her, his arms tight but trembling, his body sagging somehow back against the half wall along the sewage canal. She found warm skin beneath his shirt as she tore it from his breeches, her fingers brushing the dust of hair on his belly, the smooth muscles that shuddered at her touch. When Narcise pulled away to look up at him, he bent to capture her mouth again—roughly and with some deep, driving anger, his fingers curled deep into her braid, gripping her head. She tasted heat and blood, felt his fingers tightening against her, his fangs scraping against her lips. He seemed to want to punish her.

It was a battle—their mouths, their bodies, there on the street, now in a shadowy corner: lips, hands, teeth, tongue. Hot, sleek, pounding.

He covered her breast with one rough hand, sliding his palm over her curves as she leaned against him, still angry, still hating him, but unable to stop. Unwilling to.

Narcise twisted her face away and caught against one of his fangs. Her lips split and now her own blood mingled with his, in the air and on her tongue.

Giordan stilled, his chest moving with rough heaves against her, and she saw desperate hunger in his eyes. She licked her lips, watching him, tasting the blood—their blood, together—warm and rich and potent.

“Do it,” she taunted softly, holding his gaze, her breathing unsteady. “Taste me. Take me, Giordan.”

He shoved her away, suddenly, his mouth flat and hard, streaked with blood. His eyes furious and filled with revulsion, burning her, as he dragged the back of a hand over his mouth.

Narcise took a breath to steady herself, her insides twisting at the ugliness in his eyes…yet her heart was pounding from desire as much as from anger. At herself and at him. She trembled with pain and lust as they glared at each other.

“See,” she managed to say, licking the last bit of blood from her lips. “Lust and pleasure, even in the face of such hatred. I could have lifted my skirts right here, but I’d still loathe you afterward.”

“Narcise—” he began, his bruised lips hardly moving.

But with the pleasure and the familiarity, she’d fallen back into those horrible memories, the black, dark days of his betrayal…the pain was fresh and raw once again.

“By the Devil’s dark soul, yes, I hate you. I saw you. With Cezar. It’s hard to miss the expression of erotic pleasure on a man’s face—the Fates know I’ve seen enough of that.” She swallowed, her throat dry and scratchy. “I believed you. I believed in you. You destroyed me.” Her voice broke a little at the end and she swallowed again hard, angry at her show of weakness. “And I’ll hate you forever for it.”

There was a long silence as they stared at each other. Loathing and dark emotion vibrated between them as they faced each other on the dark and busy street.

“Forever is a very long time,” he said at last, his voice a mere rumble.

“And we’ll both be alive for it, won’t we? Goodbye, Giordan,” she said, and walked off, her knees trembling, her insides twisting. She squeezed her eyes closed against threatening tears.

She suspected that he would follow her again, and when she got to the end of the street, she looked back covertly.

But he was walking away, his hair and the tops of his shoulders dusted with moonlight as he strode off.

18

Giordan hardly made it around the corner before his belly rebelled.

By God, he hadn’t even fed on her, but it didn’t seem to matter. His body was reacting to the unfamiliar and fierce show of violence and hatred he’d just lived. As he sagged against a brick wall, emptying his stomach, he prayed that Narcise wouldn’t see or hear him.

When he finally finished, still trembling with the force of it all, he swiped the back of a hand over his mouth as he walked off into the night.

Wrung out from more than simply the evacuation of the contents of his stomach, aware that Narcise hadn’t finished off the bite on the side of his neck so that it still oozed a bit of blood, Giordan found himself back at Rubey’s, where he’d been going when he first saw Narcise leaving. He’d been briefly at Rubey’s private residence earlier, where he’d been keeping his own rooms for the last few months. She’d told him the news from Woodmore about Scotland, and Giordan was on his way to meet her at the pleasure house when he spied Narcise. He had no choice but to follow her.

“Giordan, bless the Virgin, what has happened?” Rubey said when she came rushing into the private chamber he’d taken over, ordering one of the girls out. As the current favorite of the mistress, and soon to be investor, he had that power. “Are you ill?” she asked.

Even here, in this place, he could scent Narcise…and the very aroma made his insides unsteady. “Not anymore.”

Rubey came over and brushed the hair from his temples, which clung to the warm, damp skin. She tsked when she yanked at his shirt collar to reveal the bitemarks. “And you’re about lying to me, Giordan Cale.” She smelled of rose and gardenia—sweet and floral, without being too cloying.

He closed his eyes at her touch, trying to subdue the sharp, sudden yearning for something else. Something more.

Something he’d once had.

He’d betrayed his own heart and soul by fairly attacking Narcise. He’d wanted to hurt her—with words and deed—even as he desired her. Craved her.

How shameful and ironic that he’d resorted to such a frenzy. He would have sunk his fangs into her, taken and seized what she’d offered…but somehow sanity had at last reigned.

The destructiveness had come not only from mere thoughts, but from his body. He’d been in control of such fury for so long…what had happened tonight?

“What’s gone on, Giordan? Will you not tell me?” Rubey, who should have been very busy attending to her girls and clients, sat next to him, giving him her full attention.

“There is nothing to tell,” he said, suddenly wondering why he’d come here. He should have gone back to his rooms and sent for Kritanu.

It was the elderly Indian man who’d helped him understand what was happening to him after that pivotal, sunny day in the alley when his Mark had burned. Drishni, one of the vintages at Château Riche, had done her best to help him when he came back and kept vomiting every time he fed…but it wasn’t until Giordan spoke with Kritanu that he’d begun to understand how he’d changed.

His body weakened and abused, he’d spiraled so far down into darkness and despair, violence and devastation…hopelessness…Kritanu had told him, that his mind had opened to moksha. Enlightenment.

That some strong bit of that powerful serenity and peace had found its way past the darkness of the Devil.

“And you’re after lying to me, Giordan Cale, but I can see you won’t change your mind.” Rubey offered him her wrist as she eased herself back onto the bed next to him, propping up on the other elbow. “I can also see that you’re in need of me in another way.”

Giordan swallowed and hesitated…but she was right. His body felt so battered and tormented that he knew he needed sustenance. And although it wasn’t what he craved, it was what he needed. And so he took her arm and slid his fangs in to drink.

Back when he was still recovering from the event in the alley, it was only by accident that Giordan had discovered he could still feed…if he were careful. This after three weeks of violently expelling the contents of his stomach after any attempt to gain sustenance. He could keep nothing down—and the lifeblood he ingested spewed forth with debilitating force, leaving his belly sore and his throat and mouth raw and parched.

His body was rejecting anything related to violence.

But at last, the tiny, dark Drishni came to him and offered herself. And when he felt the rush of her lifeblood in his mouth, pure and clean and sweet, Giordan nearly wept at the relief…because he knew. He knew she was the answer. It wasn’t until later that he learned why: because she ate only vegetation, nuts and grains.

She ate nothing that had been acquired through death or violence—and it was that addiction to death and violence that his body was fighting, now that the white light of peace had found him.

During the anguish of the aftermath, Giordan could close his eyes and find the light. The same light that had flashed into his mind when he succumbed to the burning sun in the alley. “Choose.”

Now, as Rubey’s warm, clean blood flushed into his mouth, Giordan thought again how thankful he was that she could help him. And that she was willing to do so, and was intelligent and pragmatic about it all.

It would have been a great deal easier if he could have loved her.

He drank without greed, easily dismissing the little tingle of awareness and arousal that began reflexively during the process. Although her breathing shifted, and he felt her body begin to respond to him, Rubey made no attempt to touch him as she might normally do. It was as if she realized he couldn’t.

“Corvindale is here,” she said after a short time, perhaps after judging that the color had seeped back into his cheeks. “He has news.”

Giordan withdrew immediately and looked at her in surprise. “Why did you not tell me at once?” he said, swallowing the last bit.

“I could see you were in no good mood for it. You must be attended to first.”

“I’m no fragile flower,” he snapped, sitting up.

Rubey offered her arm for him to finish off and patted his cheek with the opposite hand. “If you could have seen yourself, Giordan, my darling, you wouldn’t say such foolish things.” She ended the little pat with a tender caress over his jaw.

He frowned, but attended to her wound with his lips and tongue. She tremored a bit beneath his mouth now, and her eyes sank half-closed. He could scent the heightened musk wafting from her body and his own gave a little shiver in response.

“By the Virgin, if you weren’t ruined for any other, I’d be tossing my glove into the ring for you, Giordan, rich and handsome and kind as you are,” she said, her voice dusky and filled with the Irish. “But you are ruined,” she said, sitting up and sliding her legs off the bed. “And so I’ll tell you the bad part. That Corvindale’s news is about Narcise.”

“Where have you been?” Chas demanded as he burst into the chamber where Narcise was sitting.

He’d been frantic, looking for her first throughout the pleasure house, and then trying to find her by searching the streets nearby, interviewing servants and pedestrians to see if they’d noticed her. No one had, and he’d begun to be certain that somehow, Cezar had managed to take her from beneath his very nose.

Narcise leveled a calm stare at him. “I went for a walk.”

There was something in her eyes, something different.

“You went for a walk without telling anyone where you were going? Did you not think I might be worried that something had happened to you?”

“What can happen to me in London? I’m a Dracule, and use a sword better than any man I’ve ever met,” she replied, still calm and unemotional. “No one can harm me. Nor do I answer to anyone any longer.”

“What if Cezar were here? What if he’d sent his makes after you?” Chas continued, uncaring that he sounded almost as shrill and controlling as his bossy sister Maia.

Narcise—God in heaven, how could anyone be so utterly breathtaking?—fixed him with those blue-violet, black-ringed irises. Her hair hung in a long, single braid over her shoulder. He knew that it would still be smooth and straight as a bolt of silk, shimmering like a blue-black waterfall, when the plait was undone. His heart thumped and swelled, thinking about the moment they might share later, when he did just that.

Her cheeks were flushed a bit more pink than usual, and the hem of her gown was dirty and damp. The filthy, worn toe of a slipper peeped from beneath and her face had a smudge of dirt—and…blood?—on it. On her lips, too. As if she’d been cut.

“What did Sonia tell you?” she asked.

Rubey. Damn and blast. Chas sat in a chair next to the sofa on which Narcise was sitting. He’d known he had to tell her…he just hadn’t been ready to so soon. He’d needed time to think about it all.

And as he sat here now, looking at her, he knew things were about to change.

“When you gave her the button from Cezar’s coat, what did Sonia say?” Narcise asked again. “You told me she didn’t have a clear vision.”

Again he sensed that there was something different about her…something perhaps more confident, even peaceful…and yet something dark and unsettled lurked in her eyes. As if she were in some great pain.

Had he done that to her?

He bowed his head, then looked straight at her. “She did see something…I didn’t want to tell you, Narcise. I didn’t know what it meant, and I didn’t know how you’d feel. Or react.”

“What did she see?” Her voice was tight and angry.

“She always sees what it is that the person fears the most. And what she saw when she held Cezar’s button was you, Narcise.”

“Me?” Narcise’s eyes had turned from flat and furious to shocked and wide. “She saw me?”

Chas nodded. Sonia had described the vision as Narcise, whom she’d met previously in the carriage, peering out from behind a fan. The ivory spindles were half-spread, covering the bottom of her chin and part of one cheek. Was the fact that her face was partially hidden somehow meaningful?

“How can that be? What does that mean?” Narcise said, but even as she spoke, he watched her face change into one of contemplation and consideration…which was just what he’d feared.

It would be just like his beautiful, brave Narcise to rush off to Paris and use herself to get back in to see Cezar. He’d intended to get her settled safely somewhere and then go back to France himself and put an end to Cezar Moldavi.

And then he’d come back to Narcise and they’d find a way to be together.

For, now that Chas had gotten the news about Dimitri’s great change, even more hope stirred inside him. Just three days ago, while he and Narcise were still traveling back from Scotland, Dimitri had gone through some great ordeal to save Maia’s life…and now he, too, had miraculously broken Lucifer’s hold on him. Whether it was because he’d finally learned how to do it through his studies, or for some other reason, Chas wasn’t certain. But the truth was, Dimitri had become mortal once again—his Mark from Lucifer had disappeared.

And the angry, austere earl had actually been seen to be smiling.

Just then, the door flew open to emit Rubey, who had no qualms about bursting into any chamber of her establishment without knocking. “Aye, I thought I heard you return. Dimitri is here,” she said to Chas. “He insists upon speaking with you immediately, Chas. Voss is here as well.”

He rose, at once concerned and relieved by the interruption.

“With your permission, Narcise.” He glanced at her and was rewarded with a cool look that told him she wasn’t finished with her pique. Ah, well, women were always annoyed about something. At least his sisters always were. He gave a proper bow and followed Rubey from the chamber.

One thing was certain. Chas wasn’t going to tell Narcise—or anyone, especially Rubey—what else Sonia had seen…when he gave her a handkerchief belonging to Giordan Cale.

According to Sonia, Cale’s greatest fear was Narcise. Dead.

Narcise stared after them as the door closed, suddenly furious and bereft at the same time.

The moment Rubey rushed in, she’d smelled him: smart, masculine, familiar. Giordan. On her.

Her throat seized up, tight and scratchy, and she’d hardly heard the ensuing conversation, for her entire body was swimming in disbelief and anger. Narcise’s vision darkened with shadowy, red edges. By Fate, Giordan must have fairly run to have made his way back here to Rubey first, and without Narcise seeing him.

And then he’d gone directly from Narcise to Rubey.

From kissing Narcise, devouring her, filling his hands with her…to Rubey. The whoremistress.

Rage flushed through her, and for the first time in weeks, her Mark eased into painlessness. Narcise closed her eyes and fed it, submerged herself in the darkness of anger.

And then, just as quickly as it had come, the fury eased into something more devastating. Pain.

I loved you.

Had he really? She scoffed to herself, tried to push away the memory of his face…tonight and on that horrible day when he’d come to her afterward. Smelling of Cezar.

The starkness in his eyes had been the same then as it had tonight: deep and complete. Raw.

Narcise rose abruptly and began to pace the chamber, propelled by fear and hurt. If he’d loved her, why, why, had he done what he’d done? How could he?

How could he have imagined she’d accept him after he’d betrayed her? Any betrayal would have killed her, after what she’d experienced…but for it to be with a man…and her brother…how? How could he have thought she’d forget that?

Was it just his Draculean nature? To seek pleasure wherever it was offered? To focus on self, and only self?

Of course it was.

She was precisely the same way. The way Lucifer had turned them.

She couldn’t stay here any longer. She had to have air—clean air, not breaths tainted by his scent. She wanted to be back out beneath the open sky, the stars and clouded moon. She wanted to feel that power again, that confidence and worth of self from earlier tonight, before Giordan had ruined it.

Dismissing her disheveled and dirty clothing, she strode quickly and silently to the chamber door and peered out into the corridor. It was empty, and she slipped out for the second time that night, closing the door behind her and walking down the hall toward what she recalled was the front entrance. Giordan’s essence lingered, along with that of Chas and Dimitri and even Voss, she thought, but she ignored it and kept walking.

Chas would worry, but he’d have to learn that she could take care of herself. And she was furious with him as well, for lying to her. Keeping information from her. Trying to protect her.

She was Cezar’s greatest fear? How had she never known that?

What could that mean?

Sonia Woodmore had to be mistaken. Her Sight had to be wrong.

How could Cezar fear her when he’d had her under his control all of the time?

Narcise was just passing the door to some parlor or chamber when she heard Chas’s voice. “Of course we’re not going to tell Narcise. She might agree to it.” She froze.

“Do you think that’s wise?” replied a mellow voice that she was certain belonged to Voss. “Perhaps she—”

“You aren’t going to tell me what?” she demanded, flinging the door open. “Did you not learn anything?” she added, her voice cold as she stared at Chas.

Of the five people in the room, four faces had turned to her, and she realized with a horrid start that the fifth person was not staring at her at all because it was Giordan. He was looking down, even as the rest of the occupants of the room stared in chagrin.

And she dared not look at him, not when she knew where he’d been and what he’d been doing…not when his bloodscent lingered in the air. Not when her mouth watered at the aroma of it, and when she remembered the feel of his body against hers…only hours ago.

Instead she focused on Chas, whose countenance had gone tight with dismay. He rose from his seat. “Come in, Narcise. Apparently you are going to be told the news.”

Aside of Chas and Giordan, Dimitri was in the chamber, of course, as well as Voss. And, to Narcise’s mild surprise, Maia Woodmore was there as well, sitting next to Dimitri on a sofa. Much closer than was proper for a ward to be sitting next to her guardian.

Unlike her younger sister Angelica’s had been when they met in Dimitri’s study some months ago, Maia’s expression when she looked at Narcise was not one of accusation nor of distaste. It was only mildly curious and laced with concern.

“And so all of you are discussing me, and I’m not invited to the conversation?” Narcise said, looking for a safe place to sit. Chas gestured to the chair he’d just vacated, but she ignored him.

Giordan was in a different seat off to the right, and Voss was in a chair next to Dimitri. There was a space on the sofa next to Maia, and that was where Narcise went. She sat, her back rigid as she tried to keep her thoughts from colliding with each other and her mind clear.

“We’ve received a message from your brother,” said Dimitri. “I thought it best if we informed Chas immediately.”

“I said you should be told,” Maia said to Narcise. “I would want to know if my brother was doing something like this.” She slanted a sidewise glance at Chas and gave a little sniff.

“Maia,” Dimitri said, giving her a mildly exasperated look—mild for him, anyway—and said to Narcise, “The message arrived at Blackmont Hall earlier today via blood pigeon.”

Taking care not to glance at Giordan, who sat just beyond Dimitri, Narcise turned her full attention to the formidable earl. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw the blood staining Giordan’s white shirt, and the elegant shape of his wrist, settled casually on the arm of his chair. “Are you going to tell me what the message contained?”

“Napoleon Bonaparte is going to invade England in three days,” he replied with characteristic bluntness. “And your brother promises to send his own army of made vampires with the emperor’s mortal soldiers, to wreak havoc on this country.”

“He said they’d find the children,” Maia Woodmore added, her delicate face grave. “And take them.”

“Maia,” Dimitri snapped. “Blast it, I should have left you home.”

“Then I would have just found the way on my own, Gavril,” she replied. “At least we only needed one carriage this way.”

“You promised you wouldn’t interfere,” Dimitri said from between clenched teeth.

“I did nothing of the sort. You demanded I promise that, but I certainly didn’t. If I weren’t here, none of you would tell Narcise the whole of it,” the woman returned. “How can she make a decision without knowing all of it?”

“A decision?” said Narcise. “What sort of decision?” Her heart was pounding now and she felt an unpleasant twisting in her middle.

“About whether you’ll go back to him,” said Giordan, breaking his silence.

Quiet descended over the chamber.

“Narcise,” Chas said after a moment. “You can understand why we thought not to tell you.”

“No,” she replied through stiff lips. Giordan had shifted in his chair, and now he was looking at Chas. “No, I do not. What did you intend to do about it, since you didn’t plan to tell me?”

“That’s what we were discussing when you made that most dramatic entrance,” replied Voss with a lazy smile. “I know Cezar well enough, but since you know him best of all, perhaps you might have a suggestion. He promises to call off the emperor’s invasion if you return to him.”

Narcise shook her head, her thoughts whirling. Go back? Go back to Cezar? Never. But her heart was pounding and her stomach twisted nauseatingly. France’s invasion didn’t really matter to her—or to any Dracule—insofar as power was concerned.

But there were vampirs involved, and Cezar would ensure that there would be children as victims…as well as others. Children. If she agreed to go back, they’d be saved. She did believe Cezar would keep his word about that. He’d done so in the past, for he knew therein lay his power over her.

But to go back… She shuddered. No.

“I’ll go to Paris,” Chas said flatly. “I can get in to see him—”

“No, Chas,” Maia interrupted. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Be still, Maia,” her brother snapped, and received a warning glare from Dimitri.

“And you attempting to kill Moldavi wouldn’t necessarily stop Napoleon,” Voss added. “Although—”

“Attempting to kill him?” Chas echoed. His voice was sharp. “A poor choice of word—”

“Cezar could stop him if he wanted,” Narcise said slowly. “He’s got the new emperor under his thrall.”

“It does seem more than a bit convenient that Bonaparte has been sitting for months with his army ready to cross the Channel at any moment…and now Moldavi claims he will invade at last,” Dimitri mused. “I’m inclined to believe that your brother,” he said, looking at Narcise, “is indeed behind all of this.”

“And if he’s influencing Bonaparte to invade, then he can stop him as well,” Narcise said. And her Mark panged sharply…because she was thinking about what it would be like to return to Cezar. To put herself back under his control.

A little shiver caught her by surprise—a ripple of fear and trepidation—but then she remembered Sonia’s vision. I’m his greatest fear. How can that be? And how could I use that?

It made her stronger. She could go to Cezar knowing that. And if he feared her, then it gave her the chance to destroy him.

If it were on her terms…

Narcise’s heart began to pound harder. Could she actually go back there? She remembered the comforting feel of the saber…the way Cezar’s eyes lit on her, with both delight and hate.

Another shiver started in her belly. It could be true. She could be his greatest fear.

“You aren’t considering going,” Chas said, breaking the silence. “Narcise.” His voice was strung tightly and she saw the fear in his eyes.

But it was the weight of Giordan’s stare that she felt the most. Heavy, silent, dark…resting on her like a boulder.

“He fears me,” she said, thinking aloud. “He fears me more than anything in the world.”

The twinge that had begun to inflame her shoulder eased a bit more. She had power.

“But how will that help you?” Chas said, his voice low, as if he were fighting to keep it so. “Once you’re back there with him, you’re under his control. In that place. He’s got damned feathers everywhere, Narcise.”

“There’s something else,” Maia Woodmore said quietly. “Maia, no,” Dimitri said, his voice like a whip. “I forbid you.”

She looked up at him, a steely but determined expression on her face, and lifted her chin. “You would want to know.”

He glared at her with his mortal eyes, the burning no longer an actual glow, but no less furious. “Maia. You don’t understand.”

“Allow me,” Giordan spoke again. He shifted in his chair, dragging Narcise’s gaze toward him. His movements were so studied and casual that their easiness seemed forced. “I suspect Narcise isn’t the only one Moldavi wants returned.”

Dimitri made a soft, sharp curse under his breath and turned to look at his friend. “Naturally,” he admitted.

“Just to clarify,” Maia broke in with her imperious voice, “Moldavi promises to stop the invasion if Narcise or Mr. Cale returns to him. He doesn’t specifically require both—”

“I’ll go.”

Narcise’s breath caught at the blank expression that had settled over Giordan’s face as he spoke. Like a mask. Empty, emotionless. She recognized him…and yet it wasn’t truly him. His eyes…they appeared dead. And they were looking at her.

Her heart was thudding in her chest, but she wasn’t certain why. The image of Cezar and Giordan rose once again in her mind and even the memory of the stew of smells around him came with it. Her belly lurched and she bit her lip, thrusting the thoughts away.

Dimitri started to say something, but Giordan’s voice slashed out. “Don’t be a fool. You haven’t the means to stop me.”

“Cale, certainly, there are other ways,” Voss interjected. “Moldavi surely doesn’t know about the change that’s occurred with Dimitri and myself. We could accompany Woodmore and attend to Moldavi permanently.”

“No,” Narcise said softly. “No, I will have to go.” Her Mark pulsed with anger and sharp pain, but she ignored it. “But you’ll come after me. When it’s safe. When I’m certain he’s called off the invasion. You can—”

“Narcise,” Chas began.

“Stop,” she ordered, holding up her hand. “Have you forgotten? I’m a Dracule. I think only of myself. And in the end, this will serve me well. Knowing what I know about my brother now, I have more power than he realizes.”

“But once you’re inside there,” Chas started again. “Narcise, you don’t have any idea what will happen.”

She fixed her gaze on him. “He won’t kill me. And I can live through anything else.” But at least the children will be saved. And the war would be stopped.

And maybe it wasn’t only about her anymore.

19

“You aren’t truly going,” Chas said, stopping her in the corridor at Rubey’s several hours after the discussion in the parlor. “Narcise.” He wore a tight, strained expression.

“Of course I’m going,” she replied, echoing his own response to her same question from months ago. Unlike him, she hadn’t even needed to pack a bag. “He’s my brother.” Again, she repeated his response.

“Narcise, I— Forgive me for not wanting to tell you about…this. I was afraid that exactly this would happen. That you would go back to him…put yourself at risk.” He reached for her hand, drawing her closer. “But I shouldn’t have lied to you. I was wrong to—”

“You were wrong twice,” she reminded him, but didn’t pull her hand away. She needed the comfort of touch right now. “You don’t trust me, and you don’t believe I can take care of myself. You want to control me, just as Cezar did.”

“No, damn it, Narcise…I have three sisters…it’s hard for me to comprehend that a woman can be so…strong. I’m trying, Narcise.”

“I don’t know if I can trust you anymore,” she told him. “I have a sense that you’d do it again—”

“Devil take it, yes, I would. I don’t want anything to happen to you, for God’s sake. I’m in love with you, Lord help me…I’m in love with a vampir.”

He tugged her into his arms and found her mouth, bringing her body up along his tall one as he pulled her close. She sensed the desperation behind his kiss, the uncertainty in his touch…and despite the beginning flutters of pleasure, this time she couldn’t forget what loomed between them. Her anger toward him for his controlling protectiveness…and Chas’s own internal battle that, try as he might to overcome, was still a wide chasm.

Narcise was familiar with the anguish that played out in his face when they were together. The guilt and revulsion still warred with his desire as he begged her to bite him.

You could have been one of us. She wondered what would have happened if he had accepted Lucifer’s offer. Would she and Chas have found each other, been happy together? Impossible for a Dracule.

At last he eased away, his arms still loosely around her waist, and one hand lifted to brush a strand of hair from her face. “So beautiful,” he murmured, shaking his head. He looked at her, his eyes hot and heavy-lidded, his mouth swollen from the kiss.

“I’m coming with you,” he told her, and she was aware of a flash of relief…then the twitch of panic. What if something happened to Chas this time? She was still angry with him, furious…but she still cared about him.

“Dimitri and Voss…they need to stay with my sisters,” he added.

And they aren’t Dracule any longer. Now mortals, though stronger and as powerful as men could be, the others no longer had Astheniae, nor the vulnerability to sunlight…but instead, they had many other weaknesses. They would be better served remaining with the women they loved than risking their mortal lives.

“Chas,” Narcise said, pulling out of his embrace. She had to be honest. “I’m not going to change like them. I know you believe a miracle can happen…but I don’t see how it can. Dimitri tried for a century—”

His eyes shone with a determined light. “But how do you know? Even Cale—”

“Woodmore.” The deep, mellow voice cut in, startling Narcise as it swept over her from behind. How had she not scented him? The back of her shoulders prickled with awareness and her recently kissed lips throbbed as if filled with guilt.

“I’ll be going as well,” he informed them.

Her heart racing, she turned to face Giordan. “That’s not necessary,” she replied. Traveling with him? By the Fates, no.

She felt dizzy; he stood right before her, so close she felt his presence seeping into her. His expression had eased slightly since the conversation in the parlor, but there were still deep lines around his lips and eyes. The place she’d nipped him on his lip had dried into a slender dark line, helping to make him look uncharacteristically rugged and rough. His wound still leaked a bit and her attention was captured by the sight of the bit of blood pooling in the elegant, golden curve of skin between shoulder and neck.

Lust and pleasure zipped through her, down deep inside.

Where had her anger gone?

Giordan’s expression didn’t change. “I’m going. I’ll be ready to leave in a quarter of an hour. Wait for me.” And he walked off down the hall, his broad shoulders seeming to fill the space, his strides easy and smooth.

When she turned back to Chas, he was watching her with an unfathomable expression.

“What is it?” she asked, aware that her fingers were trembling.

“It’s him.” His mouth had flattened into a white line and misery touched his hazel eyes. He slid a hand into his hair and raked it viciously through the dark waves. “It’ll always be Cale, won’t it?”

It’s only you, Narcise. She pushed away the echo of Giordan’s words from years ago. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You still love him, and until that changes, you can’t see anyone else. You can’t love anyone else. Including me.”

“I don’t—I might have thought I loved him once, but not any longer. I could never… You have no idea how his betrayal destroyed me.” She made her voice hard and filled with loathing, reminding herself of his sins.

And now they were going back to Cezar again. She felt light-headed and faint. Both of them. Maybe she couldn’t do this after all.

Chas was looking at her, shaking his head. Intensity and anger vibrated off him. “He loves you. How can you not see it? At first I thought it was simply your disinterest. And you…you want him so badly you—”

Her mouth was trembling, but she had to stop him from talking. “Don’t be a fool. He loves only himself, his own pleasure. There’s no space for anyone else. And we Dracule…we live for pleasure. I do.”

“Jesus, Narcise.” He drew in a deep breath, covering his eyes with his hand, then sliding it down his face. When he was finished, he looked at her. “God help me, I cannot believe I’m about to say this.” She waited.

“If nothing else, at least you’ll know I’ve learned from my mistakes….” He shook his head, his dark hand falling away. He wasn’t looking at her now; he was looking down the hall, away from her. “I gave Sonia one of Cale’s handkerchiefs.”

Narcise’s heart stopped. She already knew Giordan’s Asthenia was cats, so it would be no surprise…but why would Chas be hesitant to tell her— “She saw you in the vision. Dead. His greatest fear is you dying. Why do you think he’s insisting on going back to Cezar with us?”

“You must be mistaken,” she whispered, frowning, fighting the shivers that attempted to take her over. “He has other reasons for seeing my brother again,” she said, forcing bitterness into a voice that shook. But it was difficult. All at once, she felt off balance and confused. Weak. Even nauseated.

Chas didn’t respond right away. He was looking down the corridor in the direction Giordan had gone, his face still and harsh, his lips curled into each other. White edged his mouth and around his nose.

“Are you that blind, Narcise? His only reason for going back again is for you. Don’t you understand what happened?” But still, he didn’t look at her. “Your brother blackmailed him into it. All of it. He was only with him in order to protect you…in exchange for getting you away from Cezar. But you wouldn’t go.”

Narcise put her hand out against the wall. “You’re mistaken,” she breathed again, trying to draw air into her suddenly frozen lungs.

But Chas was still looking away, his body rigid. “I wish to hell I was.”

Giordan had no compunction about leaving Rubey’s while Narcise and Woodmore were finishing their tender little tête-à-tête in the corridor.

He hoped they took their time and fucked while they were there, so he could get that much more of a head start. Never mind the way the thought made his insides roll sickeningly and darkness hover at the edges of his vision.

The sun that had burned his Mark no longer bothered him, so he was able to travel during the day. This gave him an advantage: horseback to Dover instead of the closed carriage Narcise would have to take, then across the Channel. If he could get to Cezar first…

A shudder took him by surprise and he quickly submerged it. Yes, he’d go back there. Yes, he’d do what he had to do—to save the lives of countless children and English citizens. To keep Narcise from having to.

He’d even kill Cezar if he had to…although it would probably kill Giordan as well, to do it. The remnants from his interlude with Narcise in the alley still made his insides pitch and his knees wobble.

Now, clear-minded, he understood why he’d reacted so strongly: his body and soul had been protecting him from the pain and anguish that would come from trusting his heart to Narcise again. The violent illness had been his reaction to hate and violence he’d eschewed for a decade, the reaction to a long-submerged addiction that had suddenly come rushing back: the need to hurt, to wound, to have.

“Ah, sister. I’ve been expecting you. I see that you could no more stay away from me than I could stay away from you.” Cezar looked up as Narcise walked in. “And Wood-more as well. You didn’t mention in your message that he would be joining us. To what do I owe this great pleasure?”

They had entered Cezar’s private chambers, escorted by Belial, who stood too close to Narcise for her comfort. Her brother sat across the room at a desk. As they entered, his face changed from one of bald delight, to contemptuous welcome…to a startled, blank expression, as if he were trying to hide his true feelings.

Narcise found that both disconcerting and optimistic.

“Belial,” Cezar said sharply. “Escort my sister to the dining area. I’d like her to entertain my guests this evening.”

“I’m not here to entertain your guests,” Narcise told him, evading Belial’s reach. “I’m here to stop Bonaparte from invading England.”

Lifting her nose, she breathed, trying to scent Giordan’s presence. Was he here or not? When he hadn’t come back at the promised time to find them at Rubey’s, she’d figured out that he meant to beat them here.

They’d sent word by pigeon to Cezar to stop the invasion, for they would not have reached Paris within the three-day timeline, promising that she was on her way back to him. So far, no news of invasion had come and she believed he’d kept his word.

Of course, he knew if the invasion went forward, she wouldn’t come back to him.

Narcise didn’t spare a look at Chas, though she felt him tensing next to her. On the back of her shoulder, the Mark was inflamed with fury—so much that she could hardly move her arm. Even breathing was difficult. But it had been that way for two days, and she had learned to accept it.

“Ah, my darling sister,” Cezar said, his voice carrying more of a lisp than usual, “the emperor will be here later this night. And if you provide enough entertainment, I am certain you can convince him to change his mind. Belial, take her.” Now he seemed breathless with excitement.

But Narcise wasn’t about to go quietly. For some reason, Cezar feared her, more than anything in the world, according to Sonia. The thought gave her confidence she’d never had before. She started toward her brother as Belial made a move to stop her. She flung his hand off her arm, her eyes glowing red and hot. “Don’t touch me or I’ll kill you.”

Chas had moved at the same time, producing the short but lethal stake he’d hidden in the sole of his boot.

“Cezar, you promised me if she returned…” Belial whined, stepping back. “She owes me.”

“I did indeed,” Cezar mused slowly. “Perhaps I could accommodate your request tonight.”

Narcise felt Chas tense behind her, but he remained still and silent as planned. She’d prepared him for her brother’s malevolence. Stepping away from Belial, her heart thumping hard, she started across the chamber. The made vampire didn’t worry her. It was the children in England she was concerned about. And where was Giordan? “I’ve returned to you, brother. You agreed to call off the invasion if I returned. Did you not miss me?”

Cezar’s eyes were pinned on her, and she saw both fear and admiration therein. His throat convulsed as he swallowed, his attention avid and palpable. She halted halfway across the chamber, unwilling to get close enough for him to grab her.

“I thought you wouldn’t return,” he said, his voice thready. “I thought I’d lost you forever. Narcise.”

“I’ve returned willingly,” she told him, watching him closely. “I trust that you’ll do as you promised.” She didn’t look at Chas.

He nodded slowly. “Yes. Belial, take them to the dining room. Go with him,” he told Narcise, his eyes now intent. The craftiness there unsettled her…but she knew the risks.

She knew she wouldn’t leave here soon, but she would someday. She was armed with knowledge and intent, and she had friends outside of this subterranean hole who would come for her.

Thus, for now, despite the constant throbbing and burning of her Mark, reminding her that she was doing something selfless, she would be Cezar’s pet for just a little longer.

20

On her way to the dining room—the room where she had fought countless battles in front of the dais—she scented Giordan. So he was here. Or had been.

A little shiver ran over Narcise’s shoulders. What had Cezar done with him?

She hadn’t been able to dismiss Chas’s dire words. If he was correct, Giordan’s actions had been a sacrifice beyond comprehension. She knew what he’d suffered as a boy, in the dark alleys, at the hands of men…but all along, when the worst had happened and she’d witnessed the hedonistic scene in Cezar’s chambers, she’d suspected Giordan of hiding his true self, his real desires.

Not so very different from Chas, who was revolted by her vampirism…but yet craved it, wanted her. He was reduced to begging her for the very thing that disgusted him.

It had all made sense to her—or so it had seemed at the time, and confirmed over the years. Giordan had really wanted Cezar all along, but could never admit it.

But Chas seemed so certain…and if Giordan truly wanted Cezar, why hadn’t he come with them when they left Paris?

Narcise’s insides had been a muddle of nausea and self-recrimination during the entire trip from London, but now she must put that out of her mind. She had to be cunning and strong to survive whatever punishment her brother would mete out to her for running away.

Chas had insisted on coming with her, to her great dismay and impotent fury…yet part of her was relieved to have someone with her. She meant to use her influence with her brother to keep Chas from being imprisoned.

Knowing that she had influence was a nebulous thing…but it was probably the only reason she wasn’t engulfed in the flames of fury by Lucifer. The continued throbbing of the Mark was painful, but not unbearable.

Inside the dining room, Narcise found that nothing had changed since her escape…only four months ago.

Four months. It had seemed a lifetime, even for one who was immortal.

But a moment after she walked into the dining chamber accompanied by Belial, everything did change. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity.

The next thing she knew, Cezar was there, standing on the dais behind the long table above her. Next to him was Giordan, a stony expression on his face. He was bare from the waist up and his sleek, tanned skin was marred with bitemarks that made Narcise’s stomach turn. Two of the marks still oozed, and she could scent his lifeblood.

She heard Chas hiss behind her, and suddenly they were separated by a clan of her brother’s men—Chas shoved and pulled away, held immobile by two vampirs, and three of the others surrounding her.

“My darling sister, I have a confession to make,” he said. “I do hope you aren’t too upset about it, but the truth is, Bonaparte is much too busy with his coronation to actually consider invading England. As I’d hoped, you took the bait.”

Narcise tried to pull away from the two men holding her, but they were just as strong as she was. “I should have known better than to trust you,” she spat.

“I could still send my army, if it would make you feel better about it all,” he added. Then, when she gave him no further response, he commanded, “Strip her.” His eyes glittered with delight.

The next thing she knew, they were tearing at her dress. The flimsy muslin of her traveling gown ripped easily, and they flung the remnants away as they grabbed at her corset, yanking at the laces, jerking her body every which way as they tugged it loose. She stumbled and fell, twisting as she tried to fight them off, and keep her balance. One of the three finally caught her arms and pulled them up and away from her torso so that the others could loosen the laces and pull the corset, then Narcise’s light linen chemise, from her.

They allowed not even her drawers to remain, those loose, light pantaloons that covered her from waist to knee. That last bit of shield from avid eyes was yanked away by one of the makes as the other two held her arms out on either side. When they were finished, all three stepped back, leaving her to stand there in the chamber completely nude. Her skin was marked and scratched from the harsh scrape of the grommets and hard edging of her stays, along with sharp, rough fingernails, and her hair sagged from its anchor at the back of her neck—unable to be used for any sort of covering.

Cezar made a sharp gesture for one of his men to take her clothing away, and now he looked down at her with what could only be described as a vivacious smile on his face. “There, now, my dear. That is much better. Not only was that the ugliest frock I’ve ever seen—even you couldn’t do it justice—but now we can all see what it is Belial will be fighting for.”

Narcise leveled a cool look at him, hardly aware of her nudity. She’d been thus exposed many times in the past. “I suspect it will be nothing more than a distraction. Belial hasn’t a chance, and you know it. Are you certain you wish to lose your most faithful servant?”

Her brother looked at her for a moment, and her heart sank when she saw the crafty look that eased into his eyes. “Perhaps you are correct, Narcise. My confidence in your ability is profound, and, to my dismay, Belial hasn’t the skill to match you.”

Her heart was pounding hard now and she, foolishly, glanced at Giordan. Their eyes met and the terror she saw in his nearly knocked her breathless. His face had gone white and stony, and for a moment, she thought he was going to faint.

But then her attention was drawn back to Cezar, who’d had a long, metal box brought onto the table in front of him. With a sly glance at Giordan, and then a benevolent smile at Narcise, he said, “But you must be chilled by now, my lovely sister. And I haven’t properly welcomed you home. I have something for you.” He started to lift the top. “No.” Giordan’s voice was sharp and desperate. He slammed his hand onto the top of the box, clanging the metal top back into place. His voice was low and unsteady, and she could barely hear him say, “Anything else, Cezar. Name it.”

By now, Narcise’s heart had plunged to her knees, which trembled and threatened to buckle. What was in the box? She glanced at Chas, who was held against the wall by one of the makes, and their eyes met. But his gaze, instead of being wild with concern or fear, was wide and intense. As if he were trying to tell her something.

Instead of being angry with Giordan for his outburst, Cezar seemed amused. “My, you are free with your promises now, Monsieur Cale. If only you’d been so accommodating a decade ago. When it really mattered.” And yet, despite his cool words, he was gazing up at Giordan with such a baldly lustful expression that her own stomach lurched with revulsion.

Giordan’s face was shiny and hard and she swore she could hear…or feel…the pounding of his own heart as he looked down at her brother. Cezar murmured something that she couldn’t hear, but that turned Giordan’s face gray. The marks on his skin stood out in sharp red-black relief against a suddenly ashen backdrop and his throat convulsed as he nodded. Once. Quickly and short.

That was when Narcise knew for certain that Chas had been right. That whatever had happened with Giordan and Cezar, it had been under duress. Her vision wavered and she was assaulted by a rush of grief and shame. How could I?

“Stop,” she cried. Her voice rang out and drew her brother’s attention. “I need no one to fight my battles for me. Release my friends, Cezar, and you’ll have whatever you want.”

His eyes danced and he smiled. “Take the vampir hunter away, then. My sister is correct: I have everything I want, right here.”

He lifted the lid of the box as Giordan made a sound of protest, but it was too late. Narcise realized immediately what was inside.

Feathers. Many of them.

As Cezar reached into the box, Giordan launched himself at him, and they tumbled to the floor. Narcise started to move, whirling around to notice that Chas was gone—they’d taken him away—and then toward the dais before someone caught her by the arm. Someone else slammed into her, and she flew to the floor, her bare skin scraping across the cold, gritty stone.

By the time she was dragged to her feet, she saw that Giordan had been subdued and was being forced down from the dais and onto the same level on which she stood. By his slow and jerky movements, she could tell that he was weak or somehow inhibited—loss of blood, or for some other reason.

He didn’t look at her as they pulled him past, but as they went by, Narcise smelled him, felt him, so close as he came by…and then she saw Giordan’s back.

She gasped and stared, hardly noticing as Belial came up to where she stood, held in place by two strong men, and slid his palm under one of her breasts.

Giordan’s Mark was…white.

The corded, rootlike brand was no longer black, no longer full and pulsing and throbbing…or even merely dark lines…but it was white. Nothing more than a scar…as if it had been burned away.

What did that mean? What had happened?

But she had no time to think on it, for, as Giordan was strung up by his arms on the wall, she felt her own body turn slow and sluggish. The feathers.

Narcise turned to look, and the men holding her dropped her arms as finally she saw what Cezar was pulling from the box. Even Belial had stepped away, as if unable to stay near her for this.

She couldn’t breathe, for she recognized it.

It was the cape…made only of feathers. Rows and rows of soft, light, brown…burning…feathers.

Now her breathing came fast and hard, shallow with panic as Cezar flung the cape out with a flourish, as if to shake off any dust or wrinkles. If that touched her… If he wrapped her in it… The room tilted, turning dark and off-center, and her knees nearly gave away.

“No,” she whispered as her brother stepped down from the dais, sauntering toward her as if about to present her with a most precious gift.

“Stop!” The desperation in Giordan’s cry penetrated even Narcise’s terror and pain. “No. Don’t…do…it.”

“By Lucifer,” Cezar said, pausing, his face hard and foxlike as he looked over. “If I had known how deep your attachment was, Giordan, I would have asked for a month instead of three nights.”

“Please,” he breathed, his voice a low, rough rumble. His eyes shone with misery and desolation. “Whatever you want.”

Narcise could hardly think. Her limbs were heavy as boulders, her lungs as tight as if they were being crushed by the very same thing. Pain from the proximity of the feathers added to the paralysis, and she could feel them as their presence wafted through the chamber…but somehow, through it all, Giordan’s words, his intent, penetrated.

It humbled her, weakening her even more than the feathers.

She gathered every bit of strength she could muster and said his name. “Giordan.”

And when she did, she put every bit of apology and shame and humility in those syllables as she could.

He looked at her then, and she felt the strength of his love and devotion for her travel across the chamber, through the pain and sluggishness.

And then she could no longer breathe. Cezar was there in front of her, his face a cold, tight mask, and with a flick of his wrist, the feathers were wafting down over her shoulders in a smothering blanket.

Narcise tried to smother the scream of agony, but even Luce’s most furious blaze through her Mark was nothing compared to this. Shaking uncontrollably, she started to collapse as the soft brush of the burning feathers encapsulated her, and someone caught her on each side, holding her erect.

The pain was so great that she couldn’t gasp or breathe or feel… She tumbled into a vortex of mad sensation: the softness of each feather, branding into her skin, the insubstantial weight pulling her down.

Vaguely she was aware of being held upright, and hands on her flesh…molding over her breasts and hips…the smell of lust and perspiration, heavy and cloying…some shadowy, indistinct dampness, heat, pressure…

Then, in her dreamlike paralysis, she was aware of being moved: the brush of her feet against the stone floor, the change of position as she went from vertical to horizontal…something hard beneath her, pressing the cape of feathers even more deeply against her skin.

She was aware of crying out, perhaps screaming…but she hardly had the breath to do so. A mouth was on her, hands, a body shoving against her, questing and invading…the shift as the feathers were pulled away from one of her shoulders and that pain was replaced by the sharp penetration of fangs.

And then, suddenly, nothing.

21

When Chas was dragged out of the chamber, away from Narcise and Giordan, he realized he was being given a miracle—just like that day when the cat had run into the street and caused the accident which allowed him to sneak into Moldavi’s home the first time.

He still had his stake, now hidden in his sleeve during the walk to the dining chamber with Belial…and he was certain he’d be able to take at least one of his two captors by surprise.

As he faked a stumble, a quick flick of the wrist slid the weapon into his hand and loosened the guard’s grip on one side of him. When he righted himself and came back up, it was with the point of the stake ready. It found its mark with the same ease and power it always did, and he breathed a silent thanks.

By the time the other guard realized what happened, Chas had him slammed face-first against the wall, the stake at his back. “Get me out of here,” he said. “I want the way outside.”

He had to get out of the place so that he could come back in and free Narcise. And he knew exactly how to do that, what he needed to find…for it had all suddenly become clear to him.

He’d figured out Cezar’s Asthenia.

As he was observing everything that happened, from the time he and Narcise entered her brother’s chambers, and his reaction to her presence, Chas suspected there was something wrong. Moldavi had seemed so pleased to see them…until they walked into the chamber.

Then, he’d ordered them out almost instantly. “Take my sister to the dining chamber,” he’d told Belial.

And every time Narcise moved closer, Moldavi had slowed and changed. His breathing, his voice, even his body had tensed. He’d tried to hide it, but Chas was used to watching for the signs of weakness from the prey he hunted.

But Chas still didn’t completely figure it out until they got to the larger chamber…that, he realized later, gave Moldavi a larger space in which to be confined with his Asthenia. And he’d had Narcise stripped immediately…and her clothing taken from the chamber.

Why would he do that unless there was something he needed to get out of the place? Without, of course, anyone realizing it.

And that was when it all crystallized for Chas. The vision Sonia had seen had Narcise in it, and it was clear that Cezar had some mixture of fear and admiration for his sister…but she was also holding an ivory fan.

And in her clothing, she had been wearing a corset…with the ivory busk that Chas had given her. It was ivory. Moldavi’s Asthenia was ivory.

The next thing Narcise was aware of was Chas’s face, dark and frightened and furious, looking down at her.

“My God, Narcise,” he said, touching her cheeks as he gathered her into his arms, his eyes glistening. “I came as fast as I could. Can you… Are you… Holy Mother of God… Narcise.”

The feathers had disappeared…the pain was gone…the paralysis and heaviness had eased. Her body throbbed in places, and was numb in others…but she could breathe. And think. And remember.

She struggled to sit up, extricating herself from him. “Giordan,” she breathed, looking around frantically. Had she lost her chance? Had she lost him again?

Chas’s face changed and he stepped back so that she could see the tanned body, sagging against the wall, arms straight above his head. Giordan’s face was half-lifted, his glittering eyes scoring her, and as their gazes met, she saw wild relief in his.

She slid off the table upon which she lay, her knees wobbly and the room spinning. Something wet oozed from her shoulder, and there was blood and dampness in other places. Her arms hurt, her back felt as if it had been seared. She saw Belial’s body sprawled on the stone floor. His head lay in a pool of dark red blood, its putrid scent nauseating, nearby.

Chas caught her arm as she began to sink to the ground, and said, “Stay here. I’ll see to him.” His words were as taut and short as his movements, and Narcise felt a wave of remorse as she realized his pain.

She watched as he released Giordan, saw the way he sagged and pitched forward when Chas cut him free from the bonds that had held him upright, and she had to move from the table to meet him. Already, the weakness was ebbing, her legs were stronger, her mind clearer.

She looked around the chamber, and for the first time, she saw more bodies—dead, vampir bodies…and then she saw her brother.

He was sitting in a chair on the dais, tied to his seat, surrounded by slender white items.

He wasn’t dead…but he wasn’t moving.

All at once, she had Giordan in her arms, his heavy, solid body, warm and welcome, sliding against her—and it was all she could do not to collapse into shameful tears.

How much time had she missed? How much had she lost? She’d been so wrapped up in herself, in her center…

“I’ll take care of things in here,” Chas said, turning from them. “See to him. I think he’s—he needs…” His voice trailed away and he walked off with jerky steps.

“I’m well,” Giordan muttered into her hair, but his arm was tight around her, and he leaned against her too heavily to be “well.”

She smelled scents on him that she didn’t care to identify, and, blinking back angry, horrified tears, she helped him out of the ugly chamber without a glance at her brother.

She knew where to go, and took him back to her own private apartments. A niggle of guilt bothered her as she left Chas behind, and she promised herself she’d go back to him as soon as she got Giordan settled.

But he was weak, with an ashen cast to his rich, golden skin, and she knew he’d need to feed before he recovered his strength. How much blood had Cezar taken from him? Had there been others who’d fed as well?

What else had happened?

The smells and marks on his body told her more than she wanted to know, and Narcise blocked her mind from thinking about it or imagining it, remembering the shiny gray color to his face. He was safe now. Cezar wouldn’t bother him…or either of them…again.

When she eased him onto the bed in her old chamber, Giordan didn’t release her, and she tumbled down with him, their legs bumping and sliding awkwardly together. Bare skin to bare skin, her breasts pressed up against his torso, his warm arms loose around her waist.

“Narcise,” he murmured, his lips moving against her hair again, “is it really you? Have you come back to me?”

“Giordan,” she replied, pulling away to look down at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to… I know that I can’t say anything to change what happened, to make amends for it…but…I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand. I didn’t—” Her voice broke at the end and despair took over. How could he ever forgive her? “So…sorry.”

The Mark on her back shot a renewed blast of pain—or maybe it had never stopped doing so—but whatever the case, she felt it.

And along with the shock of hurt came an unlikely sense of satisfaction. If Lucifer disapproved, then there was something good about it.

And it had all ceased being just about her some time ago.

“Shh,” he said. “Don’t…say anything.”

“Are you hurt? What can I…”

He covered her mouth with his, his lips warm and firm, fitting over hers with a softness that made her want to weep. His hands glided up her unclothed body, gentle and yet possessive.

“Belial,” he said, pulling away suddenly, his face hardening. “He—”

“He’s dead,” she replied. “Chas…” She shook her head and pressed her swollen lips together.

“I would have killed him myself. Watching him—” His voice trailed off and he looked at her, his brown-blue eyes deep and filled with grief. “I knew what Cezar was going to do. I tried to stop him, Narcise.”

“By Fate, I know you did,” she replied wildly, consumed by her own guilt and shame. “Giordan, there was nothing you could have done—”

“I would have done anything—”

“But you already did,” she wept. “You already did. And I didn’t see it. I was too… I didn’t, I couldn’t, understand…what you’d done.”

He gathered her close, but she could feel the trembling and weakness in his powerful arms. She pressed a kiss over one of the wounds on his shoulder, tasting the remnant of luscious, warm, clean lifeblood. Desire and affection rushed over her, and he shivered beneath her lips.

“You need to feed,” she told him, pulling away, putting aside her own needs and desires. “You can hardly lift your arms.”

“No,” he murmured. “I only need you, Narcise. I never thought—”

“Please, Giordan. Allow me.” She raised her arm and offered it to him, at the same time as she admired the smooth planes of his chest, dusted lightly with dark hair. “Just as you did for me.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. Narcise. I can’t.” He turned his face away, his mouth tight, his nostrils flaring as if he drew in her scent, but tried to force it away at the same time.

Something sharp and hard stabbed her in the heart. He’d fed on Rubey. She knew he had…she’d scented and smelled the proof.

If he loved her, why would he not take what she offered? Her heart thumping, an uneasy churning in her insides, she looked for something to cut her skin…just as he had, when she’d demurred his same offering, ten years ago.

A lifetime for some. But just a flash in the life of a Dracule.

“Please,” she said, wanting to help him, and at the same time, wanting to erase the remnants of Belial that had been imprinted on her.

She raked her arm over the corner of her bedside table, and it did enough: leaving a slender red line that burst into shiny pearls of lifeblood.

“Narcise.” He sucked in his breath and she put her arm there…but even then, he turned away. “I can’t. You don’t understand…I’ve changed. I can’t.”

But then he shuddered, deep in his middle as he pulled in a breath. His belly and torso flinched against hers, and all at once his mouth was on her…closing around her arm.

His tongue slid along the slender wound, leaving a moist, hot trail in its wake, and Narcise’s desire blossomed fully inside her, shooting low and deep.

She rolled and pressed against him, jolting delicately when he slid his fangs into the soft side of her arm. The rush of her blood into his warm mouth, his slick tongue tasting the lifeblood was as pleasurable for her as sinking her fangs into his vein.

She tasted his salty skin, felt the racing and pounding of his pulse as it beat with her own. His eyes were closed, his face taut with relief as he drank—

Giordan abruptly pulled up, thrusting her arm away and lurching off the bed. He fumbled at the table, grabbing a small bowl from it just in time to vomit inside.

Narcise went still and cold. Did he hate her so much that he couldn’t…

Slowly she eased away from the warm place on the bed, the last remnants of her pleasure evaporating, leaving her shaky and confused. His back was to her, that broad expanse with shifting muscles…and a Mark that had turned white. It covered his shoulder and down his back, smooth and light—as if he’d been tanned around it.

He looked up then, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, and saw her. “Narcise,” he said, reaching for her. “I’m sorry. It’s not you—”

“It must be me,” she whispered, her throat suddenly raw and dry. “You have no difficulty feeding on Rubey.”

His fingers were surprisingly strong, and he kept her in place on the bed as he came back onto it. “No. I shouldn’t have tried. I knew what would happen…but I can’t resist you.” His smile was forced and wavery, making her even more discomfited.

She blinked back tears, not even caring that she might appear weak. She was weak. Weak and foolish. And what she’d done was unforgivable.

You are the strongest person I’ve ever met, he’d said to her once.

That was before he’d really come to know her.

Giordan wouldn’t release her hand. “After what happened…before…when I left, I was so dark and angry and—well, I went a little mad. I don’t remember what I did, precisely, but it was violent and evil and black. I do remember waking in an alley, with no memory of anything but the realization that I didn’t have you any longer—” He squeezed her fingers. “No, don’t talk. You need to understand.”

Narcise couldn’t look at him, so she stared down at their joined hands: his dark, powerful one closed around her pale slender fingers.

“There was a cat,” he said. “In the alley, and she blocked me in. I couldn’t leave. And I stayed there as the sun rose, lost in that dark time—I can’t describe how it was, but it was horrific. I tried to hide from the sunlight, but one part of me was exposed.” He gestured to his shoulder, drawing her attention from their hands. “I saw a bright light, and this happened. I felt as if my insides…my soul…were battling. They were. The light won.”

Narcise reached to touch the markings, certain that he was making the entire event seem much simpler than it had been. “Did you…” She shook her head. The white lines were no longer raised, nor was the texture any different than the rest of his skin. The change of color made the mark look almost beautiful, instead of ugly and malevolent.

“I was weak and beaten, and when I finally made my way home, I tried to feed. And every time I did…” He gestured to the bowl, an odd expression on his face. “That happened. At last, Drishni came to me and I was able to feed from her. Because she eats nothing brought to her through death or violence. Somehow, with my change, my body would no longer accept anything violent or evil. After that, I realized I was changing. In many ways.”

“And so you can feed on Rubey?” she asked, knowing that her tone was stiff with hurt.

“She eats no meat. And she offers freely.” His eyes searched hers. “But I don’t love her.”

Narcise turned away to hide the tears. What a fool she was. “And Luce?”

“He no longer owns me. Kritanu—an old Indian man who Dimitri sent after he learned about this—says that I’ve attained a level of moksha that most mortals can never reach. Because I’m immortal, still, Narcise. I still have forever.”

So he wasn’t like Dimitri and Voss. She frowned, her heart lightening just that bit. “You are no longer Dracule…but you aren’t a mortal?”

He shook his head, his eyes steady. “I don’t know what I am…but I know that I’m my own man once again. And that I have an eternity to learn what this change means. I hope… Narcise, will you stay with me?”

“But I’m Dracule,” she replied. I can’t love you.

“It doesn’t matter, Narcise. I love you…and that will never change. I told you: it’s only you. It’s only ever been you.”

“He has to die,” Chas told Narcise sometime later. Much later, after she and Giordan had fully recovered in the privacy of the bedchamber. “That’s why I came: to slay Cezar. Then you’ll never have to worry about him again.”

She nodded, imagining a life without her brother’s dark shadow hovering over her. “But how can it be done? He’s protected himself so well. You can’t even put him on a guillotine.”

“There is a way,” Chas replied. His expression had been, and remained, emotionless—something that she’d come to notice since he’d rescued her from the feather cape.

When he thought she wasn’t looking at him, however, she felt his eyes on her: heavy, filled with heartache.

The next day, Narcise walked into the dining chamber to watch the execution. The servants and made vampirs who’d lived with Cezar had either been slain by Chas or run off now that their master was a prisoner. There was no one left but the three of them and her brother.

Cezar was manacled to the high-backed chair, his arms and legs chained in place. He was also fettered at the hips so his torso wouldn’t move, and a chain positioned his head and held it immobile against the back of the chair.

Narcise found the sight of her brother thus contained visually shocking—horrifying, really—and more than a bit unsettling to see a man who’d made her life so tormented now in such a crudely helpless condition.

As executioner, Chas had managed the preparations, and now he stood off to one side, sharpening a long wooden pike. It looked lethal and wicked, and Narcise shuddered in spite of herself. Giordan, who’d come in with her, had an understandably tense look on his face.

Soon, she would be rid of her brother and the threat he posed to her and the rest of the world. And then she could go on to live the rest of her life without fear.

“Narcise,” her brother said from his restricted posture.

This was the first she’d spoken to him since the events of yesterday.

She walked over to stand in front of him and found his blue-gray eyes steady and clear. They fastened on her, and she felt a wave of hatred and disgust for the man who’d taken so many years of her life away. Yes, he’d given her immortality—an unwelcome gift, after all—and he’d taken so much else from her: a normal life. A family. The natural cycle of living and loving and dying.

The man she’d loved…or tried to love…for more than ten years.

“Did you come to bid me farewell?” Cezar asked. “Or to taunt me? I must congratulate you, Narcise. You’ve beaten me at last.”

“I thought it only proper to bid you adieu,” she replied, aware that Chas was listening. “And to make certain the deed was done. I’m sorry that our reunion wasn’t as long as you’d hoped. But I’m not sorry that there will be no more children bled by you.” And that you won’t live to torture me any longer.

His face changed as he looked at her, and she saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Not fear, not anger…perhaps something like regret. “I have always only admired you, sister.”

“Admired and tried to control,” she reminded him. “Bartered off to the highest bidder or the strongest sword. Such admiration.”

“How else was I to keep you with me?” he asked. “You would have left the moment you had the chance. I wanted you with me. All the time. Forever.”

“You nearly achieved just that,” she said, her throat raw again. “What happened to you, my brother? How did you become like this? You used to be…sweet.”

For a moment, his facade crumbled, and she saw the real Cezar: a frightened, self-loathing, insecure man. “I couldn’t find who I was supposed to be,” he said. “I couldn’t accept who I was.”

But then the tortured expression was gone just as instantly as it had come, and he took on a haughty face and speared her with cold eyes. “I should have been you. I wanted to be you, Narcise. Always loved, always petted and worshipped…perfect in form and image. A woman of unbelievable exquisiteness.”

Her heart was pounding and Narcise realized that Giordan had come to stand with her, resting his hand at the base of her back. Comforting and supporting.

“You always had the men,” her brother continued. “They always loved you and wanted you…and I could understand why. I admired you…even loved you…but I wanted to be in your place.” Cezar’s attention flickered to Giordan, standing behind her. A flash of regret and admiration went through his gaze and his lips flattened in a humorless smile. “And then he came and I knew I’d lose you to him. And rightly so. You were,” he said to Giordan, allowing his eyes to glow a bit, “all that I’d hoped and imagined.”

Narcise felt Giordan’s faint shudder against her, and she eased back a bit so that she was closer to him and his hand pressed more firmly into her back.

What he’d gone through. For her.

The very thought, especially now, faced by Cezar and seeing the lust in his eyes even as he prepared to die, made her sick with regret and revulsion.

How could Giordan ever forgive her for misunderstanding? For doubting him?

“And so I’ll go to my death, envying you still, Narcise,” Cezar said in his lisping voice. “What an irony.” He closed his eyes.

Narcise turned away, her belly lurching. It was time.

Chas was there, watching silently. “I’m ready,” he said, flashing a look toward Cezar. “Let’s finish this.” He turned to walk away, then paused and came back. “You don’t have to watch, Narcise.”

“No,” she replied. “I’ll stay. I’ll see this done.”

Giordan, who couldn’t witness such a deed, squeezed her hand and, after one last searching look, left the chamber.

Chas brought a chair and positioned it behind Cezar’s seat. He climbed up on it, the long, lethal pike in his hand, and stood there for a moment.

“This,” he said as he raised the long stake vertically above Cezar’s head, “is for the children you slaughtered, and for the Jews you blamed for it. This is for Narcise, and the years of abuse in your household and for keeping her captive. And for tricking her into the covenant with Lucifer.”

The point hovered directly above Cezar’s dark head, and Narcise couldn’t take her eyes away from him. He sat, immobile, stony, unable to move, trussed and captured, helpless—just as she had been. He stared straight ahead, his lips curved in a faint smile. But fear glinted in his eyes.

Chas would have to slam the stake all the way down, through his skull, into the brain and mouth, down his throat, and into the chest cavity…then into his heart. Narcise closed her eyes. Her brother would be killed in an instant, put out of the misery of the life he hated.

He’d be gone, sent to Lucifer forever.

No more fear, no more violence….

“Goodbye, Cezar Moldavi.” Chas raised his arms, muscles tense and swollen, and just as he moved, Narcise screamed. “No!”

She flew across the room, launching herself at Chas, slamming into him and the chair just as he brought the stake down. They crashed to the stone floor in a rough heap, the pike clattering across the ground as a white-hot blaze engulfed her.

“What the hell are you doing?” Chas said, grasping Narcise’s shoulder as he pulled up into a sitting position. “What’s wrong?”

She was shaking her head, her body trembling, her belly heaving. Pain screamed through her, radiating from her Mark, raging through her like a ball of fire. “I couldn’t let you,” she gasped, tried to speak, looking up at him through the blazing red pain that grew stronger and hotter. “Couldn’t…kill him.”

He’s still my brother.

22

Giordan heard Narcise’s scream and the terrible crash. Terror arced through him as he spun around and flung the door open, dashing back into the chamber without hesitation.

Woodmore was crouched next to Narcise, who was in a heap of twisted skirts and hair on the stone floor. Even from the entrance, Giordan could see her writhing and twisting in agony. Her silky dark hair dusted the floor, clung to her face and neck.

“What is it?” he demanded, rushing over to them, taking note that Cezar still sat, alive, in his helpless position. He saw the pike on the floor where it had rolled, and noticed the upended chair.

And the stiff, terrified expression on Woodmore’s face. “She stopped me,” he told Giordan. “She saved his life. And now she’s…”

But he needed to say nothing more, for Narcise’s low, tormented moans and the dead-white look on her face told Giordan everything.

He shoved Woodmore out of the way, pulling Narcise into his arms. She couldn’t die. Not from this.

“Narcise,” he said calmly and loudly, giving her a gentle shake in an attempt to pull her from the sort of seizure, the frenzy of pain. Trying to keep himself collected. “Look at me.”

She shuddered and blinked, her breathing coming in short, anguished gasps. Her eyes were blank with pain, empty and lost, and he didn’t know if there was anything he could do to help her…but he brushed the hair from her face and murmured, “Narcise. Look at me.”

He closed his arms around her, drawing from deep within, from his soul, his core…focusing on the white light he’d found in his mind while in the alley that day. Peace. Light.

He held it in his heart, in his mind, as Kritanu had taught him, and looked into Narcise’s fathomless violet eyes. “Look at me. I love you, Narcise. I need you…stay with me. Fight it, Narcise. Fight him.”

He didn’t know if she could hear him through the pain, but he kept talking to her, ignoring the solid brown boots standing next to him on the ground as Chas stared down at them.

“Narcise. Look at me. Look at me,” he begged. If she could look at him, focus on him…

She bucked, shuddered and gasped, and beneath his hand, he felt the pulsing rage of her Mark through the fabric of her clothing. A ripple of shock flashed through him and without realizing what he was doing, he tore away at the bodice of her gown as she agonized against him. But she was softening…slowing… Was he losing her?

“My God,” breathed Chas, kneeling next to them again when he saw her shoulder. “It’s alive.”

Like black veins, tiny black snakes, Lucifer’s Mark twisted and surged on her creamy skin: stark and wicked, evil emanating from the Devil himself. It was alive, and it was fighting—for Narcise.

Giordan didn’t know exactly what to do, but he knew he had to try. He bent his head to the Mark.

His lips touched the raging black weals and he felt the sharp, excruciating sting, the bolt of peace and light meeting dark malevolence. He kissed her, his lips soft and gentle, absorbing the shock, taking on the pain… He moved his hands over those curling, twisting worms, closed his eyes and prayed.

Help me.

“She’s ready,” came the voice inside his head. “Help her.”

He pulled back, needing to look in her eyes. Still covering the Mark with his hands, both of them, holding her up, he lifted her so he could look into her eyes. “Look at me, Narcise. Look in my eyes.”

She blinked through pain-filled eyes, focused for a bare moment and, still holding the light, warm and clean in his heart, he gave it to her. Their eyes met and he felt another bolt, a shaft of effort and then release surge through him…and into her.

Narcise gasped and looked at him again, this time with clarity and the light of serenity. Beneath his hand he felt a searing heat where Luce’s Mark thrived. She screamed, then closed her eyes and sagged into unconsciousness…and then the writhing black veins collapsed.

When Giordan looked at them again, he saw they had disappeared. In their place were pure white lines marking the battle won.