by Колин Глисон
He knew from experience that the weight of corset, chemise, as many as four crinolines, along with underskirt and overdress was significant, and he wondered how she felt to go from the light, clinging attire that she wore while fighting to such restrictive, heavy ones. He also contemplated the pleasure of peeling away her clothing, one layer at a time, like those curious paper boxes from China that nested one inside the other. Each one revealed a new delight and design just as did the layers of a woman’s clothing.
“Please, sit,” Giordan said, realizing he’d allowed his thoughts to go wayward. He gestured with his glass of brandy to encompass the chamber’s hospitality, and one of the footmen poured a glass for Moldavi.
It was decorated in a relatively restrained style in comparison to that of other wealthy French residences—including Versailles. Giordan preferred the spare, simple elegance of the early Greeks and Romans over pastel colors and gilt. Thus, the furnishings were solid, yet inviting and comfortable, with cushions and pillows arranged freely. Large paintings hung on the otherwise bare white walls, except for one corner where a small collection of framed etchings of Parisian streets clustered. He kept them there to remind himself from whence he’d come.
“I am gratified that you saw fit to accept my invitation,” Giordan added, sipping from the glass.
“I accept very few,” Moldavi said as if bestowing some great favor. “But I am most interested in continuing our discussion begun last fortnight. And I have come to understand that one does not wish to miss a party given by Monsieur Cale.” His lips moved in a brief smile. As if to punctuate his reference to joviality, a burst of laughter erupted from the public parlor below.
“Indeed,” Giordan replied as Moldavi sat in the chair next to him, gesturing to his sister to alight nearby. “But before we turn our thoughts to business, perhaps a bit of pleasure first? I’ve just added some new vintages on which I would appreciate your opinion. We were just about to sample them.”
“I would be delighted,” Moldavi replied in his low, sibilant voice.
For the first time, Giordan scented Narcise—or, more accurately, he was able to identify and extract her specific essence from that around him, and it was just as decadent and alluring as the woman herself. Musky, spicy, dark, and yet elegant. Notes of smoky vetiver…clary sage…and sweet ylang-ylang. Lush, sensual, tempting.
Giordan swallowed, feeling his gums begin to swell as they prepared to thrust his fangs forth, and the further deep stirring of desire inside him. Narcise Moldavi was potent on so many levels.
She’d chosen to sit, not where her brother had indicated, but in what Giordan sensed might be more than a bit of defiance, on a chaise just to the right of her host. He didn’t fool himself into believing she’d chosen proximity to him because she wanted to be near him, for it was the farthest available seat from her brother.
Turning his thoughts and attention from her, Giordan rang a little bell next to him on the table. “Then let us commence.”
The door to the chamber opened and his private steward and valet, Mingo, stepped in. He was one of the few made vampires that Giordan employed, simply for the fact that he rarely chose to sire a new immortal. They were most often more trouble than they were worth, and there were plenty of other makes available for hire—most of them foolish mortals who’d been lured into a false sense of security by choosing to live forever. But Giordan found it necessary to have a Dracule, and one that he trusted, in the position for obvious reasons—otherwise, it would be like having a wine steward who had no taste for the beverage.
“Send in the newest acquisitions,” he commanded. “And prepare a new plate, if you will.”
Moldavi leaned closer to Giordan and murmured, “My sister has recently fed and will decline any offerings tonight.”
Giordan was aware of the waft of patchouli and cedar that accompanied Moldavi’s movements, along with a note of something mildly unpleasant. “I have already fed as well,” he replied with a bland smile. “However, the purpose is not for sustenance, but merely to enjoy a sampling of an excellent varietal.”
Moldavi smiled, displaying his fangs. In the right one, a bit of gold glinted. “I merely wished to explain in order to forestall any offense. Please understand that none would be intended, but she will not partake.”
Indeed. Giordan kept his features smooth with effort, and his attention from sliding to the woman in question. We shall see about that. However, he merely said, “I do hope she will change her mind.”
“She is quite stubborn,” Moldavi said with a low chuckle, absently tapping his fingernail on the glass.
Before Giordan could find some unassuming response, the door opened and in filed two men and four women. There was no way to immediately identify them as mortal versus Dracule, but they were, indeed, mortals who were here to provide whatever Giordan’s guests required.
“And here we are,” he said, looking around at his companions, including Narcise. She fixed him back with a calm stare, and he felt certain she would have heard the exchange between him and her brother. Draculean hearing, along with sight and smell, was superhumanly acute.
“As you may be aware, I am particular about the sort of libation offered to my guests, both here and in my other establishments,” Giordan explained. “Please note that all of them are willing participants…provided they are tipped well…and that they are kept in the most comfortable and regimented accommodations.”
“There are no restrictions, of course,” Eddersley said. His fangs had slipped free a bit, and his eyes glowed softly.
“Indeed, none,” Giordan replied, knowing precisely why his friend had asked. One of the six was a strapping blond man from Russia. “As long as you cause them no lasting or mortal injury, and as long as you can afford the fee,” he added with a brief smile, “there are no restrictions. Now, if you will allow me to introduce our selections. They are all new here at Château Riche, and tonight is their debut. I’ve found Damaris, the dark-skinned girl there in the blue gown, to be extremely rich and full of body. She is my favorite of them.” He smiled at her, his fangs extended just a bit at the memory.
Moldavi looked at him sidewise and then back at the young woman, whose hair was scraped back into a high, exotic tail. Her skin was the color of dark tea and she was tall and slender, from Egypt or somewhere in the vicinity of the Holy Land.
“We keep each of them on a specific diet, strictly to maintain the integrity of their blood,” Giordan continued. “Have you noticed how the taste can differ, depending upon the type of food intake, as well as origin? Rather like the types of soil that grow grapes or hops. The diets are as individual as they are. Some of them, like the lovely Drishni there, in the red gown, eat only vegetation. Others eat highly spiced foods, or drink an inordinate amount of champagne. And so on.”
Once again, he gestured to his guests to partake, and then crooked a finger for Damaris to join him. She wafted over, her blue gown flowing loosely over long limbs. Unlike the ladies who wore high fashion, she didn’t have the layers of crinoline and corset to peel away. One could see everything she had to offer as the silk clung to her from breast to hips to pubis.
As Damaris settled on the arm of Giordan’s chair, just between him and Moldavi, Mingo entered the room again. He was carrying a plate with the pressed and rolled hashish. Without waiting for his master’s direction, he arranged it on the low, central table and lit the small pyramid-shaped block.
“Please,” Giordan said, looking at Moldavi with a nod of hospitality. Damaris, also well-trained, offered one wrist to each of them as she sat on the chair arm.
Giordan felt Moldavi’s eyes on him as he extended his fangs and slid just the tips into the curve of her elbow. The release of blood into his mouth, warm and rich—and in this case, heavy with a note of spice—filled his senses. The taste, the smell, the way his body leaped and responded, skin prickling and warming, had his own blood surging.
For him, as well as for all Dracule, it was difficult to
separate the primitive need for sustenance from the accompanying titillation and arousal that came with penetrating flesh and ingesting hot, thick blood, of the intimate slide of mouth against skin—and most of the time, it was neither necessary nor desirable to do so.
But tonight, now, Giordan was merely sampling. He had no need for sustenance, nor was he interested in engaging in any other erotic pleasures in his current company—although that wasn’t due to any modesty on his part.
The simple fact was, despite the taste and smell of the exotic Damaris—who was beginning to breathe heavily as her own pleasure increased with both men feeding from her arms—it was the awareness of Narcise, and her smell, her essence and presence, that attracted Giordan. But he sensed that it would be best not to reveal his deep interest to her brother so overtly. So he kept his gaze strictly away from her.
As the sweet, peppery smell of burning hashish filtered through the chamber, and the arousing flow of blood settled over his tongue and rushed through his body, Giordan felt his world turning warm and red, hazy and lulling. He withdrew from Damaris and he’d barely turned away when another of his “vintages”—the Viennese girl Liesl—appeared in front of him. She was petite and blonde, and her lifeblood was just as light and pure as her appearance. She offered a slender shoulder, bared by a low-rising bodice, and as he tugged her onto his lap to take a taste, he allowed his attention to slide toward the chaise where Narcise was sitting.
Had been sitting.
She was gone now.
Combing through the miasma of pleasure and sensuality, Giordan paused before sliding his fangs into the delicate woman in front of him. The smoke from the hashish had cast a filter over the room, and Mingo had turned the oil lamps down to a soft glow. It took Giordan a moment to look around and see a lone figure standing near the corner, looking at a painting on the wall.
Instead of slipping his fangs in, he softly murmured instruction to Liesl to join Damaris with Moldavi, and to block the guest’s view of the chamber.
He was under no misapprehension about Moldavi’s need to control his sister. He’d also sensed that any attempt to speak privately with Narcise would be thwarted by her brother.
Aside of that, she would need to be approached with care. Despite the spark of life he’d noticed in her eyes, surely she must be skittish and leery of any male.
“Keep him occupied and distracted, and you will be well-compensated,” Giordan murmured into Liesl’s ear, then nicked her with his fang. Just to taste, for it was his duty as host to ensure that everything on the menu was exquisite. And it was. He slicked his tongue briefly around the edge of her ear and she shivered, her hands settling onto his shoulders as she sagged into him, clearly wanting more.
“More of my lord would be compensation enough.” Her fingers slipped into his hair and she pressed her breasts into his collarbone.
But Giordan flashed his eyes in warning, for there was a fine line between making one’s services available to a guest and overstepping one’s bounds. His vintages must learn to finesse the difference. He eased her firmly from his lap. “Go on,” he said quietly.
He took great care in extricating himself from the chair, attempting to be unnoticed by Moldavi, who seemed very content with Damaris. He watched as Liesl positioned herself, along with Damaris, nearly in the man’s lap. And then, as much as every muscle in his body desired him to do so, Giordan did not walk directly over to Narcise.
Instead he wandered toward Voss, who seemed to be more than a little delighted by Drishni, the third of the female vintages, who was kissing one of the two male specimens. But of course Giordan must pause and ask whether Voss was enjoying himself, and if there was aught he needed, and they had a brief conversation about the variety of vintages, including those of the male gender.
“It is true, occasionally I prefer the taste of male lifeblood,” Voss said, his softly glowing eyes never leaving the intertwined couple.
Both of the mortals had been bitten and fed upon, and the unique scents of their blood, and the combination of their essences mingling along with the aroma of desire was heady to Giordan as well. “I find it bold and strong, and a welcome change from the thinner feminine sort,” Voss continued. “But Drishni… She is lovely as well. Pure and sweet.”
She was Giordan’s most recent addition, lately come from India. In fact, she had presented herself on his doorstep one day after hearing that he hired exotic girls. Giordan nodded complacently to Voss. “But that is precisely why we offer such a variety. To meet the varying needs of anyone.”
Feeding on a male Dracule was not at all the same as fucking him, although Eddersley would of course prefer the latter. Gender mattered little when it came to feeding, but because of the intimacy that action promoted, most often a Dracule fed on a mortal of the opposite gender.
Yet, it was a rare vampir who hadn’t had at least some intimate interaction with a member of the same gender, even if it was in a sensual, pleasure-induced ménage or orgy. Arrangements like that of this very evening were common and often led to such experiences. That sort of unfettered eroticism was part and parcel with the infinity of immortality, the need to puncture and draw blood from a living body…the knowledge that one could do whatever one wished as a member of the Dracule, and have little to answer for.
Even Giordan, who still fought horrible memories from his childhood, had been caught up in red-hot moments of pleasure when he wasn’t entirely certain whose hands were stroking him, whose skin was sliding against his or whose body part he was driving his fangs into.
But there was no question that the woman across the chamber, who seemed to have moved on to examine another painting, was the only thing on his mind tonight.
Giordan made his excuses from Voss, smiling wryly at Yvonna, who’d slumped into a stupor as her lover indulged as only he knew how, and confirmed that Eddersley had slipped into a private alcove and was clearly occupied. Then he was finally able to skirt the edge of the room toward Narcise.
Whether by accident or design, she’d positioned herself in the only corner of the chamber out of eyesight of her brother. It was also the most well-lit area of the room. She seemed to be entranced by Jacques-Louis David’s second rendition of Paris and Helen. It was a painting that Giordan had had specially commissioned for this particular parlor, and for which he’d paid an exorbitant price because of some of the changes he’d requested.
And how apropos that Narcise should be drawn to an image of the same legendary woman with whom Giordan had compared her.
The spicy hashish scent clinging to him, slipping into his nostrils and curling around inside his head, he allowed his mouth to settle into a faint smile as he drew near…and considered how to approach her.
Although she must sense his presence as he came to stand next to her, Narcise gave no indication.
This, in turn, gave Giordan a moment for admiration—the ivory curve of her neck and bare shoulders, the thick blue-black mass of hair sparkling with pale blue topazes, the perfect slope and tip of her nose, and the full, dark pink mouth.
He needed a moment, too, to steady his breath, control the swelling beginning in his gums…and elsewhere. For, truly, the very proximity of the woman sent his thoughts to the wind and his stomach to quivering.
As he stood there, next to and slightly behind her, forcing himself to stare at the painting in tandem with her, Giordan felt a wave of annoyance and frustration at his powerful reaction. He didn’t understand it, and he didn’t care for the way it made him feel.
But, yet, he remained. Curious and infatuated.
“Is it the talent of the painter that has you so entranced?” he said at last, stepping into her line of vision. “Or merely the need to separate yourself from the others in the room?”
She turned to look at him then, covering him with deep blue eyes that made his belly twist awkwardly. By the Fates, he felt like a bloody schoolboy. Not that he’d ever been one. A boy, yes. In school, no.
“Well, Monsieur C
ale, I must credit you for a most creative approach.” Her French wasn’t even as practiced as her brother’s, barely passable, and despite the brilliant hue of her eyes, the expression therein was nevertheless cool and remote. And, perhaps, fearful.
“Indeed? I thought it a rather mundane one, myself,” he replied, switching experimentally to English.
Narcise returned to looking at the painting. “Monsieur David is making quite a name for himself,” she replied, following his language shift to the Anglican. Here, she clearly had more confidence. “And with good reason. He is very talented. Such attention to texture and detail.”
Giordan found himself absurdly pleased that she seemed willing to converse, and could string thoughts together with ease—for not every woman could. Those who could not made for very dull bed partners and companions.
And the dull glaze in her eyes was gone. Wariness lurked there, but that he could manage.
He smiled. “And yet, is it not ironic that a painting commissioned for the king’s brother is in reality a harsh statement about the superficiality of the royal family? Choosing fleeting physical pleasures over responsibility to one’s country?”
“Monsieur David is clever like that,” Narcise replied. “But this is not the same painting commissioned by d’Artois.”
“But of course you are correct,” Giordan replied, wondering on what occasion she’d seen the original. “The first Paris and Helen was a bit too floral in hue for my taste—that flowing rose-colored gown too soft and feminine for this chamber. And it was missing some important details, no?” He smiled down at her, allowing a bit of mischief into his eyes.
“Hmm…yes, I don’t recall Paris showing his fangs in the previous edition.” The expression in her face eased a bit and the resulting softness made her even more lovely.