by Колин Глисон
Giordan realized that his host was correct, and that he hadn’t given his bare feet, legs and chest any thought at all. Ah, Narcise. You’ve already destroyed me. “I would be very grateful.”
As he walked along with Moldavi, Giordan considered the option of killing the man right here, right now. It was an efficient way to resolve things; one he’d employed far too many times, if the priests had anything to say about it. Which, of course, they didn’t. It was a plain truth: Giordan had grown up with violence and poverty all around him, and was more likely to kill a man who crossed him than he was to waste time trying to find other resolutions.
That was yet another reason, he was certain, that Lucifer had found him an appropriate addition to the Draculia.
Killing Moldavi would end the man’s domination over Narcise, and they would find their way out of this labyrinthine lair beneath the rues of Paris.
But Giordan was forced to reject the fantasy nearly as soon as it presented itself, for a variety of reasons, the simplest being, he didn’t have a weapon. It wasn’t as if he could choke the man to death or pummel him into the ether like one could do on the streets. Either a wooden stake or a sword that would take the man’s head off were the only ways, and aside of the wooden sconces, there was nothing else that would work. And to tear down a sconce, break it into a ragged point and then attack Moldavi…even Giordan wasn’t confident it could be done quickly and without mishap.
Aside of that, to do anything that would make the man suspicious would ruin any chance he might have of further access to Narcise.
Patience.
“So you have lived in Paris since you were a child?” Moldavi asked as they approached a heavy wooden door.
“Yes. Although the place I lived while a boy was much different than Le Marais,” Giordan said with a sidewise, wry smile.
“I have come to prefer Paris myself,” Moldavi said. “Romania is rough and wild with its own beauty, but also dark and sharp and difficult to navigate…and I find the City of Light a much welcome change.” He had the key on a ring at his waist, but there was a guard stationed there to provide additional security.
“Although I travel much now for business purposes, I always return to Paris, for it’s my home,” Giordan replied.
It appeared even the guard didn’t have access to the door, for it was his master who used the key to unlock the door. From what Giordan had observed on his journey to and from, the single purpose of this corridor was to provide access to The Chamber where he and Narcise had been. There was no other entrance or exit along here, no other rooms, and certainly no other way in or out of the room in which they’d been.
He wondered, suddenly, and with a painful shaft of horror, whether Narcise was kept in that place of torture all the time, or if she had some other sort of living space.
They walked through the door and Giordan took in the details of what he’d only vaguely noted the first time through. This underground tunnel had been in Paris much longer than Moldavi had.
“How did you come to choose the catacombs as a place to live?” Giordan asked as they passed along the corridor. What he really meant was how had Moldavi taken over control of these underground tunnels where varlets and vagrants had lived for centuries. “I would have thought you’d prefer a château or some other mansion.”
The walls of this hallway were lined with neat rows of skulls, their empty eyes and toothy upper jaws an eerie and morbid decor. Above each row of skulls were lined several layers of large bones—femurs, he guessed by the size of them, with the joint ends facing out. They made for bumpy texture, and the hollows provided homes for spiders and other insects.
Giordan made no attempt to hide his surprise that a man as refined as Moldavi—at least in attire and his selection of food and drink—would choose to live in such base surroundings. But then again…this was a vampire who bled children to death and who imprisoned his sister for the pleasure of others. He tightened his jaw to control the rage. Perhaps he would kill the man now.
“It is a bit gauche, isn’t it?” his companion replied, brushing a hand lovingly over one of the skulls. “But I find it such an interesting topic of conversation. At the least,” he said with his faint lisp, “they are long dead and gone and we don’t have the rot and smell of the decomposing bodies in the…the place where they are moving all of them now…what is it called?”
“The Ossuary,” Giordan replied, having regained control of his temper. He noted that the skull-lined corridor had branched off into two different directions and that they’d taken the eastern route. “In the old stone quarries.”
He recognized that the tunnels they now traversed were old quarries as well, but that these bones must be the original ones from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The placement of these bones decades ago were the inspiration for the disposal of the bodies from the overcrowded church cemeteries, the newest wave which had begun thirty years earlier from parishes like Holy Innocents.
Giordan had traversed many of these underground tunnels even before he was turned Dracule, and now he was redrawing a map in his head. Combining his memory of the network and the actual route they took, he was attempting to connect the two areas. That would come in handy if—when—he helped Narcise make her escape.
They came to another door at a T-intersection of the corridor. When they passed through the entrance into a hallway that looked exactly like one in his own home, Giordan realized that Moldavi must simply use the skull-lined quarry as a conduit between his torture chamber and his real living space.
This suspicion was confirmed as they strode through, chatting amiably about a variety of things, and Giordan smelled Narcise, among other aromas. She obviously spent much time here, as did Moldavi and others.
That was an optimistic sign. If she were kept here, in this furnished, plastered and painted area, Giordan would have a much better chance of freeing her from it. And perhaps not quite as many nightmares about her cloistered in the torture chamber.
“Please, sit,” Moldavi offered as a steward opened a tall, white door at the end of a gently ascending hallway. Inside there were many comfortable chairs and a roaring fireplace. “I hope you do not mind,” his host said, gesturing to the flames. “But I tend to easily take a chill and I prefer a blaze in every chamber.”
“I find it rather chill and damp beneath the ground, so I welcome the heat,” Giordan told him.
Glasses clinked and Moldavi offered him a small ornate vessel shaped like an upside-down bell. They talked for some time about the spice ship, and all the while Giordan kept his ears and nose attuned for the presence of Narcise.
But it was when Moldavi, after a long moment of silence, said, “I find that I will need to be absent from Paris for a week or more to attend to a business interest in Marseilles,” that Giordan’s body came to full awareness.
Something prickled over the back of his shoulders and he sipped the very fine sparkling wine that had come from Barcelona. “Do you travel by coach or horse?” he asked just to keep the conversation going, even as his mind worked madly. He kept his eyes heavily-lidded and his attention purposely jumping about the chamber. “I cannot help but admire your selection of artwork,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve noticed I am a patron of Monsieur David.”
“I did notice,” Moldavi replied. “He has given my sister painting lessons, and in fact, that is one of her works.” He gestured to a small square painting, surrounded by an ornate frame as wide as the image it embraced.
Giordan had already taken note of the dark, stark image of a city beneath the moonlight. The rows of buildings appeared like angry gray teeth thrusting up into a dark sky. Out of politeness, he looked again, and then, because he couldn’t appear too interested, he drew his attention away almost immediately.
“I see little resemblance between her work and that of David,” he commented, thinking of not only the lack of hue but also the subject matter. Monsieur David generally concentrated on portraits rather than landscapes, an
d even his stark portrait of the murder of his friend Marat wasn’t as angry and undulating as Narcise’s world.
How does she live?
Cezar gave a short laugh. “I certainly concur, but the painting keeps Narcise occupied.” He spoke as if she were some young girl who tended to be around underfoot.
Giordan had to raise the drink to keep from speaking his mind…and from lunging for the repugnant being next to him…and found that his fangs threatened to clink against the edge of the delicate glass. He drew in a slow breath and sipped, willing his teeth to resheath themselves, his eyes to keep from burning with an angry glow. Calm. “I suppose she cannot practice her fencing all day,” he managed to say.
Aside of his surprise that the painting was Narcise’s, Giordan was also taken aback that Cezar obviously allowed his sister to interact with people—men—other than when she fought for her own body. Through general conversation with Moldavi and others of those who moved in their circles, he was aware that Narcise often helped her brother entertain, and of course, very occasionally accompanied him on social engagements. He also realized why Narcise had seemed to be so familiar with, and interested in, the David painting in his own parlor.
“No, indeed not,” Moldavi agreed. “But a thought has just occurred to me.”
Giordan raised an eyebrow in question and tried not to look back at that dark, hopeless painting.
“I must be gone for a week perhaps, as I mentioned. I have no desire to bring Narcise and the entire household with me. Perhaps since you both are so appreciative of Monsieur David—although for different reasons, I venture—perhaps you might be willing to see to Narcise in my absence?”
Giordan went cold for a moment but recovered immediately as he saw the trap. Clever, Moldavi. Very clever. It wasn’t difficult to force a grimace of distaste. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I decline,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I expect to be very busy in the next fortnight, and might even need to travel outside the city myself.” He watched the other man closely and was rewarded when he noticed the slightest release of tension in his fingers.
Giordan had obviously made the right move in such a blatant denial of interest.
But whatever it was that Moldavi intended, Giordan had also learned one other thing: without a doubt, the man was exceedingly cunning.
He would have to be very careful in how he proceeded. To give a man like Cezar Moldavi any sort of knowledge was also to give him the greatest of power.
And to make a move in haste or desperation could be a fatal mistake.
Trust me, Narcise.
I pray you are safe until we meet again.
Narcise woke suddenly, those words echoing in her mind. Remnants of dreams. As she stared into the soft candlelight, a bitter laugh formed in the back of her throat, startling her with its ferocity, and she pressed her lips together.
Trust me, Narcise.
Her fingers shook as she skimmed them over her naked belly, then curled them between her breasts, where her heart beat roughly, and held her hand there. Oh, yes, she had a heart, and though it had become enclosed by stone, she still felt its soft core.
What had Cale meant by saying such things? Particularly the absurd I pray you are safe until we meet again.
Dracule didn’t pray.
And how would they ever meet again? Did she even want to meet him again?
A little twinge deep inside told her that, yes, she did. She would. He had touched her without actually touching her.
Climbing out of her bed, Narcise let the covers fall. It was always damp and cool here, below the ground where Cezar insisted on living. Even here in her private chamber, which was comfortably appointed with an attached parlor furnished with upholstered chairs, a mirror and dressing table, a wardrobe, and even a place for her easel and paints, the chill was never fully banished. There were no windows, of course, and the only indicator of time was a clock which she kept wound.
A stone and brick hearth held the fire that never ceased blazing, and it was only when she drew near it that Narcise was able to completely stop the little shivers of cold and dread. She stood there now, staring into the tongues of flame, feeling its warmth seep into her skin, heating the sheer lace gown she wore.
The orange and yellow fire mesmerized her, and Narcise felt her eyes begin to burn from the heat and lack of moisture from not blinking. But deep in the hot glow, she saw Giordan Cale, in her mind, strung up on iron manacles, his dark, intense eyes boring into her.
Trust me, Narcise.
He’d certainly proven his trust that night. She shivered, but not from the chill. No, thoughts of Giordan Cale invariably brought heat, not cold, to her body.
Yet, it had been more than a week since he’d left The Chamber, closing the door behind him and leaving her to her thoughts and confusion—not to mention a warm, sated body. Since then, she’d drawn and dreamed of him, even as she tried to keep herself from hoping…for something.
A log shifted in the fire, loud and sudden, sending sparks scattering on the hearth. The noise brought Narcise from her musings back to the reality that she was still Cezar Moldavi’s sister, still his toy and bargaining chip, and still unwilling to trust anyone.
Unwilling was the wrong word. She was unable to trust.
With a sudden burst of frustration, Narcise turned from the fire and rang for Monique, her maid. Monsieur David would arrive soon for their weekly lesson, and he did not like to be kept waiting. And since the murder of his friend David Marat, he’d become even more ill-tempered and fanatical. Narcise had mused privately more than once that her brother either paid the artist exceedingly well for his continued lessons, or that he had some other hold over Monsieur David that required the man’s presence on a weekly basis, despite his complete immersion in Robespierre’s movement.
It was ironic: despite the fact that Narcise was Cezar’s prisoner, in many ways he treated her as a beloved sister. She had lovely, fashionable clothing, comfortable accommodations, activities to keep her mind occupied and her body in good form, and servants at her beck and call. She was invited to participate in her brother’s social appointments, which most often occurred safely in his own residence, and was treated as respectfully as he was.
The one thing she had no control over was her body.
But that was something she would change. She must. And nary a day went by that she wasn’t considering some plan or possibility, gathering some information and tucking it into the recesses of her brain. After decades of captivity, most prisoners might have long given up hope of escaping or changing their situation, but Narcise would not. After all, she had immortality. She had forever.
She watched and listened, honed her fighting skills, made friends with some of the lesser servants and slowly, but surely, built a refuge within her prison.
Perhaps it was Monsieur David’s fiery rhetoric, fueled by the Revolution happening beyond the walls of her home-like prison. Perhaps the artist’s determination and belief that one should rule oneself, that no royal family or clique had the right to impose control over another, had given Narcise hope. After all, if an entire city, no, a country, could overthrow its reigning family and weaken the grip of an entire privileged class, why could one woman not overthrow her own personal dictator?
By the time the maid Monique had helped Narcise with a simple day dress and covered it with a painting smock, she had hardly enough time to plait her mistress’s hair in a fat black braid.
The knock on the door to her adjoining parlor heralded Monsieur David’s arrival and Narcise followed her maid into the next room. Monique answered the door to the artist as Narcise began to sort through her canvases, but when she turned to greet her teacher, she faltered.
Confused, but recovering, she turned to her maid. “Monique,” she said in a brusque tone, “you may go. Bonjour, monsieur.” Something was not right, and awareness teased her consciousness along with an odd mixture of scents lingering in her nose. She swallowed, tasting and smelli
ng a familiar presence.
The artist, wearing a low-brimmed hat that showed his dark brown curls, strode into the chamber with his familiar satchel of paints, brushes and palette. He appeared to have had his hair trimmed since she’d last seen him, a week earlier. His long coat, perhaps one too long for the summer, swirled about his powerful, breech-covered legs as he placed the bag on a table.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said. His words were thick and oddly pronounced due to a tumor that deformed his cheek and mouth, but were perhaps a bit deeper in tone today. “Shall we begin? But no, you are not yet ready for me.” His disgust at the delay was clearly apparent in his voice and stance, and Monique, intelligent girl that she was, beat a hasty retreat.
David was not known for his patience nor his tact.
By now, Narcise’s palms were damp and her stomach had filled with swirling, fluttering emotions. Was it possible? “Of course, Monsieur David. I am nearly ready. I was only looking for the camel hair paintbrush that you insisted my brother have made for me.”
All of her brushes had handles made of bamboo or light metal, for Cezar would not allow anything resembling a wooden stake into her chambers. Her rooms were regularly searched for such contraband as well.
The door had closed behind Monique, and for the first time, the man’s eyes, still shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, met Narcise’s. The irises were brown, flecked with blue and ringed with black, and the last time she’d seen them, they’d been hot with desire.
Narcise’s stomach did a quick flip, leaving her unsteady and weak. It was him. She’d scented Giordan Cale beneath the cloak, hat and satchel that also smelled of Jacques-Louis David, but until their gazes locked, she wasn’t certain.