by Колин Глисон
She gave a little warning shake of her head even as she turned to gather up her painting accoutrements, trying to keep her suddenly nerveless fingers from dropping the brushes and palette. “Ah, here it is,” she said, producing the brush in question. She could see, now that she actually looked at him, the way his right cheek bulged—just as Monsieur David’s did. It changed the shape of his face, and along with the heavy brim of the hat, there was little to see unless one looked very closely.
“So now you are at last ready for me?” he asked, still in that thick voice of disguise, still managing to make it sound annoyed. “But you will not need that brush today.”
You are at last ready for me…. His words held the most subtle of underlying meanings that made her cheeks warm like that of a schoolgirl’s.
“But of course, monsieur. I believe that our last lesson was in relation to perspective.” As she spoke the words, Narcise wasn’t certain whether Giordan Cale was at all familiar with the particulars of drawing and sketching, and she hoped she wouldn’t inadvertently expose his masquerade.
For, although at least in her chamber she had privacy from prying eyes and ears—she knew this because she examined every inch of wall, floor and ceiling every month to ensure it—Narcise also knew that at any moment…
Ah. There it was. The knock on the door.
“Come in,” she called, trying not to sound breathless as she dug through her paints. Cale removed his coat to lay it over one of the chairs, but he still wore his hat, and she was suddenly nervous that it would cause comment, or that he would need to remove it.
Cezar’s trusted steward, Belial, entered the chamber. “Bonjour, Monsieur David,” he said with a bow. “What is your desire today?” His sharp eyes scanned the room, and Narcise held her breath, praying that Cezar’s sired vampire wouldn’t notice that this David was several inches taller and with broader shoulders than the previous one had been, and that there was another scent mingling in the room with them.
Cale didn’t pause in his action of moving a stool to the center of the room, and perhaps his half-bent, facing-away position helped to camouflage his physical appearance.
“I shall have the usual, of course,” he said in that clumsy voice, and with the same peremptory tone David always used. He fussed with the stool as if needing to position it just perfectly in the light. “Mademoiselle, I shall act as your model today to continue your lesson on perspective. The very brim and angle of this hat, which I have borrowed for such a purpose, will be an excellent study in the aspects of perspective. You will need a charcoal and several soft lead pencils. Put away the paints, mademoiselle. I have already told you you won’t need the brush today. How many times have I said that you must start with the drawings and sketches before you can think to paint?”
Narcise forced herself to relax slightly. He sounded just as Monsieur David would have. Cale had obviously planned this well—but what was he planning? “I am sorry, monsieur. It is just that I ordered new paints and hoped to be able to use them today.”
“Always so impatient, the women, no?” Cale said to no one in particular, but Belial gave a soft knowing chuckle.
“I will shortly return with your refreshments, monsieur,” the steward said.
He left the room as Cale ordered, “Mademoiselle, please. You are wasting my time.”
The door closed behind Belial, and Narcise turned to face Cale. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a low voice.
“Can we be heard or seen?” he replied in matching tones, looking around the room. It was clear he had something in his mouth that caused the deformity of voice and face, but now his tones at least sounded familiar.
“No, but Belial will return shortly. How did this come about?” Narcise’s hands were shaking, trembling furiously, and she could not understand her reaction to this. What did it mean? Why was he here? And why did she suddenly feel such warmth and light inside her?
“I told you you could trust me, Narcise,” he said, sitting on the stool. “Get your papers ready and begin to draw, or I fear Belial will be suspicious. Once he is gone again, I will tell you more.”
She did as he bid, feeling his eyes on her as she pulled out the rough papers that curled from being rolled for storage. A hunk of burned coal and her Italian pencils—too slender and short to be used as wooden stakes—joined the parchment on her drawing table, a few stones anchored the paper from rolling up, and then Narcise got to work.
She noticed that Cale had arranged his position on the stool so that he wasn’t directly facing the door, nor the table where Belial would place the tray of coffee and sweet breads when he returned. And once she acknowledged that added attention to detail, along with the deliberate tilt of his head to shadow his face even further, she concentrated on her own work.
Despite his disguise, what a pleasure it was to draw the man she’d previously had to sketch from memory. She saw, too, that he’d affixed some sort of false, papier-mâché nose to his elegant one, widening it slightly, and as she looked even closer, she noticed faint markings on his face, smudges to emphasize lines and nonexistent dimples.
Narcise had become so engrossed in her work, drawing the angled guiding lines for the hat that would give the sketch depth and an accurate sense of space, that she was startled when the door opened and Belial strode in.
But she felt his sharp eyes scan the room, and her drawing, and was pleased that she’d accomplished as much as she had. The steward set the tray on the table then approached her as if he were master of the place, looking over Narcise’s shoulder—something that he occasionally did, but never in the presence of Cezar. She heard, and felt, him test the air about her in a soft, long intake of breath. The fine hairs at the back of her neck lifted and prickled, but she didn’t move except to continue her work.
“You are very talented,” he said, low and much too close to her ear and Narcise tensed. “Perhaps you will give me some private lessons?”
She resisted the urge to spin and shove the dog away for his boldness. Cezar had left three days ago, and had named Belial head of the household during his absence. Apparently this expression of trust had given the man an unwarranted sense of entitlement.
“Perhaps you will leave me to my work,” she replied from between tight jaws. “Your smell is disturbing me.”
She felt him stiffen behind her then relax slightly. “Is that so?” he said, obviously attempting to force amusement into his voice. “But I cannot say the same for you, Narcise.” He drew in another long breath near her ear. “Your scent is as enticing as you are.”
“Cezar doesn’t value you that much, Belial,” she warned. “You are replaceable and I am not.” Rather than fear, it was anger that made her hand unsteady. As if her brother would allow a servant to touch her. Even he was not so base.
The steward made a sound filled with arrogance, but Narcise had no concerns about anything he might attempt. And despite the annoyance, she was glad his attention was focused on her and not Cale.
She dared a glance at the model sitting on his stool, and caught a flash of fiery eyes beneath the brim of his hat. Firming her lips she sent a silent warning back at him and resumed her drawing. She didn’t need Cale’s anger, nor his meddling in this.
“You’ve completed your task, Belial,” she said, replacing her pencil that drew light, thin lines with the heavier charcoal. Broad strokes emerged, dark and bold, filling in the shadows beneath the curve of the hat brim. She itched to work on those lips: so full on the bottom and with a soft line along the top one that would require delicate shading. “You may leave.”
“So I am distracting you?”
“No,” she said, putting the charcoal down and fixing him with fury in her eyes. “You are tempting me to introduce you to my saber. Intimately.”
Belial’s eyes flashed red, but he drew himself up and away. “Do not be so certain of yourself, Narcise.” And with that comment, which she assumed he meant to sound ominous, but which nearly made her laug
h, he turned and stalked from the chamber.
“Cock-licking snake,” she muttered. Belial was a fool who’d become too important for himself. She took out her annoyance on the charcoal, crumbling a corner of it and creating an unnecessary smudge when she raked it too hard across the page.
“Does your brother allow all of his servants such freedom?” Cale asked quietly.
“He won’t come back until the lesson is finished,” she told him. “We are private. And, no, Cezar would not allow such effrontery if he saw it. Everything must be well under his control, and a servant—no matter how trusted—who over-steps his boundaries will find himself turned out or otherwise disposed of.”
“Good.” Cale moved, sliding off the stool. He raised a hand to his face, and the lump in his cheek moved, then disappeared as he caught whatever it was in the palm of his hand. “Peach pits,” he told her with a sidewise grin. “Two of them, in fact.” He placed them in a handkerchief on the stool. When he took off his hat, then tousled his curls from where they plastered to his skull, she found herself wanting to assist him.
But Narcise remained in her place, a distance away. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?” She noticed a fat black spider making its way along the edge of one of the wood planks on the floor.
“Since I doubt your brother would allow me to court you in a normal fashion, I decided I had better take matters into my own hands.” A glint of humor that she’d come to realize was part of his personality shone in his eyes, and then it disappeared.
“Court me? Are you mad?” No man courted the sister of Cezar Moldavi. They merely took—or, at least attempted to.
“I would have come sooner, but the arrangements took some time. But in the end, Monsieur David was grateful for my large donation to his cause, and the extra time with which to spend it. Are you well?”
She realized her brows had drawn together in a frown. He spoke to her with such familiarity; as if they’d known each other forever, as if they were friends and intimates. “We’ve only met twice,” she blurted out, hardly realizing what she was about to say. “But I feel rather as if I’ve come to know you even more than that.”
He still wore the false nose; perhaps that wasn’t so easily removed and replaced as the other elements of his disguise. Nevertheless, it was clearly Cale, with his steady eyes and the full lips that had traced the oozing blood on her palm so tenderly. “I couldn’t be more pleased to hear that, for I feel as if I’ve known you forever…even though I hardly do, in all the ways that matter. I must know, Narcise…have there been any other fencing matches since our last? How have you fared in them?”
She knew what he was asking—whether there had been any other men since him, and whether she had been forced or not. “There are not so many now who are brave enough to face my saber,” she said by way of answer. “Few men are willing to expose themselves to the possibility of the humiliation of being bested by a woman.”
“Which is precisely why I took measures to make certain I would win,” Cale replied. His roguish smile was infectious enough, even from a distance, that she couldn’t keep her own in check.
A ridiculous thought: that he was here to court her. Yet, deep in the softest part of her stony heart, she felt a twinge of lightness. A girlish leap inside the hard heart of an old crone.
“But you did not answer my question,” he pressed. He was leaning against the table where Belial had set the tray—still some distance from her. She noticed absently that the spider had made its way into the center of the room and was heading toward the opposite side with eight-legged efficiency.
“Other than ours, I haven’t lost a fencing match for more than five years,” she told him. “And before that, after the first five years in Romania, before I had my lessons, it was a rare night that I lost. Perhaps two or three times a year.”
Cale’s eyes were somber now. “I’m sorry it was that many times.”
“So am I. But I’ve become stronger for it,” she said, in a reminder to herself as well as to him. “And no one has touched me—against my will,” she added with a quick glance at him, “for many years.”
“Will Belial bother you? Cezar is gone, is he not?”
Narcise waved the steward away with a charcoal-smudged hand. “If he acts inappropriately, I know how to handle him.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
He didn’t speak after that, but his eyes scanned her. The hunger therein was bold and obvious, but again, he made no move toward her. Narcise wondered about that, and felt herself tensing in readiness. And, if she must be honest, anticipation.
“Are you and David lovers?” Cale asked abruptly.
She couldn’t control a shocked expression, nor a shiver of distaste. “No, of course not.”
“Good.” He nodded once. With a deliberate movement, he smashed the spider under his foot, as if to emphasize his response.
Narcise blinked then redirected her thoughts. “Once again, I must ask, Monsieur Cale, why you have gone through so much trouble to come here.”
“I wanted to see you, of course, but I didn’t want your brother to know it,” he explained.
“Because he wouldn’t like it?” Narcise frowned. “I am not so certain of that. He was mightily impressed that you won our sword parley, and I believe he finds it amusing that you’re very well-matched in skill with me. He wants to forge a business relationship with you.”
Cale was looking thoughtful. “I’m not certain whether he would or wouldn’t like it, but either way, I’m not inclined to give him the benefit of the knowledge that you belong with me.”
She drew herself back in affront. “I don’t belong to anyone.” A blast of rage shuttled through her, but when he lifted a hand she allowed him to speak.
“I said you belong with me, Narcise. Not to me. We belong together. I can feel it, and you will, someday, as well.”
She looked away. “You’re mad.” But even she knew her words sounded weak and unconvincing. The truth was something tugged deep inside her, throughout her whole being, when he was near. This was so different from any of the other men who’d claimed to love her, to want her, to own her.
It was different because, damn the Fates, she felt it, too.
“He knows that I could take you away from him, from here,” said Cale. “He knows that I’m the one.”
Narcise raised her eyebrows skeptically.
“When you trust me.” He smiled, but this time there was a bit of an edge to it. “And since I cannot come near you today or that low-crawling rodent will smell us, you’ll see once again that I mean to take nothing from you that you aren’t willing to give.”
The flash of disappointment took her by surprise, and yet at the same time, Narcise felt a tide of relief sweep over her. “That’s why you asked if David and I were lovers,” she said wryly, a twinge of annoyance replacing her relief.
“No,” he said.
She waited for him to elaborate, but he did not. A heavy silence descended, one in which the drumming of her heart seemed to grow louder, filling the chamber, and his as well, and she swore she could hear them beating in tandem. Warmth and softness flooded her, and if she didn’t know that it was impossible for a Dracule to enthrall another Dracule, she would believe it was happening.
“And so,” he said after a long moment, breaking the connection, “these are your private apartments—where you sleep? Where you paint, and entertain?”
“I do very little entertaining, as you can imagine,” she replied, picking up the charcoal, then choosing one of the heavy pencils instead. There was a place that needed a darker shadow, but it was at the outside corner of his eye and required a delicate touch. “But I paint and draw here. There is another larger room where I practice with my sword.”
“Does Cezar allow you any freedoms? Do you ride, or shop, or visit the cafés and museums?”
“I do not leave this premises without him,” she replied. “I haven’t been on a horse in years. He brings ente
rtainment here, and the seamstresses and cloth merchants. He’s afraid to go above ground very often.”
“It must be related to his Asthenia. Despite my generous bribes, no one has even a suspicion of what it is,” Cale said. “Do you?”
She shook her head. “Do you not think I would have found a way to use it by now if I did? It is an immensely well-guarded secret. I do not believe there is anyone beyond Cezar and Lucifer himself who knows.”
“But what of his makes?” Cale asked. “Would it not be clear from them?”
It was a logical question, for when a Dracule sired, or made, a new vampire, his or her Asthenia was passed on to the new immortal. In addition, the immortal gained a unique Asthenia of his or her own. Thus, the further down the evolution from Lucifer’s personally invited vampires, the weaker and more vulnerable the makes were, for the more Asthenias they acquired.
But Cezar was much too smart to make such a mistake. “Contrary to what my brother implies and wishes for people to believe, he has not made any vampirs himself. At least, of which I’m aware.”
That surprised Cale, for his brows rose in shock. “How can that be true? He is known for his clan of loyal servants—most of them makes—and for his influence over even the mortal world in Paris.”
“But it is true. For many years, he held three Dracule captive and forced them to sire vampirs for his use. Early on, he used me in the same manner.” She spoke matter-of-factly as she reshaped the line at the lower part of his ear.
Cale seemed to digest this for a moment. “Very clever. And if the sires of the vampires are under Moldavi’s control, then so are the makes themselves. But you are his sister, and you cannot guess what his Asthenia is, even now?”
“All I can suspect is that it is something so common that it keeps him away from the mortal world unless the environment is very much controlled.”
“Then I must count myself flattered that he accepted the invitation to visit my club.”
“He admires you—your business acumen, and your wealth.”
Cale nodded. “Many do,” he said with that sudden smile. “I am gifted in that way. But I think your brother is more interested in my Chinese contacts, and the partnerships for the opium I can help him get.”