The Vampire Narcise rd-3

by Колин Глисон

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

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

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

  “I have come to that conclusion.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Was she falling in love again?

  7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Narcise smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “No,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Merde.

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

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

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

  Since Eddersley’s sexual preferences were well-known, Giordan’s jest served to break the tension in the chamber, and everyone—except the Moldavis—laughed, including Eddersley himself. Then his friend caught Giordan’s eyes for a moment, and he saw the same shock and distaste lingering in that of Eddersley’s.

  Narcise, once disrobed of her cloak, had hardly moved more than a step into the chamber. Giordan was compelled beyond imagination to go to her, but somehow, conscious of Moldavi’s regard, he refrained, keeping his shoes rooted to the rug.

  Instead he watched as Voss made a straight line toward the woman, trying not to want to put the man’s head through a wall.

  Giordan found himself unwilling to chance looking at Narcise, yet unable to put the image of her out of his mind. Her face, ivory with nary a hint of color to it tonight, was stark and bare. Even her lips were pale, and her eyes had that dull look he’d seen before—a look he hadn’t noticed since the last time she was here. Her night-black hair was pulled back from her face, and twisted and braided into some huge, intricate knot at the back of her head. Diamonds hung from her ears, long teardrops nearly brushing her shoulders, and more of them sparkled around the bulging knot of her hair.

  But it was her gown—what there was of it, and gown was not really an accurate term—that had struck every man in the room dumb. It was unlike anything in the shops of the modistes anywhere in Paris, and Giordan couldn’t help but wonder where Moldavi had had it made. The dress was in the style of centuries ago, that of a medieval lady: a simple, high-necked frock that laced up between the breasts and along the sides, clinging to every curve of the body from shoulder to knee. From there it flared out in a train onto the floor. Her sleeves were tight from shoulder to elbow then flared in long points nearly to her feet. And though the cut of her attire was unusual and revealing, it was its very substance that caused comment—for the entire dress was made only of black lace.