by Колин Глисон
Of course, the fact that she was Dracule and must live forever was added incentive for Cezar to do what he would. Or to have his friends do what they would, which was more to his taste anyway. Incest, at least, was not one of Cezar’s many sins.
After all, no matter what sort of torment and pleasure they put her through, Narcise couldn’t die without a wooden stake to the heart or ten minutes in the sun. Which was why Cezar had made certain all of the furnishings in her windowless chamber had been made of metal. He was taking no chances of losing his favorite bargaining chip.
At the thought, Narcise couldn’t quite suppress the flutter of panic that swirled in her belly. Chas had helped her escape from that horror, but that didn’t mean she’d never return to it. Cezar wouldn’t stop searching for her until he was dead.
Or until she was.
Narcise remembered her fantasies of finding feathers and wrapping herself in them, then falling out of a window to lie in the sun. Eventually she’d have to die, weakened by the feathers and burned by the sun’s rays. Some days, even now, she considered it. At least then Cezar couldn’t get to her.
And Chas would be safe.
Her glance flickered to him as he greeted his sisters, who were both loose-haired and dressed in nightclothes, and they settled in their seats. At this moment, he looked more like an English gentleman—albeit an exotic one, with his Romanian coloring—than she was used to seeing him: in a white shirt done up to the throat, covered by a dark coat, along with pantaloons. He was holding a glass, his hair fairly tamed and pomaded smooth. Clean-shaven. All this in deference to his proper sisters, who, according to him, had no idea that he spent his days and nights hunting vampirs.
The irony that he was an enemy of her race only fueled Narcise’s fascination with him. A Dracule involved with a vampire hunter. How absurd and dangerous.
And how surprising that she could actually find pleasure with a man, actually trust one, after all she’d been through.
Chas glanced over at her and she met his black gaze coolly.
She’d learned long ago not to show weakness or truth in her face or eyes. It could be used against her. And it had.
Oh, it had.
Chas’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as the ends of his mouth tipped slightly, and she knew he was measuring her response to meeting two of his sisters. Narcise tucked down the little unfurling of warmth in her belly. She felt safe with him. Safe and comfortable.
But he didn’t need to know that.
Nevertheless, she didn’t want to be here, but Chas had given her little choice. It was either come to London with him, or be foisted off on Giordan.
And that was not going to happen. The very thought of being in the same city, let alone the same room, as Giordan Cale made her ill. Knowing that Chas had met up with him at the inn in Reither’s Closewell, where she and Chas had been staying, had been disturbing, to say the least. She’d remained upstairs in their chamber, out of sight.
Although, knowing Giordan, he’d probably scented her.
On Chas.
“You must be Narcise Moldavi. The vampire.”
The words came from Angelica, who’d been looking closely at her. Maia hissed something at her sister, and then both of them focused their attention on Narcise. Neither appeared pleased, although while Angelica looked angry, Maia seemed merely surprised.
Annoyed at having her disguise expunged, Narcise directed her own gaze onto the little chit who’d spoken in such distasteful tones, allowing the flare of heat to blaze there for a moment. You have no idea who you’re dealing with, little mortal girl. “I am.” She drew off her hat and flung it onto Dimitri’s desk. Her head and face immediately felt cooler as her hair sagged in its low knot.
“Are you here so that we can welcome you to the family?”
Angelica responded just as coolly.
Narcise ignored Chas’s slight movement, as if he were about to interfere. I can handle this, she said with a quick glare. “I’m here, in fact, endangering my person only because of you,” she told the girl.
Narcise moved deliberately, away from the fireplace and over to help herself to a glass of Corvindale’s whiskey. “Your brother learned that Voss had abducted you and he insisted on coming to London, despite the danger to me.”
“You know very well you didn’t have to come to London with him,” came a smooth voice from the doorway. “Don’t blame your own cowardice on the girl, Narcise.”
The glass slipped in her hand, but she held on to it. Just barely. Turning, she faced Giordan Cale for the first time in a decade.
Their eyes met for a moment and she felt the twin spears of loathing: hers for him, and the same emotion shining in his own burning gaze. He was baiting her, referring to her imprudent choice to accompany Chas to London rather than stay with Giordan at Reither’s Closewell.
Narcise didn’t bother to respond other than to add a warning flash of fangs to a brief sneer. Sipping her whiskey—trying not to gulp what she suddenly, desperately needed—she walked over to stand next to Chas.
But Giordan was no longer paying attention to her. He’d turned, presenting her mostly with his back as Dimitri grudgingly introduced him to the Woodmore girls. Narcise sipped from her glass again, focusing on the heat burning down to her belly and through her limbs and not the back of his head, or the way his coffee-colored coat stretched perfectly over broad shoulders. Giordan paid his tailor well.
He looked the same as he had the last time they’d seen each other, although then his face had been bitter and hard, and worn from nights of depravity and hedonism. Tonight, his handsome features were relaxed and his eyes bland, except for that brief flash of emotion when she first saw him. Giordan still wore his hair unfashionably short, in close, rich-brown curls that left his Slavic forehead and temples exposed. She caught a glimpse of his hand, ungloved, curled into a fist against his thigh and realized he wasn’t as unmoved as he appeared.
But whether it was anger or hate that tensed his fingers, she didn’t know.
And she didn’t care. She was hardly aware of the conversation going on around her until Dimitri made a joke that wasn’t really a joke about Giordan taking over the responsibility of the Woodmore girls and their guardianship. It was quite clear to everyone in the room that he was deadly serious about it.
Giordan responded with easy humor, accepting a glass of whiskey that his friend had moved to pour for him. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you, Dimitri.”
“But why can’t we go with you, Chas?” asked Maia.
Narcise looked at her, noting the firm yet desperate note in her voice. Someone was either very attached to her brother, or exceedingly unhappy at Blackmont Hall. Pleased to have something to distract her from the presence of the man she loathed most in the world—or second most; that other honor belonged to Cezar—Narcise watched the elder Woodmore sister.
Upon closer observation, Narcise had to adjust her first impression of the young woman. Despite Maia’s self-assurance and need to be in control, there was an underlying sort of heat exuding from her that made her softer and more sensual than at first glance. Perhaps something only another woman would notice.
Narcise glanced at the young Maia and amended her thought—perhaps only another woman who was very experienced in the ways of intimacy would notice the sense of unfulfilled sensuality smoldering beneath capable hands and brisk movements. It lingered in the eyes, Narcise decided.
In the green-brown and gold eyes, in that full pout of an upper lip, and most of all, in the female, musky scent that her Draculian nose recognized.
This was a woman who was not experienced with men, but who was on the cusp of being so…who’d come to the edge and who hadn’t gone over. Who was waiting.
Perhaps it was because Narcise herself recognized that feeling of unfulfilled expectancy. It had taken her decades to find it, to allow herself to truly feel on a plane deeper than the merely physical. To battle through the humiliation and pain at the hand
s of Cezar’s friends and enemies alike, to finally make love with a man who truly awakened and aroused her. Whom she trusted and opened herself to.
Now she couldn’t bear to look at him, even when they were in the same room.
Narcise turned her attention away from those dangerous thoughts and the man in question, and happened to glance at Dimitri. The man was a rock: hard, cold and emotionless.
Exactly the way Narcise wanted to be.
Dimitri noticed the contemplative way Narcise was looking at him, as if she meant to find some deep secret in his eyes. But she, intensely beautiful and deliciously scented as she was, was much easier to ignore than the daggerish looks Chas’s sister continued to slip him.
He was trying not to think about the shock in Miss Woodmore’s face when she’d seen him standing there, in the doorway of her chamber. Naturally he’d had a legitimate reason for being there, and it wasn’t his fault that her voice carried so that he heard what she was saying regarding her dream about a vampire. The woman needed to learn restraint, blast it all.
But for a moment, his heart had stopped cold when he thought he saw recognition along with mortification in her eyes.
Then he talked himself out of it, for she simply couldn’t have put the pieces together that he was the Knave of Diamonds. He’d even taken care to remove his costume with its glass ruby and red-and-black waistcoat immediately after their…interlude.
Apparently that interlude hadn’t made as much of an impression on her as some dark, erotic dreams, which was a damn good thing. Although the fact that she seemed to be having the same sorts of dreams that had been plaguing him was another problem entirely.
He sincerely hoped that her dreams weren’t nearly as explicit and erotic as his own.
Dimitri was half listening as Chas tried to explain to his sisters that he was a vampire hunter. The fact that he’d allied himself with a beautiful, if emotionally damaged Dracule woman caused even more confusion for the Misses Woodmore. It simply wasn’t logical, of course, and they had questions.
And even Dimitri could appreciate the position of the sisters.
Which meant, blast it all, that he’d be the recipient of more badgering by Miss Woodmore when her brother disappeared again with his paramour. For it had become abundantly clear that Chas and Narcise were not merely companions on an adventure, nor was she an unwilling partner in their journey. He could smell the intimacy between them.
That wasn’t the only thing he could scent. Voss had been here, the bastard. Despite the fact that Angelica hadn’t admitted it, Dimitri knew he’d been in the house—probably in the girl’s chamber with her—tonight. For all he knew, she could have let him in herself, enthralled and helpless under his influence.
Dimitri’s teeth ground together. He and Woodmore were going to take care of Voss as soon as they found him. And then Chas would have one of his problems taken care of…leaving him with a more sensitive one.
He scanned Narcise with objective eyes. Definitely a beautiful woman. But certainly not one who had ever interested him—even that night in Vienna when Moldavi had offered her to Dimitri as a bribe of sorts. When he had a woman, however occasional that event might be, he wanted her willing and without cold, dead eyes. Not that they were cold and dead now when she looked at Chas. Cool. But not dead.
Dimitri shifted impatiently and glowered at the trio of Woodmores, who had overrun his life, his home and now even his private office.
Would they never stop talking? He just bloody damn wished everyone would get out of his study so that he could get back to his work. His research and studies had been disrupted so much that he was certain what little he’d managed in the last week was worthless.
The stack of books that Miss Woodmore had taken it upon herself to neaten as soon as she entered this little meeting reminded him that he hadn’t been to the antiquarian bookstore yet. He flattened his lips. He would go tomorrow, or the next day at the very latest. He was through having his work completely disrupted.
“Corvindale is your guardian for the foreseeable future,” Chas was saying flatly, looking at Maia with an implacable expression, “but I wasn’t going to stand aside and let Voss compromise my sister.”
“I’m not compromised,” Angelica said stubbornly.
“It doesn’t matter,” Woodmore replied, glancing around the room. “We know he was here tonight, Angelica. Whether you invited him or welcomed him or—”
“I certainly didn’t invite him,” Angelica shot back in outrage. “I wouldn’t invite a terrifying creature like him anywhere!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Chas continued. “Corvindale and Cale are going to help me find him. And then I’m going to kill him.”
And then Dimitri would be able to get back to his studies, and forget about the upheaval brought by a houseful of mortal women.
And perhaps then he’d stop dreaming about one in particular.
7
Wherein A Choice Of Accessories Proves Disastrous
The carriage rolled to a stop at the rear entrance of the establishment Dimitri sought. Tren, the footman, had aligned the vehicle near enough the back entrance that his master was able to step out from the open door—which had been fitted with a fanlike cover that expanded as the door drew wide, blocking any sunshine—directly into the little shop.
The smell of age and wisdom, littered with dust, worn leather and fabrics…and yet something fresh, curled into his sensitive nose. The door closed behind Dimitri and he found himself amid tall, close shelves lined with books. Walls of wide, shallow drawers like those found in the British Museum were interspersed with the bookshelves.
The soft glow of lamps came from strategic places on the walls, but Dimitri didn’t need their illumination. He was well at home in dim light, and felt the familiar wave of peacefulness that always hovered in these surroundings. Merely stepping into the place eased his tension. Even the constant, screaming pain from his Mark seemed to ebb.
“Ah, you’ve returned.”
He looked up to see the shop’s proprietress emerging from between two stacks. A woman of indeterminate age, she blinked owlishly from behind square spectacles as if she’d just been awakened—or, more likely, pulled from whatever she had been reading. Yet her gray-blue eyes turned bright and she seemed pleased to see him. She wore a long bliaut that, along with the points of her wide sleeves, skimmed the ground. Around her waist hung a loose leather cord, to which a collection of keys to the many chests, cases and drawers was attached.
In one long-fingered hand was an open book that she appeared to have been perusing before his presence interrupted her. Her long pale hair was separated into two thick tails that fell behind her shoulders. A pair of finger-thick braids began at her temples and curved around to the back of her head. The fact that she neither showed the deference due an earl nor made use of the proper address he hardly noticed.
“No other customers again, I see,” he commented, reaching idly for a dusty book. “I find it a wonder that you remain in business, this little shop tucked away in the back mews of Haymarket.”
She smiled, replying, “’Tis a happy thing, then, that I have the patronage of an earl to keep my interests afloat.”
“I gave your direction to an acquaintance of mine some weeks past,” Dimitri said, glancing down at the excellent French translation of The Iliad, “but he couldn’t seem to find you. I told him you were next door to the old tannery, but he didn’t see the shop.”
She didn’t seem concerned about the loss of a potential customer. “Perhaps that was a day the shop was closed. Have you given any more thought to breaking into the museum and examining the stele from Rosetta?”
Dimitri didn’t recall speaking such a fantasy aloud, let alone to this woman, but he was never able to summon his customary abrasiveness whilst here. Thus, he responded, “I’m certain I could arrange to see the stone privately if I thought it would be help in my quest. I am Corvindale, of course.”
“That is, I’m cer
tain, quite true. Are you in search of anything in particular today?” she asked. “There are some new scrolls I’ve received—perhaps you might take a look at them.” She gestured toward one of the corners of the dingy little shop.
“Nothing in particular. However, it’s rare that I leave without finding something to add to my library.” Dimitri had never told her of his quest. How could one explain to an ageless, absentminded woman about his desire to break a covenant with the devil?
She’d think him mad and close up the shop to him, as well.
The proprietress merely nodded, then absently returned her attention to the book she held. “If there is aught I can do to help…” And she wandered off.
Dimitri normally would have done the same, but today things prickled at him. Uncomfortable things. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. “Have you,” he began, following her. “Have you any old, very old, perhaps original, chapbooks of the Faust legend?”
She turned from where she’d paused at a table and looked up from her book. Satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. “Faust. And why would you be looking for a story you know so well?”
Dimitri couldn’t keep the jolt of surprise from blasting through him at—not so much her exact words, but the sharp, suddenly knowing look in her fathomless eyes. “What precisely do you mean by that, madame?” he asked, placing all of the chill and inflection of an earl’s power behind it.
“I think, Dimitri of Corvindale, that you know all of what I mean.”
He glowered in all of his earlness, and thought even for a moment of allowing some of his vampire glow to burn in his eyes. Yet, he said nothing, simply waiting for her to explain.
The woman closed her book without marking the page. And it was a very thick tome. “You and Johann Faust have much in common, do you not? Your pacts with the devil are quite different, and yet the same. That is what I mean.”
Instead of the thunderous rage that might have—perhaps should have—flooded him, Dimitri felt only a wave of shock. “How do you know this?”