The Vampire Narcise (4 page)

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 Cale, 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.

His heart stuttered, but he added smoothly, “Nor the marks on Helen’s arm from said fangs.”

“No, of course not. I don’t believe the comte would have appreciated his mistress being portrayed as the victim of a Draculean lover,” she replied, once again focusing her attention on the work of art. “You do know that if my brother sees us conversing privately, he will put a stop to it.”

Just as she had followed his change of language, Giordan easily followed her non sequitur. “He is well-occupied for the time.”

“Don’t underestimate Cezar,” Narcise told him. “Too many have, and most of them are no longer here to warn you themselves.”

“And so you take it upon yourself to point out the obvious? I am just as able to take care of myself as you appear to be, mademoiselle. Wherever did you learn to fence with such skill?”

She stiffened next to him, but did not turn, leaving him to scrutinize her profile. “And how would you know of my skill with the saber, Monsieur Cale?”

N
arcise stared up at the painting and tried to concentrate.

He was standing too close to her, this man named Giordan Cale. This man who’d hardly glanced her way all evening as he played host…but who, when he did, made a rush of heat flood her body.

She had lied, of course. By implication. By implying that she hadn’t noticed him watching her that night when she’d killed a man to keep herself free. Or, at least, implying that she didn’t remember him.

But she did remember him. Very well. In fact, she’d made a sketch of Cale later that night, in the privacy she’d won by sending her opponent to hell. Despite the fact that he was a friend of her brother’s, Cale had provided an interesting subject for her creative mind.

She’d drawn the thick curling hair that capped his skull with glossy brown texture, shadowed in the square chin and fine lips in a strong, handsome face. Now, after seeing him tonight, she realized she hadn’t quite got the shape of his eyes, nor the correct angle of his jaw and the proper shading of his cheekbones in that first sketch—but she’d been working from a brief glance. That glance from a distance hadn’t given her the details, either: the blue flecks in his brown eyes, the small scar near his right eye, the element of controlled determination rumbling beneath his easy smile.

And now he stood near enough that his particular scent rose above that thick, hazy smoke and the strong aromas of mingled lifeblood and arousal. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, as if he were so close that his breath brushed over the sensitive skin there.

She prayed that he was right, that Cezar was too occupied to notice.

Cale hadn’t yet responded to her gentle taunt asking how he’d known of her skills, and at last she could no longer keep from looking at him. But when she turned, she had to resist the desire to step back. Instead she drew in a shallow breath and steadied herself.

Too close.
Much too close.

Not because he threatened her—at least, not in the way other men did, with their leering faces and hot eyes and determination. But because he affected her with a strong tug, deep inside.

His appealing face was right there, a breath away, and he was looking down at her. She was tall for a woman, and her chin was almost level with his. The corners of his brown eyes crinkled a bit, and she saw not the lust she expected, that she was accustomed to in a man’s gaze, but a sort of taunting challenge laced with levity.

As if to say,
Oh, this shall be the game, no?

“Your skill with the sword,” he said at last, neither acceding to nor challenging her lie, “is legendary. At least among the Dracule.”

An unexpected bitterness swept her. Unexpected because she was adept at keeping that emotion well in check. Her swordplay and her beauty, known throughout the Draculean underworld, contributed not only to Cezar’s power and fame, but also to her captivity. If she had neither, would her brother even care?

Of course, if she had no beauty, she would never have become part of this world. He would have let her die—perhaps even helped her—just as he had their brother and father, and even his wife. Instead Cezar had found a way to preserve her, along with himself.

Uncertain how to respond to Cale’s statement, Narcise gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. “My brother has employed a variety of excellent trainers to tutor me.” The chamber had become close and warm, and the lure of pleasure and satiation tugged at her. Her gums filled and a little flutter grew stronger in her belly.

“He must take care of his investment, no?” Cale replied. His voice was light, but she saw a flash of anger in his eyes and tightness at the corner of his mouth.

Her throat had gone dry and she found it difficult to swallow. Was it possible he understood? “My brother certainly doesn’t wish any serious injury on me,” she said, keeping her voice steady. It was a true statement, though barely so.

Cale hadn’t released her gaze, and she found herself trapped in it, looking at the blue and black flecks in his rich brown eyes. “I was prepared to intervene that night,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

Narcise felt the bottom of her belly drop. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think at first; her lips had formed a silent O. She clamped them closed as she tore her eyes from him.

“Monsieur Cale,” was all that she managed to say, even as her heart pounded and an odd fluttering rushed through her. “That would have been foolish.”

All pretense that she hadn’t remembered him was now gone in the face of astonishment and gratitude. He would have intervened? He would have helped her?

What would Cezar have done?

Suddenly she felt warm and shaky, breathless—and foolish,
for the light-headedness was sudden and unexpected. The air had turned so thick, lush with the sweet-peppery smoke, and the deep, dark allure of fresh blood. Her fangs were trying to thrust free, her hands trembling. Before she quite realized what was happening, she felt his fingers close around her wrist, and another strong arm sliding around her waist.

“Some air, mademoiselle,” he said, leading her away. “It has become too close in here. And you have not fed.”

“No,” she protested, determination penetrating the haze. Cezar wouldn’t permit such a thing. She dug her heels in, despite the pressure on her arm, despite her need to escape the dangers of this place.

“When is the last time you fed?” Cale demanded, his mouth too close to her ear. Warmth flushed through her; his scent enveloped her along with the heat of his body.

The world swirled a bit, glazed with red heat, then as she blinked and steadied herself, she focused. “I will feed in the morning,” she told him. “When we return.”
If Cezar permits.

That was his way of enforcing her good behavior on social events such as this. He didn’t starve her; that would be foolish. But he withheld just enough, just long enough, that she was in need. And pliable. And she knew better than to partake without his permission.

The air had cleared a bit and Narcise realized that, despite her efforts to the contrary, Cale had managed to guide her out of the close, warm chamber. Nervousness seized her, and she yanked out of his grip. “Please,” she said, forcing her voice to be sharp and strong instead of desperate. “I must return. Cezar will be searching for me.”

Cale was looking at her searchingly, his eyes still too close, his mouth near enough that if she turned her head, the pouf of her hair would brush against it. He’d caught up her hand
in his, drawing her toward him. “Very well,” he replied. “But you must feed. I can see the need in your eyes.”

Somehow, the rumble of his voice, the low dip of the syllables, was so intimate that a little pang twisted inside her. There was compassion there, compassion and admiration…and anger.

He made no move to stop her when she tugged free of his grip, noticing for the first time that they were in a dim corridor. A door behind her was ajar, and beyond she could see into the chamber they’d just vacated.

Heart in her throat, she peered into the hazy, golden room, her fingers on the edge of the door. Even through the filtering smoke, she could see the chair in which Cezar sat, its back facing her, his head barely rising above it. He couldn’t see her from that position, thank Fates, and Narcise noticed the other two figures settled in front of him.

He did indeed seem to be well-occupied.

Her pounding heart slowed a bit, but before she stepped back into the chamber, those strong fingers were back, gently curling around her wrist.

“Do you see?” Cale said, drawing her back toward him, away from the door. “He has no notice of you.”

“But—” she began, and then she stopped, her breath catching.

He’d moved sharply, jerking his arm, and all at once the scent of fresh blood permeated the air. “
Merde
,” he muttered. “What have I done?”

What have you done indeed.
Narcise felt almost dizzy from the rich aroma as it seemed to embrace her, sliding into her consciousness. “Monsieur,” she managed, her fangs suddenly filling her mouth, thrusting sharp and hard as her veins pulsed with the rush of need. She was under no illusion that his sudden wound had been an accident.

“You would do me a great service,” murmured Cale, eyeing her steadily. “If you would attend to this.” He lifted his arm.

He’d hardly needed to move, for despite her resistance, Narcise’s attention had already slipped down to his bare wrist. His cutaway coat was gone, his shirtsleeve pulled away to expose a golden forearm, muscular and smooth but for the ooze of dark red blood.

“Please, mademoiselle,” he said, and she felt the wall crushing the full bustle at the back of her gown. “You need to feed, and here I am in need of assistance.”

Narcise should have been angry at him for such a trick, but she didn’t even bear that strength of mind at the moment. The blood…his blood, his scent…that of the man whose presence had set her off-kilter, who hadn’t made a single reference to her beauty or to wanting her…who’d been willing to intervene in a sword fight….
his
blood tempted her, and in her weakened state, she had no real chance to deny it.

As if knowing she were light of head and uneasy, Cale slid an arm around her waist, positioning it between the hollow of her back and the wall behind. She had the sensations of heat and solidness enveloping her, the alluring scent of his presence, the warm cotton of his shirt.

She licked first…just a delicate slide of her tongue over the pool of blood collecting in the hollows of his wrist. He gave a little start, the tiniest of jolts, and she felt his arm tense beneath her mouth. Heavy and rich, his lifeblood settled over her tongue and lips and a great surge of desire rushed through her.

But somehow she held her instinct in check and swirled her tongue over and around the small wound, inhaling his scent, tasting his life. Pure, hot, lush…strong. He was pow
erful. She could no longer wait, and sunk her fangs into the surging veins on the inside of his wrist.

Now he flowed into her mouth with the delicate rhythm of his heartbeat, the veins filling and surging against her mouth. She drank, breathed, her knees buckling so that she sagged against the wall and into his arms. Lust and need swelled her body, in her veins and beneath her skin, pulsing and dampening her far beneath layers of clothing.

The wall was solid behind her, and Cale to the side, his arm still curved around her waist. She was faintly aware of his body trembling against hers, of the rough movement of his chest. As she held him with both hands, bending his hand back to open palm and wrist, their fingers curled together. She was aware of the heavy ring on his finger, biting into her smaller digits as he gripped tightly.

Narcise drank, sucking gently, her swallows quiet and rhythmic as the ambrosia filled her mouth, funneling through her body. She found herself caressing his warm, smooth skin with her lips as she pinned him with her fangs, using tongue and lips to sip up every bit.

There was a moment when she’d regained some of her strength and she glanced up to see Cale’s eyes fastened on her. Blazing red, they glowed like a banked fire beneath heavy lids. His lips had parted, his fangs thrust long and tempting. His expression shot a sharp pang into her belly, and down. Hard and strong, exploding into heat and dampness.

Narcise looked back down, away from that gaze burning into hers, steeling herself for him to pull away and tear his fangs into her throat. But instead of revulsion, she felt another rush of desire at the thought. Her belly trembled, her breasts and tight nipples thrusting against their silk chemise, her lungs constricted.

She pulled her fangs free, reality and fear sweeping into
her glazed mind.
Cezar
. She swallowed, tasting the last bit of his essence, and felt him release her. Narcise bumped lightly against the wall, suddenly standing on her own balance, and looked up at him. His eyes still glowed in an orange-red ring around the hazel iris, his lips still parted, showing the tips of fangs. Cale’s chest moved as if he’d been running, and for a moment, that fear…that thrill…that he might reach for her and crush her against the wall rose to clog her thoughts.

But he didn’t. “
Merci
,” he said in that delicious, low voice that said much more than the simple syllables. “But perhaps you might finish?” He’d slipped back into French again.

Narcise knew what he meant, and for a moment she was terrified to risk tasting him again. But at the very least, it was courtesy. And at the most, it was one more moment of pleasure before she must return to a world of fear and desperation.

With delicate fingers this time, she lifted his arm and, casting him one quick glance, she kissed the wound. She used her tongue to slip away the last vestiges of blood, knowing that her saliva would cause the blood to stop flowing and the wound to heal quickly. And then Narcise released him and stepped back, waiting for him to lunge at her. And wondered how soon it would be before Cezar came out to find them.

“Perhaps,” Cale said, still in French, still in that low voice, “if David had been witness to such a display, his painting might have had more authenticity. A bit more…heat.”

Narcise could do nothing but nod dumbly. Her head was clearer than it had been for a while, but her body still hummed with desire.

And when Cale turned to pull on the coat he’d slung over a nearby table, she managed to say, “Cezar will know.” A knot formed quickly in her belly as the reality set in. He would know and he would exact a punishment from her.

Cale looked at her, his eyes no longer burning, but now inscrutable. “But of course he will know. In fact, perhaps he likely even planned this. But I will ensure you’ll have no repercussions, mademoiselle. You may trust me.”

Trust me.

The last time she’d believed those words from a man, they’d come from Cezar. More than a hundred years ago, on the night she was visited by Lucifer. Narcise choked back a bitter laugh. And look what trusting a man had given her: an infinite life of captivity.

Cale offered her his unwounded arm, and she slipped her fingers around it. Lifting her chin high, she allowed him to return her to the chamber, ready to face what would come.