~ I ~
Revolution
Chapter 1
Fifteen years later The Estate of the Voivodina of Moldavia
Narcise curled her fingers around the slender grip of her saber and steadied her breathing. Her fangs had sprung free, filling her mouth.
Her opponent leered at her, his own fangs thrusting long and bold as he lifted his own blade. Its silver gleamed red-orange in the low candlelight that danced around the edges of the chamber. The man was taller than Narcise, and much stronger, and thus he was certain he'd take her down.
That bravado, that certainty, was apparent in the haughty glint of his burning red eyes, the swagger in his step, and the ready bulge behind the flap of his trousers.
He wasn't fighting for his sanity.
But Narcise was fighting for hers.
She wore her hair scraped back in a tight knot to keep it from flying into her face. Her clothing was nothing more than a short, tight tunic that bound her breasts close, along with slim-fitting trousers. They allowed her not only freedom of movement, but also provided nothing loose or flowing for her partner to grab on to. Her feet were bare.
She started it, knowing her best chance was to take him off guard and to keep him that way. She rushed toward him, then feinted nimbly to the right as he lunged awkwardly and swiped his sword through empty air.
She heard the little gasp of anticipation for a good fight. It came from the spectators sitting just above them in the balcony, but Narcise spared no attention for her brother Cezar and his companions. She fought for the right to leave this chamber alone tonight, to be sent to her private room unaccompanied and untouched...instead of with the man who now spun on his feet and leaped back toward her.
Her lips closed around her fangs, she pivoted and ducked beneath the swing of sword blade. She felt the heat of her own eyes, burning with fury and intent, and knew they glowed just as red-gold as the candles studding the walls and the blaze of fire in the corner. Blood rushed and pounded in her veins, her body's reaction to the desperation and fear she tried to quell.
Her opponent grinned as he vaulted over the table after her, his feet landing heavily on the stone floor on the other side. There were two chairs in the space as well, and a tray of food and wine that wouldn't get eaten-for Cezar liked to set the scene. It wasn't merely a battle, like that of the Roman gladiators, where the fighters were released into the arena. No, he had to make a story around it, create a setting.
It enhanced the pleasure of watching his sister fight for the right to sleep alone that night.
Narcise felt the stone wall behind her, and a flicker of fear as her attacker stepped closer, blocking her view of the space behind him with his bulk. He grinned down at her, his fangs glinting and his lips wet and full. Her mouth dried and she fiercely drove the apprehension back.
I will not yield.
She glanced to the left, drawing his attention that way, and then streaked like a cat beneath his arm to the right, somersaulting herself over the table and landing with a little bounce on two steady feet. A soft murmur of approval from the balcony reached her ears, but Narcise didn't give in to the distraction of those who watched her as if she were some trained fighting bear.
No sooner had she landed on the far side of the table than she vaulted back, once again taking her larger, slower adversary by surprise when she used her hands to spring from the tabletop and slam her feet into his hard belly.
He gasped, stumbled backward, and she followed him, her saber ready as she landed on the ground, standing over him. Before he could blink, she had the blade settled at the side of his neck, and, firmly in her hand, the wooden stake she kept jammed into the knot of her hair.
"Yield," she said, pressing the metal edge into the side of his neck.
If he did not, she had no compunction about using either the sword or the stake to send him to hell right then and there.
"I yield," he growled, his eyes flashing with red fire.
Narcise kept the stake in her hand and the blade poised just-so. "Drop your weapon," she ordered. She'd been caught unawares before by a challenger who'd yielded, only to attack her moments after she released him.
That had only happened once. And that was why she had yet another stake shoved in her tight sleeve.
With a furious grimace, he tossed the sword to the floor and, still with the blade in place, Narcise kicked the other one far away, under the table. She noted with grim satisfaction that the bulge of his cock had softened into nothing more than a little bag of flesh, hardly even filling out his breeches. She liked it when the bastards wet their trousers, but apparently this one hadn't been sufficiently frightened for his life.
"Too easy!" shouted Cezar from the balcony, his lisping voice rising with mirth. "She bested you too easily, Godya! You lasted a mere fifteen minutes. What a sot!"
Narcise ignored her brother and, keeping the blade in place, stepped back and motioned for the man apparently named Godya to rise. "Slowly," she warned, her eyes never wavering until he'd risen and she'd backed him out of the chamber, courtesy of the edge of her blade.
She'd made the mistake of underestimating her rival only once before. No one could ever say she didn't learn from her errors.
Not until the door closed behind Godya did she lower her blade and turn to look up at Cezar.
"So sorry to have ruined your evening's entertainment," she said, taking no care to hide her loathing for the man.
"No sorrier than I, dear sister," he hissed morosely. "I can't remember the last time you were bested and gave us a real show."
Narcise did. It had happened eleven months ago, when she'd tripped over the blade of her saber as it caught on the rug. She'd lost her balance and rhythm, and that was the end of the battle. Cezar's colleague, whose name she'd never cared to learn, had wasted no time in slamming her onto the table, holding her hands pinned above her head as he used his own blade to cut down through her tunic and tear it away.
In an effort to add to the entertainment for the audience above, he'd fondled her breasts with rough fingers, then, breathing hot and hard, shoved his fangs into her shoulder. He sampled her for a moment, drinking deeply as she fought against the reflexive rush of arousal that always came when her blood was released thus.
Then, with her torso bare and her wrists pulled behind her back, he'd dragged her off to what she thought of as The Chamber for the rest of the night.
She hadn't lost a battle since and, in fact, had sent three Dracule permanently to hell during three previous engagements.
Now she sneered at Cezar. "What a pity I didn't provide enough entertainment. I'm certain it would be worth watching if you had a big enough bag between your legs to take me on yourself."
And then I could skewer you with a stake and I would be free.
But of course, he would never risk it. Nor would he dirty his pasty-white hands.
Her brother was older than she in both mortal years as well as vampir years. He'd been twenty-two when Lucifer visited him and offered him a life of power, wealth and immortality. That was more than fifteen years ago, and he looked exactly the same as he had at that time. Even the crooked tooth and the awkward set of a broken jaw that had never healed properly remained unchanged. It was that malformed jaw that gave his voice the faint lisp.
Cezar had waited three years, until Narcise turned twenty, before he arranged for her to be offered to Lucifer. During that time, their elder brother, who'd become the voivode, or ruler, over Moldavia through his marriage, had conveniently died...and Cezar had married his sister-by-law, thus becoming the new voivode. Their father and the original voivode had died just after their brother's wedding, and Narcise had come under Cezar's control shortly thereafter.
She always counted herself fortunate that she'd managed to lose her virginity to a man she fancied she loved before being turned into an immortal Dracule. And that female Dracule couldn't get with child-for they didn't have their monthly flow.
Since then she'd had little power over her own body.
The door behind her opened and Narcise didn't have to turn to know what was there. The rush of weakness flooded her and she gritted her teeth against the wave of paralysis.
It was, she thought dully as two of Cezar's thugs approached, a good thing that her brother liked to watch her win more often than lose. For, despite his earlier comments, Cezar would have the loss of a titillating form of entertainment, as well as a bargaining tool, if he didn't have his sister to beat up his friends and enemies alike.
Narcise remained still as her brother's men flanked her on each side. One of them fastened a cuff around her wrist. Woven of three brown feathers that were soft and delicate against her skin, and yet burned as if they were a branding iron, the bracelet leached her strength by its very proximity.
Her knees trembled but Narcise kept herself as tall and straight as she could. It never ceased to amuse her that, despite them being armed with the one thing in the world that could weaken her, there needed to be two strong, burly Dracule who escorted her back to her chamber.
That knowledge was the only thing that kept her hopeful as, day after day, she lived an eternity under her brother's control.
The knowledge that they were all terrified of her.
God and Lucifer help them if she ever got free.
Paris September 1793
The first time Narcise set eyes on Giordan Cale, she was fighting for her safety.
It was yet another of countless evenings of entertainment for Cezar, and this time, he was seated off to the side on a raised dais with a single companion: a broad-shouldered man with tight, curly hair and handsome, elegant features.
Normally Cezar liked to display his sister's capabilities to a small crowd of spectators. It was his way of advertising her abilities. But tonight, there were only the two of them watching from the unobtrusive corner as she fenced and fought with some man who'd angered her brother.
Her orders, tonight, had been to fight to the death, and Cezar had warned that she wouldn't be released from the small arenalike chamber until she either killed her rival, or he bested her-which didn't mean death for her, but something worse.
The poor fool was no match for Narcise, who'd been taught in swordplay and other acrobatic fighting skills by the best trainers Cezar could find. He wasn't about to have his favorite amusement killed by an overzealous suitor or an angry enemy.
Tonight, her opponent was a "made" vampir, one who'd been turned Dracule by another vampir instead of being invited into the Draculia by Lucifer himself. Narcise wasn't aware of what he'd done to insult her brother, for, in truth, Cezar could interpret the twitch of an eyelid or a simple cough as an insult. She didn't particularly care.
Nor did she spare much pity for the man. She couldn't afford to if she wanted to remain unscathed.
But as she whirled around to face her adversary, readying the saber for its cleaving blow, she glanced over and happened to catch the eye of her brother's companion. He was watching her intently, and she had the brief impression of a tanned wrist and hand settled with its index finger thoughtfully against his mouth.
She also noticed, in that blink of an eye, that, rather than focusing on her, Cezar sat back in his seat, covertly studying his companion. Without pause, Narcise finished her flowing movement, slicing the head from her opponent with a clean stroke.
Ending with her back toward the dais, and her audience, Narcise remained thus as she wiped her blade with a pristine white tablecloth. Then, with no acknowledgment to her audience, nor to the dead vampir whose damaged soul was filtering permanently down to hell, she stood, waiting for the door to be opened and her guards to appear. Grateful that tonight's competition had been relatively easy, she slipped the clean saber into its sheath.
She could hear the murmurs from behind her, the slightly sibilant hiss of her brother's voice, and the answering rumble of his companion, neither of which induced her to acknowledge them. Any intimate of her brother's was automatically an enemy of hers.
It wasn't until weeks later that she even learned his name.
Giordan Cale was all about money.
His ability to earn it, find it, inherit it, save it-and then, to multiply it several times over-was what got him into the predicament he was in: an immortal lifetime in which to spend more money than Croesus ever dreamed of. In fact, it seemed that Giordan couldn't lose money if he tossed buckets of it into the Seine, or had the servants burn it in his fireplace, for the funds simply reappeared in some other form-of a long-shot investment coming due, or even an inexplicable inheritance.
And it was precisely his flair with funds that drew him to the attention of Cezar Moldavi.
But of course Giordan had heard of the man...and his sister...even before Moldavi arrived in Paris, for the world of the Dracule was exceedingly small and tightly interwoven. Despite the vast geography of the earth, the members of Lucifer's secret society traveled and resided in only the largest, most cosmopolitan of cities: London, Vienna, Prague, Rome, Morocco and of course, Giordan's beloved Paris. And they tended to congregate at the same private clubs, interacting in the same high levels of society, a happenstance which Giordan used to his financial benefit. He was the owner or a majority shareholder in the most luxurious and private of these havens in every major city except London. And, he determined, it was only a matter of time until he was established there as well.
He had an eternity to make it happen, no?
Cezar Moldavi had come to the City of Light after spending several decades in Vienna, where, apparently, there had been an unfortunate incident with another of the Dracule-along with some increasing, unpleasant attention being given to Moldavi's propensity for bleeding children. There were those who risked their lives in order to hunt those of the Draculean world, sometimes even successfully. Giordan understood that Moldavi had decided it was best to evacuate from Vienna before one of those so-called vampire hunters was lucky enough to stake him to death.
Aside of that, one couldn't stay in one place for more than two or three decades without one's non-aging appearance being remarked upon, which required these powerful men to uproot and move their households every few decades or so. And now, after living in Vienna, Prague and even Amsterdam, Moldavi seemed intent on not only making his home in France, but also establishing himself as the leader of the Draculean underground therein.
Paris herself had changed during the last five years, during which Giordan had been in Morocco. Now, his City of Light roiled with tension and fear. Nerves crackled on the very rues, unease simmered in the Seine-for The Terror lived and seeped into every corner of the city. It had begun with the execution of the king by guillotine-and then shortly after, his wife Marie Antoinette, sniffing vials of her personal perfume tucked inside her bodice, met the same fate. And now every day, as Robespierre and his cronies struggled to maintain the burgeoning revolution, more and more people were dragged under the shining silver blade and relieved of their heads.
One who was required to live on the lifeblood of man-or whatever other living being one chose-might find it convenient that the mortals in Paris were being slaughtered in great numbers (for it wasn't only the Widow-the guillotine-that caused their demise; there were shootings and beatings and other random murders fueled by desperation and suspicion), for it certainly provided a vast opportunity for sustenance. But while Giordan Cale had no qualms about killing in general, he found such rampant, widespread actions distasteful and unnecessarily violent.
This was, apparently, only one of the many ways in which he and Cezar Moldavi differed.
In fact, there were painfully few ways in which he and Cezar Moldavi were in agreement. After spending only a brief time with a bottle of excellent wine (which Giordan had sent over) and discussing a possible investment with Moldavi, Giordan came to the conclusion that his friend Dimitri, known as the Earl of Corvindale across the Channel in England, was being kind when he described Moldavi as being the lowest form of a bollocks-licking, bitch-in-heat, Lucifer's-cock-biting bastard.
Giordan had just decided that, since he had no interest in continuing any form of discussion with Cezar Moldavi, he was going to excuse himself with great expedience and decline to watch the swordplay entertainment he'd been promised. But before he opened his mouth to do so, the man's sister entered the opposite part of the chamber, below the dais.
Everything in his mind whirred into silence and he found that his body, too, had stilled.
She was carrying a long, sheathed sword, with a slightly curved blade. A saber, then: a type of single-edged weapon just coming into fashion. In fencing, one most often used a straight, slender blade such as an epee, or even a blunted foil. The lethality of this blade was Giordan's first indication that the woman wasn't merely engaging in sport.
"My sister, Narcise," Moldavi murmured. He gestured to their empty cups on the table, and his steward moved quickly to fill them.
Giordan realized his breathing had ground to a halt and he reminded himself that, even though a vampire couldn't die from suffocation, one did have to breathe or become weakened.
She was lovely. Incredibly lovely.
He'd heard about her, of course. Who hadn't? Rumor had it that Cezar Moldavi's sister was bait, a tool, and even a bargaining chip for her brother. But Giordan, who'd met-and had-many lovely and exotic women during his travels hadn't expected to be so thoroughly entranced, and from a distance.
From his seat on the dais, Giordan studied her, attempting to be objective. And yet, one could be objective and still describe her as the most beautiful woman one had ever seen.
She was tall for a woman, and her rich, black hair was pulled into a large, tight knot at her nape. Her skin glowed like a pearl; it was fair and yet rosy luminous. He caught a brief glimpse of startling blue eyes that tended toward the violet end of the spectrum. They were outlined by dark lashes that made it appear as if she wore liner, as the Egyptians had to emphasize their eyes. But for her, it was a natural occurrence, and such artifice would be unnecessary.
And her face... Her features were incredibly perfect, magnificent really, with a lush, dark pink mouth and a straight, delicately formed nose.
If her face was exquisite, one could hardly expect that her figure would match it with such perfection...but it did. And the clothing she wore, unusual garb that clung to every curve, including her bound breasts, displayed the fact that Narcise Moldavi was this millennia's Helen of Troy: the face and figure that could launch a thousand ships.
The only element marring the perfection of countenance and form was the dull fog that veiled her expression, clouded her eyes. She was an empty doll, an emotionless puppet.
So distracted by his examination of her figure was he that Giordan didn't listen to the short commands given by his host, nor did he notice at first when another man joined them in the room.
But then he saw. Her opponent appeared larger and stronger than she, and like Narcise, he carried a deadly sword. But his was a broadsword, dual-edged, and heavier than her more elegant weapon. For the first time, Giordan understood that this was no simple fencing bout with foiled blades.
He turned to his host, intending to ask-and demand, if necessary-not to observe such an unmatched battle, but Cezar made an abrupt gesture. "Watch," he said. And then to the rivals, who stood mere feet away from the raised table, he said, "To the death."
Giordan stifled a reflexive response, and felt his muscles ready themselves to interfere if it became necessary. And surely it would.
Even the fierce expression that transformed Narcise's face didn't ease his concern, yet the change in her countenance Giordan found fascinating and quite striking. Her eyes flashed with loathing and determination, but she appeared so slight and much too elegant next to her burly rival.
And when she whirled into action, all taut grace and feline movement, Giordan's breath caught yet again. He was alternately entranced and tense, watching and waiting like a parent seeing their child make a jump on horseback for the first time.
Her dark hair gleamed in the light flickering from the sconces studding the walls, her slender arms were quick, and her teeth, fangs extended, were bared with ferocity. But her eyes did not burn red, and she seemed calm. Very much in control.
Giordan watched closely, his concern easing, as he saw her weight shift on her feet, and how she changed her center of balance to launch herself smoothly over one of the chairs, then used her momentum to fling that very chair back toward her rival. Admiration grew as he noted her employment of excellent fencing technique while moving her body in a more forceful, combative fashion than such an activity normally required.
He almost missed the nearly imperceptible circle made by her wrist in a counterparry, which might have caught him off guard if he'd been her opponent. Pursing his lips, Giordan's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to watch more closely, trying to understand her strategy. This was most certainly not a fencing match, with parries and ripostes and the formal dance of back and forth and lunge...and yet she went through those motions like an expert.
And then...she ducked nimbly beneath her lumbering opponent's arm, spun around behind him, sliced her saber down the back of his shirt and then met his blade as he twisted and swooped toward her with a great, ringing clash of metal.
The clang reverberated in the close room, followed by the slide of metal against metal. Then once again, she stepped out of the routine and somersaulted away as the man, now obviously frustrated by his lack of progress, lunged for her.
After that, the neat fencing bout deteriorated into a battle-field matchup of two lethal weapons. Giordan felt his arms tense once again, readying to interfere, and he spared a glance toward Moldavi. But his host was watching him, as if to gauge his guest's reaction to the battle, his gaze contemplative and yet hooded.
As their eyes met, Moldavi raised his glass and sipped, then slid his attention to the battle beyond.
Giordan's attention returned as well, just in time to see Narcise rise up to make a perfect arc on her feet, her blade free and ready, and in one burst of speed, she clove the head from her opponent in a powerful stroke.
She completed her turn, then stood, her slender back toward Giordan and her brother as she wiped her sword. The back of her shirt clung damply to her lower back, but not one strand of inky hair had escaped from its fat knot. Nor did her shoulders or arms seem to be moving with labored breaths.
She never looked back at them as she replaced her saber in its scabbard and stood, waiting.
Giordan was about to speak when a door opened and two large men-vampires-walked in. As he watched in astonishment and growing revulsion, they flanked and escorted Narcise from the chamber.
She never once acknowledged Giordan or her brother, a fact which both fascinated and irked him.
At that moment, Giordan decided that he might indeed continue discussing his next Far Eastern spice ship with Cezar Moldavi.
Giordan's private club and residence in Paris was what he thought of as his flagship establishment. Everything from the women and other entertainment, to the wine and liquor, and the other vintages, exuded luxury, pleasure and perfect taste. But of course, it was also ridiculously expensive. And every night, and through much of the day, Draculean patrons-along with a limited cadre of mortals-filled the seats and clustered around illegal gaming tables. For despite what the city's residents had begun to call the Reign of Terror, life-and business-did go on.
There were dinner parties, theater and balls, the women shopped for fashionable gowns, and men visited their clubs-though now, they did it with worried glances over the shoulder and a definite strain in one's smile. The whispers and low-voiced conversations in corners were no longer confined to gossip about who was doing what to whom, but were filled with warnings and worries. Who would be next?
Little of this, however, affected those of the Dracule. In fact, not only did government and authority mean nothing to the vampires, but such upheaval only made their lives easier. The more chaotic, the better.
Which was why Giordan suspected that Moldavi was more than a little involved in the ongoing rivalry between Robes pierre and his so-called "terror as a virtue" campaign, and that of Hebert and the proposition of his atheist cult-both factions which promoted reason over religion, government over church. While the two factions argued, fought and executed, the turbulent fallout was beneficial to Moldavi who sought to exercise as much control as possible over his mortal counterparts.
Giordan had extended a particular invitation to the cloistered Moldavi to join him at the club this evening. He wasn't at all certain that the man would accept, for he rarely left his subterranean residence, but he was hopeful that the possibility of continuing discussion on their potential business arrangement would draw him out. Aside of that, people rarely declined an invitation from him, simply because Giordan's parties and fetes were known for being lavish and exciting and, quite often, with unique entertainment. He didn't specifically ask that Moldavi bring his sister, but he knew it was likely that Narcise would accompany him.
Through the time Giordan had been absent from Paris, Moldavi had become entrenched in the underworld of the French Dracule. And on the rare occasion that he participated in social activities, he was usually accompanied by his sister. The better, Giordan had come to learn, to tempt friend and enemy alike into engaging with Narcise in battle.
There would be few men-mortal or otherwise-who could resist an opportunity to win a night with a woman such as she. The most troubling aspect of that particular arrangement was, in Giordan's mind, whether Narcise's brother forced her to engage in those gambles, or whether she did it of her own free will. If it were the former-and he was fairly certain it was, a suspicion supported by the empty expression on her face-there was yet another reason for him to disdain Moldavi, for exercising such influence over a woman was just as abhorrent as bleeding children to death.
And so when Giordan, who'd been sipping a very fine French brandy with two companions in his favorite private parlor, was advised that both Cezar and Narcise Moldavi had arrived, he merely nodded to himself. The bait had been taken, and he hoped to have his curiosity assuaged.
He was more than a bit curious to see what Narcise would be like in a less combative, restrictive environment, whether that dull glaze would be gone from her eyes, and whether a woman who looked like her, and fought with the ferocity of a man, had any social skills at all. Or whether she was merely a well-trained puppet.
Giordan was master enough of himself to admit that his interest and attraction had been piqued, and sharply. And honest enough to note that he would suffer even the presence of the repugnant Moldavi to pursue it.
It didn't take long before the invited guests found their way to Giordan's presence, and his host duly welcomed the siblings, introducing them to Eddersley, Voss, and indicating the latter's latest mistress, Yvonna. She was a mortal, and her eyes had sunk half-closed due to the earlier employment of an opium pipe. Now, she sagged quietly in a corner chaise while the men conversed.
Clearly Cezar Moldavi had been in his early twenties when he'd been turned Dracule. His facial features and the swarthiness of his skin betrayed a strong Romanian heritage despite an underlying pastiness; in fact, Giordan knew that Moldavi had only permanently left Romania within the last decade, although he'd made extensive trips throughout Europe prior to settling in Paris. His voivodina in Moldavia had been very remote, yet the army within was the most fearsome and powerful in its nation.
He was many pounds lighter than Giordan, and slighter as well, but he had a square jaw that made his face seem oddly proportioned, verging upon awkward. His dark brows hung thick and straight over small blue-gray eyes, and his hair grew unfashionably like a thin walnut cap over his forehead and ears. He had surprisingly elegant hands that were covered in rings, and he was fashionably attired in a long-tailed, cut-away coat of dark red brocade and dun-colored knee breeches. His waistcoat did not stint on color, of course, for dull hues were only for the lower class. Moldavi moved with a barely perceptible limp that had to be from an injury prior to becoming immortal.
"We've met, albeit briefly," Voss, the Viscount Dewhurst said, nodding to the new arrival. His attention strayed, as of course it would, to Narcise.
"Ah, yes," Moldavi replied, his face flattening in annoyance. His French wasn't perfect, but certainly serviceable. "In Vienna. On that most unfortunate evening some years ago. If I recall, you left before the fire that destroyed the house, did you not?"
But of course Giordan knew about the incident that had burned Dimitri's house in Vienna. "Some years ago" had actually been more than a century, but such was the life of an immortal when decades became mere flashes in time.
Voss and Moldavi had both been there in Vienna that night, and had both contributed to the tragedy in their own ways-although literally passing by each other as Voss departed and Moldavi arrived.
"Perhaps you might recall I was there as well," Eddersley said in his deep, cultured voice. He had large, knobby hands and wrists, and lots of dark, curling hair. His attention, as it was wont to do, barely touched on Narcise and instead glanced more contemplatively over her brother. But the short, slender Moldavi was no more Lord Eddersley's preference than Narcise was. He veered toward elegant, fair-haired men with broad shoulders and significant height when it came to feeding, and other pleasures. "But we haven't formally met."
"It was a rather...eventful night." Moldavi sketched the briefest of bows to the lanky, strong-featured man without comment, and Giordan fancied he saw him even sniff in disdain, for Eddersley made no effort to hide his preference for men. The latter gave no response aside of a similarly brief nod and then glanced at Voss, a little annoyed smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth as he greeted Narcise politely.
Next to her dark, awkward brother, Narcise appeared a swan. Giordan had to work to keep his attention from fastening on her and remaining there. But in the short moment his eyes swept her figure, he noted the detailed arrangement of her dark hair, tonight soft and loose around her porcelain face, and the sharp, sharp notice of her eyes.
The dullard look had gone.
Diamonds and ice-blue topazes glittered in her hair and at her throat. She wore a silk gown in the robe a la Anglaise style, which meant there was a significant expanse of bosom exposed and, if one were to get technical, ripples known as gathers all along the back of the bodice and bustle. The blue-and-cream-striped overdress and lacy underskirts lay flat in the front, but were gathered up in the back to create a silhouette that Giordan found most appealing: the elegant rise of a lady's rump, then the skirts falling in a short, smooth train to the floor. Fine lace decorated the edges of her sleeves and bodice, and even peeped from the layers of crinoline beneath the skirts.
He knew from experience that the weight of corset, chemise, as many as four crinolines, along with underskirt and overdress was significant, and he wondered how she felt to go from the light, clinging attire that she wore while fighting to such restrictive, heavy ones. He also contemplated the pleasure of peeling away her clothing, one layer at a time, like those curious paper boxes from China that nested one inside the other. Each one revealed a new delight and design just as did the layers of a woman's clothing.
"Please, sit," Giordan said, realizing he'd allowed his thoughts to go wayward. He gestured with his glass of brandy to encompass the chamber's hospitality, and one of the footmen poured a glass for Moldavi.
It was decorated in a relatively restrained style in comparison to that of other wealthy French residences-including Versailles. Giordan preferred the spare, simple elegance of the early Greeks and Romans over pastel colors and gilt. Thus, the furnishings were solid, yet inviting and comfortable, with cushions and pillows arranged freely. Large paintings hung on the otherwise bare white walls, except for one corner where a small collection of framed etchings of Parisian streets clustered. He kept them there to remind himself from whence he'd come.
"I am gratified that you saw fit to accept my invitation," Giordan added, sipping from the glass.
"I accept very few," Moldavi said as if bestowing some great favor. "But I am most interested in continuing our discussion begun last fortnight. And I have come to understand that one does not wish to miss a party given by Monsieur Cale." His lips moved in a brief smile. As if to punctuate his reference to joviality, a burst of laughter erupted from the public parlor below.
"Indeed," Giordan replied as Moldavi sat in the chair next to him, gesturing to his sister to alight nearby. "But before we turn our thoughts to business, perhaps a bit of pleasure first? I've just added some new vintages on which I would appreciate your opinion. We were just about to sample them."
"I would be delighted," Moldavi replied in his low, sibilant voice.
For the first time, Giordan scented Narcise-or, more accurately, he was able to identify and extract her specific essence from that around him, and it was just as decadent and alluring as the woman herself. Musky, spicy, dark, and yet elegant. Notes of smoky vetiver...clary sage...and sweet ylang-ylang. Lush, sensual, tempting.
Giordan swallowed, feeling his gums begin to swell as they prepared to thrust his fangs forth, and the further deep stirring of desire inside him. Narcise Moldavi was potent on so many levels.
She'd chosen to sit, not where her brother had indicated, but in what Giordan sensed might be more than a bit of defiance, on a chaise just to the right of her host. He didn't fool himself into believing she'd chosen proximity to him because she wanted to be near him, for it was the farthest available seat from her brother.
Turning his thoughts and attention from her, Giordan rang a little bell next to him on the table. "Then let us commence."
The door to the chamber opened and his private steward and valet, Mingo, stepped in. He was one of the few made vampires that Giordan employed, simply for the fact that he rarely chose to sire a new immortal. They were most often more trouble than they were worth, and there were plenty of other makes available for hire-most of them foolish mortals who'd been lured into a false sense of security by choosing to live forever. But Giordan found it necessary to have a Dracule, and one that he trusted, in the position for obvious reasons-otherwise, it would be like having a wine steward who had no taste for the beverage.
"Send in the newest acquisitions," he commanded. "And prepare a new plate, if you will."
Moldavi leaned closer to Giordan and murmured, "My sister has recently fed and will decline any offerings tonight."
Giordan was aware of the waft of patchouli and cedar that accompanied Moldavi's movements, along with a note of something mildly unpleasant. "I have already fed as well," he replied with a bland smile. "However, the purpose is not for sustenance, but merely to enjoy a sampling of an excellent varietal."
Moldavi smiled, displaying his fangs. In the right one, a bit of gold glinted. "I merely wished to explain in order to forestall any offense. Please understand that none would be intended, but she will not partake."
Indeed. Giordan kept his features smooth with effort, and his attention from sliding to the woman in question. We shall see about that. However, he merely said, "I do hope she will change her mind."
"She is quite stubborn," Moldavi said with a low chuckle, absently tapping his fingernail on the glass.
Before Giordan could find some unassuming response, the door opened and in filed two men and four women. There was no way to immediately identify them as mortal versus Dracule, but they were, indeed, mortals who were here to provide whatever Giordan's guests required.
"And here we are," he said, looking around at his companions, including Narcise. She fixed him back with a calm stare, and he felt certain she would have heard the exchange between him and her brother. Draculean hearing, along with sight and smell, was superhumanly acute.
"As you may be aware, I am particular about the sort of libation offered to my guests, both here and in my other establishments," Giordan explained. "Please note that all of them are willing participants...provided they are tipped well...and that they are kept in the most comfortable and regimented accommodations."
"There are no restrictions, of course," Eddersley said. His fangs had slipped free a bit, and his eyes glowed softly.
"Indeed, none," Giordan replied, knowing precisely why his friend had asked. One of the six was a strapping blond man from Russia. "As long as you cause them no lasting or mortal injury, and as long as you can afford the fee," he added with a brief smile, "there are no restrictions. Now, if you will allow me to introduce our selections. They are all new here at Chateau Riche, and tonight is their debut. I've found Damaris, the dark-skinned girl there in the blue gown, to be extremely rich and full of body. She is my favorite of them." He smiled at her, his fangs extended just a bit at the memory.
Moldavi looked at him sidewise and then back at the young woman, whose hair was scraped back into a high, exotic tail. Her skin was the color of dark tea and she was tall and slender, from Egypt or somewhere in the vicinity of the Holy Land.
"We keep each of them on a specific diet, strictly to maintain the integrity of their blood," Giordan continued. "Have you noticed how the taste can differ, depending upon the type of food intake, as well as origin? Rather like the types of soil that grow grapes or hops. The diets are as individual as they are. Some of them, like the lovely Drishni there, in the red gown, eat only vegetation. Others eat highly spiced foods, or drink an inordinate amount of champagne. And so on."
Once again, he gestured to his guests to partake, and then crooked a finger for Damaris to join him. She wafted over, her blue gown flowing loosely over long limbs. Unlike the ladies who wore high fashion, she didn't have the layers of crinoline and corset to peel away. One could see everything she had to offer as the silk clung to her from breast to hips to pubis.
As Damaris settled on the arm of Giordan's chair, just between him and Moldavi, Mingo entered the room again. He was carrying a plate with the pressed and rolled hashish. Without waiting for his master's direction, he arranged it on the low, central table and lit the small pyramid-shaped block.
"Please," Giordan said, looking at Moldavi with a nod of hospitality. Damaris, also well-trained, offered one wrist to each of them as she sat on the chair arm.
Giordan felt Moldavi's eyes on him as he extended his fangs and slid just the tips into the curve of her elbow. The release of blood into his mouth, warm and rich-and in this case, heavy with a note of spice-filled his senses. The taste, the smell, the way his body leaped and responded, skin prickling and warming, had his own blood surging.
For him, as well as for all Dracule, it was difficult to separate the primitive need for sustenance from the accompanying titillation and arousal that came with penetrating flesh and ingesting hot, thick blood, of the intimate slide of mouth against skin-and most of the time, it was neither necessary nor desirable to do so.
But tonight, now, Giordan was merely sampling. He had no need for sustenance, nor was he interested in engaging in any other erotic pleasures in his current company-although that wasn't due to any modesty on his part.
The simple fact was, despite the taste and smell of the exotic Damaris-who was beginning to breathe heavily as her own pleasure increased with both men feeding from her arms-it was the awareness of Narcise, and her smell, her essence and presence, that attracted Giordan. But he sensed that it would be best not to reveal his deep interest to her brother so overtly. So he kept his gaze strictly away from her.
As the sweet, peppery smell of burning hashish filtered through the chamber, and the arousing flow of blood settled over his tongue and rushed through his body, Giordan felt his world turning warm and red, hazy and lulling. He withdrew from Damaris and he'd barely turned away when another of his "vintages"-the Viennese girl Liesl-appeared in front of him. She was petite and blonde, and her lifeblood was just as light and pure as her appearance. She offered a slender shoulder, bared by a low-rising bodice, and as he tugged her onto his lap to take a taste, he allowed his attention to slide toward the chaise where Narcise was sitting.
Had been sitting.
She was gone now.
Combing through the miasma of pleasure and sensuality, Giordan paused before sliding his fangs into the delicate woman in front of him. The smoke from the hashish had cast a filter over the room, and Mingo had turned the oil lamps down to a soft glow. It took Giordan a moment to look around and see a lone figure standing near the corner, looking at a painting on the wall.
Instead of slipping his fangs in, he softly murmured instruction to Liesl to join Damaris with Moldavi, and to block the guest's view of the chamber.
He was under no misapprehension about Moldavi's need to control his sister. He'd also sensed that any attempt to speak privately with Narcise would be thwarted by her brother.
Aside of that, she would need to be approached with care. Despite the spark of life he'd noticed in her eyes, surely she must be skittish and leery of any male.
"Keep him occupied and distracted, and you will be well-compensated," Giordan murmured into Liesl's ear, then nicked her with his fang. Just to taste, for it was his duty as host to ensure that everything on the menu was exquisite. And it was. He slicked his tongue briefly around the edge of her ear and she shivered, her hands settling onto his shoulders as she sagged into him, clearly wanting more.
"More of my lord would be compensation enough." Her fingers slipped into his hair and she pressed her breasts into his collarbone.
But Giordan flashed his eyes in warning, for there was a fine line between making one's services available to a guest and overstepping one's bounds. His vintages must learn to finesse the difference. He eased her firmly from his lap. "Go on," he said quietly.
He took great care in extricating himself from the chair, attempting to be unnoticed by Moldavi, who seemed very content with Damaris. He watched as Liesl positioned herself, along with Damaris, nearly in the man's lap. And then, as much as every muscle in his body desired him to do so, Giordan did not walk directly over to Narcise.
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 menage 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?"