The Vampire Narcise

Narcise 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 powerful. 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.

She would either live through Cezar's anger, as she had so many times before...or he would kill her in his fury. And that, she thought, could very well be the lesser of the two evils.

Cezar Moldavi was fully aware of his sister's disappearance, and with whom.

Certainly he was, for he rarely allowed anything out of his control to happen. Those days of being pummeled and pushed and bullied were long behind him. Now, everything he did was carefully planned, every possible outcome examined, accepted or rejected, and Cezar Moldavi had long since destroyed anyone who could remember him as the sniveling, snot-nosed coward he'd once been.

Except for his sister, whom he loved.

And hated.

Despite the stimulation of two lovely mortal women who fondled and stroked and tempted him to feed on them, his mind was elsewhere. He knew precisely when Narcise and Cale left the chamber, how long they were gone and who had fed upon whom by the time they returned.

And although he was disappointed with the turn of events, he'd expected it. It had been one of the possible-and, in fact, most probable-outcomes. He would have liked to have been surprised, but the fact that he wasn't surprised wasn't such a great tragedy, for, again, he'd been prepared.

Cale was a striking, powerful man, absurdly wealthy and well-thought-of in both the Dracule and the mortal worlds. He was used to getting all that he desired.

And so was Cezar.

But then again...nothing had truly happened between Cale and his sister. Cezar could smell it: a brief feeding, nothing more. Narcise would pay for her disobedience...but not in the way she might anticipate.

And that was why Cezar allowed himself to be convinced by Cale's smooth explanations for what had obviously happened. The scent of satiation was everywhere in the chamber, clinging to Narcise; there was no way to hide what had occurred. And so, admirably, Cale didn't attempt to do so.

"And see how I injured myself," he said, gesturing to his wounded arm. "I imposed upon your sister, and was able to convince her to assist me. I'm deeply gratified that she agreed, for I fear my shirtsleeve would have been stained otherwise." His smile was charming, even reaching his eyes. Yet, behind the smile, there was a hint of warning. "And Mingo-you understand how valets can be-would be beside himself."

"Certainly," Cezar replied, approving of the very well-cut lines of the other man's clothing. Not as ostentatious as some of the other high fashion here in Paris, with the brocade cutaway coats of pastel, but nevertheless extremely well-made and perfectly fitted. He must get the name of his tailor. "I'm certain Narcise had no real qualms about assisting our host." His expression and voice were bland, and as he glanced over, he saw the flare of nervousness in her eyes.

Good. But do not expect the sword to drop so soon, my dear sister. I have need of you first.

If nothing else, Cezar Moldavi had learned to plot and plan and manipulate instead of rushing in. And until he got what he wanted from Giordan Cale-which was more than a mere share in his next spice ship to China-he would look aside and allow Narcise to help him.

At the very least, it would provide some very stimulating activity.

Giordan looked out over the glittering lights. There were gently rocking carriage lanterns, and higher, stable street-lights. The glow of oil lamps, from bright yellow to dull amber, shone from unshuttered windows. The City of Light, named for being the center of education and enlightenment since the medieval monks built their narrow streets, was a more apt nickname than most realized.

He was high enough, here on the silent rooftop, that the shouts and cries from below were indiscernible, mingling with the low hoot of owls and the distant rattle of bridles and carriages. Bonfires blazed in red-orange pockets as spectators waited, reserving their places for the morning's executions. Giordan fancied he could even see the wicked gleam of the guillotine blade in its large black frame.

He wondered how long this madness would last, how long the likes of Robespierre and Hebert would escape a similar fate. Giordan had lived more than a hundred years, and one thing he'd come to realize was that fanaticism and violence had a way of turning on to those who wielded them.

A cool breeze ruffled his curls as he lifted a glass to sip his favorite Armagnac. Warm and pungent, the brandy's potency was a different experience than that of the lifeblood he'd enjoyed earlier this evening, courtesy of Damaris. Not for sustenance did he enjoy the liquor, but for pleasure and weight and taste, and the different sort of looseness it gave him.

So it was for the Dracule: when they ate cheese or fruit or pastries, or any sort of food, or partook of wine or ale, it was purely for pleasure. Texture, taste, scent. A reminder of their enjoyment from mortal days, a social activity. But not at all necessary.

He allowed the brandy to settle on his tongue, swirling it thoughtfully in tandem with a myriad of thoughts, a spectrum of emotions. A burst of laughter erupted below, coming from one of his balconies on a lower floor. Ah, good. His guests were enjoying themselves.

What more could a man ask?

Friends, companionship, social engagements... He was rarely alone. He need never be lonely.

Yet...he'd escaped from his own lavish party to find solitude on the private rooftop. Potted lemon and orange trees, surrounded by luminaries, released their scent into the breeze. A long ledge, planted with rosemary and thyme, contained the low bushes as they sprouted fragrantly. There was a bench if he chose to sit, and even a small pit should he wish to burn the neatly tied fagot resting in it. A fat beetle scuttled across the edge of the bench and Giordan smashed it with his boot.

Pity that he could only utilize the space once the sun went down, for he wondered how different Paris would appear in the daylight. What the creamy rows of houses and their peaked roofs would look like, neat and perpendicular and shoved together like rows of pointed teeth, knit together like the patterned stitches of a shawl.

Perhaps if he had such an unobstructed view, he might see La Chapelle-Saint-Denis from here: the place of his origin, of his birth.

Not his literal birth. He wasn't certain where that had been; in the countryside, he suspected. But the place where he'd lived-no, no, where he'd existed. Merely existed.

Those memories still pierced him, still caused his throat to close up. Still, more often than he cared to admit, had him waking, desperate, in the middle of the day, wondering if there would be enough bread for dinner or a place to sleep. Remembering the scrap of wool he tried to huddle beneath during the snows. Fighting off the memory of rough hands and the stink of unwashed men unlacing their breeches, shoving him into dark alleys.

Here he was, rooftops and decades away from those days, from his own Terror.

And, here in Le Marais, only a few streets from a new obsession: Narcise Moldavi.

A shadow moved on an adjacent rooftop across the way, but he'd already sensed the cat. Elegant and slinky, padding four-footed across the ridge, it turned and looked at him with knowing blue-gray eyes. The moon stroked its pale fur with a hint of blue and silver, leaving the creature to look almost luminous.

Giordan paused with the glass halfway to his mouth and lowered it, watching. Waiting.

The cat's long tail twitched and it gave a low meow, as if to taunt him.

But there was a street-albeit a narrow one-five stories below, between his balcony and the cat's roof peak. That was far enough that Giordan wasn't overly affected by the feline's presence. This was just about as close as he could get to a cat now without becoming weak or even paralyzed, a fact that he despised.

His only friend from those years living hand to mouth, dirty and cold, had been a large, fat orange tabby with yellow eyes. When things had started to change, when he'd had two sous to rub together, and then four clinking in his pocket, and then eight and then they began to multiply faster than Giordan could believe, Chaton (a decidedly uncreative name to be sure) had been with him.

The night Lucifer visited, deep in Giordan's dreams-or perhaps they had been nightmares-Chaton had been curled next to him on the bed, purring. This was long after Giordan had bought his own well-appointed home, with the largest, softest goosedown mattresses he could find, after his incredible financial luck had taken hold. And so it was that, when Giordan awakened the next morning after a hazy, dark dream in which the Devil had promised him immortality and power and even more riches, the first thing he saw was Chaton.

And that, horribly enough, was also the last time he would pet or hold or come near the companionable feline.

For, along with life everlasting and the requirement of fresh blood to live, along with the Mark of the Devil like evil black roots on his back, Giordan had also acquired his own personal Asthenia. His Achilles' heel.

Each of the Dracule had a specific weakness, the proximity of which tightened the lungs and weighted the limbs, making one feel as if they were trying to slosh through water. The nearer it got, the more helpless one became until, at the mere touch of the item, one felt as if one were being branded.

Thus, Giordan, who'd given up death and age, had also given up his pet to become his Asthenia as soon as he laid eyes on Chaton that morning.

It was a sacrifice he bitterly regretted, a hundred fourteen years later.

He turned his attention from the blue-eyed cat, who'd positioned itself to watch him with an unblinking stare, and toward the east. Toward the roof of Moldavi's home, which would soon be lit by the pink icing of dawn.

Cezar owned a narrow house near the edge of Le Marais, but most of his living quarters were located safely under the ground. Giordan had walked through skull-lined catacombs well beneath the rue to find his host. The subterranean lair was radically different from where most Dracule resided, and he couldn't help but wonder about the reasons for it.

Security, most likely. To keep both him and his valuable sister safe.

Giordan took another sip and at last allowed his thoughts to go where they wished.

It had been two weeks since the evening she was here, the night things had changed. Since he'd fallen in love with her...just like that.

Ever since the moment she'd fed on him, her full lips pressed to his skin, her teeth sinking into his flesh, he'd known. He'd never felt such strong emotion. Such...completion. Such-

A raucous burst of laughter exploded in the silence, and Giordan turned as someone called his name.

"There you are," cried Suzette, a made vampire who'd shared his bed-and blood-on many occasions.

She and a small group of his acquaintances were just emerging from the door that led to the rooftop. They chatted gaily, bottles of wine and ale dangling from their fingers. And, of course, in their wake trailed two of Giordan's well-trained servants, available to set right anything that might go amiss.

"Whatever are you doing up here alone, darling Giordan?" asked Felicia, another sired vampire with whom he'd traded bodily fluids. She slinked her way over toward him, and Suzette merely rolled her glowing eyes and turned to the man on her arm. Jealousy was not one of her vices.

He smiled at them, his host smile, his not-quite-mirthful-but-very-friendly-one, and gestured out to the City of Light. "But I was merely waiting for you to join me. The view is lovely, no?"

"Not nearly as lovely as this," crowed a drunken Brickbank, one of Voss's friends. He was leering down Suzette's exceedingly low-cut bodice, which, due to the size of her breasts and the way they were plumped up, had a deep, dark vee between them into which a man might slide his entire hand, sideways. Giordan knew this from personal experience, and although the thought might have tempted him in the past...tonight it did not.

"What sort of treat do you have planned for us this evening?" asked the Comte Robuchard, walking idly about the small space. "Some music perhaps? A blazing fire on which we can roast chestnuts?" He was one of the few mortals who knew about the Draculia, and who was invited to some of their activities. Paris was rife with secret societies, but the Dracule was one of the few that was truly underground and unknown, even by some of the upper class.

Ever the good host, Giordan pushed away his lingering thoughts of Narcise and immediately responded, "I thought perhaps I might jump from the roof tonight."

This suggestion-which he'd only just thought of-was met with squeals of delight and masculine roars of approval.

"That will be even more exciting than the night you danced among the flames in front of a crowd of varlets," cried Felicia. Her fangs had slipped free, and now they dipped into her lower lip as she smiled. "They thought they were witnessing the Devil himself!"

"It would be most exciting," Suzette agreed, her arm now slipped through that of a different one of their male companions. "Shall you do a flip, or merely swan dive from the edge?"

"Hmm," he said with a grin. "I must do something fantastic, no?" Giordan had begun to peel off his favorite coat of bronze brocade, and he tossed it to one of the ladies with whom he hadn't shared a bed. Loosening the ties at the knees of his breeches to give himself more freedom of movement, he looked down to the street below.

A fall or dive wouldn't injure a Dracule, unless, by some unhappy event, he or she impaled oneself on a piece of wood, through the heart. Or if some guillotine-like metal happened to be there on the way down to slice one's head from one's shoulders. Neither of which were the case.

Such a feat would, to be sure, frighten or startle any mortal who might witness it, but that was part of the thrill. This was no worse than a mortal riding a horse at full speed and leaping over a high fence: dangerous but hardly lethal unless something went wrong.

And nothing would go wrong for Giordan. He was an entertainer, not a fool.

"Bernard," he said, gesturing to one of the hovering servants, "go below and ensure that I have a clear area to land."

Once having ascertained that there was nothing that might hinder his fall from this angle, he undid the cuffs of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves and poised at the edge of the roof.

Amid the shouts of his friends, his companions, those who filled his nights with activity, he flashed a bold smile and jumped.

He'd purposely launched himself at an angle away from the roof, and caught the railing of a lower balcony on the same opposite building where the cat had been. He swung briefly, then released and somersaulted away from the landing, flipping so that he ended feetfirst onto the narrow cobblestone street.

The force of landing on half-bent legs caused him to stagger into another two steps, making it less than perfect-but at least he didn't land on his arse or head. Then, breathing heavily, Giordan looked up at the shadows lining the edge of his rooftop and executed a neat bow.

Cheers and applause filtered down, and a pair of hack drivers gaped from where they'd been chatting next to his faithful servant Bernard, but despite the commendation lauded upon him, Giordan didn't feel like smiling.

He'd entertained. He'd gifted his acquaintances with food and drink and entree to his home and club. He had conversationalists all around him, at all times.

But inside, Giordan felt as if he was missing something.

And he knew exactly what it was.