The Vampire Narcise (Regency Draculia #3)(46)
Author: Colleen Gleason

"What is going on here?" said the man who was presumably Moldavi himself. Slight of stature, dark hair with an odd, wide jaw, and rings glinting on all of his fingers.

Chas stilled, his attention bouncing around the chamber to see what might be utilized for an escape, or at least for a weapon. The thing about stakes; they weren’t good for distance. One had to get up close.

Narcise, the madwoman, had her sword, and he looked down to notice that it was once again thrusting into his chest. "Look who’s arrived for a visit, dear brother," she said. Her expression had changed into something hard and blank.

"Do I know you?" Moldavi asked, making a little hissing tsk sound. "Monsieur?"

Chas hardly took note of the other three vampirs, assuming they were the ones who’d been speaking with Moldavi earlier, and instead focused on gauging the distance and angle it would take him to thrust his stake into the man’s chest. He flickered a glance at Narcise, trying to read something in her eyes that would either support or deny her previous plea of Help me.

What exactly was she asking him?

"We’ve never met," Chas replied to the man who’d walked around him as if he were a piece of furnishing he was considering for purchase. The hair at the back of his neck lifted, prickling uncomfortably at the man’s frenetic movements.

Darkness rolled off Moldavi in silent waves, burning in eyes that seemed calm, but lurking deep within them was an odd light. He was too quick, too odd in his movements, yet the underlying energy bespoke of paranoia battling with control. There was no doubt in Chas’s mind that this man was malevolence personified.

"Too dark and swarthy for my taste," Moldavi murmured to one of his companions-not his sister. "But who are you, then, and what are you doing here?" he said, standing in front of him.

"It’s Chas Woodmore," Narcise said, sending Chas’s shocked attention back to her.

How in the Devil’s name is that going to save me?

Moldavi stilled and his eyes narrowed. "You’re Wood-more?"

"I’m here to kill you," said Chas, never one to beat around the bush.

Moldavi turned to look at his companions, chuckling, and Chas felt the tip of Narcise’s blade shift a bit. Whether by accident or design, he didn’t know, but he didn’t hesitate.

The next moment he was spinning away and then lunging toward Moldavi, stake raised to his shoulder. No one could react in time to stop him, and Chas felt a surge of triumph as his powerful thrust embedded the stake into the back of the man’s torso. Right at the heart.

But instead of feeling the soft inside, the give of the heart after breaking through the skin next to the spine, Chas felt a shock of pain jolting his arm as he realized he’d struck armor-something metal, based on the strength of the reverberations trammeling through his limb.

He swore as they descended on him then, all of them, fangs flashing, eyes red, hands tearing and clawing. He still had hold of his stake and, using his legs, he twisted and bucked, stabbing indiscriminately as countless hands and feet grabbed and kicked him. He felt something give in his shoulder, the tearing of skin, the burst of blood from his upper arm.

Something sharp slammed into his back, then his gut, and one of them yanked him up and threw him through the air. He hadn’t caught his breath when he slammed into the wall and the world, mercifully, went black.

His last thought before tumbling into darkness was Corvindale is going to kill me.

When he opened his eyes again, Chas found himself reclining on a chaise or some sort of divan. A fire roared nearby, heating his skin uncomfortably. His body ached, his head pounded and he was thirsty.

It took him a moment to realize that he was dressed only in his breeches and that his wrists were tied on either side of him, restrained with leather thongs to the foot of the divan. His legs were also immobilized in the same way.

Something moved in his periphery and he looked over to see Moldavi, who’d shifted into his line of vision. He was with a young woman who seemed to stumble as she walked along with him.

"I have my own special armor," Moldavi said without preamble, directing the woman to sit on a chair directly in front of Chas.

"My informants neglected to share that detail with me," Chas replied wryly. "If they even knew."

"It’s saved my life more than a dozen times. Would you like to see it?" Moldavi pulled off his shirt to reveal a slender, ashen-gray chest dusted with shiny dark hair.

The man was slender, nearly skeletal, and at first Chas saw nothing that could be considered armor except for a dark circular shape over the center of his chest. It gleamed and he saw that it was metal…set into his skin.

"Look more closely," Moldavi said, leaning toward him, gesturing to his breastbone. "Do you see?"

And then Chas understood. The faint octagonal outline on-no, beneath-his skin, covering the entire breastbone and over his chest, was larger than that which was exposed beneath the skin. No larger than the spread of a hand, the whole was nevertheless generous enough to protect the heart from any stake.

"It’s… Your skin has grown over it?" Chas asked, fascinated and horrified at the same time.

Moldavi nodded complacently. "Some years ago I realized how prudent it would be to have a permanent protection. We Dracule heal so quickly, of course, and so I made a place for the medallions of protection-I have one on my back as well, of course-by cutting a place for it in my skin. Oh, it didn’t hurt, don’t be concerned. And it makes me feel quite powerful. I kept the medallions there until the skin grew back over them-most of the way, as you can see, some of it is still exposed. I rather like the appearance of it. I have similar protection in my neck, of course. For, you see, now I can’t be killed. Even by the fearsome Chas Woodmore."

Moldavi shifted, now standing behind the woman. He moved her hair away, leaving a shoulder and the side of her neck bare. "You come from London, do you not, Chas Woodmore? Where you live with your three very lovely sisters?"

A shock of fear speared his insides. "You seem to be more familiar with me than I am with you."

"Oh, I am very familiar with you, Monsieur Woodmore, and Maia, Angelica and…Sophia? What was her name?" He gave a brief smile, licked his lips, then bent slightly to sink his fangs into the bare shoulder of his companion. She tensed, stiffening at the pain, then relaxed.

The spike of worry for his sisters turned into a deep, heavy bolt of revulsion as Chas watched Moldavi gulp the coursing blood. His throat, visible above an elaborate neckcloth, convulsed as his jaw moved in the same rhythm-as if he couldn’t get enough of it fast enough. The woman’s reaction was nearly as unsettling: she closed her eyes, her face tightening with some expression that was neither wholly pain nor wholly pleasure.