The Vampire Narcise (Regency Draculia #3)(53)
Author: Colleen Gleason

But…she had to do something.

She was a Dracule, she had the ability to enthrall even if she couldn’t go out in the daylight. How foolish of her to waste time when she did have the means to do what had to be done!

It had been so long since she’d been on her own, making her own decisions. Much more than a century. Still, to have stayed hidden and helpless like a trembling rabbit was not admirable in the least.

Unwilling to leave Woodmore alone for too long, she rang for one of the servants. A young woman came and Narcise gave her instructions in her imperfect French: she needed a physician immediately for her companion.

Then, assuring herself that Woodmore would sleep-if not restlessly-for a bit longer, she left the chamber quickly. Down the back stairwell she went, and then into the public room where it was crowded with people, noise and smells. Smoke and sweat were strong enough here to gag her, along with the layer of stale ale and old wine and a myriad of other aromas.

Nervously she looked about and settled her attention on an old, fat man who was waddling unsteadily toward the door. He was well-dressed and clumsy with drink.

Narcise, who was thankful to still be dressed as a boy, kept her face averted and hoped not to draw attention as she made her way to meet her unsuspecting mark. At the door, which fortunately led into a small alcove to keep the snow and rain from pouring into the pub itself, she met up with the fat man. He was irritable, which made her feel even more justified in drawing him into a bit of her thrall whilst she relieved him of the wallet he held under his coat.

It was done more quickly and easily than she’d even imagined, and Narcise, flush with funds and a different sort of confidence that had nothing to do with swordsmanship or even her beauty, slipped back up to the chamber she shared with Woodmore. She would feed later, after she’d seen to Chas, and when she could find a more private place.

But that incident seemed to be the most optimistic part of the day. When the physician arrived, he spoke French too rapidly for her to completely understand…yet the idea that Woodmore was in dangerous condition became very clear.

Narcise watched as the docteur used a sharp knife to cut into the swollen and infected wound, then scooped away the foul-smelling green pus that erupted from it. He cleaned it and wrapped it and gave her a list of instructions that was only partly clear…and then he left, taking a good portion of the fat man’s money with him.

Not long after he left, a knock sounded at the door, drawing Narcise’s attention abruptly from her patient. She quickly covered Woodmore with a sheet and then bade the servant to enter.

It was a young man who’d come to collect the tub and pails. He looked at Narcise, who’d just taken her hair down and whose shirt still clung to her body curves, and she saw a flare of interest in his eyes before he turned to gather up the items.

Her heart began to thump harder and her gums constricted. No, not here…but why not? It’s more private than belowstairs.

She swallowed hard and tried to ignore her increasing light-headedness and the gnawing in her stomach.

"Could you build up the fire again?" she asked, hearing the duskiness in her own voice. "It’s chilly in here."

"Certainly, madame," he replied, and set the pails on the ground. His gaze lingered as he walked past her, and she felt a little nudge in her center.

He’s willing.

He doesn’t know what it is you want.

She bit her lip, trying to keep from scenting the young man, who was lanky and blond and had an alluring, masculine scent laced with innocence. He couldn’t be much older than twenty.

No…

But yes. A streak of pain flamed over her shoulder and down the side of her back and Narcise gasped. The sudden filling and pulsing of her Mark was like a branding iron of Lucifer’s temper. "Madame?" the youth asked, turning from the fireplace to look at her in concern.

"What is your name?" she asked, breathless with pain…and anticipation.

"Philippe," he said, and she felt her eyes warm into a strong warm glow.

"Philippe," she replied, stepping closer to him. "There is something else you could assist me with."

His breathing changed, deepening and slowing, as her eyes burned into him. Oh, yes. Narcise’s fangs erupted swiftly and she could scarcely breathe.

"Will you?" she asked, holding out her hand. Her heart beat savagely in her breast, and she could smell his desire, his interest wafting through the air.

He stepped toward her, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth full and sensual. "What is it?" he asked.

She could wait no longer; hunger and need drove her and she fairly flung herself at him. His arms went around her, his fingers pulling at her shirt, but she had hold of his shoulders and slammed her fangs into his flesh.

His gasped mon Dieu rang in her ears as the flood of ambrosia poured into her mouth. Narcise clung to his shoulders as she forced him back against the wall, drinking and leeching from his warm, youthful flesh. His hands moved over her, pulling at her clothes, dragging the shirt up over her back so he could touch her skin.

She felt the rise and swell of his c**k against her, and the soft moans from the back of his throat as she swallowed and sucked deep drafts of lifeblood. Pleasure and arousal, along with strength, rushed through her. Her br**sts tightened, becoming sensitive behind their loosened bindings. Damp and heat pounded through her as she licked and drank, the young coppery blood filling her mouth. His chest rose and fell against her br**sts, and his hands moved around to cover them, sliding down over tight ni**les to the swelling center between her legs, frantic and desperate for his own release.

Narcise might have gone on for too long if there hadn’t been a dull noise from behind her. The thump brought her back to the moment, to where she was, what she was doing…and that she and her victim had sagged into a heap on the floor, his hands tearing at her breeches.

She pulled her fangs away, breathing as if she’d been running, and felt her partner-for he wasn’t precisely a victim-shuddering against her. He muttered something low and desperate in her ear, grinding the bulge in his trousers against her hip as his mouth found hers. He was sloppy and warm, and the taste of his own blood must have excited him, for he pulled her closer, urgent and needy.

Narcise twisted her face away and returned to his shoulder to lick at the bitemarks she’d left there. It made the wounds heal quickly and cleanly, and helped the blood to stop flowing.

As she pulled back, a glance behind her indicated Chas Woodmore, completely naked and wavering on his feet, clutching the bed as if he were about to pitch over any moment. The feverish light was in his eyes, but determination tightened his face, and she saw that he held a piece of splintered wood in his hand.