The Vampire Narcise (Regency Draculia #3)(71)
Author: Colleen Gleason

Chas looked at her suddenly, from where he brooded in the corner. His eyes gleamed in the shadows and they fixed on her, dark and steady. "You once said you knew of no one who was visited by Lucifer and who yet declined the Devil’s bargain. But that isn’t true. You do know someone who has."

Somehow, Narcise was able to ignore the shuttle of renewed heat blasting over her shoulder’s Mark. "Who is that?" she asked, suddenly feeling light of head. Suddenly afraid she understood.

"Me."

They arrived at Rubey’s late in the afternoon of a dreary, foggy day.

Narcise was still stunned and silent from Chas’s confession, and he, for his part, had offered no other details. When she pressed him, he merely shook his head, closed his eyes and replied, "I’ve never told another soul. There’s a reason I don’t want to talk about it."

But now, at least, she understood his consistent, barely concealed disgust toward those of her race-those who had made what he clearly saw as the wrong decision.

How fitting, in a terrible, ironic way, that he should be judge, jury and executioner of those very people. For he could have been one of them himself.

Inside Rubey’s, Narcise was whisked away for a warm bath-something their hostess was particularly fond of herself, according to the maid-and Chas disappeared in another direction, presumably to eat and clean up after the grueling journey.

As she settled in the large vessel of steaming water, Narcise was offered a sip of dark red libation from her choice of three small decanters. The cup was no larger than a sherry glass, fluted with tuliplike edges, and hardly taller than her little finger.

Narcise smelled the three options and selected the lightest of them. It wasn’t until she actually sipped that she realized the drink was laced with… "What’s in it? Some sort of elixir?" she asked the maid, who’d begun to wash her hair.

"Mistress Rubey’s finest," was the vague reply. "She ‘as a few such for the likes of ye. Some-at for rest, some-at for waking, some-at for…ye ken-at."

Narcise blinked. Her English was still that bit better than her French, but this moon-faced young woman’s accent was so thick and her slang difficult to follow that she wasn’t at all certain what she’d just been told. But she settled back into the hot, scented water and sipped as her hair was scrubbed and her head massaged.

Sometime later, the water had cooled and the maid had gone. Narcise settled in an armchair in front of the hearth, swaddled in a thick quilted wrapper with her damp hair drying in the fire’s heat. From the street below, the sounds of living wafted up through the half-shuttered windows.

The sun was nearly gone, and Narcise imagined there were young ladies like Angelica and Maia Woodmore preparing for visits to the theater or to dances…and the men to visit their clubs or to escort their women to parties. There would be courtship and romance; perhaps erotic interludes in dark corners, gossip and rumors, giggling and whispering…

And the tradesmen were closing up their shops, and the businessmen their offices, and the mamas were sending their children off to bed with or without a governess-depending upon in which area of town they lived-and the lords were leaving Westminster after a contentious day of arguments and debates.

Life.

Narcise breathed deeply of the fresh air, which was rapidly cooling with the loss of the sun. Although it was only late September, the air was damp and bone-chilling, reminding her of her girlhood in Romania.

Despite the cold and damp, she’d had a comfortable life there, for her father was a close confidant of the ruler of their province. With two older brothers, one of whom married the voivode’s daughter and was the conduit for Cezar’s eventual gain of that throne, Narcise had been spoiled and petted and worshipped by family and neighbor alike.

She’d thought to marry one day, and the young, virile Rivrik had been her first real lover. She likely would have wed him if things hadn’t changed…if Cezar hadn’t found his savior in Lucifer and manipulated their lives into what they were now.

She closed her eyes and thought about where she’d been, what she’d dreamed of…and what was to become of her now.

There would be no wedding a man and bearing children, which was what she’d always hoped for as a girl. No family, no household to run. No friends with whom to gossip.

During the years of captivity with her brother, her only goal had been freedom-she’d never thought about what her life would be once she had her independence.

But now that she had freedom, now that she no longer had a goal to strive for and to dream about…what did she have?

Who would she be? What would she do, day after day? How would she pass this immortal, infinite life that would, on some Judgment Day, end with her entwined with Lucifer in hell forever?

This wasn’t the first time these thoughts had entered her mind, but on this occasion, she was unable to dismiss the niggling and nagging that settled in her mind.

It had been well over a hundred years since she’d had a choice-what to wear, what to do, where to go and with whom to go. But now that she had it…what now?

The thought of centuries upon centuries stretching on and on into forever… The wrapper had become as stifling as her thoughts and Narcise tossed it away. Standing, she paced the chamber, dressed only in a thin, borrowed chemise, her damp hair seeping through the fabric over her back and shoulders.

Since leaving Paris, she’d either been hiding or traveling or waiting for someone to tell her what to do-none of which was particularly fulfilling or pleasant.

It was not something she meant to do for the rest of her life.

Beginning now.

Spurred by the jolt of decision, she rang for the maid. At least she could leave this room and find Chas below with their Irish-flavored hostess.

Rubey had been warmly welcoming, although Narcise had felt the weight of more than casual attention as she glanced over her. The proprietress sported shiny, curling hair that conveniently (and possibly unnaturally) complemented her name: it was reddish-blond and had been done up in a most fashionable style, with little curls around her cheeks and sparkling combs tucked in place. Her clothing was just as modern and extremely well-made, and Rubey’s silk gown of robin’s-egg blue had made Narcise feel as if her muslin day dress was little more than a servant’s castoff, which was part of the reason she’d eagerly accepted the offer of a bath before taking any time for conversation.

The other woman was younger and more attractive than Narcise had expected, for the establishment had been a popular place for the Dracule for decades. She’d expected someone much older than the two-score Rubey appeared to be-and a well-preserved four decades she was.

The maid was as efficient and businesslike as her employer, and when Narcise was dressed in a much cleaner, softer and more becoming gown than her muslin print she took her leave from the chamber and slipped out into the hall without waiting for the maid’s direction.