The Vampire Narcise rd-3 Page 2

  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 épée, 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 tha
n 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 Hébert 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 Gio
rdan 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 à 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.