The Vampire Narcise (18 page)

Opening the back door, he dumped the corpse into the space between the house and the thick yew and boxwood that grew close to the wall, hoping it would obscure the body for some time.

Back inside the house, he moved with silent speed back to where he’d been when he encountered the
vampir
, all the while waiting for a renewed itch in his belly that told him more Dracule were near.

Before he started down the stairs, he paused, waiting, listening…feeling. There was a sound in the distance, voices rumbling…and the niggle started in his gut again. But it was some distance away and he started down into the depths of Cezar Moldavi’s lair.

There was a sort of finality about it. Perhaps it was because going below the surface was akin to being buried, perhaps because there was no way out but the way he came—or through the skull-lined catacombs on the north side—but Chas felt his nerves string tight. He was on his guard as he’d never been before, listening for the sound of approach, paying heed to his body and its innate signals. He had his stake in one hand, and his other fingers curled around the butt of his pocketed pistol.

Aside of it being cooler, and lit only with oil lamps and no natural light, the subterranean corridor appeared no different than one above the ground. It was painted and furnished, lined with doors just as any other hallway in a well-appointed home. But here he moved with more caution, listening at every door to see what he heard and felt.

The voices had become more distinct and Chas more cautious as he made his way along a stretch that seemed to make a large U-shape. When he reached a large door from which the voices seemed to be coming, he stopped to listen, scanning the hall as he pressed his ear to the wood, careful not to touch it and make it jolt in its hinges.

“And Corvindale,” said a male voice beyond the door.

A little prickle scooted up his spine and Chas pressed closer. He couldn’t make out all of the conversation, but he heard snatches of it.

“In London?” came a different voice, with a bit of a hiss to it. That must be Moldavi. “But of course. Perhaps you’d like to go, then, my dear?”

“Of course. I’d be more than delighted to see Dimitri again,” came a husky female voice. She must be sitting closest to the door, for her words rang fairly clear. “Since Vienna, you know.” She gave an arch laugh.

That had to be the sister. Chas leaned closer, his gut filled with that gnawing feeling from the proximity of
vampirs
.

Despite what Giordan Cale had implied about the sister Narcise being more of an ally than a threat to his mission, Chas had reserved judgment. Her brother might use and abuse her, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t malevolent in her own way. Anyone that close to Moldavi was most likely tarred with the same brush, and from the sound of her, he wasn’t far off in his estimation. A beautiful woman with fangs was a formidable force, particularly for a man.

A fourth voice joined the conversation—another male, which cooled any thought he might have had about bursting into the chamber. With four Dracule against one mortal—even with the mortal being himself—the odds were not in his favor. Chas heard something about spice ships just as something moved in the air behind him. He spun around in time for a slender, four-sided silver blade to rest right in the center of his chest.

“You don’t look like much of a fencing instructor,” said the woman holding the épée. This particular blade’s tip wasn’t blunted, however, and Chas could feel its point digging into his skin.

“What does a fencing instructor look like, per se?” he replied, keeping his voice quiet.

“For one thing,” she replied in a voice that was low and dusky and threatened to wrap around him like a velvet rope, “he would normally be armed with a blade of his own, instead of a stake.” She was strikingly beautiful, with deep blue-violet eyes and ink-black hair. So much so that he felt a little tremor of awareness beneath the adrenaline shooting through his body.

Now things were going to get interesting.

“Ah, yes,” he said, easing a bit away from the tip of her
blade, feeling the door behind him and still taking care not to jolt it.
Damn.
He’d been wrong; this had to be the sister. “Perhaps it was an oversight.”

“Perhaps.” She followed him with the tip of her épée, and those lovely eyes narrowed. “There is only one way to find out then, isn’t there? We shall have to fence, and you will prove to me that you are accomplished. This way.” She used the tip of her weapon to prod him away from the door.

“But of course,” he replied readily, his brain working quickly.

Getting away from the others would hopefully give him the opportunity to disarm her without creating a disturbance that would bring Moldavi and his companions rushing from the chamber.

“I trust you have a place in mind?” he added.
And not on the other side of this door…

“Walk, monsieur,” she said, not yet drawing blood, but coming dangerously close to doing so. He didn’t want that scent in the air, so he complied.

Chas walked quickly. If this was the sister, she was certainly not the downtrodden, dead-eyed creature Corvindale had described—a fact which heightened his suspicions even further. Perhaps that was the way things had been a hundred years ago in Vienna, but things had obviously changed. His fingers tightened around the stake.

“Here,” she said in that low voice when they came to a door near the end of the U-shaped corridor. “Open it and go in. Slowly.”

Feeling the sharp implement in his nape, Chas did as she bid and walked into the room. He took an instant to confirm that no one else was waiting beyond the entrance, and then he reacted.

Holding on to the edge of the open door, he used its
leverage to whip himself around and behind it, away from her sword. She made a sound of fury, the blade clashing against the door, but he was already ducking below and erupting back out from its shelter, rearing up and knocking her against the wall on the opposite side.

A gasp of surprise burst from her as she slammed against it, her breath knocked out for a moment, and her lips curled back as she swung the blade down clumsily. He ducked again and, on her downswing, he slammed his entire body against her sword arm, smashing it against the wall, blade impaling the floor instead of his arm.

With his foot, he slid the door closed as he pushed his forearm beneath her neck and held her there.

Her eyes stormy, her breasts heaving between them, she glared up at Chas. A little ripple of attraction shivered through him, and he pushed it firmly away. She was a
vampir
, and lived to seduce.

Her breathing eased. “There is no doubt, then. You’re Chas Woodmore.”

N
arcise recognized both surprise and satisfaction in his eyes. His body still held her sword arm in place against the wall. And his arm, wedged beneath her chin, was making it difficult for her to swallow, but despite the stake in his hand, she had no fear.

If he used it, then she hoped he’d make it quick and put her out of her misery.

But if he didn’t…perhaps he was the man she’d been waiting for.

“You’ve heard of me?” he said, easing up the slightest bit on her throat so that she wasn’t looking up so sharply.

“But your reputation precedes you, Monsieur Wood-more.” She switched from French to English, with which she was more comfortable even after more than a decade here in Paris.

Indeed, everyone knew of the fearless and clever
vampir
hunter Chas Woodmore. How he’d somehow scaled a sheer cliff and sneaked into the mountaintop castle of the bloodthirsty Darrod Firvin to stake the man in his sleep. And how he’d tricked the princes of Tylenia and Tynnien into climbing aboard a small ship so that he could slay them as well.

The Dracule all murmured of the dark-haired Gypsy gentleman who slipped in and out of the shadows like a
vampir
himself, silent and deadly like a servant of Death. Ironically
those who told the tales were ones who’d never actually met the man, for those who did weren’t alive to tell the tales.

Which was probably why no one had included in their tales the fact that he was handsome as a dark angel, with thick black hair and intense green-brown eyes. And that he smelled like danger, tight and dark and manly. She scented a bit of blood on him, too, but it didn’t smell like it would be his.

“My reputation?” White teeth flashed in his swarthy face, and he inched his arm away a bit more, but kept her sword arm pinned to the wall with his solid body. “Is that so? And here I thought my accomplishments went largely unnoticed.”

“I do hope you don’t find such modesty too painful,” she replied. “And I would appreciate it if you’d either drive that stake into my heart or remove your arm from my throat.”

“You don’t have a preference?” he asked. He seemed sincere.

Narcise shrugged, and she realized that although she’d managed to catch her breath from their brief battle, she still felt a bit breathless. This man might be more than a match for her. “There are advantages to both.”

“Drop your sword and I’ll release you,” he said.

She complied, and he kicked the épée across the floor of her parlor. When he stepped away, his arm moving from her, she adjusted the sleeves of her manshirt, pulling them back down over her wrists. “Why are you here?”

He ignored her question and asked, “You’re Narcise?” She inclined her head and felt his eyes sweep over her. Before she could react, his hand whipped out and grabbed her arm, pulling it away from her body. “How did this happen?”

She didn’t have to follow his gaze to know that he was speaking about the bruising around her wrists from the
manacles. That was nothing compared to the marks on the rest of her body, which was the reason she was wearing men’s clothing today. She couldn’t fit in her gowns without a corset, and it was simply still too painful to be laced into one.

“I lost a fencing match,” she told him, forcing her lips into a rueful smile, meeting his eyes blandly. “It happens occasionally.”

He watched her closely, as if searching for a lie, or waiting for more information, and then released her arm. “What happens when you win?”

“Whatever I choose,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a
vampir
slayer,” he reminded her.

“Then why did you not slay me?” she asked, moving her arms back and away from her chest to give him a good target she suspected he wouldn’t use. “I thought Chas Woodmore was merciless.”

“You might be more beneficial to me alive than dead. Where’s your brother?”

“Are you truly here to kill him? I’d lead you to him in a breath if I—” Narcise stopped, her blood running cold. “He’s coming. They’re coming.”

She could hear the voices, and knew they’d smelled the faint blood and perhaps even the new scent of Chas Wood-more. Or that her brother had become suspicious when she didn’t return to the parlor, which was where she’d been going when she came upon this
vampir
slayer.

Woodmore looked as if he were ready to either lunge at her or duck behind the door, and Narcise made a quick decision. She was going to get away from Cezar, and this man was going to help her.

She opened her mouth and screamed as she dove for the épée on the floor.

One moment Chas was ready to duck into the bedchamber beyond the open door to hide from Moldavi, and the next, his sister was screaming for help.

Cursing, he spun after her as she rose to her feet, her sword back in hand. “You,” he snarled, deciding he’d take her to hell with him. “I knew better than to believe them.”

But her eyes had widened with fear—something he hadn’t seen before, even when he had her plastered, immobile, against the wall—and just as the pounding footsteps reached the door, she whispered, “I’ll save you. Help me. Please.”

When the door burst open, Chas got his first glimpse of Cezar Moldavi. But he didn’t have much time to observe the man in detail, for he was followed by three other
vampirs
, and they were all red-eyed and fanged-teeth. They surrounded him without hesitation, blocking the door.

“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 pre
amble, 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.

As he fed, Moldavi watched Chas, his burning red-gold eyes fastened on him as if gauging his response. Chas wanted to look away, but he could not, and he felt his own body begin to stir in response.

No.
He tried to force his attention away, but found himself trapped by the hypnotic gaze. The sounds of rushing blood and the quiet
kuhn-kuhn-kuhn
of Moldavi’s drinking filled his ears. Chas knew he was being enthralled, but in his weakened state, he could hardly drag his eyes away. Desire tingled inside him, teasing and coaxing a deeper response and Chas tried to focus on the pain throbbing through him instead.

Moldavi released the pinch of pale flesh between his fangs, lifting his face with a slow smile. Blood stained his gums and
the edges of his teeth, and Chas fancied he could even smell it on his breath.

“Very satisfying,” Moldavi said, looking at him. “Would you care to sample?” He smoothed his finger over the oozing wounds on the woman’s shoulder, offering a red-tipped digit to Chas.

He turned his face away, noting the pillow behind his head. His heart pounded rampantly as his stomach squeezed with queasiness.

“No? Perhaps another time then. I hope you won’t think me rude, dining in front of you, but I offered to share, and you declined.” Moldavi licked the woman’s shoulder, which Chas didn’t see, but he could hear the sounds. Sloppy and wet, yet sensual.

He swallowed, his throat prickly and rough. His cock had begun to fill and he willed it to subside.

“Now,” said Moldavi, pulling the woman’s hair back over her shoulders, patting it into place and then giving her a sharp gesture to leave, “back to the matter at hand. London…and your informants. I must assume Dimitri has sent you here.”