The Vampire Narcise (25 page)

Don’t. No.

Please.

And then she shifted, and he felt her lips go wide against him and then the sharp stabs of pain, brief and hot, and then the burst of his blood surging free. Release.

He gave a low, agonized cry as waves of pleasure undulated through him. He exploded twice inside her, into her mouth, into the deepest part of her center as she heaved and shuddered against him, her face still buried in his neck.

Then…even as he filtered back from the edge of nowhere, the lust still vibrating inside him, Chas felt the competing rush of ugliness bubbling up. Sharp little pulses from the marks on his shoulder served as prickling reminders of his depravity, opening himself up to the pleasure of the Devil.

He closed his eyes and turned away.

Narcise slipped away from him, easing back to her side of the bed, exhausted and sated. She closed her eyes, still tasting
Chas on her lips and tongue, still quivering with the last bit of pleasure.

Her body was warm and loose in a way that it hadn’t been for so long. So very long. Their joining had been passionate, yet slow and tender, the desire coaxed from where she’d locked it deep inside her until it rushed out in a surge of completion.

It had been so long since she’d felt true pleasure…and yet, despite its truth, her joining with Chas left her with a hollow space deep inside. Confusion warred with satisfaction and when she felt him stirring next to her, Narcise welcomed the distraction and opened her eyes.

He’d shifted away, lying flat on his back, the back of his arm resting over his eyes. His chest—smooth slabs of muscle and dusky damp skin—still shifted with rough breathing. And a trickle of blood eased down along into the hollow of his throat.

Narcise realized that in the throes of passion and release, she hadn’t finished tending to the bite. Her mouth dried in anticipation as she thought of touching his smooth, dark skin again, tasting the last bit of salt and musk mingling with the warm blood.

She lifted herself up onto an elbow, closer to him, and leaned over the rich, shining ooze. He stiffened, sensing her nearness, and she lightly closed her fingers over the squared-off angle of his shoulder as she bent to cover the bitemarks with her mouth. She’d barely begun to lick up the remains when suddenly he moved. His arm shifted, and at first she thought he was going to grab her closer to him again, but then she saw his face. Taut and dark and damp.

And then all at once, he erupted from the bed and lunged toward the table. Snatching up the basin, he vomited into it with great violence as he bent over the table. As she watched,
curious and concerned, he lifted his face, swiping his mouth with a bare arm, then—all dark and naked and muscled—stalked over to the window and flung the contents out.

She winced, hoping there was no one below, and remained silent as he rinsed out the dish with water from its pitcher and dumped that below as well.

When he finished his own ablutions in the clean basin, Chas turned back to her. The expression on his face was carefully blank, but Narcise was distracted by the shiny spot on his throat she’d been tasting a moment earlier.

“Apparently I imbibed too heavily last night,” he said coolly.

“You need give me no explanation for your illness,” she replied, wondering why he’d felt the need to do so. And then she offered a defense of her own. “I hope you aren’t under the impression that I enthralled you.”

His mouth twisted as if he were either in pain or about to laugh, and he turned away, giving her another excellent view of his long, lean back and tight, square buttocks. His tousled hair nearly covered his nape, winging up every which way around his head and ears. She also noted what was, of course, absent from his muscular shoulders: the Mark of Lucifer.

“No, I am not under that impression,” he replied. His attention slipped down and Narcise realized she was still completely naked, her chemise having gone the way of the bedcoverings during their lovemaking. She also realized, with a start, that for the first time in as long as she could remember, her body remained unmarked and smooth after coitus. No bites or cuts.

Chas was moving toward her, his eyes hot and dark. And determined. “But perhaps we should try it again,” he said, “to be certain.”

Narcise’s heart thumped and she felt her body begin to
tighten in anticipation. “Perhaps we should,” she replied, wondering if this time she might banish the hollowness.

She saw that he was ready for her, his cock lifting and filling, his eyes burning in their own mortal fashion. But she wasn’t prepared for him to turn her around, facing away from him. He eased her toward the bed, gently but firmly, until the fronts of her thighs bumped it.

“My God,” he said as he pulled the hair away from her shoulders and neck. His fingers moved lightly over the faint rise of Luce’s Mark.

It grew from beneath her hair on the right side and spread down over the back of her shoulder to just past her scapula: curling, rootlike tendrils. Hers was softer in shape and lighter in color than others he’d seen, most of which looked like cracks in shattered glass.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, still gently tracing over the Mark. His voice in her ear brought deeper, gentler shivers down along the side of her neck.

“Not now,” she told him, curving her hands up and around to touch the back of his head. His hair filtered around her fingers, warm and heavy, and as she combed through, a renewed wave of his scent released into the chamber.

“I’ve seen Dimitri’s Mark,” Chas commented, sliding his hands along the curves of her torso as he lined himself up behind her. “It’s thick and black and raging, as if it were filled with evil.”

Narcise might have responded if he hadn’t slipped his hands around to cup her breasts, if he hadn’t begun to distract her thoughts by sliding his thumbs over her nipples.

He nuzzled the side of her neck, his lips full and the tip of his tongue a gentle, moist tease that sent gentle, insistent shivers through her. Narcise realized vaguely that there would be
no sharp pain, no quick slide of fangs, no release from her pounding veins, and it was odd…but pleasant.

But as he eased her onto the bed, reaching around to the front of her, fingers exploring the depths of her quim to make certain she was as ready for him as he seemed to be for her, she realized what he was keeping her—and her gaze—facing away from.

Narcise could have been offended, or annoyed, but when he slid deep into place, her body welcomed him and she gave no more thought to anything except that delicious rhythm of pleasure.

And when she arched and shuddered, slamming back against his hips, her hands braced on the bed, he gave a low groan in her ear and surged one last time. She felt him find release, and allowed her arms to give way so she tumbled face-first onto the mattress.

Chas followed her, disengaging, and sliding his hand along her spine and over her bottom as he sank down next to her.

Narcise lay there for a moment, and as the last vestiges of bliss eased, she thought about what had happened…on all fronts.

He’d kissed her. He’d started this whole incident by kissing her…so intimate, so long and thorough and absent of the need for control…and she’d let him. She’d let him do something only Giordan had done. Was it to banish her memories and grief over him?

But she didn’t want to think about Giordan now. He had no place in her thoughts, in her life, in this place with Chas Woodmore.

Yet… “Are we going to London?” she asked. Hadn’t Cezar mentioned that Giordan was in London? Her heart seized up and she blanked out her mind.

“As soon as I can arrange it,” Chas replied.

She glanced at him and noted that his face seemed only a bit less tense than it had earlier—despite two bouts of coitus. “Is something wrong? Weren’t you satisfied that I didn’t enthrall you this last time?”

The chagrin—and perhaps shame—showed on his face. “I don’t fuck vampires,” he told her flatly. “Because I don’t want to be controlled.”

Narcise pulled away, fury bubbling inside her. It was a welcome emotion, replacing her other softer, confused one. “But apparently you do fuck vampires, Chas, because you just did. Twice.”

“I know,” he said, misery flashing in his face for a moment. Then his expression was cold and flat again. “It was…incredible. You’re incredible, Narcise, and, damn me to hell, I can’t stay away from you.” He rose from the bed with sharp, short movements. “I can’t keep my hands or thoughts off you.”

As she watched, confused and angry, he yanked on his breeches with a snap of the fabric, dragged on his boots and picked up his discarded shirt. “No matter how hard I try,” he said, his jaws tight together, “I can’t make you into the evil, manipulative demon I want you to be.”

“Why do you want to do that?” she asked, affronted and yet fascinated in spite of herself. She was beginning to realize that his anger wasn’t directed at her, but at himself.

“So I can kill you, damn it.” With fury and rage surrounding him, Chas stalked from the room, still holding his wadded up shirt.

He didn’t return until well after the sun went down, and this time, he didn’t reek of drink. She’d spent the day drawing scenes from the window, using the pencils and paper she’d managed to charm from unsuspecting shopkeepers—and through Philippe—during Chas’s feverish illness.

When he came into the chamber, she looked up briefly, then returned to her sketch. Much of Notre Dame’s towers were visible from her window, and despite the irony of a soul-damaged vampire drawing a holy place, Narcise had spent much effort on the sketch. Now that it was getting darker, she was working from memory.

The emperor had ordered the area around the famous church to be cleared of old buildings, piles of garbage and debris left from the years of neglect during the Revolution. He insisted that the streets around the cathedral be emptied and widened for his upcoming coronation, which was to take place inside. Soldiers and city workers had been toiling over the project for the last month, and it would take well into the autumn before they were finished…or so Narcise had heard him complain to Cezar. Because of this, the coronation had been moved to early November.

“We’re leaving Paris tomorrow,” said Chas, sitting heavily on the bed. “I’ve made the arrangements.”

She nodded briefly but remained intent on her work, trying to ignore the spike of apprehension in her belly.

“Your brother has the entire city looking for us,” he continued. “But he isn’t certain we’re even together. That works to our advantage. We have to go during the day, so I’ve taken precautions for you. You’ll be driving a cart with a coffin in back…which will contain me—a corpse dead from the plague. I’ll stuff the box with old meat beneath me so as to attract flies, and to make a stink, and will fill your pockets with it as well. You’ll dress as an elderly woman with a large hat and gloves to protect you from the sun and will be taking your dead husband to the country.”

Silence reigned between them for a moment, broken only by the distant shouts from the street below, and a burst of raucous laughter from the pub beneath the floor underfoot.
Her pencil scratched quietly as she shaded one of the windows in the square-shaped towers.

“Do you still wish to go to London?”

At that, she rested her pencil on the paper and turned to look at him. “Only if you can suffer my manipulative, evil presence,” she said stiffly.

His face tightened. “Narcise, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but understand, I spend my life hunting and killing the Dracule. It’s not often that I find one worth saving.”

She tossed her head and looked back down at her work, lit by a nearby lamp. To her horror, it began to blur and she furiously blinked back the tears. She hadn’t cried in decades, and now in the last week, she’d teared up three times. Was she growing soft?

“Narcise,” he said, his voice softer. He rose and came to stand behind her, his fingers sliding gently over her hair. “You saved my life. You stayed with me when you could have left. I was a fool for saying those things to you today. It’s just that…I’m beginning to have feelings for you, and it’s not what I expected.”

She turned to look up at him and read the bleakness in his eyes. “I’m sorry it’s so difficult for you,” she said, her voice emotionless.

He shrugged, a rueful smile curving his lips. “I am, too. Narcise, I am sorry.” He drew in a deep breath and said, “I’ll keep you safe. I have a secret place, a small estate in Wales where you can hide…where no one will find you.”

She looked at him, her heart leaping. Wales was far from London; she knew that. “Yes,” she said, knowing that her heart was in her eyes. “Thank you, Chas.”

He gave that little shrug again and said, “And maybe you’ll allow me to stay with you for a while.” His grin was crooked.

“Of course,” she said, and smiled back.

His gaze darkened and his lips parted slightly. “You are the most beautiful woman,” he breathed. “God help me.”

He reached for her hand and she rose from her chair, suffused for the first time with comfort and security. She trusted him, and somehow, he’d come to trust her.

As long as they made their safe escape from Paris, she would have the chance to be free of Cezar forever.

Two weeks later
Reither’s Close, a village outside of London

N
arcise paced the small chamber, trying not to imagine what was happening in the pub below. Trying not to picture the meeting between Chas and Giordan Cale.

More than a week ago, she and Chas had arrived on the British shore in the dead of night.
Safe.

Between his careful planning, the
livres
and guineas he’d used to grease palms and her ability to enthrall, their exit from Paris and subsequent passage through the English blockade of the Channel had gone expediently and smoothly.

Without even a detour to London, they were on their way to Chas’s secret estate in Wales, but had stopped for three nights at an inn in Reither’s Closewell, a small village west of London, so that he could send word to Corvindale and wait for a response.

Everything had gone well during their stay until Chas extricated himself from Narcise’s arms—and bed—and informed her that he was to meet a gentleman in the public room below.

When he said, “Perhaps you don’t remember Giordan Cale, but he’s a confidant of Dimitri,” Narcise’s entire world had halted.

“Not titled, but rich as Croesus and,” Chas continued with a bit of a laugh, “more than a match for me. I met him when I sneaked in to stake him. Obviously we both lived.”

Narcise found her voice. “Obviously.”

“I can meet him below, but it wouldn’t be as private if I asked him up here. Less chance of us being seen.”

“No,” was all she said. But inside, her body was shriveling into panic. She had to close her fingers together to hide their sudden trembling.

Was Chas watching her closely, or was it her imagination?

“Very well, Narcise.”

And she wondered what, if anything, he knew about their history.

For, despite their continued intimacy, she hadn’t told Chas about what had happened with Giordan and Cezar. Those events of a decade ago were no longer relevant, and there wasn’t any sense in reigniting the memories, reliving that horrible time.

As she imagined their conversation, she tried not to think about the fact that Giordan would scent her the moment he approached. Her presence was everywhere on Chas, and Giordan would know not only that she was near, but he’d immediately understand the nature of their relationship.

Would he even care?

As Narcise continued to trace the boundaries of the room, avoiding the narrow strips of fading sunlight from between awkwardly fitting shutters, she found herself wondering just what
was
, precisely, the nature of her relationship with Chas.

Not that Dracule had relationships like mortals did. After all, eternity was a very long time. Marriage was futile—at least with a mortal, who’d die long before the Dracule would,
not to mention grow old and shriveled while the
vampir
remained ever young. And female Dracule, at least, didn’t seem able to procreate—at least not in the way their mortal female counterparts did.

And as for love… Narcise had come to realize that love was a mortal concept. A mortal
curse
. Dracule didn’t truly love, because to love meant to place someone before oneself. And a
vampir
simply did not do that. Ever. If one even thought about doing such a thing, Lucifer burned and blazed through the pulsing coils on one’s back and influenced those actions back to where they should be: to self. Of course, a Dracule was all about passion and lust and pleasure, and if one happened to give it during the time one was also receiving, then so be it.

Therefore, what had been between her and Giordan couldn’t have been love. Not at all.

For more than three weeks, she and Chas had been together as partners in their escape from Cezar and lovers since that morning he’d kissed her. And since the day Chas had told her he had feelings for her, and how much he loathed the fact that he did, the bond between them had been strengthening.

Not simply a bond of passion and lust, but a layer of respect and blossoming affection. She trusted him, she wanted to be with him, she enjoyed his body. Yet, Narcise was under no impression that she loved Chas.

She sensed that she could just as easily awaken one night and realize she wouldn’t truly miss him in her life. That if he left, she would be sad, but not…destroyed.

Perhaps that was because she’d come to realize one disturbing thing about Chas: he hated—perhaps even feared—her Draculean tendencies, and he loathed himself for being attracted to a
vampir
.

It was as if he were at war within himself: he wanted her to bite him, to feed on him…but he hated himself when he responded to such titillation.

Yet, he cared for her. Deeply. He brought her little gifts—flowers, lace, hair combs. Even an ivory busk, which fit into the vertical pocket of her corset, down between her breasts. No more than two fingers wide, as thin as a knife blade and about as long as her hand, it was beautifully carved with more flowers, and leafy vines, and a sun radiating bold rays.

“Because I know how much you miss the sun,” he’d said when she looked at it, smoothing her fingers over the delicate design. “You can keep it near your heart.”

She had. She’d slipped it into the little pocket of her corset and even now, she pressed her hand there, between her breasts, and felt the sturdy little placket there.

Then she heard the pounding of hurried, ascending footsteps and then the hasty scuff as feet reached the top, and Narcise froze, waiting. If Giordan had somehow come back with him, or—

The door to the chamber opened sharply and her heart surged into her throat as she looked at the blur of a figure rushing in. When she scented and recognized Chas, his hair dark and wild, his face tense and angry, she went even colder. What had Giordan said? What had they done?

“I’m leaving,” he said, throwing clothing into his pack, hardly giving her more than a brief look. “For London. It’s Voss. He’s abducted Angelica.”

If Chas was unsettled about being with a
vampir
himself, he was even more rigid and terrified about his sisters being abducted or otherwise seduced by a Dracule. He well knew the violence and terror that could be inflicted by one of them.

If one were to be honest, Narcise must admit that she had had more than a few pangs of envy that these three mortal
women had a brother who loved them so much and was so concerned for their safety that he would risk his own life to keep them safe. And, apparently, Chas would leave the side of his lover when one of them was in danger—even if said lover was in grave danger herself.

“London?” she repeated, a variety of thoughts shooting through her brain. “But that’s the first place Cezar will look for me. For us,” she added.

“It certainly is, but I have to go, Narcise.” Chas stopped and looked up at her. “I’ve made arrangements for you to stay here. You’ll be safe, and Cale will take you on to Wales while Corvindale and I find Voss….”

But Narcise hadn’t heard anything after the words
Cale will take you
. Her brain simply froze, her stomach plummeted and she felt dizzy. Nauseated.

I can’t see him again. I can’t.

The memories flooded back, the glimpses of sleek, muscled shoulders by firelight, her brother’s face rising behind them, lips peeled back in pleasure and pain…the scents of depravity and the raging in his eyes.
Do you have any idea what I’ve done for you?

She swallowed hard, gave her head a little shake.
No. By the Fates,
no.

“I’ll come with you,” she said quickly.

Chas stopped his packing and looked at her sharply. “But you don’t want to go to London. It’s too dangerous.”

“You’ll protect me,” she said, smiling with a bit of seduction. Not too much. “I don’t want to be away from you, Chas.” She dropped her voice low, trying to keep the panic out. “You got us out of France, you’ve outwitted Cezar every step of the way…and London is your own city. You’ll be even sharper and smarter there. As well, I’d like to meet your sisters. And Dimitri again.”

His face eased just a bit. “I confess, I would rather you come with me. But I didn’t think you’d want to take the chance.”

“London is a big city,” she replied, relief sweeping her. “There are, I’m certain, many places to hide. Aside of that, Cezar wouldn’t expect us to go there, and hide in plain sight.”

Chas nodded. “Then pack up. I’ll send word to Cale that his services to take you to Wales won’t be necessary.”

“I’m certain the man didn’t wish to be bothered with such a task anyway,” she said, turning to stuff her own belongings—such as they were—into a different satchel.

If she’d hoped for a reply, some sort of indication regarding Giordan’s feelings toward her, she didn’t receive one, for Chas had already left the chamber.

Forcing herself to breathe normally, she closed her eyes for a moment and thanked the Fates—or whoever—that had helped her avoid what would have been an untenable situation.

Traveling to Wales with Giordan Cale?

Narcise would have run back to Cezar first.

London, a week later

“You’re a very unusual vampire, to be sure, Giordan Cale.”

He looked up from where he’d been casually feeding on Rubey’s warm, creamy shoulder as a bit of foreplay and withdrew his fangs gently. Swallowing the last essence of sweetness, he smiled slightly and soothed the marks with his tongue and lips.

“In what way?” Giordan replied, settling back against the arm of the divan.

Rubey, who was half reclining on the opposite end of that
furnishing, made a fetching picture. She had strawberry-blond hair that curled around her face when not restrained, and where one could occasionally find a thread of gray. Tonight she wore it in a loose tail gathered at her nape, little curls flirting with her temples and ears. Her lushly curved but slender body reminded one of a peach in color as well as in taste, and Giordan fancied she even had a permanent hint of peach brandy in her essence. It was, after all, her favorite libation, and he kept her supplied with an excellent selection of it. Her face was more striking than classically beautiful with wise green-gray eyes that tipped up at the sides and very high, sculpted cheekbones.

He’d never seen her in anything but the most expensive, fashionable clothing, and tonight was no exception. She wore silky pale green with darker green and yellow ribbons that gathered up the bodice of her dressing gown. Thanks to him, said bodice was loosened, exposing a vast expanse of breast and one marred shoulder, where thin trickles of blood gathered in the hollow of her collarbone.

“Why, and how long would it take me to count the ways,” she replied with a woeful shake of the head and the lilt of the Irish. Her eyes sparkled with wit and intelligence.

Giordan gave a brief smile and thought about loosening those ribbons at her bodice even more, but realized he wasn’t all that interested in pursuing that avenue tonight.

“Perhaps I could trouble you to name just one way,” he replied mildly, his thoughts slipping from the conversation to…other topics that, generally, he preferred to leave alone in the darkness. Where they belonged.

He rose from the divan, clad only in shirtsleeves and the current male fashion of pantaloons, and went to the cabinet. But of course they were in her private apartments, in a separate building from the pleasure house and the rest of
her staff—most of whom were otherwise privately engaged as well.

“Very well,” she replied, and he felt her eyes on him as he poured a glass of whiskey.

There were two small decanters of ruby-fresh blood from which he could add to the drink, but he wasn’t certain where they’d originated, and he dared not take the chance.

Ever since what he’d come to think of as the After Hell, he’d had to be very careful about where and on whom he fed.

A lot of other things had changed as well.

“You switched the mousetraps,” Rubey mused as he poured her a small glass of the peach brandy.

“And that makes me unusual? The poor creatures were being crushed in the neck by the springs of the traps,” he replied, handing her the drink.

“Aye, and why should it matter to you? The mice don’t belong in my place, and I’m going to see that if they trespass, they pay the price,” she replied tartly.

“A bit bloodthirsty, are we?” he asked, aware of a niggling discomfort with her choice of topic. He was different now, and even Dimitri didn’t know about it all.

He just thought Giordan’s feeding preferences had changed…but it was so much more than that.

“But now the new traps, they let the little bastards just get captured until they’re set loose,” Rubey said. “To weasel their way into someone else’s house.”

“Better that than yours,” Giordan replied, and considered that it might be a good diversion to loosen those ribbons at her bodice after all. He settled back down on the divan much closer to her this time, his thigh lined up along where her skirts angled off the sofa.

“And then there’s the way you feed,” she said, eyeing him
closely. “Sure as the day’s long, you’re not like any other vampire I’ve ever met. Excepting Dimitri, of course, but he don’t feed on anyone anyway.”

“I am discriminating in my choice of libation,” Giordan agreed, sliding his fingers up to the ribbons and filtering his fingers through the loose knots. “Aren’t you?” he asked with a smile.

But of course, Rubey didn’t cast up her accounts if she partook of a piece of steak or a chicken leg….

He could still remember those black, bleak days when he hadn’t realized what was happening, and he hadn’t understood why he’d feed and then no sooner had he finished than it all came furiously, violently back up again. His mouth and throat had been scorched dry, his belly sore and weak from the constant purging. The taste of bile-laden blood, rushing back up through his throat and burning into his mouth and nose, was a disgusting, degrading sensation he’d never forget.

Thank the Fates for Drishni and Kritanu, helping him understand how he’d changed. How he must have answered the voice that said in his head:
Choose
.