The Vampire Narcise (10 page)

Giordan went cold for a moment but recovered immediately as he saw the trap.
Clever, Moldavi. Very clever.
It wasn’t difficult to force a grimace of distaste. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I decline,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I expect to be very busy in the next fortnight, and might even need to travel outside the city myself.” He watched the other man closely and was rewarded when he noticed the slightest release of tension in his fingers.

Giordan had obviously made the right move in such a blatant denial of interest.

But whatever it was that Moldavi intended, Giordan had also learned one other thing: without a doubt, the man was exceedingly cunning.

He would have to be very careful in how he proceeded.
To give a man like Cezar Moldavi any sort of knowledge was also to give him the greatest of power.

And to make a move in haste or desperation could be a fatal mistake.

Trust me, Narcise.

I pray you are safe until we meet again.

Narcise woke suddenly, those words echoing in her mind. Remnants of dreams. As she stared into the soft candlelight, a bitter laugh formed in the back of her throat, startling her with its ferocity, and she pressed her lips together.

Trust me, Narcise.

Her fingers shook as she skimmed them over her naked belly, then curled them between her breasts, where her heart beat roughly, and held her hand there. Oh, yes, she had a heart, and though it had become enclosed by stone, she still felt its soft core.

What had Cale meant by saying such things? Particularly the absurd
I pray you are safe until we meet again
.

Dracule didn’t pray.

And how would they ever meet again? Did she even want to meet him again?

A little twinge deep inside told her that, yes, she did. She would. He had touched her without actually
touching
her.

Climbing out of her bed, Narcise let the covers fall. It was always damp and cool here, below the ground where Cezar insisted on living. Even here in her private chamber, which was comfortably appointed with an attached parlor furnished with upholstered chairs, a mirror and dressing table, a wardrobe, and even a place for her easel and paints, the chill was never fully banished. There were no windows, of course, and the only indicator of time was a clock which she kept wound.

A stone and brick hearth held the fire that never ceased blazing, and it was only when she drew near it that Narcise was able to completely stop the little shivers of cold and dread. She stood there now, staring into the tongues of flame, feeling its warmth seep into her skin, heating the sheer lace gown she wore.

The orange and yellow fire mesmerized her, and Narcise felt her eyes begin to burn from the heat and lack of moisture from not blinking. But deep in the hot glow, she saw Giordan Cale, in her mind, strung up on iron manacles, his dark, intense eyes boring into her.

Trust me, Narcise.

He’d certainly proven his trust that night. She shivered, but not from the chill. No, thoughts of Giordan Cale invariably brought heat, not cold, to her body.

Yet, it had been more than a week since he’d left The Chamber, closing the door behind him and leaving her to her thoughts and confusion—not to mention a warm, sated body. Since then, she’d drawn and dreamed of him, even as she tried to keep herself from hoping…for something.

A log shifted in the fire, loud and sudden, sending sparks scattering on the hearth. The noise brought Narcise from her musings back to the reality that she was still Cezar Moldavi’s sister, still his toy and bargaining chip, and still unwilling to trust anyone.

Unwilling was the wrong word. She was
unable
to trust.

With a sudden burst of frustration, Narcise turned from the fire and rang for Monique, her maid. Monsieur David would arrive soon for their weekly lesson, and he did not like to be kept waiting. And since the murder of his friend David Marat, he’d become even more ill-tempered and fanatical. Narcise had mused privately more than once that her brother either paid the artist exceedingly well for his continued
lessons, or that he had some other hold over Monsieur David that required the man’s presence on a weekly basis, despite his complete immersion in Robespierre’s movement.

It was ironic: despite the fact that Narcise was Cezar’s prisoner, in many ways he treated her as a beloved sister. She had lovely, fashionable clothing, comfortable accommodations, activities to keep her mind occupied and her body in good form, and servants at her beck and call. She was invited to participate in her brother’s social appointments, which most often occurred safely in his own residence, and was treated as respectfully as he was.

The one thing she had no control over was her body.

But that was something she would change. She must. And nary a day went by that she wasn’t considering some plan or possibility, gathering some information and tucking it into the recesses of her brain. After decades of captivity, most prisoners might have long given up hope of escaping or changing their situation, but Narcise would not. After all, she had immortality. She had forever.

She watched and listened, honed her fighting skills, made friends with some of the lesser servants and slowly, but surely, built a refuge within her prison.

Perhaps it was Monsieur David’s fiery rhetoric, fueled by the Revolution happening beyond the walls of her home-like prison. Perhaps the artist’s determination and belief that one should rule oneself, that no royal family or clique had the right to impose control over another, had given Narcise hope. After all, if an entire city, no, a
country
, could overthrow its reigning family and weaken the grip of an entire privileged class, why could one woman not overthrow her own personal dictator?

By the time the maid Monique had helped Narcise with a simple day dress and covered it with a painting smock, she
had hardly enough time to plait her mistress’s hair in a fat black braid.

The knock on the door to her adjoining parlor heralded Monsieur David’s arrival and Narcise followed her maid into the next room. Monique answered the door to the artist as Narcise began to sort through her canvases, but when she turned to greet her teacher, she faltered.

Confused, but recovering, she turned to her maid. “Monique,” she said in a brusque tone, “you may go. Bonjour, monsieur.” Something was not right, and awareness teased her consciousness along with an odd mixture of scents lingering in her nose. She swallowed, tasting and smelling a familiar presence.

The artist, wearing a low-brimmed hat that showed his dark brown curls, strode into the chamber with his familiar satchel of paints, brushes and palette. He appeared to have had his hair trimmed since she’d last seen him, a week earlier. His long coat, perhaps one too long for the summer, swirled about his powerful, breech-covered legs as he placed the bag on a table.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said. His words were thick and oddly pronounced due to a tumor that deformed his cheek and mouth, but were perhaps a bit deeper in tone today. “Shall we begin? But no, you are not yet ready for me.” His disgust at the delay was clearly apparent in his voice and stance, and Monique, intelligent girl that she was, beat a hasty retreat.

David was not known for his patience nor his tact.

By now, Narcise’s palms were damp and her stomach had filled with swirling, fluttering emotions. Was it possible? “Of course, Monsieur David. I am nearly ready. I was only looking for the camel hair paintbrush that you insisted my brother have made for me.”

All of her brushes had handles made of bamboo or light metal, for Cezar would not allow anything resembling a wooden stake into her chambers. Her rooms were regularly searched for such contraband as well.

The door had closed behind Monique, and for the first time, the man’s eyes, still shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, met Narcise’s. The irises were brown, flecked with blue and ringed with black, and the last time she’d seen them, they’d been hot with desire.

Narcise’s stomach did a quick flip, leaving her unsteady and weak. It was
him
. She’d scented Giordan Cale beneath the cloak, hat and satchel that also smelled of Jacques-Louis David, but until their gazes locked, she wasn’t certain.

She gave a little warning shake of her head even as she turned to gather up her painting accoutrements, trying to keep her suddenly nerveless fingers from dropping the brushes and palette. “Ah, here it is,” she said, producing the brush in question. She could see, now that she actually looked at him, the way his right cheek bulged—just as Monsieur David’s did. It changed the shape of his face, and along with the heavy brim of the hat, there was little to see unless one looked very closely.

“So now you are at last ready for me?” he asked, still in that thick voice of disguise, still managing to make it sound annoyed. “But you will not need that brush today.”

You are at last ready for me
…. His words held the most subtle of underlying meanings that made her cheeks warm like that of a schoolgirl’s.

“But of course, monsieur. I believe that our last lesson was in relation to perspective.” As she spoke the words, Narcise wasn’t certain whether Giordan Cale was at all familiar with the particulars of drawing and sketching, and she hoped she wouldn’t inadvertently expose his masquerade.

For, although at least in her chamber she had privacy from prying eyes and ears—she knew this because she examined every inch of wall, floor and ceiling every month to ensure it—Narcise also knew that at any moment…

Ah. There it was. The knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called, trying not to sound breathless as she dug through her paints. Cale removed his coat to lay it over one of the chairs, but he still wore his hat, and she was suddenly nervous that it would cause comment, or that he would need to remove it.

Cezar’s trusted steward, Belial, entered the chamber. “Bonjour, Monsieur David,” he said with a bow. “What is your desire today?” His sharp eyes scanned the room, and Narcise held her breath, praying that Cezar’s sired vampire wouldn’t notice that this David was several inches taller and with broader shoulders than the previous one had been, and that there was another scent mingling in the room with them.

Cale didn’t pause in his action of moving a stool to the center of the room, and perhaps his half-bent, facing-away position helped to camouflage his physical appearance.

“I shall have the usual, of course,” he said in that clumsy voice, and with the same peremptory tone David always used. He fussed with the stool as if needing to position it just perfectly in the light. “Mademoiselle, I shall act as your model today to continue your lesson on perspective. The very brim and angle of this hat, which I have borrowed for such a purpose, will be an excellent study in the aspects of perspective. You will need a charcoal and several soft lead pencils. Put away the paints, mademoiselle. I have already told you you won’t need the brush today. How many times have I said that you must start with the drawings and sketches before you can think to paint?”

Narcise forced herself to relax slightly. He sounded just as Monsieur David would have. Cale had obviously planned this well—but what
was
he planning? “I am sorry, monsieur. It is just that I ordered new paints and hoped to be able to use them today.”

“Always so impatient, the women, no?” Cale said to no one in particular, but Belial gave a soft knowing chuckle.

“I will shortly return with your refreshments, monsieur,” the steward said.

He left the room as Cale ordered, “Mademoiselle, please. You are wasting my time.”

The door closed behind Belial, and Narcise turned to face Cale. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a low voice.

“Can we be heard or seen?” he replied in matching tones, looking around the room. It was clear he had something in his mouth that caused the deformity of voice and face, but now his tones at least sounded familiar.

“No, but Belial will return shortly. How did this come about?” Narcise’s hands were shaking, trembling furiously, and she could not understand her reaction to this. What did it mean? Why was he here? And why did she suddenly feel such warmth and light inside her?

“I told you you could trust me, Narcise,” he said, sitting on the stool. “Get your papers ready and begin to draw, or I fear Belial will be suspicious. Once he is gone again, I will tell you more.”

She did as he bid, feeling his eyes on her as she pulled out the rough papers that curled from being rolled for storage. A hunk of burned coal and her Italian pencils—too slender and short to be used as wooden stakes—joined the parchment on her drawing table, a few stones anchored the paper from rolling up, and then Narcise got to work.

She noticed that Cale had arranged his position on the stool so that he wasn’t directly facing the door, nor the table where Belial would place the tray of coffee and sweet breads when he returned. And once she acknowledged that added attention to detail, along with the deliberate tilt of his head to shadow his face even further, she concentrated on her own work.

Despite his disguise, what a pleasure it was to draw the man she’d previously had to sketch from memory. She saw, too, that he’d affixed some sort of false, papier-mâché nose to his elegant one, widening it slightly, and as she looked even closer, she noticed faint markings on his face, smudges to emphasize lines and nonexistent dimples.

Narcise had become so engrossed in her work, drawing the angled guiding lines for the hat that would give the sketch depth and an accurate sense of space, that she was startled when the door opened and Belial strode in.

But she felt his sharp eyes scan the room, and her drawing, and was pleased that she’d accomplished as much as she had. The steward set the tray on the table then approached her as if he were master of the place, looking over Narcise’s shoulder—something that he occasionally did, but never in the presence of Cezar. She heard, and felt, him test the air about her in a soft, long intake of breath. The fine hairs at the back of her neck lifted and prickled, but she didn’t move except to continue her work.