The Vampire Narcise (32 page)

O
n her way to the dining room—the room where she had fought countless battles in front of the dais—she scented Giordan. So he
was
here. Or had been.

A little shiver ran over Narcise’s shoulders. What had Cezar done with him?

She hadn’t been able to dismiss Chas’s dire words. If he was correct, Giordan’s actions had been a sacrifice beyond comprehension. She knew what he’d suffered as a boy, in the dark alleys, at the hands of men…but all along, when the worst had happened and she’d witnessed the hedonistic scene in Cezar’s chambers, she’d suspected Giordan of hiding his true self, his real desires.

Not so very different from Chas, who was revolted by her vampirism…but yet craved it, wanted
her.
He was reduced to begging her for the very thing that disgusted him.

It had all made sense to her—or so it had seemed at the time, and confirmed over the years. Giordan had really wanted Cezar all along, but could never admit it.

But Chas seemed so certain…and if Giordan truly wanted Cezar, why hadn’t he come with them when they left Paris?

Narcise’s insides had been a muddle of nausea and self-recrimination during the entire trip from London, but now she must put that out of her mind. She had to be cunning and
strong to survive whatever punishment her brother would mete out to her for running away.

Chas had insisted on coming with her, to her great dismay and impotent fury…yet part of her was relieved to have someone with her. She meant to use her influence with her brother to keep Chas from being imprisoned.

Knowing that she
had
influence was a nebulous thing…but it was probably the only reason she wasn’t engulfed in the flames of fury by Lucifer. The continued throbbing of the Mark was painful, but not unbearable.

Inside the dining room, Narcise found that nothing had changed since her escape…only four months ago.

Four months. It had seemed a lifetime, even for one who was immortal.

But a moment after she walked into the dining chamber accompanied by Belial, everything did change. Suddenly there was a flurry of activity.

The next thing she knew, Cezar was there, standing on the dais behind the long table above her. Next to him was Giordan, a stony expression on his face. He was bare from the waist up and his sleek, tanned skin was marred with bitemarks that made Narcise’s stomach turn. Two of the marks still oozed, and she could scent his lifeblood.

She heard Chas hiss behind her, and suddenly they were separated by a clan of her brother’s men—Chas shoved and pulled away, held immobile by two
vampirs
, and three of the others surrounding her.

“My darling sister, I have a confession to make,” he said. “I do hope you aren’t too upset about it, but the truth is, Bonaparte is much too busy with his coronation to actually consider invading England. As I’d hoped, you took the bait.”

Narcise tried to pull away from the two men holding her,
but they were just as strong as she was. “I should have known better than to trust you,” she spat.

“I could still send my army, if it would make you feel better about it all,” he added. Then, when she gave him no further response, he commanded, “Strip her.” His eyes glittered with delight.

The next thing she knew, they were tearing at her dress. The flimsy muslin of her traveling gown ripped easily, and they flung the remnants away as they grabbed at her corset, yanking at the laces, jerking her body every which way as they tugged it loose. She stumbled and fell, twisting as she tried to fight them off, and keep her balance. One of the three finally caught her arms and pulled them up and away from her torso so that the others could loosen the laces and pull the corset, then Narcise’s light linen chemise, from her.

They allowed not even her drawers to remain, those loose, light pantaloons that covered her from waist to knee. That last bit of shield from avid eyes was yanked away by one of the makes as the other two held her arms out on either side. When they were finished, all three stepped back, leaving her to stand there in the chamber completely nude. Her skin was marked and scratched from the harsh scrape of the grommets and hard edging of her stays, along with sharp, rough fingernails, and her hair sagged from its anchor at the back of her neck—unable to be used for any sort of covering.

Cezar made a sharp gesture for one of his men to take her clothing away, and now he looked down at her with what could only be described as a vivacious smile on his face. “There, now, my dear. That is much better. Not only was that the ugliest frock I’ve ever seen—even you couldn’t do it justice—but now we can all see what it is Belial will be fighting for.”

Narcise leveled a cool look at him, hardly aware of her
nudity. She’d been thus exposed many times in the past. “I suspect it will be nothing more than a distraction. Belial hasn’t a chance, and you know it. Are you certain you wish to lose your most faithful servant?”

Her brother looked at her for a moment, and her heart sank when she saw the crafty look that eased into his eyes. “Perhaps you are correct, Narcise. My confidence in your ability is profound, and, to my dismay, Belial hasn’t the skill to match you.”

Her heart was pounding hard now and she, foolishly, glanced at Giordan. Their eyes met and the terror she saw in his nearly knocked her breathless. His face had gone white and stony, and for a moment, she thought he was going to faint.

But then her attention was drawn back to Cezar, who’d had a long, metal box brought onto the table in front of him. With a sly glance at Giordan, and then a benevolent smile at Narcise, he said, “But you must be chilled by now, my lovely sister. And I haven’t properly welcomed you home. I have something for you.” He started to lift the top. “
No.
” Giordan’s voice was sharp and desperate. He slammed his hand onto the top of the box, clanging the metal top back into place. His voice was low and unsteady, and she could barely hear him say, “Anything else, Cezar. Name it.”

By now, Narcise’s heart had plunged to her knees, which trembled and threatened to buckle. What was in the box? She glanced at Chas, who was held against the wall by one of the makes, and their eyes met. But his gaze, instead of being wild with concern or fear, was wide and intense. As if he were trying to tell her something.

Instead of being angry with Giordan for his outburst, Cezar seemed amused. “My, you are free with your promises now, Monsieur Cale. If only you’d been so accommodating
a decade ago. When it really mattered.” And yet, despite his cool words, he was gazing up at Giordan with such a baldly lustful expression that her own stomach lurched with revulsion.

Giordan’s face was shiny and hard and she swore she could hear…or feel…the pounding of his own heart as he looked down at her brother. Cezar murmured something that she couldn’t hear, but that turned Giordan’s face gray. The marks on his skin stood out in sharp red-black relief against a suddenly ashen backdrop and his throat convulsed as he nodded. Once. Quickly and short.

That was when Narcise knew for certain that Chas had been right. That whatever had happened with Giordan and Cezar, it had been under duress. Her vision wavered and she was assaulted by a rush of grief and shame.
How could I?

“Stop,” she cried. Her voice rang out and drew her brother’s attention. “I need no one to fight my battles for me. Release my friends, Cezar, and you’ll have whatever you want.”

His eyes danced and he smiled. “Take the
vampir
hunter away, then. My sister is correct: I have everything I want, right here.”

He lifted the lid of the box as Giordan made a sound of protest, but it was too late. Narcise realized immediately what was inside.

Feathers. Many of them.

As Cezar reached into the box, Giordan launched himself at him, and they tumbled to the floor. Narcise started to move, whirling around to notice that Chas was gone—they’d taken him away—and then toward the dais before someone caught her by the arm. Someone else slammed into her, and she flew to the floor, her bare skin scraping across the cold, gritty stone.

By the time she was dragged to her feet, she saw that
Giordan had been subdued and was being forced down from the dais and onto the same level on which she stood. By his slow and jerky movements, she could tell that he was weak or somehow inhibited—loss of blood, or for some other reason.

He didn’t look at her as they pulled him past, but as they went by, Narcise smelled him, felt him, so close as he came by…and then she saw Giordan’s back.

She gasped and stared, hardly noticing as Belial came up to where she stood, held in place by two strong men, and slid his palm under one of her breasts.

Giordan’s Mark was…
white
.

The corded, rootlike brand was no longer black, no longer full and pulsing and throbbing…or even merely dark lines…but it was white. Nothing more than a scar…as if it had been burned away.

What did that mean? What had happened?

But she had no time to think on it, for, as Giordan was strung up by his arms on the wall, she felt her own body turn slow and sluggish. The feathers.

Narcise turned to look, and the men holding her dropped her arms as finally she saw what Cezar was pulling from the box. Even Belial had stepped away, as if unable to stay near her for this.

She couldn’t breathe, for she recognized it.

It was the cape…made only of feathers. Rows and rows of soft, light, brown…burning…feathers.

Now her breathing came fast and hard, shallow with panic as Cezar flung the cape out with a flourish, as if to shake off any dust or wrinkles. If that touched her… If he wrapped her in it… The room tilted, turning dark and off-center, and her knees nearly gave away.

“
No,
” she whispered as her brother stepped down from the dais, sauntering toward her as if about to present her with a most precious gift.

“Stop!” The desperation in Giordan’s cry penetrated even Narcise’s terror and pain. “
No.
Don’t…do…it.”

“By Lucifer,” Cezar said, pausing, his face hard and foxlike as he looked over. “If I had known how deep your attachment was, Giordan, I would have asked for a month instead of three nights.”

“
Please
,” he breathed, his voice a low, rough rumble. His eyes shone with misery and desolation. “Whatever you want.”

Narcise could hardly think. Her limbs were heavy as boulders, her lungs as tight as if they were being crushed by the very same thing. Pain from the proximity of the feathers added to the paralysis, and she could feel them as their presence wafted through the chamber…but somehow, through it all, Giordan’s words, his intent, penetrated.

It humbled her, weakening her even more than the feathers.

She gathered every bit of strength she could muster and said his name. “
Giordan
.”

And when she did, she put every bit of apology and shame and humility in those syllables as she could.

He looked at her then, and she felt the strength of his love and devotion for her travel across the chamber, through the pain and sluggishness.

And then she could no longer breathe. Cezar was there in front of her, his face a cold, tight mask, and with a flick of his wrist, the feathers were wafting down over her shoulders in a smothering blanket.

Narcise tried to smother the scream of agony, but even Luce’s most furious blaze through her Mark was nothing
compared to this. Shaking uncontrollably, she started to collapse as the soft brush of the burning feathers encapsulated her, and someone caught her on each side, holding her erect.

The pain was so great that she couldn’t gasp or breathe or feel… She tumbled into a vortex of mad sensation: the softness of each feather, branding into her skin, the insubstantial weight pulling her down.

Vaguely she was aware of being held upright, and hands on her flesh…molding over her breasts and hips…the smell of lust and perspiration, heavy and cloying…some shadowy, indistinct dampness, heat, pressure…

Then, in her dreamlike paralysis, she was aware of being moved: the brush of her feet against the stone floor, the change of position as she went from vertical to horizontal…something hard beneath her, pressing the cape of feathers even more deeply against her skin.

She was aware of crying out, perhaps screaming…but she hardly had the breath to do so. A mouth was on her, hands, a body shoving against her, questing and invading…the shift as the feathers were pulled away from one of her shoulders and that pain was replaced by the sharp penetration of fangs.

And then, suddenly, nothing.

W
hen Chas was dragged out of the chamber, away from Narcise and Giordan, he realized he was being given a miracle—just like that day when the cat had run into the street and caused the accident which allowed him to sneak into Moldavi’s home the first time.

He still had his stake, now hidden in his sleeve during the walk to the dining chamber with Belial…and he was certain he’d be able to take at least one of his two captors by surprise.

As he faked a stumble, a quick flick of the wrist slid the weapon into his hand and loosened the guard’s grip on one side of him. When he righted himself and came back up, it was with the point of the stake ready. It found its mark with the same ease and power it always did, and he breathed a silent thanks.

By the time the other guard realized what happened, Chas had him slammed face-first against the wall, the stake at his back. “Get me out of here,” he said. “I want the way outside.”

He had to get out of the place so that he could come back in and free Narcise. And he knew exactly how to do that, what he needed to find…for it had all suddenly become clear to him.

He’d figured out Cezar’s Asthenia.

As he was observing everything that happened, from the time he and Narcise entered her brother’s chambers, and his reaction to her presence, Chas suspected there was something wrong. Moldavi had seemed so pleased to see them…until they walked into the chamber.

Then, he’d ordered them out almost instantly. “Take my sister to the dining chamber,” he’d told Belial.

And every time Narcise moved closer, Moldavi had slowed and changed. His breathing, his voice, even his body had tensed. He’d tried to hide it, but Chas was used to watching for the signs of weakness from the prey he hunted.

But Chas still didn’t completely figure it out until they got to the larger chamber…that, he realized later, gave Moldavi a larger space in which to be confined with his Asthenia. And he’d had Narcise stripped immediately…
and her clothing taken from the chamber
.

Why would he do that unless there was something he needed to get out of the place? Without, of course, anyone realizing it.

And that was when it all crystallized for Chas. The vision Sonia had seen had Narcise in it, and it was clear that Cezar had some mixture of fear and admiration for his sister…but she was also holding an ivory fan.

And in her clothing, she had been wearing a corset…with the
ivory busk
that Chas had given her. It was
ivory
. Moldavi’s Asthenia was ivory.

The next thing Narcise was aware of was Chas’s face, dark and frightened and furious, looking down at her.

“My God, Narcise,” he said, touching her cheeks as he gathered her into his arms, his eyes glistening. “I came as fast as I could. Can you… Are you… Holy Mother of God… Narcise.”

The feathers had disappeared…the pain was gone…the paralysis and heaviness had eased. Her body throbbed in places, and was numb in others…but she could breathe. And think. And remember.

She struggled to sit up, extricating herself from him. “Giordan,” she breathed, looking around frantically. Had she lost her chance? Had she lost him again?

Chas’s face changed and he stepped back so that she could see the tanned body, sagging against the wall, arms straight above his head. Giordan’s face was half-lifted, his glittering eyes scoring her, and as their gazes met, she saw wild relief in his.

She slid off the table upon which she lay, her knees wobbly and the room spinning. Something wet oozed from her shoulder, and there was blood and dampness in other places. Her arms hurt, her back felt as if it had been seared. She saw Belial’s body sprawled on the stone floor. His head lay in a pool of dark red blood, its putrid scent nauseating, nearby.

Chas caught her arm as she began to sink to the ground, and said, “Stay here. I’ll see to him.” His words were as taut and short as his movements, and Narcise felt a wave of remorse as she realized his pain.

She watched as he released Giordan, saw the way he sagged and pitched forward when Chas cut him free from the bonds that had held him upright, and she had to move from the table to meet him. Already, the weakness was ebbing, her legs were stronger, her mind clearer.

She looked around the chamber, and for the first time, she saw more bodies—dead,
vampir
bodies…and then she saw her brother.

He was sitting in a chair on the dais, tied to his seat, surrounded by slender white items.

He wasn’t dead…but he wasn’t moving.

All at once, she had Giordan in her arms, his heavy, solid body, warm and welcome, sliding against her—and it was all she could do not to collapse into shameful tears.

How much time had she missed? How much had she lost? She’d been so wrapped up in herself, in her center…

“I’ll take care of things in here,” Chas said, turning from them. “See to him. I think he’s—he needs…” His voice trailed away and he walked off with jerky steps.

“I’m well,” Giordan muttered into her hair, but his arm was tight around her, and he leaned against her too heavily to be “well.”

She smelled scents on him that she didn’t care to identify, and, blinking back angry, horrified tears, she helped him out of the ugly chamber without a glance at her brother.

She knew where to go, and took him back to her own private apartments. A niggle of guilt bothered her as she left Chas behind, and she promised herself she’d go back to him as soon as she got Giordan settled.

But he was weak, with an ashen cast to his rich, golden skin, and she knew he’d need to feed before he recovered his strength. How much blood had Cezar taken from him? Had there been others who’d fed as well?

What else had happened?

The smells and marks on his body told her more than she wanted to know, and Narcise blocked her mind from thinking about it or imagining it, remembering the shiny gray color to his face. He was safe now. Cezar wouldn’t bother him…or either of them…again.

When she eased him onto the bed in her old chamber, Giordan didn’t release her, and she tumbled down with him, their legs bumping and sliding awkwardly together. Bare skin to bare skin, her breasts pressed up against his torso, his warm arms loose around her waist.

“Narcise,” he murmured, his lips moving against her hair again, “is it really you? Have you come back to me?”

“Giordan,” she replied, pulling away to look down at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to… I know that I can’t say anything to change what happened, to make amends for it…but…I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand. I didn’t—” Her voice broke at the end and despair took over. How could he ever forgive her? “So…sorry.”

The Mark on her back shot a renewed blast of pain—or maybe it had never stopped doing so—but whatever the case, she felt it.

And along with the shock of hurt came an unlikely sense of satisfaction. If Lucifer disapproved, then there was something good about it.

And it had all ceased being just about her some time ago.

“Shh,” he said. “Don’t…say anything.”

“Are you hurt? What can I…”

He covered her mouth with his, his lips warm and firm, fitting over hers with a softness that made her want to weep. His hands glided up her unclothed body, gentle and yet possessive.

“Belial,” he said, pulling away suddenly, his face hardening. “He—”

“He’s dead,” she replied. “Chas…” She shook her head and pressed her swollen lips together.

“I would have killed him myself. Watching him—” His voice trailed off and he looked at her, his brown-blue eyes deep and filled with grief. “I knew what Cezar was going to do. I tried to stop him, Narcise.”

“By Fate, I
know
you did,” she replied wildly, consumed by her own guilt and shame. “Giordan, there was
nothing
you could have done—”

“I would have done anything—”

“But you already
did
,” she wept. “You already
did
. And I didn’t
see
it. I was too… I didn’t, I
couldn’t
, understand…what you’d done.”

He gathered her close, but she could feel the trembling and weakness in his powerful arms. She pressed a kiss over one of the wounds on his shoulder, tasting the remnant of luscious, warm, clean lifeblood. Desire and affection rushed over her, and he shivered beneath her lips.

“You need to feed,” she told him, pulling away, putting aside her own needs and desires. “You can hardly lift your arms.”

“No,” he murmured. “I only need you, Narcise. I never thought—”

“Please, Giordan. Allow me.” She raised her arm and offered it to him, at the same time as she admired the smooth planes of his chest, dusted lightly with dark hair. “Just as you did for me.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. Narcise. I can’t.” He turned his face away, his mouth tight, his nostrils flaring as if he drew in her scent, but tried to force it away at the same time.

Something sharp and hard stabbed her in the heart. He’d fed on Rubey. She knew he had…she’d scented and smelled the proof.

If he loved her, why would he not take what she offered? Her heart thumping, an uneasy churning in her insides, she looked for something to cut her skin…just as he had, when she’d demurred his same offering, ten years ago.

A lifetime for some. But just a flash in the life of a Dracule.

“Please,” she said, wanting to help him, and at the same time, wanting to erase the remnants of Belial that had been imprinted on her.

She raked her arm over the corner of her bedside table, and it did enough: leaving a slender red line that burst into shiny pearls of lifeblood.

“Narcise.” He sucked in his breath and she put her arm there…but even then, he turned away. “I can’t. You don’t understand…I’ve changed. I can’t.”

But then he shuddered, deep in his middle as he pulled in a breath. His belly and torso flinched against hers, and all at once his mouth was on her…closing around her arm.

His tongue slid along the slender wound, leaving a moist, hot trail in its wake, and Narcise’s desire blossomed fully inside her, shooting low and deep.

She rolled and pressed against him, jolting delicately when he slid his fangs into the soft side of her arm. The rush of her blood into his warm mouth, his slick tongue tasting the lifeblood was as pleasurable for her as sinking her fangs into his vein.

She tasted his salty skin, felt the racing and pounding of his pulse as it beat with her own. His eyes were closed, his face taut with relief as he drank—

Giordan abruptly pulled up, thrusting her arm away and lurching off the bed. He fumbled at the table, grabbing a small bowl from it just in time to vomit inside.

Narcise went still and cold. Did he hate her so much that he couldn’t…

Slowly she eased away from the warm place on the bed, the last remnants of her pleasure evaporating, leaving her shaky and confused. His back was to her, that broad expanse with shifting muscles…and a Mark that had turned white. It covered his shoulder and down his back, smooth and light—as if he’d been tanned around it.

He looked up then, wiping his mouth with the back of a
hand, and saw her. “Narcise,” he said, reaching for her. “I’m sorry. It’s not you—”

“It must be me,” she whispered, her throat suddenly raw and dry. “You have no difficulty feeding on Rubey.”

His fingers were surprisingly strong, and he kept her in place on the bed as he came back onto it. “No. I shouldn’t have tried. I knew what would happen…but I can’t resist you.” His smile was forced and wavery, making her even more discomfited.

She blinked back tears, not even caring that she might appear weak. She
was
weak. Weak and foolish. And what she’d done was unforgivable.

You are the strongest person I’ve ever met,
he’d said to her once.

That was before he’d really come to know her.

Giordan wouldn’t release her hand. “After what happened…before…when I left, I was so dark and angry and—well, I went a little mad. I don’t remember what I did, precisely, but it was violent and evil and black. I do remember waking in an alley, with no memory of anything but the realization that I didn’t have you any longer—” He squeezed her fingers. “No, don’t talk. You need to understand.”

Narcise couldn’t look at him, so she stared down at their joined hands: his dark, powerful one closed around her pale slender fingers.

“There was a cat,” he said. “In the alley, and she blocked me in. I couldn’t leave. And I stayed there as the sun rose, lost in that dark time—I can’t describe how it was, but it was horrific. I tried to hide from the sunlight, but one part of me was exposed.” He gestured to his shoulder, drawing her attention from their hands. “I saw a bright light, and this happened. I felt as if my insides…my soul…were battling. They were. The light won.”

Narcise reached to touch the markings, certain that he was making the entire event seem much simpler than it had been. “Did you…” She shook her head. The white lines were no longer raised, nor was the texture any different than the rest of his skin. The change of color made the mark look almost beautiful, instead of ugly and malevolent.

“I was weak and beaten, and when I finally made my way home, I tried to feed. And every time I did…” He gestured to the bowl, an odd expression on his face. “That happened. At last, Drishni came to me and I was able to feed from her. Because she eats nothing brought to her through death or violence. Somehow, with my change, my body would no longer accept anything violent or evil. After that, I realized I was changing. In many ways.”

“And so you can feed on Rubey?” she asked, knowing that her tone was stiff with hurt.

“She eats no meat. And she offers freely.” His eyes searched hers. “But I don’t love her.”

Narcise turned away to hide the tears. What a fool she was. “And Luce?”

“He no longer owns me. Kritanu—an old Indian man who Dimitri sent after he learned about this—says that I’ve attained a level of
moksha
that most mortals can never reach. Because I’m immortal, still, Narcise. I still have forever.”

So he wasn’t like Dimitri and Voss. She frowned, her heart lightening just that bit. “You are no longer Dracule…but you aren’t a mortal?”