The Vampire Narcise (5 page)

She would either live through Cezar’s anger, as she had so many times before…or he would kill her in his fury. And that, she thought, could very well be the lesser of the two evils.

Cezar Moldavi was fully aware of his sister’s disappearance, and with whom.

Certainly he was, for he rarely allowed anything out of his control to happen. Those days of being pummeled and pushed and bullied were long behind him. Now, everything he did was carefully planned, every possible outcome examined, accepted or rejected, and Cezar Moldavi had long since destroyed anyone who could remember him as the sniveling, snot-nosed coward he’d once been.

Except for his sister, whom he loved.

And hated.

Despite the stimulation of two lovely mortal women who fondled and stroked and tempted him to feed on them, his mind was elsewhere. He knew precisely when Narcise and
Cale left the chamber, how long they were gone and who had fed upon whom by the time they returned.

And although he was disappointed with the turn of events, he’d expected it. It had been one of the possible—and, in fact, most probable—outcomes. He would have liked to have been surprised, but the fact that he wasn’t surprised wasn’t such a great tragedy, for, again, he’d been prepared.

Cale was a striking, powerful man, absurdly wealthy and well-thought-of in both the Dracule and the mortal worlds. He was used to getting all that he desired.

And so was Cezar.

But then again…nothing had truly happened between Cale and his sister. Cezar could smell it: a brief feeding, nothing more. Narcise would pay for her disobedience…but not in the way she might anticipate.

And that was why Cezar allowed himself to be convinced by Cale’s smooth explanations for what had obviously happened. The scent of satiation was everywhere in the chamber, clinging to Narcise; there was no way to hide what had occurred. And so, admirably, Cale didn’t attempt to do so.

“And see how I injured myself,” he said, gesturing to his wounded arm. “I imposed upon your sister, and was able to convince her to assist me. I’m deeply gratified that she agreed, for I fear my shirtsleeve would have been stained otherwise.” His smile was charming, even reaching his eyes. Yet, behind the smile, there was a hint of warning. “And Mingo—you understand how valets can be—would be beside himself.”

“Certainly,” Cezar replied, approving of the very well-cut lines of the other man’s clothing. Not as ostentatious as some of the other high fashion here in Paris, with the brocade cutaway coats of pastel, but nevertheless extremely well-made and perfectly fitted. He must get the name of his tailor. “I’m certain Narcise had no real qualms about assisting our host.”
His expression and voice were bland, and as he glanced over, he saw the flare of nervousness in her eyes.

Good.
But do not expect the sword to drop so soon, my dear sister. I have need of you first.

If nothing else, Cezar Moldavi had learned to plot and plan and manipulate instead of rushing in. And until he got what he wanted from Giordan Cale—which was more than a mere share in his next spice ship to China—he would look aside and allow Narcise to help him.

At the very least, it would provide some very stimulating activity.

Giordan looked out over the glittering lights. There were gently rocking carriage lanterns, and higher, stable street-lights. The glow of oil lamps, from bright yellow to dull amber, shone from unshuttered windows. The City of Light, named for being the center of education and enlightenment since the medieval monks built their narrow streets, was a more apt nickname than most realized.

He was high enough, here on the silent rooftop, that the shouts and cries from below were indiscernible, mingling with the low hoot of owls and the distant rattle of bridles and carriages. Bonfires blazed in red-orange pockets as spectators waited, reserving their places for the morning’s executions. Giordan fancied he could even see the wicked gleam of the guillotine blade in its large black frame.

He wondered how long this madness would last, how long the likes of Robespierre and Hébert would escape a similar fate. Giordan had lived more than a hundred years, and one thing he’d come to realize was that fanaticism and violence had a way of turning on to those who wielded them.

A cool breeze ruffled his curls as he lifted a glass to sip his favorite Armagnac. Warm and pungent, the brandy’s potency
was a different experience than that of the lifeblood he’d enjoyed earlier this evening, courtesy of Damaris. Not for sustenance did he enjoy the liquor, but for pleasure and weight and taste, and the different sort of looseness it gave him.

So it was for the Dracule: when they ate cheese or fruit or pastries, or any sort of food, or partook of wine or ale, it was purely for pleasure. Texture, taste, scent. A reminder of their enjoyment from mortal days, a social activity. But not at all necessary.

He allowed the brandy to settle on his tongue, swirling it thoughtfully in tandem with a myriad of thoughts, a spectrum of emotions. A burst of laughter erupted below, coming from one of his balconies on a lower floor. Ah, good. His guests were enjoying themselves.

What more could a man ask?

Friends, companionship, social engagements… He was rarely alone. He need never be lonely.

Yet…he’d escaped from his own lavish party to find solitude on the private rooftop. Potted lemon and orange trees, surrounded by luminaries, released their scent into the breeze. A long ledge, planted with rosemary and thyme, contained the low bushes as they sprouted fragrantly. There was a bench if he chose to sit, and even a small pit should he wish to burn the neatly tied fagot resting in it. A fat beetle scuttled across the edge of the bench and Giordan smashed it with his boot.

Pity that he could only utilize the space once the sun went down, for he wondered how different Paris would appear in the daylight. What the creamy rows of houses and their peaked roofs would look like, neat and perpendicular and shoved together like rows of pointed teeth, knit together like the patterned stitches of a shawl.

Perhaps if he had such an unobstructed view, he might see
La Chapelle-Saint-Denis from here: the place of his origin, of his birth.

Not his literal birth. He wasn’t certain where that had been; in the countryside, he suspected. But the place where he’d lived—no, no, where he’d existed. Merely existed.

Those memories still pierced him, still caused his throat to close up. Still, more often than he cared to admit, had him waking, desperate, in the middle of the day, wondering if there would be enough bread for dinner or a place to sleep. Remembering the scrap of wool he tried to huddle beneath during the snows. Fighting off the memory of rough hands and the stink of unwashed men unlacing their breeches, shoving him into dark alleys.

Here he was, rooftops and decades away from those days, from his own Terror.

And, here in Le Marais, only a few streets from a new obsession: Narcise Moldavi.

A shadow moved on an adjacent rooftop across the way, but he’d already sensed the cat. Elegant and slinky, padding four-footed across the ridge, it turned and looked at him with knowing blue-gray eyes. The moon stroked its pale fur with a hint of blue and silver, leaving the creature to look almost luminous.

Giordan paused with the glass halfway to his mouth and lowered it, watching. Waiting.

The cat’s long tail twitched and it gave a low meow, as if to taunt him.

But there was a street—albeit a narrow one—five stories below, between his balcony and the cat’s roof peak. That was far enough that Giordan wasn’t overly affected by the feline’s presence. This was just about as close as he could get to a cat now without becoming weak or even paralyzed, a fact that he despised.

His only friend from those years living hand to mouth, dirty and cold, had been a large, fat orange tabby with yellow eyes. When things had started to change, when he’d had two sous to rub together, and then four clinking in his pocket, and then eight and then they began to multiply faster than Giordan could believe, Chaton (a decidedly uncreative name to be sure) had been with him.

The night Lucifer visited, deep in Giordan’s dreams—or perhaps they had been nightmares—Chaton had been curled next to him on the bed, purring. This was long after Giordan had bought his own well-appointed home, with the largest, softest goosedown mattresses he could find, after his incredible financial luck had taken hold. And so it was that, when Giordan awakened the next morning after a hazy, dark dream in which the Devil had promised him immortality and power and even more riches, the first thing he saw was Chaton.

And that, horribly enough, was also the last time he would pet or hold or come near the companionable feline.

For, along with life everlasting and the requirement of fresh blood to live, along with the Mark of the Devil like evil black roots on his back, Giordan had also acquired his own personal Asthenia. His Achilles’ heel.

Each of the Dracule had a specific weakness, the proximity of which tightened the lungs and weighted the limbs, making one feel as if they were trying to slosh through water. The nearer it got, the more helpless one became until, at the mere touch of the item, one felt as if one were being branded.

Thus, Giordan, who’d given up death and age, had also given up his pet to become his Asthenia as soon as he laid eyes on Chaton that morning.

It was a sacrifice he bitterly regretted, a hundred fourteen years later.

He turned his attention from the blue-eyed cat, who’d
positioned itself to watch him with an unblinking stare, and toward the east. Toward the roof of Moldavi’s home, which would soon be lit by the pink icing of dawn.

Cezar owned a narrow house near the edge of Le Marais, but most of his living quarters were located safely under the ground. Giordan had walked through skull-lined catacombs well beneath the
rue
to find his host. The subterranean lair was radically different from where most Dracule resided, and he couldn’t help but wonder about the reasons for it.

Security, most likely. To keep both him and his valuable sister safe.

Giordan took another sip and at last allowed his thoughts to go where they wished.

It had been two weeks since the evening she was here, the night things had changed. Since he’d fallen in love with her…just like that.

Ever since the moment she’d fed on him, her full lips pressed to his skin, her teeth sinking into his flesh, he’d known. He’d never felt such strong emotion. Such…completion. Such—

A raucous burst of laughter exploded in the silence, and Giordan turned as someone called his name.

“There you are,” cried Suzette, a made vampire who’d shared his bed—and blood—on many occasions.

She and a small group of his acquaintances were just emerging from the door that led to the rooftop. They chatted gaily, bottles of wine and ale dangling from their fingers. And, of course, in their wake trailed two of Giordan’s well-trained servants, available to set right anything that might go amiss.

“Whatever are you doing up here alone, darling Giordan?” asked Felicia, another sired vampire with whom he’d traded bodily fluids. She slinked her way over toward him,
and Suzette merely rolled her glowing eyes and turned to the man on her arm. Jealousy was not one of her vices.

He smiled at them, his host smile, his not-quite-mirthful-but-very-friendly-one, and gestured out to the City of Light. “But I was merely waiting for you to join me. The view is lovely, no?”

“Not nearly as lovely as this,” crowed a drunken Brickbank, one of Voss’s friends. He was leering down Suzette’s exceedingly low-cut bodice, which, due to the size of her breasts and the way they were plumped up, had a deep, dark vee between them into which a man might slide his entire hand, sideways. Giordan knew this from personal experience, and although the thought might have tempted him in the past…tonight it did not.

“What sort of treat do you have planned for us this evening?” asked the Comte Robuchard, walking idly about the small space. “Some music perhaps? A blazing fire on which we can roast chestnuts?” He was one of the few mortals who knew about the Draculia, and who was invited to some of their activities. Paris was rife with secret societies, but the Dracule was one of the few that was truly underground and unknown, even by some of the upper class.

Ever the good host, Giordan pushed away his lingering thoughts of Narcise and immediately responded, “I thought perhaps I might jump from the roof tonight.”

This suggestion—which he’d only just thought of—was met with squeals of delight and masculine roars of approval.

“That will be even more exciting than the night you danced among the flames in front of a crowd of varlets,” cried Felicia. Her fangs had slipped free, and now they dipped into her lower lip as she smiled. “They thought they were witnessing the Devil himself!”

“It would be most exciting,” Suzette agreed, her arm now
slipped through that of a different one of their male companions. “Shall you do a flip, or merely swan dive from the edge?”

“Hmm,” he said with a grin. “I must do something fantastic, no?” Giordan had begun to peel off his favorite coat of bronze brocade, and he tossed it to one of the ladies with whom he hadn’t shared a bed. Loosening the ties at the knees of his breeches to give himself more freedom of movement, he looked down to the street below.

A fall or dive wouldn’t injure a Dracule, unless, by some unhappy event, he or she impaled oneself on a piece of wood, through the heart. Or if some guillotine-like metal happened to be there on the way down to slice one’s head from one’s shoulders. Neither of which were the case.

Such a feat would, to be sure, frighten or startle any mortal who might witness it, but that was part of the thrill. This was no worse than a mortal riding a horse at full speed and leaping over a high fence: dangerous but hardly lethal unless something went wrong.

And nothing would go wrong for Giordan. He was an entertainer, not a fool.

“Bernard,” he said, gesturing to one of the hovering servants, “go below and ensure that I have a clear area to land.”