The Vampire Narcise (9 page)

Now, she slid her hands back down along his torso, pausing to unlace his breeches and drawers, and then tugged them down over his lean hips. His cock surged free as soon as it was able, thick and tumescent, and Cale gave a soft sigh of relief at its release.

Narcise eyed him appreciatively, her mouth watering a bit and her quim full and tingling with interest and curiosity. Her cheek brushed deliberately against the hot, velvet skin of his erection as she worked his breeches down from knee to ankle, and she inhaled the very male, very aroused scent emanating from that center of heat.

When she got to the floor, he obliged by silently lifting his long, elegantly arched feet, and she slipped the tight breeches away. And then she settled back, her palms flat on the cool stone floor, and looked up at him.

Magnificent. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a more perfect specimen of maleness—and, unfortunately, she’d seen
far too many. He was as sleek and muscled as Michelangelo’s statue of David, and even had the same head of thick, curling hair.

Or perhaps she was merely inflicting such a comparison on the moment, as she didn’t generally stop to admire—or criticize—the bodies she normally came in contact with.

“I cannot help but wonder if your silence is due to disappointment or awe,” he said, a bit of taut humor in his voice. “I hope it’s the latter that has you dumfounded.”

“Oh,” Narcise said, her eyes traveling up along tight, muscled calves and impressively sturdy thighs, “I think it is safe to say that Suzette did not exaggerate.”

She pulled to her feet, unwilling to remain in such a supine position any longer and, tossing her hair back over her shoulder, stripped off her own breeches and drawers.

His rushing exhale was audible, and when she stood in front of him, as naked as he, the heat in his eyes nearly set her on fire. The chains clinked audibly and she saw the muscles in his arms tighten even more. His cock twitched enticingly.

“What now?” he said in a dusky voice.

Narcise couldn’t remember the last time her body felt so warm and lush and alive, swelling and throbbing with arousal. Power and desire gave her courage, and she stepped away for a moment, presenting him with her backside as she went over to the array of daggers and whips. The edges of her hair brushed pleasingly over the top of her buttocks.

“You’ve vowed not to touch me,” she said, picking up one of the finger-length daggers. She remembered this one, remembered the tiny little cuts that had been made all down one side of her torso, little Xs, neatly and carefully so that a delicate patchwork of red had been left. Time to banish
that memory. “And you’ve claimed that I can do anything I wish.”

“Indeed,” Cale replied. His voice, still dark and low, was a bit stronger now. Perhaps a bit wary.

Narcise walked toward him, feeling the hot glow in her eyes and the insistent press of her fangs. She held the slender dagger, sliding her fingers thoughtfully over its hilt. The Devil’s Mark on her own shoulder throbbed and swelled in encouragement.

“Do you like pain, Monsieur Cale?” she asked when she came to stand very close to him. So close that his breath stirred her hair, and she could smell the blood leaping beneath the wound she’d given him. Her mouth watered at the memory of his taste and scent, and she swallowed hard.

His glowing eyes, still dark and intense at the centers, bored into hers. “You may do what you will, Narcise, I will not fight you. But I am not one who enjoys receiving—or inflicting—pain on my lovers.”

The rumbling sound of those last syllables—
my lovers
—sent another shock of desire into her center. Such a beautiful voice, and the caressing of those syllables was a figurative stroking of her skin. Such an intimate word, so foreign to her, so out of reach. To be one’s lover presumed a span of time. Perhaps even some tender emotion.

And…the bald truth in his words, for she could read it in his eyes, released a last bit of tension she hadn’t even realized existed.
I am not one who enjoys receiving or inflicting pain.

“Very well,” she said, and raised the dagger. With a sharp, deliberate movement, she sliced a nick in the soft part of her palm.

The blood burst into a thick red line, half as long as her finger, as Cale gave a little jolt, then went still.

Narcise tossed the dagger away and lifted her hand, the
bright red blood shiny and slick on the plump skin. “Taste,” she said, bringing it to his mouth.

He hesitated, and she could fairly see his fangs quivering with need as she brought her hand to his lips. The chains shifted and clanked, and his torso pressed against hers, hot and damp.

“You aren’t breaking a vow. You won’t be touching me,” she said when his only reaction was a slight flare of his nostrils, followed by a ripple in his throat. “Just taste. Sip.”

He moved then, at last, his mouth covering the soft, blood-drenched skin of her hand. His lips were warm and gentle, full but firm, as they covered and caressed the wound there. The effect was the same as if he’d covered her breast with his lips, or her quim with his mouth: sensual and erotic, soft and sleek and cunning. He used his tongue to slip around, just as she had done to him, lapping and stroking the sensitive flesh, sucking and drawing in her blood. The release of pressure that had been building inside Narcise swelled and washed through her as he teased and licked with his magical mouth.

Though his teeth and fangs scraped against her, and though he gave a soft, deep groan in the back of his throat, he never drove them into her flesh, penetrating and taking more than she was offering.

Narcise, her body damp and loose, pressed herself all along the front of him, sliding and rubbing for her pleasure as much as to tease him. As he licked at her hand with full, slick lips, she curved her fingers around his cock, moving them idly up and down the length of it. He jolted and trembled against her, pulling away from her wounded hand to rest his head back against the wall as she stroked faster, then slower, then faster, faster, faster— “
Narcise!
” he groaned, and she felt his body ready, gathering up.

“Not quite yet,” she warned and slowed her last slide. Then, removing her hand, she drove her fangs into the soft part of his shoulder.

He jolted again, and cursed in pain and relief as the blood burst into her mouth like a hot, coppery orgasm. Narcise’s world turned warm and damp, pounding and pulsing, as she drew on him, hard and fast, desperate and needy. Her vision darkened and became red; her consciousness was filled with the texture of sweet, bloody ambrosia and damp skin, and an erotic mélange of sensation.

Now they were vibrating against each other, the rich smells of arousal thick and full, the taste of his lifeblood filling her mouth, and her own, still on his breath. She released him and bit again, roughly, driven to devour him, to take him all in—taste, scent, touch—singe her tongue to explore those small wounds, the curve of his shoulder and neck, the taste of his skin, salty and hot.

Her bloody hand curved around his cock and guided it to her, as she lifted on her toes. She raised a leg, settling it around his hips, and he groaned in desperation when he was unable to help steady her, to settle her in the right place, and she felt the tension rippling through his body. But Narcise had an arm around his neck, her ankle curved behind him, opening her legs so that he could fit into her. She was swollen and ready and with one measured thrust, she impaled herself against him.

Cale gave a sharp cry, echoed by her own gasp at the intense, brilliant pleasure.
Oh my, oh my
…was all she could think as every bit of awareness faded into a ball of heat that expanded as she moved against him, and he thrust smoothly, forcefully against her.

She wrapped her other hand around his neck, too, fairly
hanging there, and planted her feet against the wall at his hips so she could leverage herself within the pounding rhythm.

The ball of heat and pleasure grew and swelled until it filled her center, rolling into a great undulating explosion of pleasure that had her crying out, and then sobbing with relief and satiation as he shuddered his release against her.

She felt the tremors through her body, inside and against her, for a long time…and after a while, she realized she was sliding down off him, her knees weak and her limbs loose and soft.

The wall was cool and smooth under her fingers, and she heard the faint clinking of the chains, the soft rasping breaths of his pleasure and the stone floor beneath her toes.

After a long moment, she opened her eyes, stepping away from his warmth with a shameful little stagger. Her fingers trembled, but there was a warmth in her belly that had spread throughout and made her want to smile. And perhaps even to cry.

“Narcise,” he said after she’d stepped back and gathered up her tunic and breeches, then turned to pick up the dagger and to return it to the table: focusing on those mundane tasks instead of the tender emotions that seemed to be threatening.

There was an odd note in his voice and she looked over to see—

“How did you do that?” she said. He was standing there, one of the manacles hanging free. A chill raced over her.

She didn’t need him to answer, for she realized that his free wrist was the one
he’d
clasped inside the manacle. And that he must have connected it loosely or even not at all…so that he could—

“You could have freed yourself at any time,” she said, needing to speak the words out loud in order for them to penetrate. As she watched, he reached over and unlocked the
wrist manacle she’d connected. It wasn’t difficult: there was a small little pin that held it closed and could be adjusted by the size of the wrist. Her world had begun to tilt.

“You can trust me, Narcise,” he said.

Something unsteady bumped in her heart and a little coil of fear started in her belly. Her Mark twinged sharply. Now that he was free, now that she’d aroused his lust and shared some of herself with him, he’d take and
take
—

Narcise shook her head to force away the rising panic, and realized she still had the dagger in her hand, behind her back, and she gripped the hilt comfortingly. The blade was cool against her bare skin, but she shifted so that Cale couldn’t see it. She wouldn’t allow him to touch her. He’d promised.

By now, to her faint surprise, he’d pulled on his breeches, and then scooped up his shirt. “But of course I want to stay, Narcise,” he said, his voice very even and very low, his eyes penetrating. It was as if he could see the change in her emotion: from ease to terror. “However, I’m not going to impose my presence on you any longer, for the temptation to forget my vow is much too great. Particularly after…
that
.” The low rumble caught on that syllable and dropped even lower as he made a slight gesture toward the wall of chains. “But I’ll return. Until then, remember what I said.” His gaze held hers for a long moment, as if to nudge her thoughts.

Trust me.

It’s only you, Narcise.

Sometimes a man just knows.

She shook her head, more in confusion than negation. In an absurd display of betrayal, her body still hummed and the little knot in her quim still throbbed pleasantly even as she sifted through truths and lies, flattery and appreciation.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I pray you are safe until we meet again,
cher
.”

And then he unbolted the door and slipped through, closing it tightly behind him.

G
iordan closed the door behind him and walked only a few steps down the narrow, torch-lit corridor before stopping to collect himself. His hands were bloody damned shaking and his gums were sore from thrusting their fangs uselessly. Lucifer’s Mark screamed with rage, radiating pain sharply through his body in affront for his sacrifice.

It had taken a good deal of control and prudence to turn and walk out of that room, and if he weren’t certain his every movement was being accounted for, he’d stand here longer.

That was, in fact, the only reason he hadn’t dragged her out with him to freedom.

He looked around, sharpening his thoughts to take in the details of his surroundings. Of course he’d passed through this same area some hours earlier, when he was following Narcise…but understandably, his mind had been elsewhere and he’d been in no state to absorb all the details. Unlike The Chamber he’d just quit, this space was roughly hewn stone walls and an uneven floor. Very different from the dining room that doubled as a fencing arena.

But of course he was already considering how to get Narcise out of this place. It wasn’t something he could rush into, much as he wanted to—
needed
to—get her free. He must plan his steps carefully, he must be patient.

For surely Cezar wouldn’t even allow him free access after
his “winnings”—and, ah, yes, there it was. The sound of approaching footsteps. Someone had heard the door opening from some nearby vantage point, or there was some other notification that he’d left. Perhaps a bell that rang in an above-stairs chamber.

“Leaving so soon, monsieur?”

Giordan was more than mildly surprised to see the host himself striding toward him, bringing that patchouli and cedar scent into the narrow corridor. “Yes, indeed.”

“I trust that there were no problems, no concerns?” Moldavi asked, his eyes bright and his voice placating. “All was to your…liking?”

“If one considers a woman terrified at the mere thought of being touched by a man no little problem, then, no, I had no problems.” It was only with great difficulty that Giordan was able to keep the great loathing from his voice and expression.

“She did not give you difficulty?” Those eyes looked closely at him, then slipped away to scan over his torso as if to look for signs of wounds or injury. An unnaturally slender brow lifted at the sight of the bite marks on his bicep.

“But of course not.” Giordan was fairly certain there had been no witnesses—either visual or aural—during the events of the evening, for he surely would have scented the presence of anyone near enough to see or hear. But, yes, he had been a bit distracted, so he couldn’t be completely certain. “I had all that I wanted, and now I have finished.”

“Very good. Very good. It’s just that I find it unusual for a man to leave my delightful sister any earlier than he must, hmm?”

Giordan gave a meaningless shrug and said nothing more as they walked along the corridor.

Moldavi continued smoothly, “Would you care to join me
for a drink, then? I have just received a most delightful vintage from Barcelona. They are calling it a champagne, but of course that is impossible if it is grown in Spain, is it not?”

Giordan hesitated for a moment. He wanted more than anything to get away from this abhorrent man, out of this dark, close place and back to his own…but the more time spent in his presence, here in the highly secure, subterranean locale, the more he could learn about its layout and his host’s habits…and the sooner he could find a way to relieve Cezar Moldavi of his favorite plaything.

His fingers curled into each other as he thought of having to leave Narcise here…but he forced them to smooth out.
Patience
.

Thus, although he truly wanted to be alone—with his thoughts, his memories, his fears—his concern and care for Narcise’s future easily prevailed. “Perhaps…perhaps, yes, for a brief time. I would be delighted to sample your offering. It sounds most intriguing.” He kept his voice mellow and even enthusiastic with effort.

Moldavi’s face changed, a brief contortion, and his eyes widened a fraction…then it was gone. “Please, then, with me,” said his host in his imperfect French. “And, if you like, Cale, I would be happy to provide you with new attire. I suspect you don’t wish to be traveling back to your home in nothing but breeches. I have retrieved your coat from our dining area, of course, but perhaps you would accept my gift of a shirt and shoes as well.”

Giordan realized that his host was correct, and that he hadn’t given his bare feet, legs and chest any thought at all.
Ah, Narcise. You’ve already destroyed me.
“I would be very grateful.”

As he walked along with Moldavi, Giordan considered the option of killing the man right here, right now. It was
an efficient way to resolve things; one he’d employed far too many times, if the priests had anything to say about it. Which, of course, they didn’t. It was a plain truth: Giordan had grown up with violence and poverty all around him, and was more likely to kill a man who crossed him than he was to waste time trying to find other resolutions.

That was yet another reason, he was certain, that Lucifer had found him an appropriate addition to the Draculia.

Killing Moldavi would end the man’s domination over Narcise, and they would find their way out of this labyrinthine lair beneath the
rues
of Paris.

But Giordan was forced to reject the fantasy nearly as soon as it presented itself, for a variety of reasons, the simplest being, he didn’t have a weapon. It wasn’t as if he could choke the man to death or pummel him into the ether like one could do on the streets. Either a wooden stake or a sword that would take the man’s head off were the only ways, and aside of the wooden sconces, there was nothing else that would work. And to tear down a sconce, break it into a ragged point and then attack Moldavi…even Giordan wasn’t confident it could be done quickly and without mishap.

Aside of that, to do anything that would make the man suspicious would ruin any chance he might have of further access to Narcise.

Patience.

“So you have lived in Paris since you were a child?” Moldavi asked as they approached a heavy wooden door.

“Yes. Although the place I lived while a boy was much different than Le Marais,” Giordan said with a sidewise, wry smile.

“I have come to prefer Paris myself,” Moldavi said. “Romania is rough and wild with its own beauty, but also dark and sharp and difficult to navigate…and I find the City of
Light a much welcome change.” He had the key on a ring at his waist, but there was a guard stationed there to provide additional security.

“Although I travel much now for business purposes, I always return to Paris, for it’s my home,” Giordan replied.

It appeared even the guard didn’t have access to the door, for it was his master who used the key to unlock the door. From what Giordan had observed on his journey to and from, the single purpose of this corridor was to provide access to The Chamber where he and Narcise had been. There was no other entrance or exit along here, no other rooms, and certainly no other way in or out of the room in which they’d been.

He wondered, suddenly, and with a painful shaft of horror, whether Narcise was kept in that place of torture all the time, or if she had some other sort of living space.

They walked through the door and Giordan took in the details of what he’d only vaguely noted the first time through. This underground tunnel had been in Paris much longer than Moldavi had.

“How did you come to choose the catacombs as a place to live?” Giordan asked as they passed along the corridor. What he really meant was how had Moldavi taken over control of these underground tunnels where varlets and vagrants had lived for centuries. “I would have thought you’d prefer a château or some other mansion.”

The walls of this hallway were lined with neat rows of skulls, their empty eyes and toothy upper jaws an eerie and morbid decor. Above each row of skulls were lined several layers of large bones—femurs, he guessed by the size of them, with the joint ends facing out. They made for bumpy texture, and the hollows provided homes for spiders and other insects.

Giordan made no attempt to hide his surprise that a man as refined as Moldavi—at least in attire and his selection of food and drink—would choose to live in such base surroundings. But then again…this was a vampire who bled children to death and who imprisoned his sister for the pleasure of others. He tightened his jaw to control the rage. Perhaps he would kill the man now.

“It is a bit gauche, isn’t it?” his companion replied, brushing a hand lovingly over one of the skulls. “But I find it such an interesting topic of conversation. At the least,” he said with his faint lisp, “they are long dead and gone and we don’t have the rot and smell of the decomposing bodies in the…the place where they are moving all of them now…what is it called?”

“The Ossuary,” Giordan replied, having regained control of his temper. He noted that the skull-lined corridor had branched off into two different directions and that they’d taken the eastern route. “In the old stone quarries.”

He recognized that the tunnels they now traversed were old quarries as well, but that these bones must be the original ones from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The placement of these bones decades ago were the inspiration for the disposal of the bodies from the overcrowded church cemeteries, the newest wave which had begun thirty years earlier from parishes like Holy Innocents.

Giordan had traversed many of these underground tunnels even before he was turned Dracule, and now he was redrawing a map in his head. Combining his memory of the network and the actual route they took, he was attempting to connect the two areas. That would come in handy if—
when
—he helped Narcise make her escape.

They came to another door at a T-intersection of the corridor. When they passed through the entrance into a hallway
that looked exactly like one in his own home, Giordan realized that Moldavi must simply use the skull-lined quarry as a conduit between his torture chamber and his real living space.

This suspicion was confirmed as they strode through, chatting amiably about a variety of things, and Giordan smelled Narcise, among other aromas. She obviously spent much time here, as did Moldavi and others.

That was an optimistic sign. If she were kept here, in this furnished, plastered and painted area, Giordan would have a much better chance of freeing her from it. And perhaps not quite as many nightmares about her cloistered in the torture chamber.

“Please, sit,” Moldavi offered as a steward opened a tall, white door at the end of a gently ascending hallway. Inside there were many comfortable chairs and a roaring fireplace. “I hope you do not mind,” his host said, gesturing to the flames. “But I tend to easily take a chill and I prefer a blaze in every chamber.”

“I find it rather chill and damp beneath the ground, so I welcome the heat,” Giordan told him.

Glasses clinked and Moldavi offered him a small ornate vessel shaped like an upside-down bell. They talked for some time about the spice ship, and all the while Giordan kept his ears and nose attuned for the presence of Narcise.

But it was when Moldavi, after a long moment of silence, said, “I find that I will need to be absent from Paris for a week or more to attend to a business interest in Marseilles,” that Giordan’s body came to full awareness.

Something prickled over the back of his shoulders and he sipped the very fine sparkling wine that had come from Barcelona. “Do you travel by coach or horse?” he asked just to
keep the conversation going, even as his mind worked madly. He kept his eyes heavily-lidded and his attention purposely jumping about the chamber. “I cannot help but admire your selection of artwork,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve noticed I am a patron of Monsieur David.”

“I did notice,” Moldavi replied. “He has given my sister painting lessons, and in fact, that is one of her works.” He gestured to a small square painting, surrounded by an ornate frame as wide as the image it embraced.

Giordan had already taken note of the dark, stark image of a city beneath the moonlight. The rows of buildings appeared like angry gray teeth thrusting up into a dark sky. Out of politeness, he looked again, and then, because he couldn’t appear too interested, he drew his attention away almost immediately.

“I see little resemblance between her work and that of David,” he commented, thinking of not only the lack of hue but also the subject matter. Monsieur David generally concentrated on portraits rather than landscapes, and even his stark portrait of the murder of his friend Marat wasn’t as angry and undulating as Narcise’s world.

How does she live?

Cezar gave a short laugh. “I certainly concur, but the painting keeps Narcise occupied.” He spoke as if she were some young girl who tended to be around underfoot.

Giordan had to raise the drink to keep from speaking his mind…and from lunging for the repugnant being next to him…and found that his fangs threatened to clink against the edge of the delicate glass. He drew in a slow breath and sipped, willing his teeth to resheath themselves, his eyes to keep from burning with an angry glow.
Calm.
“I suppose she cannot practice her fencing all day,” he managed to say.

Aside of his surprise that the painting was Narcise’s,
Giordan was also taken aback that Cezar obviously allowed his sister to interact with people—men—other than when she fought for her own body. Through general conversation with Moldavi and others of those who moved in their circles, he was aware that Narcise often helped her brother entertain, and of course, very occasionally accompanied him on social engagements. He also realized why Narcise had seemed to be so familiar with, and interested in, the David painting in his own parlor.

“No, indeed not,” Moldavi agreed. “But a thought has just occurred to me.”

Giordan raised an eyebrow in question and tried not to look back at that dark, hopeless painting.

“I must be gone for a week perhaps, as I mentioned. I have no desire to bring Narcise and the entire household with me. Perhaps since you both are so appreciative of Monsieur David—although for different reasons, I venture—perhaps you might be willing to see to Narcise in my absence?”