The Vampire Narcise

the landing, flipping so that he ended feetfirst onto the narrow cobblestone street.

The force of landing on half-bent legs caused him to stagger into another two steps, making it less than perfect—but at least he didn’t land on his arse or head. Then, breathing heavily, Giordan looked up at the shadows lining the edge of his rooftop and executed a neat bow.

Cheers and applause filtered down, and a pair of hack drivers gaped from where they’d been chatting next to his faithful servant Bernard, but despite the commendation lauded upon him, Giordan didn’t feel like smiling.

He’d entertained. He’d gifted his acquaintances with food and drink and entrée to his home and club. He had conversationalists all around him, at all times.

But inside, Giordan felt as if he was missing something.

And he knew exactly what it was.

3

Narcise swung around, saber high above her head, and slammed the flat of its blade against her much taller opponent’s skull.

He staggered, his red eyes springing wide-open, and his arms flailed awkwardly.

Her teeth gritted in a feral smile, she followed through on the stroke, spinning on the balls of her bare feet, and then nearly gasped, and definitely slowed, when she saw Giordan Cale sitting next to her brother.

He hadn’t been there a moment ago.

The angry roar of tonight’s opponent dragged her attention back to the battle, and Narcise tightened her suddenly sweaty fingers over the sword’s grip just as he lunged at her. She couldn’t lose focus; she couldn’t let her guard down.

She’d been ready to finish this off, and would have ended with the blade against his throat if the sight of Cale hadn’t distracted her.

He was sitting slightly behind her brother, as if a chair had been pulled up for the late arrival at the table, which boasted several other spectators. Though they were in shadow, she could tell that his eyes were fastened on her, and even from here, she felt the heat in them.

I would have intervened.

Damn him to hell, he might have to intervene tonight if she couldn’t get her concentration back. Not that Cezar would let him.

Narcise’s thoughts had thus been divided as she vaulted over a low table, giving herself space to think and distance from her adversary. Now, she had her back to the dais where the onlookers sat, and though she could feel Cale’s gaze boring into her shoulders, she was in no danger of locking eyes with him.

A burst of anger flooded her, fueled by uncertainty, and that gave her the rush of speed and strength to duck beneath the other sword’s blade, spin around and take a slice out of her assailant’s arm.

He cried out again in fury, but she was faster than his tall, lanky body allowed him to be—and than his lust- fogged mind could follow—and she snagged a chair, whipping it back at him. The crash of wood into flesh and bone, then its clatter onto the floor, told her she’d hit her mark even blindly. She followed through by pivoting on her toes, spinning back to face him. And then she was there, lunging, and used her blade to pin the man through his shirt and arm to the table before he could recover.

The stake was in her hand a breath later, and she positioned it over his heaving chest. “Surrender,” she demanded.

He surrendered and she stepped back, removing her weapons carefully as she always did, and watched as he mopped his face with a sleeve. “Big-pussied bitch,” he said, his expression ugly. All lust had faded from his eyes.

“Cock-sucker,” she replied with calm and disdain to a common reaction. “No entertainment for you tonight.”

She watched as he limped toward the door, which had been opened by Cezar’s guards, and slammed the saber into her sheath. Then she drew in a deep breath and turned to wait for her own guards to take her to the solitude of her own chamber.

Hot, heavy eyes bored into her back, and she knew without any doubt that it was Giordan Cale who stared at her. She swallowed and realized her fingers were trembling, and that her body had begun to waver between hot and cold.

Three weeks ago, it had been. Three weeks, and not only had Cezar not punished her for feeding on Cale, but he hadn’t remarked on it at all. Very odd, and certainly disconcerting.

And though Cezar hadn’t seen fit to mention the incident that night, Narcise couldn’t banish it from her thoughts and dreams. Even now, she felt her veins pulsing and surging with desire and unfinished need.

She became dimly aware of voices behind her, voices from the dais, and the low rumble that she recognized as Cale’s…followed by a short laugh and then affirmation from Cezar.

“Narcise,” her brother said peremptorily.

She had no choice but to turn and face the audience. A quick scan identified three pairs of male eyes, filled with lust and determination—likely future opponents—and her brother’s bemused expression. Cale… He had stood and was moving toward her.

“What do you wish to say?” she replied just as shortly. Don’t look at him.

“Monsieur Cale has expressed disappointment that he missed most of this evening’s entertainment. And he has made a special request.”

All at once, her body went cold, her stomach plummeting. Cale had a sword in his hand and he was examining the blade.

“He wishes to participate in a bout of entertainment himself.”

A flash of light clouded her vision, then receded. Two battles in one evening? Despite the fact that she’d been over-matched for her previous opponent didn’t mean that she could win against a second one in the same night.

Particularly against the broad-shouldered man stripping off his coat in front of her.

Cale didn’t spare her a glance as he tossed it to the table, and commenced with unbuttoning his waistcoat. He flung that aside as well, then unfastened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to the elbows.

As she watched with rising trepidation, he glanced toward her bare feet and then pulled off his own buckled, heeled shoes…and then the stockings that went up to his knee breeches. Narcise glanced at his bare, muscular calves, then tore her eyes away.

She was to fight him?

And if he won, he would drag her off to The Chamber.

A knot in the pit of her stomach grew tighter and heavier. I cannot let him win.

“I wish to change weapons,” she announced. A double-sided broadsword would be heavier, but it would give her that much more of an advantage.

“I was just about to suggest the same,” Cale said, speaking to her for the first time.

She couldn’t help but look at him, and to her dismay, the heat was gone from his eyes to be replaced by cool determination. Her belly pitched sharply, for she would have preferred to see an emotion she could use against him. Like lust or desire.

“I propose a stake only for each of us, mademoiselle. You might remove the one from your hair, and also from the sleeve of your tunic, and choose only one of them.”

Narcise hid her consternation at the prospect of fighting in such close quarters, hand to hand. She was lighter, she told herself. Lithe and quick.

But then again…this was a man who’d somersaulted from a rooftop four stories down, merely for the entertainment of his friends. Or so she’d heard.

“If you suggest stakes, that implies a conflict to the death,” she said, keeping her eyes cool. “You are a brave man, Monsieur Cale, for you are no stranger to my abilities.”

The room was so quiet the only sound was the heartbeat in her ears and the crackle and snap in the