The Vampire Dimitri

can converse privately.”

Relief and annoyance rushed through Maia. She had plenty of questions for her brother, as well as a demand: to get her away from the Earl of Corvindale.

She was more than delighted to pull on a robe and follow him down to the parlor.

So these are Chas’s sisters.

Narcise Moldavi watched as the two young women entered the parlor at Blackmont Hall. Wearing a wide- brimmed hat and men’s clothing, Narcise leaned against the fireplace and waited, knowing that they wouldn’t realize she was a woman. The brim shaded her face, and the faint brush of soot she’d applied beneath her cheekbones to give her not only the impression of gauntness, but a bit of stubble, made her look like a skinny old man.

The sisters were very different in appearance, as well as in demeanor. One of them was dark and gypsyish looking like Chas, with lush brown hair, dusky-rose skin and exotic eyes. She took a seat and scanned the room, clearly observing and taking it all in. She was taller than the other, lighter-haired one, who strode in and immediately began to make adjustments: the lamp wicks, the pillows on the sofa, even Dimitri’s stacks of books.

That one must be Maia, and the dark one was Angelica.

Both women were striking, but the elder one was a classic English beauty with her fair complexion. Petite and delicate, unlike Narcise, Maia had hair that defied description: it was neither blond nor chestnut nor auburn, but a mixture of the three shades, and then some. She had a heart-shaped face and a rosebud mouth that seemed to be pursed with annoyance. Her sharp green-brown eyes shot daggers at Chas when he was standing next to Dimitri, talking in a low voice as they sipped whiskey.

Chas had best keep her from Cezar’s sight. Narcise shivered, thinking of what her brother would do to such a beautiful young woman as Maia Woodmore. Considering what he’d done to Narcise, his own sister…

Of course, the fact that she was Dracule and must live forever was added incentive for Cezar to do what he would. Or to have his friends do what they would, which was more to his taste anyway. Incest, at least, was not one of Cezar’s many sins.

After all, no matter what sort of torment and pleasure they put her through, Narcise couldn’t die without a wooden stake to the heart or ten minutes in the sun. Which was why Cezar had made certain all of the furnishings in her windowless chamber had been made of metal. He was taking no chances of losing his favorite bargaining chip.

At the thought, Narcise couldn’t quite suppress the flutter of panic that swirled in her belly. Chas had helped her escape from that horror, but that didn’t mean she’d never return to it. Cezar wouldn’t stop searching for her until he was dead.

Or until she was.

Narcise remembered her fantasies of finding feathers and wrapping herself in them, then falling out of a window to lie in the sun. Eventually she’d have to die, weakened by the feathers and burned by the sun’s rays. Some days, even now, she considered it. At least then Cezar couldn’t get to her.

And Chas would be safe.

Her glance flickered to him as he greeted his sisters, who were both loose-haired and dressed in nightclothes, and they settled in their seats. At this moment, he looked more like an English gentleman—albeit an exotic one, with his Romanian coloring—than she was used to seeing him: in a white shirt done up to the throat, covered by a dark coat, along with pantaloons. He was holding a glass, his hair fairly tamed and pomaded smooth. Clean-shaven. All this in deference to his proper sisters, who, according to him, had no idea that he spent his days and nights hunting vampirs.

The irony that he was an enemy of her race only fueled Narcise’s fascination with him. A Dracule involved with a vampire hunter. How absurd and dangerous.

And how surprising that she could actually find pleasure with a man, actually trust one, after all she’d been through.

Chas glanced over at her and she met his black gaze coolly.

She’d learned long ago not to show weakness or truth in her face or eyes. It could be used against her. And it had.

Oh, it had.

Chas’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as the ends of his mouth tipped slightly, and she knew he was measuring her response to meeting two of his sisters. Narcise tucked down the little unfurling of warmth in her belly. She felt safe with him. Safe and comfortable.

But he didn’t need to know that.

Nevertheless, she didn’t want to be here, but Chas had given her little choice. It was either come to London with him, or be foisted off on Giordan.

And that was not going to happen. The very thought of being in the same city, let alone the same room, as Giordan Cale made her ill. Knowing that Chas had met up with him at the inn in Reither’s Closewell, where she and Chas had been staying, had been disturbing, to say the least. She’d remained upstairs in their chamber, out of sight.

Although, knowing Giordan, he’d probably scented her.

On Chas.

“You must be Narcise Moldavi. The vampire.”

The words came from Angelica, who’d been looking closely at her. Maia hissed something at her sister, and then both of them focused their attention on Narcise. Neither appeared pleased, although while Angelica looked angry, Maia seemed merely surprised.

Annoyed at having her disguise expunged, Narcise directed her own gaze onto the little chit who’d spoken in such distasteful tones, allowing the flare of heat to blaze there for a moment. You have no idea who you’re dealing with, little mortal girl. “I am.” She drew off her hat and flung it onto Dimitri’s desk. Her head and face immediately felt cooler as her hair sagged in its low knot.

“Are you here so that we can welcome you to the family?”

Angelica responded just as coolly.

Narcise ignored Chas’s slight movement, as if he were about to interfere. I can handle this, she said with a quick glare. “I’m here, in fact, endangering my person only because of you,” she told the girl.

Narcise moved deliberately, away from the fireplace and over to help herself to a glass of Corvindale’s whiskey. “Your brother learned that Voss had abducted you and he insisted on coming to London, despite the danger to me.”

“You know very well you didn’t have to come to London with him,” came a smooth voice from the doorway. “Don’t blame your own cowardice on the girl, Narcise.”

The glass slipped in her hand, but she held on to it. Just barely. Turning, she faced Giordan Cale for the first time in a decade.

Their eyes met for a moment and she felt the twin spears of loathing: hers for him, and the same emotion shining in his own burning gaze. He was baiting her, referring to her imprudent choice to accompany Chas to London rather than stay with Giordan at Reither’s Closewell.

Narcise didn’t bother to respond other than to add a warning flash of fangs to a brief sneer. Sipping her whiskey—trying not to gulp what she suddenly, desperately needed—she walked over to stand next to Chas.

But Giordan was no longer paying attention to her. He’d turned, presenting her mostly with his back as Dimitri grudgingly introduced him to the Woodmore girls. Narcise sipped from her glass again, focusing on the heat burning down to her belly and through her limbs and not the back of his head, or the way his coffee-colored coat stretched perfectly over broad shoulders. Giordan paid his tailor well.

He looked the same as he had the last time they’d seen each other, although then his face had been bitter and hard, and worn from nights of depravity and hedonism. Tonight, his handsome features were relaxed and his eyes bland, except for that brief flash of emotion when she first saw him. Giordan still wore his hair unfashionably short, in close, rich-brown curls that left his Slavic forehead and temples exposed. She caught a glimpse of his hand,