Colleen Gleason
The Vampire Narcise
Prologue
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She was so beautiful, with her sparkling amethyst-sapphire eyes and swirl of dark hair. Her skin, so pure and perfect, alabaster and rose. Her neck, graceful and slender; her curves, so lush and feminine.
And her gowns…he envied her the gowns, too. The slide of silk that would be so blissfully erotic over one’s skin. The brush of fox and mink trimmings, sensual against the belly or cheek, the gentle tug of a train catching along the cobbled stones beneath her slippered feet.
The laces and brocades, the gemstones sewn into the fabric of layer upon layer of skirts, the embroidery and ribbons. The weight of the clothing—it would make one feel like a doll, like a jewel to be coveted. A gift to be unwrapped—like the little nesting blocks he used to play with—from the heavy, beaded and bejeweled overskirts, to the frothy and light chemise and layers of underskirts, to the whale-boned lacings that turned her torso into such a curved, lovely package. What would it feel like to be trussed up so enticingly?
The elegant gloves, a tradition from Paris brought here to the deep, cold and dark mountains of Romania, made her hands appear slender and delicate. A bracelet glittered gold and silver on her gloved wrist; rings sparkled. Her fingers fluttered becomingly near her face as she bent to smile and chatter with the crowd of men around her.
He swelled with love and affection for his sister—for how could anyone resist such perfection? She was exquisite. Lively. A goddess of light and laughter and beauty.
And of course, she knew it.
She drew the men in, she coaxed with her eyes and teased with her jests. Her body moved with unconscious eroticism, her eyes lit with just the right bit of naiveté, her shoulders, bare, ivory, shadowed by the delicate curves of collarbone and throat. Her movements, graceful and smooth.
The men fawned and praised, their eyes hot and wanting. Strong, broad shoulders strained the broadcloth of their coats, bronzed, elegant throats above white or black shirts. Firm, muscular hands and powerful thighs encased in breeches that outlined every masculine attribute, and heavy, solid boots that slid and held firmly when mounted on a horse. These were men.
And here was Cezar. Pale. Slender. His hands too big, his brows too heavy, his shoulders too narrow. His thighs seemed like sticks when he sat on a horse, and his face…spotted and a bit pasty, even for his Romanian heritage.
His jaw still ached on occasion where it had been broken two years ago by a group of other young men when he was twenty, and it had healed improperly so that he had the added indignity of a faint lisp. From the same event, he’d acquired a slight limp.
He was Cezar: the second son of the most trusted confidant of the
But even she, the wealthy, beautiful offspring of the ruler of Moldavia, couldn’t hold a candle to Narcise. Even on the occasion of her wedding, the bride couldn’t maintain the attention that inevitably slipped to her new sister- by-law.
Narcise was incomparable.
And Cezar, as he had since he first set eyes on his younger sister, both loved and loathed her with deep, abiding passion.
He wanted to kill her…and yet, he wanted to
And that was why, as his fangs—still so new and uncomfortable in his mouth—slid free, filling the inside of his lips like a mouthful of potatoes, he settled into the shadows. Unnoticed. Watching. Waiting. Planning.
Soon, all of this would be his. All of them who laughed at him, who beat him, who scorned him…they would all worship him and cower before him.
They would look at him with hot, lustful eyes.
And his beautiful sister would become his pet.
~ I ~
Revolution
1
Narcise curled her fingers around the slender grip of her saber and steadied her breathing. Her fangs had sprung free, filling her mouth.
Her opponent leered at her, his own fangs thrusting long and bold as he lifted his own blade. Its silver gleamed red-orange in the low candlelight that danced around the edges of the chamber. The man was taller than Narcise, and much stronger, and thus he was certain he’d take her down.
That bravado, that certainty, was apparent in the haughty glint of his burning red eyes, the swagger in his step, and the ready bulge behind the flap of his trousers.
He wasn’t fighting for his sanity.
But Narcise was fighting for hers.
She wore her hair scraped back in a tight knot to keep it from flying into her face. Her clothing was nothing more than a short, tight tunic that bound her breasts close, along with slim-fitting trousers. They allowed her not only freedom of movement, but also provided nothing loose or flowing for her partner to grab on to. Her feet were bare.
She started it, knowing her best chance was to take him off guard and to keep him that way. She rushed toward him, then feinted nimbly to the right as he lunged awkwardly and swiped his sword through empty air.
She heard the little gasp of anticipation for a good fight. It came from the spectators sitting just above them in the balcony, but Narcise spared no attention for her brother Cezar and his companions. She fought for the right to leave this chamber alone tonight, to be sent to her private room unaccompanied and untouched…instead of with the man who now spun on his feet and leaped back toward her.
Her lips closed around her fangs, she pivoted and ducked beneath the swing of sword blade. She felt the heat of her own eyes, burning with fury and intent, and knew they glowed just as red-gold as the candles studding the walls and the blaze of fire in the corner. Blood rushed and pounded in her veins, her body’s reaction to the desperation and fear she tried to quell.
Her opponent grinned as he vaulted over the table after her, his feet landing heavily on the stone floor on the other side. There were two chairs in the space as well, and a tray of food and wine that wouldn’t get eaten—for
