“I do not think of Lucifer as a celestial being,” Giordan replied with his own dry smile, and felt a sharp twinge on the back of his right shoulder, where the Devil’s Mark marred his skin. Luce’s annoyance or anger with him often manifested itself through the rootlike weals that covered the back of his shoulder.
“No, of course he is no longer. But he once was friends with Uriel and Michael and Gabriel.”
He noticed that her face seemed less taut, and as she chose a chair on which to sit—still a distance from him, but at least she was lighting somewhere—he sensed her beginning to relax. Because of course, their conversation had turned from dangerous things to angels, fallen and otherwise, and the world they had in common.
“And then Luce fell,” she added, her face serious. Worn. “Just as we have.”
“One does not have to live an evil, completely selfish life despite being Dracule,” Giordan said, then gritted his teeth against the sharp searing pain.
Narcise fixed him contemplatively with her gaze. If she was experiencing similar discomfort, she hid it well. But then, she had a lot of practice. “I’ve yet to meet a
Giordan could scarcely account for the fact that they were having such a conversation. Surely Lucifer would burn them alive through their Marks, for he was finding it difficult to even breathe in the presence of scalding pain. At least it had distracted him from the lust and desire she caused in him.
Perhaps this blunt conversation was due to the whiskey. Perhaps it was because she felt the same connection—albeit unconsciously—that he did. Perhaps she’d never had anyone to talk with about such things. He could hardly fathom her and Cezar having a discussion of this sort.
“It is possible to live an honorable life as a Dracule. I know of one who does, in fact,” he said.
“You?” She narrowed her eyes skeptically.
“Well,” he said, allowing a bit of levity into his voice, hiding the agony burning over his shoulder, “I have been known to make noble gestures. But I spoke of my friend Dimitri, who is the Earl of Corvindale. He has not fed on a mortal for more than a hundred years. He is, in fact, searching for a way to break the covenant with Lucifer.”
“Impossible,” she said.
“I know it. But he’s trying. He rarely comes out of his study for any reason except to search out new manuscripts or writings.”
“And so that is why…” Her voice trailed off, and she rubbed her lips together thoughtfully.
Giordan suspected he knew what she’d been about to say. Although he hadn’t been there, he was aware of the night in 1690, in Vienna, when Dimitri’s house had burned. That was the night that Cezar had forced his way into the place and presented Narcise as an offering to his host—who had declined, having not the least bit of interest in her.
How Dimitri could have been indifferent to the woman in front of him, Giordan couldn’t imagine, but he was grateful for that fact in many ways.
“What’s in the box?” he asked, once again noticing the small metal chest that sat amid the sorts of accessories the Marquis de Sade might use.
“If you truly mean me no harm…please don’t open it,” she said quickly. That tension had returned to her beautiful features.
“It must be your Asthenia,” he said. “And your brother allows it to be kept in here with you, when you are already at a disadvantage?” Anger chilled him. Cezar Moldavi was one Dracule who deserved to burn in hell for eternity.
Instead of responding, Narcise merely looked at him, which was as close to an admission as he expected.
“Perhaps someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me,” he continued.
He stood, walking over to the bottle of whiskey, and poured himself another drink. As he sipped, he turned back to look at Narcise. Overwhelming desire caused his heart to stutter and his breathing to alter, but he buried it firmly.
Not now.
Not here.
Not tonight.
He gripped his glass tighter, focusing on the scent of the alcohol and not the essence of woman that filled his consciousness. Not the enticing curve of her jaw, one that he suddenly wanted to brush his lips against, nor the ivory column of her neck, so slender and elegant.
“Why did you do this?” she asked.
“A variety of reasons, all of them—well, most of them—quite noble.”
Narcise’s eyes lifted, focusing on him over the rim. “Such as?”
“I’d seen you fence, and I wanted to test your skill myself. I wanted the opportunity to talk to you.”
Her eyes had narrowed and she flung the rest of her whiskey down her throat. “But we did not fence, Monsieur Cale,” she said, her voice even smokier, now baited with whiskey. “And you knew that I wasn’t at my best—”
“Which was precisely why I chose this way to do it. I wasn’t completely certain I would best you, of course, and so I thought it best to ensure that it all worked out in my favor.” Giordan realized that he didn’t at all mind admitting that fact. However… “I realize you don’t know me very well, but I confess that I find it no little insult that you assumed I wanted to win so that I could lock you in a room with me and rape you.” He sipped from the drink, his fingers so tight around the glass he feared it might shatter.
Her chin had snapped up at his blunt words, a shocked expression flickering across her face. “Why should I have thought any differently?” she asked…but the tone in her voice wasn’t accusing or even defensive. It was weary.
“Because,” he replied, watching her, “when you fed on me three weeks ago, I didn’t so much as breathe lustfully in your direction, Narcise. Although all I wanted to do was drag my arm away from your mouth and push you up against that wall and dig my own fangs into your shoulder…and then your arm…and your breast…the inside, that very tender, most sensitive part of your thigh…” His voice grew lower, unsteady and rough. “And then I would use my tongue, long and slick and warm…all along your skin.”
She gasped audibly, and the color rose higher in her face. Their eyes met, and he allowed her to see the glowing flame of desire in his. The bald need.
“I wanted to fill my hands with you, taste you. I suspect you’ll be rich and warm, like a custard, sweet and yet strong. I wanted to slide my warm body against yours, feel the two textures of our skin melding. The heat generated by the friction.”
He knew his words were so soft they barely reached her ears, but the rise and fall of her chest and the growing blaze in her eyes told him that she heard him.
“When you sank into me,” he continued, making love to her with his words, caressing her with his tones, “I realized it was
She moved sharply, that high color easing from her cheeks. “Lovely words, Monsieur Cale. But what a ridiculous thing to say, from a man who will live forever.”
Giordan shrugged and concentrated on the way his feet were planted on the floor. Rooted, cemented there, keeping him from moving to her, and taking her face into his hands to show her how certain he was. “I’ve never felt that way before, Narcise. And I’ve lived a long time.”
He felt the weight of her own gaze on him, and saw the bare hint of a glow there. His gums tightened, swelling more, and he thrust away the memory of her mouth closing around his arm, and her lips tracing the ridges of his wrist. He couldn’t dismiss the memory of her tongue sliding through the heat of his blood, and the need burning in her eyes.
“I said I’m not going to touch you,” he heard himself saying. “But that doesn’t mean that you cannot touch me.”
