The Vampire Narcise

what it was like to love someone, and now that she had lost hope of finding escape on her own.

But if she had nothing else, she had strength and determination: the same characteristics that had helped her become a nearly undefeated swordswoman and had kept her from going mad during the years of rape and molestation.

Perhaps that was why Lucifer had chosen her. An iron core beneath a seductive, beautiful woman was a formidable weapon.

And so she looked more closely at her opponents when she faced them. Sometimes, she even allowed one to win, just to remind herself that she could still feel. Pain, pleasure, apprehension…whatever.

Just so she could feel.

London

Chas Woodmore was surrounded by vampirs, which would normally be a convenience rather than a concern, since he was, in fact, a vampir hunter. And a damn good one at that.

Some called those who shared his occupation Venators, but that was a completely different society—in fact, it was an entire family from Italy that spent their lives hunting and slaying the half-demon vampires that had descended from Judas Iscariot.

Woodmore happened to specialize in the hunting and staking of the very different vampirs that originated in Romania, where Vlad Tepes, Count Dracula, had made his own deal with the Devil in the late fifteenth century. Unfortunately for his progeny, the unholy covenant applied not only to Vlad himself, but also to any of his descendants selected by Lucifer to participate. They had to agree, of course, just as Dracula had done, but Luce was a master at manipulation and it was rare that any of them declined his juicy bargain—partly because it was most often made during their dreams.

Thus, some of the Dracule embraced their newly immortal lives, complete with bloodlust and damaged souls that belonged to the Devil for all eternity, and some of them existed more judiciously, realizing only after the fact that perhaps it hadn’t been such a good deal after all….

And then there was Woodmore’s employer, Dimitri, the Earl of Corvindale, who fought the regrettable bargain with every breath he took, every single day.

It was because of his association with Corvindale that Woodmore was not only surrounded by some of the less rapacious vampirs at this very moment, but also comfortably unarmed—and playing cards with the lot of them. This lot happened to be safe from Woodmore’s lethal stake because they were of the mind that, for example, one didn’t have to murder a mortal in order to feed.

And Woodmore happened to be losing tonight because of one Mr. Giordan Cale, who seemed to have some sort of magic about him when it came to having the winning hand every time. Or at least when the pot was very large.

“By the Fates, Giordan,” Corvindale said in disgust, tossing his cards onto the table. “You dragged me out of my study for this? What precisely is the benefit to me of being relieved of three thousand pounds in the space of two hours?”

A fleeting smile curved Cale’s lips as he collected the pound notes and coins from the latest winning pot. “A change of scenery,” he suggested mildly. “Perhaps even some social discourse, no?”

Although he spoke excellent English, he had a trace of French in his pronunciation. Woodmore knew that Cale was originally from Paris, but had left the city ten years ago, near the end of the Reign of Terror, and hadn’t returned. He’d been in and out of London for the past decade, but they had only become acquainted a few weeks ago.

“Corvindale? Social discourse?” Lord Eddersley laughed, his gangly hands bumping the table, making the coins clink. “But Luce’s hell hasn’t yet frozen over.”

The earl slid his companion a dark look, but Woodmore wasn’t certain whether it was because he took offense, which was bloody unlikely, or because he didn’t want to be here in the private apartment at White’s gentlemen’s club in the first place. His employer—which was a loose term, for they were more like associates working toward the same goals than master and minion, and, aside of that, a gentleman never actually worked for anyone anyway—rarely left his study unless it was to seek out more ancient books or parchments to add to his collection.

Brickbank, a baronet from Derbyshire who was also a member of the Dracule, gestured to a hovering footman for a refill on his whiskey, complaining, “Wish those Brits would run that damned frog Boney out of Paris. Damned tired of drinking this rot from Scotland. Miss a good Armagnac.”

“Those Brits? Do you not consider yourself one of them?” Cale asked, sipping his own “rot.”

“I’m too old to be a damned soldier,” Brickbank replied, and all of the vampirs laughed. Even Corvindale managed the sharp bark of a chuckle. Of course they would: each of them was well over a century old, and they looked no more than in the prime of their lives. “And I don’t give a bloody damn about their Prinnys or their Parliaments or anyone’s cock-licking emperors.”

Woodmore wouldn’t trade places with any of the Dracule, even to live and be forever young and virile…for when they died, they belonged to Lucifer. Even vampirs, like their mortal counterparts, had the illusion of free will and some choice to be good or evil; still, a life of taking sustenance from other living creatures, of the uncontrollable bloodlust that came with it…of being cloistered from the sun, and knowing that one would spend eternity in the bowels of hell—whenever eternity struck— such a life was repulsive to Woodmore.

That was, perhaps, the only reason he and Corvindale had become friends—because he knew that more than anything, the earl wanted to sever his relationship with Lucifer. As proof, for over a hundred years, the earl had refused to feed as the Devil intended, and instead resorted to butchers’ bags of blood for sustenance.

Among the Dracule, this long-term abstinence was routinely blamed for the earl’s irritable disposition and dark personality.

“But of course Corvindale can get anything through the lines,” Cale said with a sidewise glance at the man in question. “He’s hardly noticed any inconvenience from the war between our nations, despite the problems crossing the Channel, have you, Dimitri? He’s kept me in supply of my favorite Bordeaux as well.”

“You have a stash of Armagnac?” Brickbank said, looking at the earl in surprise. “And haven’t brought it here to White’s? Should move the game to Blackmont then.”

Corvindale shot another dark look, this time aimed at Giordan Cale, who smiled as he lifted his own glass to drink. “Naturally I’ve charged you a substantial fee to keep you in such supply,” the earl replied to Cale.

Woodmore hid his own amusement. The last thing his employer wanted was people at his home, bothering him while he was trying to immerse himself in old scrolls and ancient languages. Searching for a way to break the covenant with Lucifer.

Which was why Woodmore felt particularly grateful that, some years back, Corvindale had agreed to play guardian and guard for his sisters should anything happen to him. He had three younger sisters—Maia, Angelica and Sonia, the latter of whom happened to be ensconced far north of London in a Scottish convent—and a dangerous occupation of which none of them were aware.

“I’m of a mind to take the game to Rubey’s,” said Cale, “if we’re talking of moving it. I suspect Dimitri has supplied her with some excellent vintages as well—and she won’t make us leave so she can hole herself up in her study.”

Corvindale glanced at him, lifting one eyebrow with skepticism. “Spying on your potential competition?”

“Not any longer. She’s convinced me that it would be futile for any establishment of mine to try to compete with hers here in London. Now I’m attempting to persuade her to take on an investor—namely me—to make some improvements to the place. Aside of that…ah, well, she meets another criteria of mine and she’s been rather accommodating.” Cale smiled with exaggerated modesty.

Woodmore, along with every Dracule in London, was well-acquainted with Rubey’s—the luxurious brothel that catered to vampirs and, occasionally, a select few mortals who were aware of the Draculean underground. Rubey, a mortal herself, was a formidable character who reminded Chas of his half-part- Gypsy great-grandmother in personality, if not looks. She was sharp in business acumen, quick of wit and overly generous with lectures and advice—wanted or otherwise. Nearing forty, she was also very attractive, if not a bit