The Vampire Narcise

forever. At least, here, on earth.” He gestured to Woodmore. “And some of us leave this place sooner than others, thanks to our friend here. At some point, we are beholden to Lucifer. We belong to him.”

Corvindale’s deep bitterness effectively flattened the congenial mood, and they lapsed into silence.

Woodmore was fascinated and horrified in turn by the depths of this conversation. They were saying the very things he’d struggled with ever since he came to know Corvindale—and realized it was possible that all vampirs weren’t deserving of being hunted and killed in cold blood.

In fact, he suspected that Cale knew full well that his accusation wasn’t quite accurate—Corvindale didn’t employ Woodmore to simply assassinate his competition, or even those with whom he disagreed.

Woodmore certainly made threats to those who interfered or otherwise attempted to sabotage the earl’s business ventures, but his slayings were confined to those who were more like Cezar Moldavi, those vampirs who fed greedily and left their victims to die, or who otherwise used their strength and constitution to violate and terrorize mortals simply for the pleasure of doing so.

Because they had given away their conscience with their soul.

Thus, his occupation as a vampir hunter was one that brought Woodmore both revulsion and satisfaction. He associated socially with the very race he stalked—how much better it was to know well what he hunted—while picking and choosing among the servants of Lucifer to slay some and protect others.

It made for many dark, empty nights, lying in bed or in some form of transport, wondering if he truly had the right to be judge, jury and executioner of these men and women.

But he, of all men, was particularly suited to the task. And it was a cross he must bear.

11

Two months later

Despite being at war with England, Napoleon’s Paris was surprisingly easy to enter, particularly with the resources of the Earl of Corvindale to grease palms and ensure that certain eyes turned blindly away from certain things. And for a gentleman like Chas Woodmore, whose Gypsy heritage gave him an almost Gallic appearance, the blending in was even simpler.

It was the getting out of the city that would be the problem.

But for Chas, there was only one element of the plan to be concerned with at a time, and the first was to gain entrance to Cezar Moldavi’s house.

It was past noon, well into the afternoon, as he walked along a rue in Le Marais. Although this was the area where the wealthy lived, the street was busy—filled with servants walking to and from the market, deliverymen and the residents rumbling along in their carriages on their way shopping and to other social engagements. No one would take note of yet another courier with a small paper-wrapped packet, particularly since he was dressed so as to be unremarkable in simple clothing and sturdy shoes. He’d settled a simple cap on his head, which had the result of covering much of his thick, dark hair and shading his face. It also made him appear younger.

Nevertheless, Chas knew it was highly unlikely he’d actually make it out of the city. If he succeeded with his plan to assassinate Moldavi, and possibly the sister as well, regardless of what Cale had told him about her, then he would have the greatest chance of making it back to London. In that case, he’d only have to contend with getting past the soldiers at every corner of the city.

He couldn’t help a rueful smile, imagining Corvindale’s reaction if he had to carry through on his promise to take in Maia, Angelica and Sonia in the event of Chas’s demise. Maia, the eldest of the sisters and his junior by nearly ten years, would have plenty to say about it as well. Chas could already imagine her, with her hands on her hips and her foot tapping in annoyance. She was used to being in charge and managing the household, notwithstanding the dubious assistance of their chaperone Mrs. Fernfeather.

But there was no one better equipped, nor more trustworthy, than Corvindale to protect his sisters if something happened to him, and as such, for the first time in all of his travels, Chas had left instructions with Maia to contact the earl if he didn’t return or otherwise message her within a fortnight.

That was how long Chas expected it to take to infiltrate Moldavi’s homestead—if things went smoothly—and get close enough to his target, then get out of the city. He’d have one chance to drive the stake home, and God willing, he’d succeed. The rues were just as dirty and crowded in Paris as they were in London, Rome and St. Petersburg. He happened to prefer the countryside to the big, loud cities, perhaps because he was fairly forced to frequent them—and their seediest, most dark and unsavory places—in search of Dracule. As he avoided a steaming pile of dog shit in the center of the walkway, which was really just the edge of the street, he pictured for a moment the small estate he’d just purchased in Wales, with its neat, unassuming manor house tucked amid rolling green hills.

It was likely he’d never have a chance to enjoy the place. He’d acquired it secretly, in hopes that it would be a private haven for him if he needed to hide his sisters from danger. For, just as he attempted to rid the world of vampirs, so were there vampirs who were bent on ridding the world of him…and who wouldn’t hesitate to use Maia, Angelica and Sonia to do so.

Thank goodness at least Sonia was tucked safely away at St. Bridie’s. The last time he’d seen her, when he’d come to visit, they’d had a terrible row. A flush of guilt warmed his cheeks as it occurred to him that he might never see her or any of them again. God willing I’ll make it up to them all.

Then he realized he hadn’t been paying attention to the numbers on the houses, and had nearly missed Moldavi’s.

Here it is.

He walked past the columned, whitewashed front of the narrow but imposing three-story building, his attention moving from thoughts of his sisters and sharpening as he observed the area. A maidservant rushed past, carrying three large parcels that obstructed her view, and nearly collided with two footmen who were standing in the center of the walkway. Two carriages passed each other, harnesses rattling, hooves clopping. Someone shouted across the way from an unshuttered window, and there was a bellicose response from another window in the next building. Moldavi’s house, while it looked the same as the ones surrounding it, was the only one that seemed devoid of life.

From Giordan Cale, Chas knew that the house itself was only the facade of Moldavi’s residence, and that most of the living space was underground in well-furnished but windowless chambers. The servants—mostly vampir, but some mortal—lived in the aboveground floors, where heavy curtains were drawn over the windows during the day. It was also where merchants entered and deliveries were made, and these upper floors were the way Chas would gain access to the house. He just had to wait for an opportune time…or to create one himself.

The improved smoke packets that his friend Miro had made for him were in his coat pocket, but those were best used inside a confined space. And since this was his first visit to the area, he didn’t intend to do anything more than get a sense of the area.

He’d continued on his way to the end of the block. The houses that lined the thoroughfare were all similar to each other in design, with classical columns and landings. Built close together, these structures were part of an architectural revival that had swept Paris during the Revolution. Along with the city’s rebuttal of all things royal had come the desire to eliminate the opulence and richness the ruling class had imposed upon it.

Thus, the nouveau style embraced the simplicity of the Greeks and Romans along with symbolizing the rise of the bourgeoisie and their own seal on the city.

The scent of spring roses and lilies caught in the breeze as he walked past neatly trimmed gardens around to the next block. There was a small alley between two of the houses that abutted Moldavi’s, and he turned into it, still carrying his package.

The alley was deserted and he walked purposely along toward the rear side of Moldavi’s house. If anyone saw him, he was delivering a package to Monsieur Tournedo—and could someone not direct him to whichever of these houses belonged to the gentleman, s’il vous plaît? If no one did, he’d have