The Vampire Narcise

fingers curled around the butt of his pocketed pistol.

Aside of it being cooler, and lit only with oil lamps and no natural light, the subterranean corridor appeared no different than one above the ground. It was painted and furnished, lined with doors just as any other hallway in a well-appointed home. But here he moved with more caution, listening at every door to see what he heard and felt.

The voices had become more distinct and Chas more cautious as he made his way along a stretch that seemed to make a large U-shape. When he reached a large door from which the voices seemed to be coming, he stopped to listen, scanning the hall as he pressed his ear to the wood, careful not to touch it and make it jolt in its hinges.

“And Corvindale,” said a male voice beyond the door.

A little prickle scooted up his spine and Chas pressed closer. He couldn’t make out all of the conversation, but he heard snatches of it.

“In London?” came a different voice, with a bit of a hiss to it. That must be Moldavi. “But of course. Perhaps you’d like to go, then, my dear?”

“Of course. I’d be more than delighted to see Dimitri again,” came a husky female voice. She must be sitting closest to the door, for her words rang fairly clear. “Since Vienna, you know.” She gave an arch laugh.

That had to be the sister. Chas leaned closer, his gut filled with that gnawing feeling from the proximity of vampirs.

Despite what Giordan Cale had implied about the sister Narcise being more of an ally than a threat to his mission, Chas had reserved judgment. Her brother might use and abuse her, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t malevolent in her own way. Anyone that close to Moldavi was most likely tarred with the same brush, and from the sound of her, he wasn’t far off in his estimation. A beautiful woman with fangs was a formidable force, particularly for a man.

A fourth voice joined the conversation—another male, which cooled any thought he might have had about bursting into the chamber. With four Dracule against one mortal—even with the mortal being himself—the odds were not in his favor. Chas heard something about spice ships just as something moved in the air behind him. He spun around in time for a slender, four-sided silver blade to rest right in the center of his chest.

“You don’t look like much of a fencing instructor,” said the woman holding the épée. This particular blade’s tip wasn’t blunted, however, and Chas could feel its point digging into his skin.

“What does a fencing instructor look like, per se?” he replied, keeping his voice quiet.

“For one thing,” she replied in a voice that was low and dusky and threatened to wrap around him like a velvet rope, “he would normally be armed with a blade of his own, instead of a stake.” She was strikingly beautiful, with deep blue-violet eyes and ink-black hair. So much so that he felt a little tremor of awareness beneath the adrenaline shooting through his body.

Now things were going to get interesting.

“Ah, yes,” he said, easing a bit away from the tip of her blade, feeling the door behind him and still taking care not to jolt it. Damn. He’d been wrong; this had to be the sister. “Perhaps it was an oversight.”

“Perhaps.” She followed him with the tip of her épée, and those lovely eyes narrowed. “There is only one way to find out then, isn’t there? We shall have to fence, and you will prove to me that you are accomplished. This way.” She used the tip of her weapon to prod him away from the door.

“But of course,” he replied readily, his brain working quickly.

Getting away from the others would hopefully give him the opportunity to disarm her without creating a disturbance that would bring Moldavi and his companions rushing from the chamber.

“I trust you have a place in mind?” he added. And not on the other side of this door…

“Walk, monsieur,” she said, not yet drawing blood, but coming dangerously close to doing so. He didn’t want that scent in the air, so he complied.

Chas walked quickly. If this was the sister, she was certainly not the downtrodden, dead-eyed creature Corvindale had described—a fact which heightened his suspicions even further. Perhaps that was the way things had been a hundred years ago in Vienna, but things had obviously changed. His fingers tightened around the stake.

“Here,” she said in that low voice when they came to a door near the end of the U-shaped corridor. “Open it and go in. Slowly.”

Feeling the sharp implement in his nape, Chas did as she bid and walked into the room. He took an instant to confirm that no one else was waiting beyond the entrance, and then he reacted.

Holding on to the edge of the open door, he used its leverage to whip himself around and behind it, away from her sword. She made a sound of fury, the blade clashing against the door, but he was already ducking below and erupting back out from its shelter, rearing up and knocking her against the wall on the opposite side.

A gasp of surprise burst from her as she slammed against it, her breath knocked out for a moment, and her lips curled back as she swung the blade down clumsily. He ducked again and, on her downswing, he slammed his entire body against her sword arm, smashing it against the wall, blade impaling the floor instead of his arm.

With his foot, he slid the door closed as he pushed his forearm beneath her neck and held her there.

Her eyes stormy, her breasts heaving between them, she glared up at Chas. A little ripple of attraction shivered through him, and he pushed it firmly away. She was a vampir, and lived to seduce.

Her breathing eased. “There is no doubt, then. You’re Chas Woodmore.”

12

Narcise recognized both surprise and satisfaction in his eyes. His body still held her sword arm in place against the wall. And his arm, wedged beneath her chin, was making it difficult for her to swallow, but despite the stake in his hand, she had no fear.

If he used it, then she hoped he’d make it quick and put her out of her misery.

But if he didn’t…perhaps he was the man she’d been waiting for.

“You’ve heard of me?” he said, easing up the slightest bit on her throat so that she wasn’t looking up so sharply.

“But your reputation precedes you, Monsieur Wood-more.” She switched from French to English, with which she was more comfortable even after more than a decade here in Paris.

Indeed, everyone knew of the fearless and clever vampir hunter Chas Woodmore. How he’d somehow scaled a sheer cliff and sneaked into the mountaintop castle of the bloodthirsty Darrod Firvin to stake the man in his sleep. And how he’d tricked the princes of Tylenia and Tynnien into climbing aboard a small ship so that he could slay them as well.

The Dracule all murmured of the dark-haired Gypsy gentleman who slipped in and out of the shadows like a vampir himself, silent and deadly like a servant of Death. Ironically those who told the tales were ones who’d never actually met the man, for those who did weren’t alive to tell the tales.

Which was probably why no one had included in their tales the fact that he was handsome as a dark angel, with thick black hair and intense green-brown eyes. And that he smelled like danger, tight and dark and manly. She scented a bit of blood on him, too, but it didn’t smell like it would be his.

“My reputation?” White teeth flashed in his swarthy face, and he inched his arm away a bit more, but kept her sword arm pinned to the wall with his solid body. “Is that so? And here I thought my accomplishments went largely unnoticed.”

“I do hope you don’t find such modesty too painful,” she replied. “And I would appreciate it if you’d either drive that stake into my heart or remove your arm from my throat.”

“You don’t have a preference?” he asked. He seemed sincere.

Narcise shrugged, and she realized that although she’d managed to catch her breath from their brief battle, she still felt a bit breathless. This man might be more than a match for her. “There are advantages to both.”