The Vampire Narcise

“Drop your sword and I’ll release you,” he said.

She complied, and he kicked the épée across the floor of her parlor. When he stepped away, his arm moving from her, she adjusted the sleeves of her manshirt, pulling them back down over her wrists. “Why are you here?”

He ignored her question and asked, “You’re Narcise?” She inclined her head and felt his eyes sweep over her. Before she could react, his hand whipped out and grabbed her arm, pulling it away from her body. “How did this happen?”

She didn’t have to follow his gaze to know that he was speaking about the bruising around her wrists from the manacles. That was nothing compared to the marks on the rest of her body, which was the reason she was wearing men’s clothing today. She couldn’t fit in her gowns without a corset, and it was simply still too painful to be laced into one.

“I lost a fencing match,” she told him, forcing her lips into a rueful smile, meeting his eyes blandly. “It happens occasionally.”

He watched her closely, as if searching for a lie, or waiting for more information, and then released her arm. “What happens when you win?”

“Whatever I choose,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a vampir slayer,” he reminded her.

“Then why did you not slay me?” she asked, moving her arms back and away from her chest to give him a good target she suspected he wouldn’t use. “I thought Chas Woodmore was merciless.”

“You might be more beneficial to me alive than dead. Where’s your brother?”

“Are you truly here to kill him? I’d lead you to him in a breath if I—” Narcise stopped, her blood running cold. “He’s coming. They’re coming.”

She could hear the voices, and knew they’d smelled the faint blood and perhaps even the new scent of Chas Wood-more. Or that her brother had become suspicious when she didn’t return to the parlor, which was where she’d been going when she came upon this vampir slayer.

Woodmore looked as if he were ready to either lunge at her or duck behind the door, and Narcise made a quick decision. She was going to get away from Cezar, and this man was going to help her.

She opened her mouth and screamed as she dove for the épée on the floor.

One moment Chas was ready to duck into the bedchamber beyond the open door to hide from Moldavi, and the next, his sister was screaming for help.

Cursing, he spun after her as she rose to her feet, her sword back in hand. “You,” he snarled, deciding he’d take her to hell with him. “I knew better than to believe them.”

But her eyes had widened with fear—something he hadn’t seen before, even when he had her plastered, immobile, against the wall—and just as the pounding footsteps reached the door, she whispered, “I’ll save you. Help me. Please.”

When the door burst open, Chas got his first glimpse of Cezar Moldavi. But he didn’t have much time to observe the man in detail, for he was followed by three other vampirs, and they were all red-eyed and fanged-teeth. They surrounded him without hesitation, blocking the door.

“What is going on here?” said the man who was presumably Moldavi himself. Slight of stature, dark hair with an odd, wide jaw, and rings glinting on all of his fingers.

Chas stilled, his attention bouncing around the chamber to see what might be utilized for an escape, or at least for a weapon. The thing about stakes; they weren’t good for distance. One had to get up close.

Narcise, the madwoman, had her sword, and he looked down to notice that it was once again thrusting into his chest. “Look who’s arrived for a visit, dear brother,” she said. Her expression had changed into something hard and blank.

“Do I know you?” Moldavi asked, making a little hissing tsk sound. “Monsieur?”

Chas hardly took note of the other three vampirs, assuming they were the ones who’d been speaking with Moldavi earlier, and instead focused on gauging the distance and angle it would take him to thrust his stake into the man’s chest. He flickered a glance at Narcise, trying to read something in her eyes that would either support or deny her previous plea of Help me.

What exactly was she asking him?

“We’ve never met,” Chas replied to the man who’d walked around him as if he were a piece of furnishing he was considering for purchase. The hair at the back of his neck lifted, prickling uncomfortably at the man’s frenetic movements.

Darkness rolled off Moldavi in silent waves, burning in eyes that seemed calm, but lurking deep within them was an odd light. He was too quick, too odd in his movements, yet the underlying energy bespoke of paranoia battling with control. There was no doubt in Chas’s mind that this man was malevolence personified.

“Too dark and swarthy for my taste,” Moldavi murmured to one of his companions—not his sister. “But who are you, then, and what are you doing here?” he said, standing in front of him.

“It’s Chas Woodmore,” Narcise said, sending Chas’s shocked attention back to her.

How in the Devil’s name is that going to save me?

Moldavi stilled and his eyes narrowed. “You’re Wood-more?”

“I’m here to kill you,” said Chas, never one to beat around the bush.

Moldavi turned to look at his companions, chuckling, and Chas felt the tip of Narcise’s blade shift a bit. Whether by accident or design, he didn’t know, but he didn’t hesitate.

The next moment he was spinning away and then lunging toward Moldavi, stake raised to his shoulder. No one could react in time to stop him, and Chas felt a surge of triumph as his powerful thrust embedded the stake into the back of the man’s torso. Right at the heart.

But instead of feeling the soft inside, the give of the heart after breaking through the skin next to the spine, Chas felt a shock of pain jolting his arm as he realized he’d struck armor—something metal, based on the strength of the reverberations trammeling through his limb.

He swore as they descended on him then, all of them, fangs flashing, eyes red, hands tearing and clawing. He still had hold of his stake and, using his legs, he twisted and bucked, stabbing indiscriminately as countless hands and feet grabbed and kicked him. He felt something give in his shoulder, the tearing of skin, the burst of blood from his upper arm.

Something sharp slammed into his back, then his gut, and one of them yanked him up and threw him through the air. He hadn’t caught his breath when he slammed into the wall and the world, mercifully, went black.

His last thought before tumbling into darkness was Corvindale is going to kill me.

When he opened his eyes again, Chas found himself reclining on a chaise or some sort of divan. A fire roared nearby, heating his skin uncomfortably. His body ached, his head pounded and he was thirsty.

It took him a moment to realize that he was dressed only in his breeches and that his wrists were tied on either side of him, restrained with leather thongs to the foot of the divan. His legs were also immobilized in the same way.

Something moved in his periphery and he looked over to see Moldavi, who’d shifted into his line of vision. He was with a young woman who seemed to stumble as she walked along with him.

“I have my own special armor,” Moldavi said without preamble, directing the woman to sit on a chair directly in front of Chas.

“My informants neglected to share that detail with me,” Chas replied wryly. “If they even knew.”

“It’s saved my life more than a dozen times. Would you like to see it?” Moldavi pulled off his shirt to reveal a slender, ashen-gray chest dusted with shiny dark hair.

The man was slender, nearly skeletal, and at first Chas saw nothing that could be considered armor except for a dark circular shape over the center of his chest. It gleamed and he saw that it was metal…set into his skin.

“Look more closely,” Moldavi said, leaning toward him, gesturing to his breastbone. “Do you see?”

And then Chas understood. The faint octagonal outline on—no, beneath—his skin,