ships.
The only element marring the perfection of countenance and form was the dull fog that veiled her expression, clouded her eyes. She was an empty doll, an emotionless puppet.
So distracted by his examination of her figure was he that Giordan didn’t listen to the short commands given by his host, nor did he notice at first when another man joined them in the room.
But then he saw. Her opponent appeared larger and stronger than she, and like Narcise, he carried a deadly sword. But his was a broadsword, dual-edged, and heavier than her more elegant weapon. For the first time, Giordan understood that this was no simple fencing bout with foiled blades.
He turned to his host, intending to ask—and demand, if necessary—not to observe such an unmatched battle, but Cezar made an abrupt gesture. “Watch,” he said. And then to the rivals, who stood mere feet away from the raised table, he said, “To the death.”
Giordan stifled a reflexive response, and felt his muscles ready themselves to interfere if it became necessary. And surely it would.
Even the fierce expression that transformed Narcise’s face didn’t ease his concern, yet the change in her countenance Giordan found fascinating and quite striking. Her eyes flashed with loathing and determination, but she appeared so slight and much too elegant next to her burly rival.
And when she whirled into action, all taut grace and feline movement, Giordan’s breath caught yet again. He was alternately entranced and tense, watching and waiting like a parent seeing their child make a jump on horseback for the first time.
Her dark hair gleamed in the light flickering from the sconces studding the walls, her slender arms were quick, and her teeth, fangs extended, were bared with ferocity. But her eyes did not burn red, and she seemed calm. Very much in control.
Giordan watched closely, his concern easing, as he saw her weight shift on her feet, and how she changed her center of balance to launch herself smoothly over one of the chairs, then used her momentum to fling that very chair back toward her rival. Admiration grew as he noted her employment of excellent fencing technique while moving her body in a more forceful, combative fashion than such an activity normally required.
He almost missed the nearly imperceptible circle made by her wrist in a counterparry, which might have caught him off guard if he’d been her opponent. Pursing his lips, Giordan’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to watch more closely, trying to understand her strategy. This was most certainly not a fencing match, with parries and ripostes and the formal dance of back and forth and lunge…and yet she went through those motions like an expert.
And then…she ducked nimbly beneath her lumbering opponent’s arm, spun around behind him, sliced her saber down the back of his shirt and then met his blade as he twisted and swooped toward her with a great, ringing clash of metal.
The clang reverberated in the close room, followed by the slide of metal against metal. Then once again, she stepped out of the routine and somersaulted away as the man, now obviously frustrated by his lack of progress, lunged for her.
After that, the neat fencing bout deteriorated into a battle-field matchup of two lethal weapons. Giordan felt his arms tense once again, readying to interfere, and he spared a glance toward Moldavi. But his host was watching him, as if to gauge his guest’s reaction to the battle, his gaze contemplative and yet hooded.
As their eyes met, Moldavi raised his glass and sipped, then slid his attention to the battle beyond.
Giordan’s attention returned as well, just in time to see Narcise rise up to make a perfect arc on her feet, her blade free and ready, and in one burst of speed, she clove the head from her opponent in a powerful stroke.
She completed her turn, then stood, her slender back toward Giordan and her brother as she wiped her sword. The back of her shirt clung damply to her lower back, but not one strand of inky hair had escaped from its fat knot. Nor did her shoulders or arms seem to be moving with labored breaths.
She never looked back at them as she replaced her saber in its scabbard and stood, waiting.
Giordan was about to speak when a door opened and two large men—vampires—walked in. As he watched in astonishment and growing revulsion, they flanked and escorted Narcise from the chamber.
She never once acknowledged Giordan or her brother, a fact which both fascinated and irked him.
At that moment, Giordan decided that he might indeed continue discussing his next Far Eastern spice ship with Cezar Moldavi.
Giordan’s private club and residence in Paris was what he thought of as his flagship establishment. Everything from the women and other entertainment, to the wine and liquor, and the other vintages, exuded luxury, pleasure and perfect taste. But of course, it was also ridiculously expensive. And every night, and through much of the day, Draculean patrons—along with a limited cadre of mortals—filled the seats and clustered around illegal gaming tables. For despite what the city’s residents had begun to call the Reign of Terror, life—and business—did go on.
There were dinner parties, theater and balls, the women shopped for fashionable gowns, and men visited their clubs—though now, they did it with worried glances over the shoulder and a definite strain in one’s smile. The whispers and low-voiced conversations in corners were no longer confined to gossip about who was doing what to whom, but were filled with warnings and worries. Who would be next?
Little of this, however, affected those of the Dracule. In fact, not only did government and authority mean nothing to the vampires, but such upheaval only made their lives easier. The more chaotic, the better.
Which was why Giordan suspected that Moldavi was more than a little involved in the ongoing rivalry between Robes pierre and his so-called “terror as a virtue” campaign, and that of Hébert and the proposition of his atheist cult—both factions which promoted reason over religion, government over church. While the two factions argued, fought and executed, the turbulent fallout was beneficial to Moldavi who sought to exercise as much control as possible over his mortal counterparts.
Giordan had extended a particular invitation to the cloistered Moldavi to join him at the club this evening. He wasn’t at all certain that the man would accept, for he rarely left his subterranean residence, but he was hopeful that the possibility of continuing discussion on their potential business arrangement would draw him out. Aside of that, people rarely declined an invitation from him, simply because Giordan’s parties and fetes were known for being lavish and exciting and, quite often, with unique entertainment. He didn’t specifically ask that Moldavi bring his sister, but he knew it was likely that Narcise would accompany him.
Through the time Giordan had been absent from Paris, Moldavi had become entrenched in the underworld of the French Dracule. And on the rare occasion that he participated in social activities, he was usually accompanied by his sister. The better, Giordan had come to learn, to tempt friend and enemy alike into engaging with Narcise in battle.
There would be few men—mortal or otherwise—who could resist an opportunity to win a night with a woman such as she. The most troubling aspect of that particular arrangement was, in Giordan’s mind, whether Narcise’s brother forced her to engage in those gambles, or whether she did it of her own free will. If it were the former—and he was fairly certain it was, a suspicion supported by the empty expression on her face—there was yet another reason for him to disdain Moldavi, for exercising such influence over a woman was just as abhorrent as bleeding children to death.
And so when Giordan, who’d been sipping a very fine French brandy with two companions in his favorite private parlor, was advised that both Cezar and Narcise Moldavi had arrived, he merely nodded to himself. The bait had been taken, and he hoped to have his curiosity assuaged.
He was more than a bit curious to see what Narcise would be like in a less combative, restrictive environment, whether that dull glaze would be gone from her eyes, and whether a woman who looked like her, and fought with the ferocity of a man, had any social skills at all. Or whether she was merely a well-trained puppet.
Giordan was master enough of himself to admit that his interest and attraction had been piqued, and sharply. And honest enough to note that he would suffer even the presence of the repugnant Moldavi to pursue it.
It didn’t take long before the invited guests found their way to Giordan’s presence, and his host duly welcomed the siblings, introducing them to Eddersley, Voss, and indicating the latter’s latest mistress, Yvonna. She
