The Vampire Narcise

When Chas peeled his eyes open next, he could hardly breathe for the pain. Nor could he focus, for the room tilted and spun so violently, he had to close his eyes. But someone was prodding him to move, forcing him to stand, to walk.

Through a haze and with pure determination, he gathered his strength—both mental and physical—and concentrated on moving, thinking, banishing the agony. His eyes opened, his gaze focused, his limbs began to cooperate—if sullenly—and his thoughts cleared…albeit slowly.

He wasn’t restrained, and was led into a room that was well-lit with many lamps and torches, along with another roaring fire. One side of the chamber was lined with a small dais, on which a dining table sat. Moldavi and another four or five companions sat at the table, which was littered with cups and goblets, bottles and flasks. They looked up at his entrance, and Moldavi said something that made one of them laugh, and the others look at Chas. At first he thought he was hallucinating from the pain when he recognized the short-statured man who was soon to be formally crowned the Emperor of France. But he blinked and refocused and could only come to the conclusion that he recognized him correctly.

The remainder of the space was empty, long and narrow and open. The only other furnishing was a long table at the other end, and from here, he was fairly certain he saw two long blades lying on it.

As Chas stood silently in front of the table, flanked by two burly—if unintelligent-looking—made vampirs, he tried to assimilate the fact that Napoleon Bonaparte was here.

There’d been rumors of Moldavi’s allegiance to an alliance with the new emperor, but for him to be so intimate and in such close quarters was unsettling. It appeared to be a social engagement…but nevertheless, to have a powerful man so enticed by one like Cezar Moldavi…well, the Dracule were infamous for remaining uninvolved with politics or authority.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing if Bonaparte was engaged with the likes of Moldavi—it might keep him from the invasion of England that Westminster seemed to think was imminent.

Despite the obvious political fascination, Chas reminded himself he had more pressing matters to attend to. As he stood there, trying not to let his knees buckle, he realized he still wore his own breeches. They were sweat and bloodstained, but they were his, and that meant the inside pockets still held the little smoke packets he had.

If he could get close enough to the fireplace and toss one of them in, an explosive puff of smoke would—God willing—roll into the chamber and give him the element of surprise…and the chance to escape. Hopefully after he sent at least one of those bastards to hell on his way out.

Now that he knew Moldavi had protection, it made for a more difficult process. But there were other ways to get to the heart—through the throat, or shoulder, for example—although that would be much more difficult than pinning someone through the chest.

But he was still alive, and he had options, and Chas focused on those thoughts, even going so far as to slyly move his arm along the side of his breeches to confirm that the slender smoke explosion packet was still there. It was.

Yet, he was still wavering on his feet. His body protested with every movement, and the burns and piercings were tender and inflamed with pain. He wasn’t certain how long he’d been here—hours, days, weeks?—but certainly he hadn’t eaten for a very long time. The gnawing in his belly wasn’t merely due to the presence of the Dracule.

The chamber door opened and in walked Narcise. She, too, was flanked by a pair of guards. She was also, again, wearing men’s clothing—tight breeches and a close-fitting tuniclike shirt. Her hair shone like blue-black coal from where it was pulled back tightly into a knot. Her feet were bare.

She didn’t acknowledge him at all, and instead faced her brother and his companions. “What do you want?” she demanded.

“Entertainment, of course, my dear sister,” Moldavi said. “We have an esteemed guest tonight—” he nodded to Bonaparte “—and I have promised him something very thrilling. I hope you will do your best to make it so.” Then he gestured to Chas.

Narcise turned as if noticing him for the first time. “Him? You want me to fight him? What sort of entertainment would that be? The man can barely stand,” she scoffed.

Chas lifted his chin in annoyance. He wasn’t exactly ready to collapse, and he certainly didn’t feel as if his knees were going to give way. In fact, he was feeling stronger—and more furious—by the moment. More determined to get out of here alive, but taking one or two of the vampirs to hell first.

I’ll save you. Help me, please.

If there was a woman in the world who didn’t need his help, it was Narcise Moldavi.

And if she thought turning him over to her brother for torture was a way to save him, she was even more disturbed than he’d thought. As far as he was concerned, all deals were null and void.

“You’re correct, my dear sister…which is why I thought we might want to even things up a bit.” He lifted his hand from a small box on the table, withdrawing a long cord. Chas saw that he was holding a leather thong with two feathers dangling from it.

She blanched, and even Chas could sense the tremor shuttling through her. Something changed in the chamber, some sort of ebbing of energy or life…and he realized that Moldavi must be holding Narcise’s Asthenia.

Feathers.

“You’ll fight to the death. There will be no stopping until one of you is dead,” commanded their host, tossing the chain to the floor in front of the table.

Narcise stiffened and Chas felt her shock.

“Yes, you’ve heard me correctly. He’s a vampir hunter, is he not? A killer? And that is what he came here for. I’d hate to disappoint him, and have him return to Dimitri only to complain about my lack of hospitality. Woodmore,” Moldavi said, looking at him, “if you succeed in killing this lovely sister of mine, I will generously allow you to go free…back to your own sisters.”

The words dangled there enticingly and Chas glanced at Narcise. Her face had gone blank and her eyes empty, and for the first time, he realized what Corvindale had meant by describing her as having dead eyes. One of her guards lifted the feather necklace and slid it over her head.

She shuddered visibly this time, and he could see her breathing change.

“Or you can slay him,” Moldavi told her. “Which is what I fully expect you to do. After all, you have had so many years of instruction. You should be able to best a wounded mortal.”

He settled back in his seat, a complacent smile hovering over his lips. “Arm them,” he said, nodding to one of the guards.

As they faced each other moments later, each brandishing a long, gleaming blade, Chas gathered his strength and steadied himself. The sword, which would normally be comfortable in his hands, felt heavier than usual. Awkward and wearing. He looked at Narcise.

She was moving slowly, as if she had difficulty breathing, and he knew it was because of the feather necklace. That would make things all the more simple for him. Not that he truly believed Moldavi would set him free if he killed Narcise, but he intended to win and then, hopefully, set the smoke packet afire.

“Begin!” commanded their host with a clap of his hands.

She staggered, and he could see real pain in her face. He had a momentary pang of sympathy for her…for, despite the fact that he was hardly as powerful and agile as he normally was, he was certainly mobile. She hardly seemed able to move.

She lunged toward him suddenly, her aim off and the sword jamming into the ground next to him. Their bodies clashed and he automatically reached out to steady her. As they bumped together, almost like two lovers embracing, she whispered, “Help me. Escape.”

He stumbled back and whipped his blade around, wondering if he’d heard her correctly…wondering if it were another of her tricks. Her face tightened, her teeth bared in great effort as she lifted her sword and raised it over her head in a stroke that left her body wide-open for his blade.

Chas knew it was his chance, and he realized, as their eyes met when he swung his weapon around, that she knew it. At the last minute, he lowered his blow—which would have easily cleaved hand from wrist, head from