The Vampire Narcise

Nevertheless, she was never wholly comfortable leaving the public house—especially at night, when she knew Cezar or his makes could be out looking for her. She’d become adept at enthralling mortals to gain whatever it was she needed: pencils and paper, a pouch of sous or livres, clothing for herself or Chas…even a full, hot vein on which to feed.

Philippe had visited her chamber more than once. She wasn’t certain if it was coincidence that he was always the one to bring new water for the bath, or whether he sensed that there was a reason he was drawn to this particular chamber.

Until now, Narcise had always approached feeding as some necessary evil akin to submitting to her brother’s friends. A mortal was brought to her, and she fed. Or, during the span of months when she attempted to starve herself rather than submit to Cezar, a jug of fresh blood was forced down her throat.

There was a residual layer of eroticism that always aroused her when she was in such an intimate situation, but it never required satiation—at least on her part.

Philippe seemed eager enough, and more than once during the three times she’d enthralled him had he managed to get himself—or herself—half unclothed. There were moments when she nearly allowed herself to finish what they, or more accurately, their bodies, obviously both wanted…but she never could succumb so far.

For decades, she’d protected her emotions and her heart—not to mention her mind—by separating herself from the reaction of her body and keeping all but the physical response locked deeply away. She was fully aware of that, cognizant of that steely control.

The one chink in that armor had come with Giordan, and since then, she’d melded it back together so tightly she suspected it would never soften again.

Now that she was free of Cezar, however, Narcise realized there could be a chance for her to open herself again. And after ten years, she hadn’t forgotten nor forgiven Giordan. No, in fact she burned with revulsion and loathing for him…but she remembered how it had felt to be awakened. Not with malice or control, or even by reflex.

But with love and affection.

Neither of which, of course, young Philippe possessed toward her—but at least he had no malice or control.

Or so she was thinking as his insistent hand slipped beneath the hem of her chemise. Her fangs pulled free from his flesh and he tried to find her mouth, desperate for a kiss, but she refused, nipping instead at his ear and feeling his cock slide against her belly through layers of cloth. “S’il…vous plaît,” he whispered thickly, and when she pulled away, he frowned petulantly.

Narcise shook her head, looking into his glazed eyes, knowing that he didn’t truly know what he was doing —or wanting—any more than she ever had during those dark nights in The Chamber.

She released him, pulled him free from her thrall and from her arms, and was just stepping back when she heard the doorknob rattle.

Philippe was still too numb and slow to react, or even to understand what was happening, but Narcise knew, and she turned away an instant before the door opened. Chas swept into the chamber in the dark swirling scents of wine and power.

Later, she never fully understood why she felt the need to try to hide what had been going on—but it didn’t matter. Chas’s eyes flashed to her and then around the chamber. The expression on his face spoke clearly of his disgust and aversion.

“Leave,” he snapped at Philippe, the poor confused boy, who stumbled awkwardly from the room with, Narcise knew, half-formed memories of a very intimate situation.

She had a moment to wonder briefly if he’d ever come back, but then irritation and affront spurred her to face Chas. “If you’re afraid your sensibilities will be offended, perhaps you should knock the next time you decide to enter.”

“Perhaps it would be best if you found another place to…do…that. I don’t wish to be any sort of party to your depravity.” His eyes flashed with that cold loathing…yet Narcise felt a shifting in his breathing, an awkwardness in his heartbeat. He strode across the chamber, much steadier on his feet than he had been when he left. She scented food along with the heavy weight of wine, tobacco and smoke, and realized he must have eaten belowstairs. And, from the smell of it, drank quite a bit of wine.

She knew her fangs were still slightly extended, and that her eyes had just banked from their burning glow, but she turned away.

“I have no choice,” she said. “If I don’t feed regularly, then it becomes more difficult for me to control my…” She bit her lip, her cheeks warming.

He’d walked over to the window and snapped the shutters closed, as if shutting out the cool night air would cleanse the room of tension. In fact, it did just the opposite—trapped the scent of blood and wine and musk, and of Chas Wood-more and his energy, his nobility, all the more tightly into the chamber.

Narcise felt a stirring low in her belly, a little flutter that she hardly recognized. No. Not him.

She turned, fighting to pull her fangs back into place. Perhaps she should leave. The sun had nearly set. She could do what she needed to do away from his judgmental, greedy eyes.

“Word is out that we’ve escaped from your brother,” Chas said flatly. “Not only does he have his makes pouring through the streets and along the Palais searching for us, but because of Bonaparte, he’s got the soldiers on the watch during the day.”

A tremor of fear shivered in her belly. “Are we trapped? Will they find us?”

“Of course we aren’t trapped,” he replied, disdain replacing revulsion. She found she preferred that reaction to the disgust in his face. “I can get us out of Paris and across the Channel, but it will take more planning than I’d anticipated.” His face turned expressionless and his eyes skirted away. “We’ll have to stay here for a few days longer.”

Narcise nodded. A bolt of relief that he didn’t intend to leave her alone made her smile a bit and relax. She wasn’t quite ready to be completely on her own yet, particularly in the same city where her brother lived.

There was still that blind fear of being found, and dragged back to his chilly, dark chambers. “Did you send word to Dimitri?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “How will you get a message through the blockade?”

“We have several methods of communication. In this case, I used a blood pigeon, which navigates across land and sea, and will find the particular person to whom it’s trained to scent by following his or her blood.”

“It smells Dimitri’s blood from London all the way here?”

“No, no. We have many pigeons cloistered about the city, and they each have a location to which they fly, or return home. Once in the vicinity of its home area, the bird will scent the blood and go directly to its master, wherever he is.” Chas had taken a seat in the chair. He rested his elbow on the table next to him and turned up the gas lamp for the darkening room.

“You’re very concerned about your sisters,” she said, wondering what it would be like to have a brother like Chas Woodmore instead of Cezar Moldavi.

“Our parents died more than ten years ago, and since then it’s been just the four of us. We’re very close, of course, but I travel a lot, and so they are often left to their own devices under the watchful eye of their chaperone. But I miss them always, for each of them is so different.”

“Tell me about them. I’ve heard rumors…your family is quite special, isn’t it? You have what is called the Sight?”

“Thanks in part to my great-great-grandmother, who fell in love with her late husband’s groom. He was a Gypsy and since she’d already been married once according to her father’s wishes, now that she was a widow she decided she’d wed whoever she wanted. And so she married her groom. Her great-granddaughter, my Granny Grapes, used to tell us stories about vampirs when we were younger.”

“That’s why you are so successful with hunting the Dracule. Who could be better than one whose family comes from Romania? How did you ever decide that it was important to seek us out and kill the vampirs?”

Chas rose abruptly and walked to the bellpull, ringing it sharply. “Forgive me, but it seems odd to be talking about such things with you.”

“Because you’re sworn to kill me? But you haven’t. In fact, you helped me. Perhaps you aren’t such a