“As you may be aware, I am particular about the sort of libation offered to my guests, both here and in my other establishments,” Giordan explained. “Please note that all of them are willing participants…provided they are tipped well…and that they are kept in the most comfortable and regimented accommodations.”
“There are no restrictions, of course,” Eddersley said. His fangs had slipped free a bit, and his eyes glowed softly.
“Indeed, none,” Giordan replied, knowing precisely why his friend had asked. One of the six was a strapping blond man from Russia. “As long as you cause them no lasting or mortal injury, and as long as you can afford the fee,” he added with a brief smile, “there are no restrictions. Now, if you will allow me to introduce our selections. They are all new here at Château Riche, and tonight is their debut. I’ve found Damaris, the dark-skinned girl there in the blue gown, to be extremely rich and full of body. She is my favorite of them.” He smiled at her, his fangs extended just a bit at the memory.
Moldavi looked at him sidewise and then back at the young woman, whose hair was scraped back into a high, exotic tail. Her skin was the color of dark tea and she was tall and slender, from Egypt or somewhere in the vicinity of the Holy Land.
“We keep each of them on a specific diet, strictly to maintain the integrity of their blood,” Giordan continued. “Have you noticed how the taste can differ, depending upon the type of food intake, as well as origin? Rather like the types of soil that grow grapes or hops. The diets are as individual as they are. Some of them, like the lovely Drishni there, in the red gown, eat only vegetation. Others eat highly spiced foods, or drink an inordinate amount of champagne. And so on.”
Once again, he gestured to his guests to partake, and then crooked a finger for Damaris to join him. She wafted over, her blue gown flowing loosely over long limbs. Unlike the ladies who wore high fashion, she didn’t have the layers of crinoline and corset to peel away. One could see everything she had to offer as the silk clung to her from breast to hips to pubis.
As Damaris settled on the arm of Giordan’s chair, just between him and Moldavi, Mingo entered the room again. He was carrying a plate with the pressed and rolled hashish. Without waiting for his master’s direction, he arranged it on the low, central table and lit the small pyramid-shaped block.
“Please,” Giordan said, looking at Moldavi with a nod of hospitality. Damaris, also well-trained, offered one wrist to each of them as she sat on the chair arm.
Giordan felt Moldavi’s eyes on him as he extended his fangs and slid just the tips into the curve of her elbow. The release of blood into his mouth, warm and rich—and in this case, heavy with a note of spice—filled his senses. The taste, the smell, the way his body leaped and responded, skin prickling and warming, had his own blood surging.
For him, as well as for all Dracule, it was difficult to separate the primitive need for sustenance from the accompanying titillation and arousal that came with penetrating flesh and ingesting hot, thick blood, of the intimate slide of mouth against skin—and most of the time, it was neither necessary nor desirable to do so.
But tonight, now, Giordan was merely sampling. He had no need for sustenance, nor was he interested in engaging in any other erotic pleasures in his current company—although that wasn’t due to any modesty on his part.
The simple fact was, despite the taste and smell of the exotic Damaris—who was beginning to breathe heavily as her own pleasure increased with both men feeding from her arms—it was the awareness of Narcise, and her smell, her essence and presence, that attracted Giordan. But he sensed that it would be best not to reveal his deep interest to her brother so overtly. So he kept his gaze strictly away from her.
As the sweet, peppery smell of burning hashish filtered through the chamber, and the arousing flow of blood settled over his tongue and rushed through his body, Giordan felt his world turning warm and red, hazy and lulling. He withdrew from Damaris and he’d barely turned away when another of his “vintages”—the Viennese girl Liesl— appeared in front of him. She was petite and blonde, and her lifeblood was just as light and pure as her appearance. She offered a slender shoulder, bared by a low-rising bodice, and as he tugged her onto his lap to take a taste, he allowed his attention to slide toward the chaise where Narcise was sitting.
Had been sitting.
She was gone now.
Combing through the miasma of pleasure and sensuality, Giordan paused before sliding his fangs into the delicate woman in front of him. The smoke from the hashish had cast a filter over the room, and Mingo had turned the oil lamps down to a soft glow. It took Giordan a moment to look around and see a lone figure standing near the corner, looking at a painting on the wall.
Instead of slipping his fangs in, he softly murmured instruction to Liesl to join Damaris with Moldavi, and to block the guest’s view of the chamber.
He was under no misapprehension about Moldavi’s need to control his sister. He’d also sensed that any attempt to speak privately with Narcise would be thwarted by her brother.
Aside of that, she would need to be approached with care. Despite the spark of life he’d noticed in her eyes, surely she must be skittish and leery of any male.
“Keep him occupied and distracted, and you will be well-compensated,” Giordan murmured into Liesl’s ear, then nicked her with his fang. Just to taste, for it was his duty as host to ensure that everything on the menu was exquisite. And it was. He slicked his tongue briefly around the edge of her ear and she shivered, her hands settling onto his shoulders as she sagged into him, clearly wanting more.
“More of my lord would be compensation enough.” Her fingers slipped into his hair and she pressed her breasts into his collarbone.
But Giordan flashed his eyes in warning, for there was a fine line between making one’s services available to a guest and overstepping one’s bounds. His vintages must learn to finesse the difference. He eased her firmly from his lap. “Go on,” he said quietly.
He took great care in extricating himself from the chair, attempting to be unnoticed by Moldavi, who seemed very content with Damaris. He watched as Liesl positioned herself, along with Damaris, nearly in the man’s lap. And then, as much as every muscle in his body desired him to do so, Giordan did not walk directly over to Narcise.
Instead he wandered toward Voss, who seemed to be more than a little delighted by Drishni, the third of the female vintages, who was kissing one of the two male specimens. But of course Giordan must pause and ask whether Voss was enjoying himself, and if there was aught he needed, and they had a brief conversation about the variety of vintages, including those of the male gender.
“It is true, occasionally I prefer the taste of male lifeblood,” Voss said, his softly glowing eyes never leaving the intertwined couple.
Both of the mortals had been bitten and fed upon, and the unique scents of their blood, and the combination of their essences mingling along with the aroma of desire was heady to Giordan as well. “I find it bold and strong, and a welcome change from the thinner feminine sort,” Voss continued. “But Drishni… She is lovely as well. Pure and sweet.”
She was Giordan’s most recent addition, lately come from India. In fact, she had presented herself on his doorstep one day after hearing that he hired exotic girls. Giordan nodded complacently to Voss. “But that is precisely why we offer such a variety. To meet the varying needs of anyone.”
Feeding on a male Dracule was not at all the same as fucking him, although Eddersley would of course prefer the latter. Gender mattered little when it came to feeding, but because of the intimacy that action promoted, most often a Dracule fed on a mortal of the opposite gender.
Yet, it was a rare
Even Giordan, who still fought horrible memories from his childhood, had been caught up in red-hot moments of pleasure when he wasn’t entirely certain whose hands were stroking him, whose skin was sliding against his or whose body part he was driving his fangs into.
But there was no question that the woman across the chamber, who seemed to have moved on to examine another painting, was the only thing on his mind tonight.
Giordan made his excuses from Voss, smiling wryly at Yvonna, who’d slumped into a stupor as her lover
