The Vampire Narcise

Who would she be? What would she do, day after day? How would she pass this immortal, infinite life that would, on some Judgment Day, end with her entwined with Lucifer in hell forever?

This wasn’t the first time these thoughts had entered her mind, but on this occasion, she was unable to dismiss the niggling and nagging that settled in her mind.

It had been well over a hundred years since she’d had a choice—what to wear, what to do, where to go and with whom to go. But now that she had it…what now?

The thought of centuries upon centuries stretching on and on into forever… The wrapper had become as stifling as her thoughts and Narcise tossed it away. Standing, she paced the chamber, dressed only in a thin, borrowed chemise, her damp hair seeping through the fabric over her back and shoulders.

Since leaving Paris, she’d either been hiding or traveling or waiting for someone to tell her what to do—none of which was particularly fulfilling or pleasant.

It was not something she meant to do for the rest of her life.

Beginning now.

Spurred by the jolt of decision, she rang for the maid. At least she could leave this room and find Chas below with their Irish-flavored hostess.

Rubey had been warmly welcoming, although Narcise had felt the weight of more than casual attention as she glanced over her. The proprietress sported shiny, curling hair that conveniently (and possibly unnaturally) complemented her name: it was reddish-blond and had been done up in a most fashionable style, with little curls around her cheeks and sparkling combs tucked in place. Her clothing was just as modern and extremely well-made, and Rubey’s silk gown of robin’s-egg blue had made Narcise feel as if her muslin day dress was little more than a servant’s castoff, which was part of the reason she’d eagerly accepted the offer of a bath before taking any time for conversation.

The other woman was younger and more attractive than Narcise had expected, for the establishment had been a popular place for the Dracule for decades. She’d expected someone much older than the two-score Rubey appeared to be—and a well-preserved four decades she was.

The maid was as efficient and businesslike as her employer, and when Narcise was dressed in a much cleaner, softer and more becoming gown than her muslin print she took her leave from the chamber and slipped out into the hall without waiting for the maid’s direction.

Rubey was obviously a successful proprietress, if the decor and luxurious appointment of her house was any indication. But Narcise wasted little time admiring the ornate mirrors and elegant furnishings, although she did pause at some of the paintings. There was a Vermeer! And a van Honthorst that made her smile because it was so appropriate for a house of pleasure: a woman playing a lute, which was a blatant sexual pun.

But even the mastery of the Dutch painters wasn’t enough to keep her from her need to move. Suddenly all she wanted was to be alone, and away from everyone in this place.

She wanted to be out, under the night sky, alone…for the first time in more than a century.

She was done with huddling and hiding.

Narcise’s excellent hearing and sense of smell allowed her to avoid the various servants and other occupants of the pleasure house, including Chas, whose voice was coming from behind a door on the first floor. The low, lyrical responses were obviously from the Irish proprietress, and Narcise didn’t wait to learn the topic of their conversation.

She found her way to a side door and slipped outside.

Her hair was still damp, but despite the lift of the cooling breeze, Narcise wasn’t cold. She was free!

This little alleyway was silent and dim, but beyond, Narcise could hear the sounds of the rest of the world. As she made her way out of the narrow space between the house and its neighbor, she felt the air stir. With the soft buffet came the scent of something familiar and pleasant…damp wool and cedar. It reminded her of Giordan, and she paused with one hand resting against ivy-covered brick.

Her heart pounded and she listened, lifting her nose to better smell the breeze…but the aroma was gone as quickly as it had come and she heard nothing. A phantom memory perhaps, or another man who wore wool and the scent of cedar.

When she moved at last, a brief shower of drops sprinkled onto her shoulders and head from the fog- drenched ivy and she stepped out into the street.

From the front, Rubey’s establishment rose as high and forbidding as the home of a duc back in Paris, with many windows and an intimidating entrance. Narcise had learned that the proprietress actually lived in a smaller home nearby, and she wondered that a woman was able to keep up and furnish two such residences.

Then she walked brusquely past the pleasure house, with no destination in mind, but wholly aware of the fact that she had never, ever walked on a city street by herself. And that she had no one to return or answer to.

Exhilaration spurred her and she drew in a deep breath, becoming more aware of her surroundings, hardly noticing that she was the only pedestrian not dressed in a cloak or other evening wrap. Carriages clattered by, couples walked together or in groups, dogs slinked in alleys and cats peered from the lengthening shadows.

Narcise walked and walked, through the affluent residential area where Rubey’s was located and, after many turns and crossing two small squares, onto a street lined with shops now closed for the evening. She passed a theater or some place of entertainment, noticing conveyances lined up, waiting for their riders to return, and night watchmen strolling along.

“Well, now, ain’t this a foin surprise.”

Narcise halted when a large hulk of a man emerged from a dark spot between two buildings to block her way. She realized belatedly that she’d turned down a passage that was deserted but for a slight figure in the distance, just turning the corner onto another street. It was a narrow way, with a sewage canal on one side, and lined on the other by houses or shops with dark windows—either vacant or filled with slumbering residents.

Something moved behind her, and from the corner of her eye, she saw two more shadows sliding into the glancing moonlight in her wake.

A little trip of unease quickly faded. Not only were these mere mortal men, but she was neither a captive nor prisoner weakened by a necklace of sparrow feathers.

“I tol’ ye, Griff, it would be a lucky even’n’, comin’ out this a-way,” said one of the others, nearer now, behind her. His companions laughed in agreement.

They moved closer, bringing their smells of desperation and lust, as the first one smiled and reached lazily for her. “An’ she’s a looker, ain’t she?”

She smiled back. Allowed her eyes to glow just a bit of red. “Take your hand off me,” she said calmly—and was delighted when the fool didn’t comply.

Instead he laughed and tugged her closer to him so that she bumped against his torso. He reeked of sweat and smoke and old ale, and despite her height, he was taller than she. “A furriner, listen to ’er, will ye,” he said. “Well, we’ll ’ave to show the lady a good time ’ere in ole Londontown, aye, boys?”

The other two were just behind Narcise, blocking any escape she might attempt, and one of them slid his hand down her spine and over her rear, his fingers scoping intimately around the bottom cleft of her arse. Narcise’s reflexive spark of fear at being touched dissolved instantly and she slid into action. With one smooth move, she flung the big man’s hand away and spun to face the one who’d groped her.

Grabbing him by a woolen coat crusty with stains and smelling of smoke and vomit, Narcise lifted him up and tossed him into the air. His arms flailed as he flew back against a shuttered window on the brick wall.

“’Ey!” shouted the big man, as if offended and affronted by her reaction. “Wot the hell d’ye think yer doin, foin lady?” He lunged for Narcise again, but she easily ducked out of his way and then grabbed his arm, using his own weight and momentum against him.

“I told you to take your hands off me,” she reminded him as she spun him sharply into the third man. They tumbled together like a load of boulders and she stood over them, looking down as they scrambled to their feet in fury. Her pulse had kicked up and she felt a rush of energy through her. Even her Mark was more at ease than it had been for days.

“Ye loose-lipped bitch,” growled the big oaf, and his insult was echoed by the one she’d whipped into the