The Vampire Narcise

When she eased him onto the bed in her old chamber, Giordan didn’t release her, and she tumbled down with him, their legs bumping and sliding awkwardly together. Bare skin to bare skin, her breasts pressed up against his torso, his warm arms loose around her waist.

“Narcise,” he murmured, his lips moving against her hair again, “is it really you? Have you come back to me?”

“Giordan,” she replied, pulling away to look down at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to… I know that I can’t say anything to change what happened, to make amends for it…but…I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand. I didn’t—” Her voice broke at the end and despair took over. How could he ever forgive her? “So…sorry.”

The Mark on her back shot a renewed blast of pain—or maybe it had never stopped doing so—but whatever the case, she felt it.

And along with the shock of hurt came an unlikely sense of satisfaction. If Lucifer disapproved, then there was something good about it.

And it had all ceased being just about her some time ago.

“Shh,” he said. “Don’t…say anything.”

“Are you hurt? What can I…”

He covered her mouth with his, his lips warm and firm, fitting over hers with a softness that made her want to weep. His hands glided up her unclothed body, gentle and yet possessive.

“Belial,” he said, pulling away suddenly, his face hardening. “He—”

“He’s dead,” she replied. “Chas…” She shook her head and pressed her swollen lips together.

“I would have killed him myself. Watching him—” His voice trailed off and he looked at her, his brown-blue eyes deep and filled with grief. “I knew what Cezar was going to do. I tried to stop him, Narcise.”

“By Fate, I know you did,” she replied wildly, consumed by her own guilt and shame. “Giordan, there was nothing you could have done—”

“I would have done anything—”

“But you already did,” she wept. “You already did. And I didn’t see it. I was too… I didn’t, I couldn’t, understand…what you’d done.”

He gathered her close, but she could feel the trembling and weakness in his powerful arms. She pressed a kiss over one of the wounds on his shoulder, tasting the remnant of luscious, warm, clean lifeblood. Desire and affection rushed over her, and he shivered beneath her lips.

“You need to feed,” she told him, pulling away, putting aside her own needs and desires. “You can hardly lift your arms.”

“No,” he murmured. “I only need you, Narcise. I never thought—”

“Please, Giordan. Allow me.” She raised her arm and offered it to him, at the same time as she admired the smooth planes of his chest, dusted lightly with dark hair. “Just as you did for me.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. Narcise. I can’t.” He turned his face away, his mouth tight, his nostrils flaring as if he drew in her scent, but tried to force it away at the same time.

Something sharp and hard stabbed her in the heart. He’d fed on Rubey. She knew he had…she’d scented and smelled the proof.

If he loved her, why would he not take what she offered? Her heart thumping, an uneasy churning in her insides, she looked for something to cut her skin…just as he had, when she’d demurred his same offering, ten years ago.

A lifetime for some. But just a flash in the life of a Dracule.

“Please,” she said, wanting to help him, and at the same time, wanting to erase the remnants of Belial that had been imprinted on her.

She raked her arm over the corner of her bedside table, and it did enough: leaving a slender red line that burst into shiny pearls of lifeblood.

“Narcise.” He sucked in his breath and she put her arm there…but even then, he turned away. “I can’t. You don’t understand…I’ve changed. I can’t.”

But then he shuddered, deep in his middle as he pulled in a breath. His belly and torso flinched against hers, and all at once his mouth was on her…closing around her arm.

His tongue slid along the slender wound, leaving a moist, hot trail in its wake, and Narcise’s desire blossomed fully inside her, shooting low and deep.

She rolled and pressed against him, jolting delicately when he slid his fangs into the soft side of her arm. The rush of her blood into his warm mouth, his slick tongue tasting the lifeblood was as pleasurable for her as sinking her fangs into his vein.

She tasted his salty skin, felt the racing and pounding of his pulse as it beat with her own. His eyes were closed, his face taut with relief as he drank—

Giordan abruptly pulled up, thrusting her arm away and lurching off the bed. He fumbled at the table, grabbing a small bowl from it just in time to vomit inside.

Narcise went still and cold. Did he hate her so much that he couldn’t…

Slowly she eased away from the warm place on the bed, the last remnants of her pleasure evaporating, leaving her shaky and confused. His back was to her, that broad expanse with shifting muscles…and a Mark that had turned white. It covered his shoulder and down his back, smooth and light—as if he’d been tanned around it.

He looked up then, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, and saw her. “Narcise,” he said, reaching for her. “I’m sorry. It’s not you—”

“It must be me,” she whispered, her throat suddenly raw and dry. “You have no difficulty feeding on Rubey.”

His fingers were surprisingly strong, and he kept her in place on the bed as he came back onto it. “No. I shouldn’t have tried. I knew what would happen…but I can’t resist you.” His smile was forced and wavery, making her even more discomfited.

She blinked back tears, not even caring that she might appear weak. She was weak. Weak and foolish. And what she’d done was unforgivable.

You are the strongest person I’ve ever met, he’d said to her once.

That was before he’d really come to know her.

Giordan wouldn’t release her hand. “After what happened…before…when I left, I was so dark and angry and—well, I went a little mad. I don’t remember what I did, precisely, but it was violent and evil and black. I do remember waking in an alley, with no memory of anything but the realization that I didn’t have you any longer—” He squeezed her fingers. “No, don’t talk. You need to understand.”

Narcise couldn’t look at him, so she stared down at their joined hands: his dark, powerful one closed around her pale slender fingers.

“There was a cat,” he said. “In the alley, and she blocked me in. I couldn’t leave. And I stayed there as the sun rose, lost in that dark time—I can’t describe how it was, but it was horrific. I tried to hide from the sunlight, but one part of me was exposed.” He gestured to his shoulder, drawing her attention from their hands. “I saw a bright light, and this happened. I felt as if my insides…my soul…were battling. They were. The light won.”

Narcise reached to touch the markings, certain that he was making the entire event seem much simpler than it had been. “Did you…” She shook her head. The white lines were no longer raised, nor was the texture any different than the rest of his skin. The change of color made the mark look almost beautiful, instead of ugly and malevolent.

“I was weak and beaten, and when I finally made my way home, I tried to feed. And every time I did…” He gestured to the bowl, an odd expression on his face. “That happened. At last, Drishni came to me and I was able to feed from her. Because she eats nothing brought to her through death or violence. Somehow, with my change, my body would no longer accept anything violent or evil. After that, I realized I was changing. In many ways.”

“And so you can feed on Rubey?” she asked, knowing that her tone was stiff with hurt.

“She eats no meat. And she offers freely.” His eyes searched hers. “But I don’t love her.”

Narcise turned away to hide the tears. What a fool she was. “And Luce?”

“He no longer owns me. Kritanu—an old Indian man who Dimitri sent after he learned about this—says that I’ve attained a level of moksha that most mortals can never reach. Because I’m immortal,