Chapter 2 #2
But somehow she held her instinct in check and swirled her tongue over and around the small wound, inhaling his scent, tasting his life. Pure, hot, lush…strong. He was powerful. She could no longer wait, and sunk her fangs into the surging veins on the inside of his wrist.
Now he flowed into her mouth with the delicate rhythm of his heartbeat, the veins filling and surging against her mouth.
She drank, breathed, her knees buckling so that she sagged against the wall and into his arms. Lust and need swelled her body, in her veins and beneath her skin, pulsing and dampening her far beneath layers of clothing.
The wall was solid behind her, and Cale to the side, his arm still curved around her waist. She was faintly aware of his body trembling against hers, of the rough movement of his chest. As she held him with both hands, bending his hand back to open palm and wrist, their fingers curled together.
She was aware of the heavy ring on his finger, biting into her smaller digits as he gripped tightly.
Narcise drank, sucking gently, her swallows quiet and rhythmic as the ambrosia filled her mouth, funneling through her body. She found herself caressing his warm, smooth skin with her lips as she pinned him with her fangs, using tongue and lips to sip up every bit.
There was a moment when she’d regained some of her strength and she glanced up to see Cale’s eyes fastened on her.
Blazing red, they glowed like a banked fire beneath heavy lids.
His lips had parted, his fangs thrust long and tempting.
His expression shot a sharp pang into her belly, and down.
Hard and strong, exploding into heat and dampness.
Narcise looked back down, away from that gaze burning into hers, steeling herself for him to pull away and tear his fangs into her throat.
But instead of revulsion, she felt another rush of desire at the thought.
Her belly trembled, her breasts and tight nipples thrusting against their silk chemise, her chest tight.
She pulled her fangs free, reality and fear sweeping into her glazed mind.
Cezar. She swallowed, tasting the last bit of his essence, and felt him release her.
Narcise bumped lightly against the wall, suddenly standing on her own balance, and looked up at him.
His eyes still glowed in an orange-red ring around the hazel iris, his lips still parted, showing the tips of fangs.
Cale’s chest moved as if he’d been running, and for a moment, that fear…
that thrill…that he might reach for her and crush her against the wall rose to clog her thoughts.
But he didn’t. “Merci,” he said in that delicious, low voice that said much more than the simple syllables. “But perhaps you might finish?” He’d slipped back into French again.
Narcise knew what he meant, and for a moment she was terrified to risk tasting him again. But at the very least, it was courtesy. And at the most, it was one more moment of pleasure before she must return to a world of fear and desperation.
With delicate fingers this time, she lifted his arm and, casting him one quick glance, she kissed the wound.
She used her tongue to slip away the last vestiges of blood, knowing that her saliva would cause the blood to stop flowing and the wound to heal quickly.
And then Narcise released him and stepped back, waiting for him to lunge at her.
And wondered how soon it would be before Cezar came out to find them.
“Perhaps,” Cale said, still in French, still in that low voice, “if David had been witness to such a display, his painting might have had more authenticity. A bit more…heat.”
Narcise could do nothing but nod dumbly. Her head was clearer than it had been for awhile, but her body still hummed with desire.
And when Cale turned to pull on the coat he’d slung over a nearby table, she managed to say, “Cezar will know.” A knot formed quickly in her belly as the reality set in. He would know and he would exact a punishment from her.
Cale looked at her, his eyes no longer burning, but now inscrutable. “But of course he will know. In fact, perhaps he even planned this. But I will ensure you’ll have no repercussions, mademoiselle. You may trust me.”
Trust me.
The last time she’d believed those words from a man, they’d come from Cezar. More than a hundred years ago, on the night she was visited by Lucifer. Narcise choked back a bitter laugh. And look what trusting a man given her: an infinite life of captivity.
Cale offered her his unwounded arm, and she slipped her fingers around it. Lifting her chin high, she allowed him to return her to the chamber, ready to face what would come.
She would either live through Cezar’s anger, as she had so many times before…or he would kill her in his fury. And that, she thought, could very well be the lesser of the two evils.
* * *
Cezar Moldavi was fully aware of his sister’s disappearance, and with whom.
Certainly he was, for he rarely allowed anything out of his control to happen.
Those days of being pummeled and pushed and bullied were long behind him.
Now, everything he did was carefully planned, every possible outcome examined, accepted or rejected, and Cezar Moldavi had long since destroyed anyone who could remember him as the sniveling, snot-nosed coward he’d once been.
Except for his sister, whom he loved.
And hated.
Despite the stimulation of two lovely mortal women who fondled and stroked and tempted him to feed on them, his mind was elsewhere. He knew precisely when Narcise and Cale left the chamber, how long they were gone, and who had fed upon whom by the time they returned.
And although he was disappointed with the turn of events, he’d expected it. It had been one of the possible—and, in fact, most probable—outcomes. He would have liked to have been surprised, but the fact that he wasn’t surprised wasn’t such a great tragedy; for, again, he’d been prepared.
Cale was a striking, powerful man, absurdly wealthy and well-thought-of in both the Dracule and the mortal worlds. He was used to getting all that he desired.
And so was Cezar.
But then again…nothing had truly happened between Cale and his sister. Cezar could smell it: a brief feeding, nothing more. Narcise would pay for her disobedience…but not in the way she might anticipate.
And that was why Cezar allowed himself to be convinced by Cale’s smooth explanations for what had obviously happened. The scent of satiation was everywhere in the chamber, clinging to Narcise; there was no way to hide what had occurred. And so, admirably, Cale didn’t attempt to do so.
“And see how I injured myself,” he said, gesturing to his wounded arm.
“I imposed upon your sister, and was able to convince her to assist me. I’m deeply gratified that she agreed, for I fear my shirt sleeve would have been stained otherwise.
” His smile was charming, even reaching his eyes.
Yet, behind the smile, there was a hint of warning.
“And Mingo—you understand how valets can be—would be beside himself.”
“Certainly,” Cezar replied, approving of the very well-cut lines of the other man’s clothing.
Not as ostentatious as some of the other high fashion here in Paris, with the brocade cut-away coats of pastel, but nevertheless extremely well-made and perfectly fitted.
He must get the name of his tailor. “I’m certain Narcise had no real qualms about assisting our host.” His expression and voice were bland, and as he glanced over, he saw the flare of nervousness in her eyes.
Good. But do not expect the sword to drop so soon, my dear sister. I have need of you first.
If nothing else, Cezar Moldavi had learned to plot and plan and manipulate instead of rushing in. And until he got what he wanted from Giordan Cale—which was more than a mere share in his next spice ship to China—he would look aside and allow Narcise to help him.
At the very least, it would provide some very stimulating activity.
* * *
Giordan looked out over the glittering lights.
There were gently rocking carriage lanterns, and higher, stable street lights.
The glow of oil lamps, from bright yellow to dull amber, shone from unshuttered windows.
The City of Light, named for being the center of education and enlightenment since the medieval monks built their narrow streets, was a more apt nickname than most realized.
He was high enough, here on the silent rooftop, that the shouts and cries from below were indiscernible, mingling with the low hoot of owls and the distant rattle of bridles and carriages.
Bonfires blazed in red-orange pockets as spectators waited, reserving their places for the morning’s executions.
Giordan fancied he could even see the wicked gleam of the guillotine blade in its large black frame.
He wondered how long this madness would last; how long the likes of Robespierre and Herbert would escape a similar fate. Giordan had lived so very many years, and one thing he’d come to realize was that fanaticism and violence had a way of turning onto those who wielded them.
A cool breeze ruffled his curls as he lifted a glass to sip his favorite Armagnac.
Warm and pungent, the brandy’s potency was a different experience than that of the lifeblood he’d enjoyed earlier this evening, courtesy of Damaris.
Not for sustenance did he enjoy the liquor, but for pleasure and weight and taste, and the different sort of looseness it gave him.
So it was for the Dracule: when they ate cheese or fruit or pastries, or any sort of food, or partook of wine or ale, it was purely for pleasure. Texture, taste, scent. A reminder of their enjoyment from mortal days, a social activity. But not at all necessary.