Chapter 11 #2
The cat meowed, and to his amusement seemed to nod and then preen in acknowledgment, then ducked under the bushes and out of sight. The rope safely in place, Chas tested it and then began to climb.
He was quick and efficient, his movements smooth and sleek, and moments later, he pulled himself onto the ledge of the window to peer in carefully.
Empty of everything but a rug and a single chair.
He smiled, but there was also a nudge of disappointment that no one was waiting to try and stop him.
It had been sometime since he’d been in a good fight.
Gathering up the rope, he looped it out of sight onto the top of the little roof so that it would be accessible on his way out.
Then, grateful for the continued chaos from the street beyond, he climbed into the chamber and walked silently to the door.
Before opening it, he waited for the familiar sensation to come over him…
the sort of itching in his belly that told him a vampir was near.
The closer one came to him, the deeper and more violent the odd feeling he had in his gut.
There was a time not so long ago when Chas would have sneaked through the home of a Dracule and staked any vampir he encountered—often while in their beds, sleeping away the daylight.
Even after he met the earl, and learned that at least one of Lucifer’s stewards was not quite the evil being his granny’s stories had made them out to be, he hadn’t become any less discriminating in his work.
But in the last few years, since he’d come to know Corvindale’s friends and realized that despite the fact that they had all tied their souls to the devil, there were various degrees of immorality and violence, Chas had become less rigid in his choices.
In his mind, every vampir could be a threat to mortals, but there was a divide between those who truly were, and those who simply tried to live and let live.
He heard nothing alarming and went out the door into the corridor on silent feet. A little twinge in his belly told him a Dracule was near, but it was so subtle that he knew it wasn’t in close proximity.
As he made his way through the house, mentally reviewing the rough sketch of a map Cale had made for him, it became obvious that the top floors of the house were empty and unused.
That made his job even easier, for he’d be less likely to encounter anyone as he made his way to Moldavi’s private quarters below the ground.
Nevertheless, he utilized the servants’ stairs down through the back of the house, noting to himself that there were no enticing smells coming from this kitchen. Draculean households didn’t really need to cook much.
The twitch in his gut was getting stronger, and he slipped a stake from one of his inside pockets.
But as he passed silently by the main foyer of the home, which was furnished so as to impress any casual visitors, he saw that a cluster of people still gathered in front of the house and glimpsed the gleam of shiny black paint on the side of an upended landau.
It was safe to say that everyone awake in this house was out in the street.
As he made his way toward the staircase Cale had told him led to the underground apartments, Chas couldn’t resist thinking Could it simply be this easy? This Providential?
Sonia would say, yes, if he was doing God’s work, the Hand of the Almighty would arrange things so that it would happen. But Chas didn’t fully believe that such blatant miracles occurred like chess pieces being rearranged on their board.
His favorite Biblical maxim was “God helps those who help themselves.” And that was what he was doing.
He’d just about reached the entrance to the lower level when his belly gave a sharp twist and the odd itching feeling became uncomfortable. Just then a door opened in front of him.
Chas reacted before the vampir had the chance to see him: he lunged for the unsuspecting man, grabbed his arm, and had him pushed against the wall, forearm up against his throat, before the sot could take a breath. All in complete silence.
The vampir goggled up at him, his eyes wide and shocked. Then they narrowed a bit as he seemed to catch his breath.
“Where’s Moldavi?” Chas asked in a soft voice, the stake’s point just beneath the servant’s waistcoat, pressing gently into his breastbone as his powerful arm eased up on the man’s throat.
He felt the footman draw in a breath and just before the bastard was about to shout an alarm, he jammed the stake through shirt, breastbone, and directly into his heart.
His victim jolted, shock rushing back over his face, and Chas felt him shudder…
then all life abruptly cease. Swearing to himself—for now he had the smell of fresh blood in the house, not to mention the problem of a dead body to attend to—he wiped off his stake and stuck it back in his pocket.
Then he heaved the corpse over his shoulder and slipped quickly back the way he’d come, toward the servants’ entrance.
Opening the back door, he dumped the corpse into the space between the house and the thick yew and boxwood that grew close to the wall, hoping it would obscure the body for some time.
Back inside the house, he moved with silent speed back to where he’d been when he encountered the vampir, all the while waiting for a renewed itch in his belly that told him more Dracule were near.
Before he started down the stairs, he paused, waiting, listening…feeling. There was a sound in the distance, voices rumbling…and the niggle started in his gut again. But it was some distance away and he started down into the depths of Cezar Moldavi’s lair.
There was a sort of finality about it. Perhaps it was because going below the surface was akin to being buried, perhaps because there was no way out but the way he came—or through the skull-lined catacombs on the north side—but Chas felt his nerves string tight.
He was on his guard as he’d never been before, listening for the sound of approach, paying heed to his body and its innate signals.
He had his stake in one hand, and his other fingers curled around the butt of his pocketed pistol.
Aside of it being cooler, and lit only with oil lamps and no natural light, the subterranean corridor appeared no different than one above the ground.
It was painted and furnished, lined with doors just as any other hallway in a well-appointed home.
But here he moved with more caution, listening at every door to see what he heard and felt.
The voices had become more distinct and Chas more cautious as he made his way along a stretch that seemed to make a large U-shape.
When he reached a large door from which the voices seemed to be coming, he stopped to listen, scanning the hall as he pressed his ear to the wood, careful not to touch it and make it jolt in its hinges.
“…And Corvindale,” said a male voice beyond the door.
A little prickle scooted up his spine and Chas pressed closer. He couldn’t make out all of the conversation, but he heard snatches of it.
“…In London?” came a different voice, with a bit of a hiss to it. That must be Moldavi. “But of course. Perhaps you’d like to go, then, my dear?”
“Of course. I’d be more than delighted to see Dimitri again,” came a husky female voice. She must be sitting closest to the door, for her words rang fairly clear. “…since Vienna, you know.” She gave an arch laugh.
That had to be the sister. Chas leaned closer, his gut filled with that gnawing feeling from the proximity of vampirs.
Despite what Giordan Cale had implied about the sister Narcise being more of an ally than a threat to his mission, Chas had reserved judgment.
Her brother might use and abuse her, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t malevolent in her own way.
Anyone that close to Moldavi was most likely tarred with the same brush, and from the sound of her, he wasn’t far off in his estimation.
A beautiful woman with fangs was a formidable force, particularly for a man.
A fourth voice joined the conversation—another male, which cooled any thought he might have had about bursting into the chamber.
With four Dracule against one mortal—even with the mortal being himself—the odds were not in his favor.
Chas heard something about spice ships just as something moved in the air behind him.
He spun around in time for a slender, four-sided silver blade to rest right in the center of his chest.
“You don’t look like much of a fencing instructor,” said the woman holding the epée. This particular blade’s tip wasn’t blunted, however, and Chas could feel its point digging into his skin.
“What does a fencing instructor look like, per se?” he replied, keeping his voice quiet.
“For one thing,” she replied in a voice that was low and dusky and threatened to wrap around him like a velvet rope, “he would normally be armed with a blade of his own, instead of a stake.” She was strikingly beautiful, with deep blue-violet eyes and ink-black hair.
So much so that he felt a little tremor of awareness beneath the adrenalin shooting through his body.
Now things were going to get interesting.
“Ah, yes,” he said, easing a bit away from the tip of her blade, feeling the door behind him and still taking care not to jolt it. Damn. He’d been wrong; this had to be the sister. “Perhaps it was an oversight.”
“Perhaps.” She followed him with the tip of her epée, and those lovely eyes narrowed. “There is only one way to find out then, isn’t there? We shall have to fence, and you will prove to me that you are accomplished. This way.” She used the tip of her weapon to prod him away from the door.
“But of course,” he replied readily, his brain working quickly.
Getting away from the others would hopefully give him the opportunity to disarm her without creating a disturbance that would bring Moldavi and his companions rushing from the chamber.
“I trust you have a place in mind?” he added. And not on the other side of this door….
“Walk, monsieur,” she said, not yet drawing blood, but coming dangerously close to doing so. He didn’t want that scent in the air, so he complied.
Chas walked quickly. If this was the sister, she was certainly not the downtrodden, dead-eyed creature Corvindale had described—a fact which heightened his suspicions even further.
Perhaps that was the way things had been a hundred years ago in Vienna, but things had obviously changed. His fingers tightened around the stake.
“Here,” she said in that low voice when they came to a door near the end of the U-shaped corridor. “Open it and go in. Slowly.”
Feeling the sharp implement in the nape of his neck, Chas did as she bid and walked into the room. He took an instant to confirm that no one else was waiting beyond the entrance, and then he reacted.
Holding onto the edge of the open door, he used its leverage to whip himself around and behind it, away from her sword.
She made a sound of fury, the blade clashing against the door, but he was already ducking below and erupting back out from its shelter, rearing up and knocking her against the wall on the opposite side.
A gasp of surprise burst from her as she slammed against it, her breath knocked out for a moment, and her lips curled back as she swung the blade down clumsily.
He ducked again and on her downswing, he slammed his entire body against her sword arm, smashing it against the wall, blade impaling the floor instead of his arm.
With his foot, he slid the door closed as he pushed his forearm beneath her neck and held her there.
Her eyes stormy, her breasts heaving between them, she glared up at Chas. A little ripple of attraction shivered through him, and he pushed it firmly away. She was a vampir, and lived to seduce.
Her breathing eased. “There is no doubt, then. You’re Chas Woodmore.”