The Vampire Narcise by Colleen Gleason Read Free Book Online Page B

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 shirtsleeve 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 cutaway 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 Hébert would escape a similar fate. Giordan had lived more than a hundred years, and one thing he’d come to realize was that fanaticism and violence had a way of turning on to 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 potencywas 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