Колин Глисон - The Vampire Narcise

And so when Giordan, who’d been sipping a very fine French brandy with two companions in his favorite private parlor, was advised that both Cezar and Narcise Moldavi had arrived, he merely nodded to himself. The bait had been taken, and he hoped to have his curiosity assuaged.

He was more than a bit curious to see what Narcise would be like in a less combative, restrictive environment, whether that dull glaze would be gone from her eyes, and whether a woman who looked like her, and fought with the ferocity of a man, had any social skills at all. Or whether she was merely a well-trained puppet.

Giordan was master enough of himself to admit that his interest and attraction had been piqued, and sharply. And honest enough to note that he would suffer even the presence of the repugnant Moldavi to pursue it.

It didn’t take long before the invited guests found their way to Giordan’s presence, and his host duly welcomed the siblings, introducing them to Eddersley, Voss, and indicating the latter’s latest mistress, Yvonna. She was a mortal, and her eyes had sunk half-closed due to the earlier employment of an opium pipe. Now, she sagged quietly in a corner chaise while the men conversed.

Clearly Cezar Moldavi had been in his early twenties when he’d been turned Dracule. His facial features and the swarthiness of his skin betrayed a strong Romanian heritage despite an underlying pastiness; in fact, Giordan knew that Moldavi had only permanently left Romania within the last decade, although he’d made extensive trips throughout Europe prior to settling in Paris. His voivodina in Moldavia had been very remote, yet the army within was the most fearsome and powerful in its nation.

He was many pounds lighter than Giordan, and slighter as well, but he had a square jaw that made his face seem oddly proportioned, verging upon awkward. His dark brows hung thick and straight over small blue-gray eyes, and his hair grew unfashionably like a thin walnut cap over his forehead and ears. He had surprisingly elegant hands that were covered in rings, and he was fashionably attired in a long-tailed, cut-away coat of dark red brocade and dun-colored knee breeches. His waistcoat did not stint on color, of course, for dull hues were only for the lower class. Moldavi moved with a barely perceptible limp that had to be from an injury prior to becoming immortal.

“We’ve met, albeit briefly,” Voss, the Viscount Dewhurst said, nodding to the new arrival. His attention strayed, as of course it would, to Narcise.

“Ah, yes,” Moldavi replied, his face flattening in annoyance. His French wasn’t perfect, but certainly serviceable. “In Vienna. On that most unfortunate evening some years ago. If I recall, you left before the fire that destroyed the house, did you not?”

But of course Giordan knew about the incident that had burned Dimitri’s house in Vienna. “Some years ago” had actually been more than a century, but such was the life of an immortal when decades became mere flashes in time.

Voss and Moldavi had both been there in Vienna that night, and had both contributed to the tragedy in their own ways—although literally passing by each other as Voss departed and Moldavi arrived.

“Perhaps you might recall I was there as well,” Eddersley said in his deep, cultured voice. He had large, knobby hands and wrists, and lots of dark, curling hair. His attention, as it was wont to do, barely touched on Narcise and instead glanced more contemplatively over her brother. But the short, slender Moldavi was no more Lord Eddersley’s preference than Narcise was. He veered toward elegant, fair-haired men with broad shoulders and significant height when it came to feeding, and other pleasures. “But we haven’t formally met.”

“It was a rather…eventful night.” Moldavi sketched the briefest of bows to the lanky, strong-featured man without comment, and Giordan fancied he saw him even sniff in disdain, for Eddersley made no effort to hide his preference for men. The latter gave no response aside of a similarly brief nod and then glanced at Voss, a little annoyed smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth as he greeted Narcise politely.

Next to her dark, awkward brother, Narcise appeared a swan. Giordan had to work to keep his attention from fastening on her and remaining there. But in the short moment his eyes swept her figure, he noted the detailed arrangement of her dark hair, tonight soft and loose around her porcelain face, and the sharp, sharp notice of her eyes.

The dullard look had gone.

Diamonds and ice-blue topazes glittered in her hair and at her throat. She wore a silk gown in the robe à la Anglaise style, which meant there was a significant expanse of bosom exposed and, if one were to get technical, ripples known as gathers all along the back of the bodice and bustle. The blue-and-cream-striped overdress and lacy underskirts lay flat in the front, but were gathered up in the back to create a silhouette that Giordan found most appealing: the elegant rise of a lady’s rump, then the skirts falling in a short, smooth train to the floor. Fine lace decorated the edges of her sleeves and bodice, and even peeped from the layers of crinoline beneath the skirts.

He knew from experience that the weight of corset, chemise, as many as four crinolines, along with underskirt and overdress was significant, and he wondered how she felt to go from the light, clinging attire that she wore while fighting to such restrictive, heavy ones. He also contemplated the pleasure of peeling away her clothing, one layer at a time, like those curious paper boxes from China that nested one inside the other. Each one revealed a new delight and design just as did the layers of a woman’s clothing.

“Please, sit,” Giordan said, realizing he’d allowed his thoughts to go wayward. He gestured with his glass of brandy to encompass the chamber’s hospitality, and one of the footmen poured a glass for Moldavi.

It was decorated in a relatively restrained style in comparison to that of other wealthy French residences—including Versailles. Giordan preferred the spare, simple elegance of the early Greeks and Romans over pastel colors and gilt. Thus, the furnishings were solid, yet inviting and comfortable, with cushions and pillows arranged freely. Large paintings hung on the otherwise bare white walls, except for one corner where a small collection of framed etchings of Parisian streets clustered. He kept them there to remind himself from whence he’d come.

“I am gratified that you saw fit to accept my invitation,” Giordan added, sipping from the glass.

“I accept very few,” Moldavi said as if bestowing some great favor. “But I am most interested in continuing our discussion begun last fortnight. And I have come to understand that one does not wish to miss a party given by Monsieur Cale.” His lips moved in a brief smile. As if to punctuate his reference to joviality, a burst of laughter erupted from the public parlor below.

“Indeed,” Giordan replied as Moldavi sat in the chair next to him, gesturing to his sister to alight nearby. “But before we turn our thoughts to business, perhaps a bit of pleasure first? I’ve just added some new vintages on which I would appreciate your opinion. We were just about to sample them.”

“I would be delighted,” Moldavi replied in his low, sibilant voice.

For the first time, Giordan scented Narcise—or, more accurately, he was able to identify and extract her specific essence from that around him, and it was just as decadent and alluring as the woman herself. Musky, spicy, dark, and yet elegant. Notes of smoky vetiver…clary sage…and sweet ylang-ylang. Lush, sensual, tempting.

Giordan swallowed, feeling his gums begin to swell as they prepared to thrust his fangs forth, and the further deep stirring of desire inside him. Narcise Moldavi was potent on so many levels.