Колин Глисон: The Vampire Narcise

She’d chosen to sit, not where her brother had indicated, but in what Giordan sensed might be more than a bit of defiance, on a chaise just to the right of her host. He didn’t fool himself into believing she’d chosen proximity to him because she wanted to be near him, for it was the farthest available seat from her brother.

Turning his thoughts and attention from her, Giordan rang a little bell next to him on the table. “Then let us commence.”

The door to the chamber opened and his private steward and valet, Mingo, stepped in. He was one of the few made vampires that Giordan employed, simply for the fact that he rarely chose to sire a new immortal. They were most often more trouble than they were worth, and there were plenty of other makes available for hire—most of them foolish mortals who’d been lured into a false sense of security by choosing to live forever. But Giordan found it necessary to have a Dracule, and one that he trusted, in the position for obvious reasons—otherwise, it would be like having a wine steward who had no taste for the beverage.

“Send in the newest acquisitions,” he commanded. “And prepare a new plate, if you will.”

Moldavi leaned closer to Giordan and murmured, “My sister has recently fed and will decline any offerings tonight.”

Giordan was aware of the waft of patchouli and cedar that accompanied Moldavi’s movements, along with a note of something mildly unpleasant. “I have already fed as well,” he replied with a bland smile. “However, the purpose is not for sustenance, but merely to enjoy a sampling of an excellent varietal.”

Moldavi smiled, displaying his fangs. In the right one, a bit of gold glinted. “I merely wished to explain in order to forestall any offense. Please understand that none would be intended, but she will not partake.”

Indeed. Giordan kept his features smooth with effort, and his attention from sliding to the woman in question. We shall see about that. However, he merely said, “I do hope she will change her mind.”

“She is quite stubborn,” Moldavi said with a low chuckle, absently tapping his fingernail on the glass.

Before Giordan could find some unassuming response, the door opened and in filed two men and four women. There was no way to immediately identify them as mortal versus Dracule, but they were, indeed, mortals who were here to provide whatever Giordan’s guests required.

“And here we are,” he said, looking around at his companions, including Narcise. She fixed him back with a calm stare, and he felt certain she would have heard the exchange between him and her brother. Draculean hearing, along with sight and smell, was superhumanly acute.

“As you may be aware, I am particular about the sort of libation offered to my guests, both here and in my other establishments,” Giordan explained. “Please note that all of them are willing participants…provided they are tipped well…and that they are kept in the most comfortable and regimented accommodations.”

“There are no restrictions, of course,” Eddersley said. His fangs had slipped free a bit, and his eyes glowed softly.

“Indeed, none,” Giordan replied, knowing precisely why his friend had asked. One of the six was a strapping blond man from Russia. “As long as you cause them no lasting or mortal injury, and as long as you can afford the fee,” he added with a brief smile, “there are no restrictions. Now, if you will allow me to introduce our selections. They are all new here at Château Riche, and tonight is their debut. I’ve found Damaris, the dark-skinned girl there in the blue gown, to be extremely rich and full of body. She is my favorite of them.” He smiled at her, his fangs extended just a bit at the memory.

Moldavi looked at him sidewise and then back at the young woman, whose hair was scraped back into a high, exotic tail. Her skin was the color of dark tea and she was tall and slender, from Egypt or somewhere in the vicinity of the Holy Land.

“We keep each of them on a specific diet, strictly to maintain the integrity of their blood,” Giordan continued. “Have you noticed how the taste can differ, depending upon the type of food intake, as well as origin? Rather like the types of soil that grow grapes or hops. The diets are as individual as they are. Some of them, like the lovely Drishni there, in the red gown, eat only vegetation. Others eat highly spiced foods, or drink an inordinate amount of champagne. And so on.”

Once again, he gestured to his guests to partake, and then crooked a finger for Damaris to join him. She wafted over, her blue gown flowing loosely over long limbs. Unlike the ladies who wore high fashion, she didn’t have the layers of crinoline and corset to peel away. One could see everything she had to offer as the silk clung to her from breast to hips to pubis.

As Damaris settled on the arm of Giordan’s chair, just between him and Moldavi, Mingo entered the room again. He was carrying a plate with the pressed and rolled hashish. Without waiting for his master’s direction, he arranged it on the low, central table and lit the small pyramid-shaped block.

“Please,” Giordan said, looking at Moldavi with a nod of hospitality. Damaris, also well-trained, offered one wrist to each of them as she sat on the chair arm.

Giordan felt Moldavi’s eyes on him as he extended his fangs and slid just the tips into the curve of her elbow. The release of blood into his mouth, warm and rich—and in this case, heavy with a note of spice—filled his senses. The taste, the smell, the way his body leaped and responded, skin prickling and warming, had his own blood surging.

For him, as well as for all Dracule, it was difficult to separate the primitive need for sustenance from the accompanying titillation and arousal that came with penetrating flesh and ingesting hot, thick blood, of the intimate slide of mouth against skin—and most of the time, it was neither necessary nor desirable to do so.

But tonight, now, Giordan was merely sampling. He had no need for sustenance, nor was he interested in engaging in any other erotic pleasures in his current company—although that wasn’t due to any modesty on his part.

The simple fact was, despite the taste and smell of the exotic Damaris—who was beginning to breathe heavily as her own pleasure increased with both men feeding from her arms—it was the awareness of Narcise, and her smell, her essence and presence, that attracted Giordan. But he sensed that it would be best not to reveal his deep interest to her brother so overtly. So he kept his gaze strictly away from her.

As the sweet, peppery smell of burning hashish filtered through the chamber, and the arousing flow of blood settled over his tongue and rushed through his body, Giordan felt his world turning warm and red, hazy and lulling. He withdrew from Damaris and he’d barely turned away when another of his “vintages”—the Viennese girl Liesl—appeared in front of him. She was petite and blonde, and her lifeblood was just as light and pure as her appearance. She offered a slender shoulder, bared by a low-rising bodice, and as he tugged her onto his lap to take a taste, he allowed his attention to slide toward the chaise where Narcise was sitting.

Had been sitting.

She was gone now.

Combing through the miasma of pleasure and sensuality, Giordan paused before sliding his fangs into the delicate woman in front of him. The smoke from the hashish had cast a filter over the room, and Mingo had turned the oil lamps down to a soft glow. It took Giordan a moment to look around and see a lone figure standing near the corner, looking at a painting on the wall.

Instead of slipping his fangs in, he softly murmured instruction to Liesl to join Damaris with Moldavi, and to block the guest’s view of the chamber.