Колин Глисон - The Vampire Narcise

“Admired and tried to control,” she reminded him. “Bartered off to the highest bidder or the strongest sword. Such admiration.”

“How else was I to keep you with me?” he asked. “You would have left the moment you had the chance. I wanted you with me. All the time. Forever. ”

“You nearly achieved just that,” she said, her throat raw again. “What happened to you, my brother? How did you become like this? You used to be…sweet.”

For a moment, his facade crumbled, and she saw the real Cezar: a frightened, self-loathing, insecure man. “I couldn’t find who I was supposed to be,” he said. “I couldn’t accept who I was.”

But then the tortured expression was gone just as instantly as it had come, and he took on a haughty face and speared her with cold eyes. “I should have been you. I wanted to be you, Narcise. Always loved, always petted and worshipped…perfect in form and image. A woman of unbelievable exquisiteness.”

Her heart was pounding and Narcise realized that Giordan had come to stand with her, resting his hand at the base of her back. Comforting and supporting.

“You always had the men,” her brother continued. “They always loved you and wanted you…and I could understand why. I admired you…even loved you…but I wanted to be in your place.” Cezar’s attention flickered to Giordan, standing behind her. A flash of regret and admiration went through his gaze and his lips flattened in a humorless smile. “And then he came and I knew I’d lose you to him. And rightly so. You were,” he said to Giordan, allowing his eyes to glow a bit, “all that I’d hoped and imagined.”

Narcise felt Giordan’s faint shudder against her, and she eased back a bit so that she was closer to him and his hand pressed more firmly into her back.

What he’d gone through. For her.

The very thought, especially now, faced by Cezar and seeing the lust in his eyes even as he prepared to die, made her sick with regret and revulsion.

How could Giordan ever forgive her for misunderstanding? For doubting him?

“And so I’ll go to my death, envying you still, Narcise,” Cezar said in his lisping voice. “What an irony.” He closed his eyes.

Narcise turned away, her belly lurching. It was time.

Chas was there, watching silently. “I’m ready,” he said, flashing a look toward Cezar. “Let’s finish this.” He turned to walk away, then paused and came back. “You don’t have to watch, Narcise.”

“No,” she replied. “I’ll stay. I’ll see this done.”

Giordan, who couldn’t witness such a deed, squeezed her hand and, after one last searching look, left the chamber.

Chas brought a chair and positioned it behind Cezar’s seat. He climbed up on it, the long, lethal pike in his hand, and stood there for a moment.

“This,” he said as he raised the long stake vertically above Cezar’s head, “is for the children you slaughtered, and for the Jews you blamed for it. This is for Narcise, and the years of abuse in your household and for keeping her captive. And for tricking her into the covenant with Lucifer.”

The point hovered directly above Cezar’s dark head, and Narcise couldn’t take her eyes away from him. He sat, immobile, stony, unable to move, trussed and captured, helpless—just as she had been. He stared straight ahead, his lips curved in a faint smile. But fear glinted in his eyes.

Chas would have to slam the stake all the way down, through his skull, into the brain and mouth, down his throat, and into the chest cavity…then into his heart. Narcise closed her eyes. Her brother would be killed in an instant, put out of the misery of the life he hated.

He’d be gone, sent to Lucifer forever.

No more fear, no more violence….

“Goodbye, Cezar Moldavi.” Chas raised his arms, muscles tense and swollen, and just as he moved, Narcise screamed. “No!”

She flew across the room, launching herself at Chas, slamming into him and the chair just as he brought the stake down. They crashed to the stone floor in a rough heap, the pike clattering across the ground as a white-hot blaze engulfed her.

“What the hell are you doing?” Chas said, grasping Narcise’s shoulder as he pulled up into a sitting position. “What’s wrong?”

She was shaking her head, her body trembling, her belly heaving. Pain screamed through her, radiating from her Mark, raging through her like a ball of fire. “I couldn’t let you,” she gasped, tried to speak, looking up at him through the blazing red pain that grew stronger and hotter. “Couldn’t…kill him.”

He’s still my brother.

Giordan heard Narcise’s scream and the terrible crash. Terror arced through him as he spun around and flung the door open, dashing back into the chamber without hesitation.

Woodmore was crouched next to Narcise, who was in a heap of twisted skirts and hair on the stone floor. Even from the entrance, Giordan could see her writhing and twisting in agony. Her silky dark hair dusted the floor, clung to her face and neck.

“What is it?” he demanded, rushing over to them, taking note that Cezar still sat, alive, in his helpless position. He saw the pike on the floor where it had rolled, and noticed the upended chair.

And the stiff, terrified expression on Woodmore’s face. “She stopped me,” he told Giordan. “She saved his life. And now she’s…”

But he needed to say nothing more, for Narcise’s low, tormented moans and the dead-white look on her face told Giordan everything.

He shoved Woodmore out of the way, pulling Narcise into his arms. She couldn’t die. Not from this.

“Narcise,” he said calmly and loudly, giving her a gentle shake in an attempt to pull her from the sort of seizure, the frenzy of pain. Trying to keep himself collected. “Look at me.”

She shuddered and blinked, her breathing coming in short, anguished gasps. Her eyes were blank with pain, empty and lost, and he didn’t know if there was anything he could do to help her…but he brushed the hair from her face and murmured, “Narcise. Look at me.”

He closed his arms around her, drawing from deep within, from his soul, his core…focusing on the white light he’d found in his mind while in the alley that day. Peace. Light.

He held it in his heart, in his mind, as Kritanu had taught him, and looked into Narcise’s fathomless violet eyes. “Look at me. I love you, Narcise. I need you…stay with me. Fight it, Narcise. Fight him.”

He didn’t know if she could hear him through the pain, but he kept talking to her, ignoring the solid brown boots standing next to him on the ground as Chas stared down at them.

“Narcise. Look at me. Look at me,” he begged. If she could look at him, focus on him…

She bucked, shuddered and gasped, and beneath his hand, he felt the pulsing rage of her Mark through the fabric of her clothing. A ripple of shock flashed through him and without realizing what he was doing, he tore away at the bodice of her gown as she agonized against him. But she was softening…slowing… Was he losing her?

“My God,” breathed Chas, kneeling next to them again when he saw her shoulder. “It’s alive .”

Like black veins, tiny black snakes, Lucifer’s Mark twisted and surged on her creamy skin: stark and wicked, evil emanating from the Devil himself. It was alive, and it was fighting—for Narcise.

Giordan didn’t know exactly what to do, but he knew he had to try. He bent his head to the Mark.

His lips touched the raging black weals and he felt the sharp, excruciating sting, the bolt of peace and light meeting dark malevolence. He kissed her, his lips soft and gentle, absorbing the shock, taking on the pain… He moved his hands over those curling, twisting worms, closed his eyes and prayed.