Such a feat would, to be sure, frighten or startle any mortal who might witness it, but that was part of the thrill. This was no worse than a mortal riding a horse at full speed and leaping over a high fence: dangerous but hardly lethal unless something went wrong.
And nothing would go wrong for Giordan. He was an entertainer, not a fool.
“Bernard,” he said, gesturing to one of the hovering servants, “go below and ensure that I have a clear area to land.”
Once having ascertained that there was nothing that might hinder his fall from this angle, he undid the cuffs of his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and poised at the edge of the roof.
Amid the shouts of his friends, his companions, those who filled his nights with activity, he flashed a bold smile and jumped.
He’d purposely launched himself at an angle away from the roof, and caught the railing of a lower balcony on the same opposite building where the cat had been. He swung briefly, then released and somersaulted away from the landing, flipping so that he ended feet-first onto the narrow cobblestone street.
The force of landing on half-bent legs caused him to stagger into another two steps, making it less than perfect—but at least he didn’t land on his arse or head. Then, breathing heavily, Giordan looked up at the shadows lining the edge of his rooftop and executed a neat bow.
Cheers and applause filtered down, and a pair of taxi-drivers gaped from where they’d been chatting next to his faithful servant Bernard, but despite the commendation lauded upon him, Giordan didn’t feel like smiling.
He’d entertained. He’d gifted his acquaintances with food and drink and entree to his home and club. He had conversationalists all around him, at all times.
But inside, Giordan felt as if he was missing something.
And he knew exactly what it was.
3
Narcise swung around, saber high above her head, and slammed the flat of its blade against her much taller opponent’s skull.
He staggered, his red eyes springing wide open, and his arms flailed awkwardly.
Her teeth gritted in a feral smile, she followed through on the stroke, spinning on the balls of her bare feet, and then nearly gasped, and definitely slowed, when she saw Giordan Cale sitting next to her brother.
He hadn’t been there a moment ago.
The angry roar of tonight’s opponent dragged her attention back to the battle, and Narcise tightened her suddenly sweaty fingers over the sword’s grip just as he lunged at her. She couldn’t lose focus, she couldn’t let her guard down.
She’d been ready to finish this off, and would have ended with the blade against his throat if the sight of Cale hadn’t distracted her.
He was sitting slightly behind her brother, as if a chair had been pulled up for the late arrival at the table, which boasted several other spectators. Though they were in shadow, she could tell that his eyes were fastened on her, and even from here, she felt the heat in them.
I would have intervened.
Damn him to Hell, he might have to intervene tonight if she couldn’t get her concentration back. Not that Cezar would let him.
Narcise’s thoughts had thus been divided as she vaulted over a low table, giving herself space to think and distance from her adversary. Now, she had her back to the dais where the onlookers sat, and though she could feel Cale’s gaze boring into her shoulders, she was in no danger of locking eyes with him.
A burst of anger flooded her, fueled by uncertainty, and that gave her the rush of speed and strength to duck beneath the other sword’s blade, spin around, and take a slice out of her assailant’s arm.
He cried out again in fury, but she was faster than his tall, lanky body allowed him to be—and than his lust-fogged mind could follow—and she snagged a chair, whipping it back at him. The crash of wood into flesh and bone, then its clatter onto the floor, told her she’d hit her mark even blindly. She followed through by pivoting on her toes, spinning back to face him. And then she was there, lunging, and used her blade to pin the man through his shirt and arm to the table before he could recover.
The stake was in her hand a breath later, and she positioned it over his heaving chest. “Surrender,” she demanded.
He surrendered and she stepped back, removing her weapons carefully as she always did, and watched as he mopped his face with a sleeve. “Big-pussied bitch,” he said, his expression ugly. All lust had faded from his eyes.
“Cock-sucker,” she replied with calm and disdain to a common reaction. “No entertainment for you tonight.”
She watched as he limped toward the door, which had been opened by Cezar’s guards, and slammed the saber into her sheath. Then she drew in a deep breath and turned to wait for her own guards to take her to the solitude of her own chamber.
Hot, heavy eyes bored into her back, and she knew without any doubt that it was Giordan Cale who stared at her. She swallowed and realized her fingers were trembling, and that her body had begun to waver between hot and cold.
Three weeks ago, it had been. Three weeks, and not only had Cezar not punished her for feeding on Cale, he hadn’t remarked on it at all. Very odd, and certainly disconcerting.
