And it was precisely his flair with funds that drew him to the attention of Cezar Moldavi.
But of course Giordan had heard of the man…and his sister…even before Moldavi arrived in Paris, for the world of the Dracule was exceedingly small and tightly interwoven.
Despite the vast geography of the earth, the members of Lucifer’s secret society traveled and resided in only the largest, most cosmopolitan of cities: London, Vienna, Prague, Rome, Morocco, and of course, Giordan’s beloved Paris. And they tended to congregate at the same private clubs, interacting in the same high levels of society, a happenstance which Giordan used to his financial benefit. He was the owner or a majority shareholder in the most luxurious and private of these havens in every major city except London. And, he determined, it was only a matter of time until he was established there as well.
After all, he had an eternity to make it happen, no?
Cezar Moldavi had come to the City of Light after spending some time in Vienna, where, apparently, there had been an unfortunate incident with another of the Dracule—along with some increasing, unpleasant attention being given to Moldavi’s propensity for bleeding children.
There were those who risked their lives in order to hunt those of the Draculean world, sometimes even successfully. Giordan understood that Moldavi had decided it was best to evacuate from Vienna before one of those so-called vampire hunters was lucky enough to stake him to death.
Aside from that, one couldn’t stay in one place for more than two or three decades without one’s non-aging appearance being remarked upon, which required these powerful men to uproot and move their households every few decades or so. And now, Moldavi seemed intent on not only making his home in France, but also establishing himself as the leader of the Draculean underground therein.
Paris herself had changed during the last five years, during which Giordan had been in Morocco. Now, his City of Light roiled with tension and fear. Nerves crackled on the veryrues, unease simmered in the Seine, for The Terror lived and seeped into every corner of the city. It had begun with the execution of the king by guillotine, and then shortly after, his wife Marie Antoinette, sniffing vials of her personal perfume tucked inside her bodice, met the same fate. And now every day, as Robespierre and his cronies struggled to maintain the burgeoning revolution, more and more people were dragged under the shining silver blade and relieved of their heads.
One who was required to live on the lifeblood of man—or whatever other living being one chose—might find it convenient that the mortals in Paris were being slaughtered in great numbers (for it wasn’t only the Widow—the guillotine—that caused their demise; there were shootings and beatings and other random murders fueled by desperation and suspicion), for it certainly provided a vast opportunity for sustenance. But while Giordan Cale had no qualms about killing in general, he found such rampant, widespread actions distasteful and unnecessarily violent.
This was, apparently, only one of the many ways in which he and Cezar Moldavi differed.
In fact, there were painfully few ways in which he and Cezar Moldavi were in agreement. After spending only a brief time over a bottle of excellent wine (which Giordan had sent over) and discussing a possible investment with Moldavi, Giordan came to the conclusion that his friend Dimitri, known as the Earl of Corvindale across the Channel in England, was being kind when he described Moldavi as being the lowest form of a bollocks-licking, bitch-in-heat, Lucifer’s-cock-biting bastard.
Giordan had just decided that, since he had no interest in continuing any form of discussion with Cezar Moldavi, he was going to excuse himself with great expedience and decline to watch the swordplay entertainment he’d been promised. But before he opened his mouth to do so, the man’s sister entered the opposite part of the chamber, below the dais.
Everything in his mind whirred into silence and he found that his body, too, had stilled.
She was carrying a long, sheathed sword, with a slightly curved blade. A saber, then; a type of single-edged weapon just coming into fashion. In fencing, one most often used a straight, slender blade such as an epée, or even a blunted foil. The lethality of this blade was Giordan’s first indication that the woman wasn’t merely engaging in sport.
“My sister Narcise,” Moldavi murmured. He gestured to their empty cups on the table, and his steward moved quickly to fill them.
Giordan realized his breathing had ground to a halt and he reminded himself that, even though a vampire couldn’t die from suffocation, one did have to breathe or become weakened.
She was lovely. Incredibly lovely.
He’d heard about her, of course. Who hadn’t? Rumor had it that Cezar Moldavi’s sister was bait, a tool, and even a bargaining chip for her brother. But Giordan, who’d met—and had—many lovely and exotic women during his travels hadn’t expected to be so thoroughly entranced, and from a distance.
From his seat on the dais, Giordan studied her, attempting to be objective. And yet, one could be objective and still describe her as the most beautiful woman one had ever seen.
She was tall for a woman, and her rich, black hair was pulled into a large, tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her skin glowed like a pearl; it was fair and yet rosy luminous. He caught a brief glimpse of startling blue eyes that tended toward the violet end of the spectrum. They were outlined by dark lashes that made it appear as if she wore liner, as the Egyptians had to emphasize their eyes. But for her, it was a natural occurrence, and such artifice would be unnecessary.
And her face…her features were incredibly perfect; magnificent, really: with a lush, dark pink mouth and a straight, delicately-formed nose.
If her face was exquisite, one could hardly expect that the figure would match it with such perfection…but it did. And the clothing she wore, unusual garb that clung to every curve, including her bound breasts, displayed the fact that Narcise Moldavi was this millennia’s Helen of Troy: the face and figure that could launch a thousand ships.
The only element marring the perfection of countenance and form was the dull fog that veiled her expression, clouded her eyes. She was an empty doll, an emotionless puppet.
So distracted by his examination of her figure was he that Giordan didn’t listen to the short commands given by his host, nor did he notice at first when another man joined them in the room.
But then he saw. Her opponent appeared larger and stronger than she, and like Narcise, he carried a deadly sword. But his was a broadsword, dual-edged, and heavier than her more elegant weapon. For the first time, Giordan understood that this was no simple fencing bout with foiled blades.
He turned to his host, intending to ask—and demand, if necessary, not to observe such an unmatched battle—but Cezar made an abrupt gesture. “Watch,” he said. And then to the rivals, who stood mere feet away from the raised table, he said, “To the death.”
Giordan stifled a reflexive response, and felt his muscles ready themselves to interfere if it became necessary. And surely it would.
Even the fierce expression that transformed Narcise’s face didn’t ease his concern, yet the change in her countenance Giordan found fascinating and quite striking. Her eyes flashed with loathing and determination, but she appeared so slight and much too elegant next to her burly rival.
And when she whirled into action, all taut grace and feline movement, Giordan’s breath caught yet again. He was alternately entranced and tense, watching and waiting like a parent seeing their child make a jump on horseback for the first time.
Her dark hair gleamed in the light flickering from the sconces studding the walls, her slender arms were quick, and her teeth, fangs extended, were bared with ferocity. But her eyes did not burn red, and she seemed calm. Very much in control.
