Indeed, everyone knew of the fearless and clevervampirhunter Chas Woodmore. How he’d somehow scaled a sheer cliff and sneaked into the mountaintop castle of the bloodthirsty Darrod Firvin to stake the man in his sleep. And how he’d tricked the princes of Tylenia and Tynnien so that he could slay them as well.
The Dracule all murmured of the dark-haired, Romany gentleman who slipped in and out of the shadows like avampirhimself, silent and deadly like a servant of Death. Ironically, those who told the tales were ones who’d never actually met the man, for those who did weren’t alive to tell the tales.
Which was probably why no one had included in their tales the fact that he was handsome as a dark angel, with thick black hair and intense green-brown eyes. And that he smelled like danger, tight and dark and manly. She scented a bit of blood on him, too, but it didn’t smell like it would be his.
“My reputation?” White teeth flashed in his swarthy face, and he inched his arm away a bit more, but kept her sword arm pinned to the wall with his solid body. “Is that so? And here I thought my accomplishments went largely unnoticed.”
“I do hope you don’t find such modesty too painful,” she replied. “And I would appreciate it if you’d either drive that stake into my heart or remove your arm from my throat.”
“You don’t have a preference?” he asked. He seemed sincere.
Narcise shrugged, and she realized that although she’d managed to catch her breath from their brief battle, she still felt a bit breathless. This man might be more than a match for her. “There are advantages to both.”
“Drop your sword and I’ll release you,” he said.
She complied, and he kicked the epée across the floor of her parlor. When he stepped away, his arm moving from her, she adjusted the sleeves of her manshirt, pulling them back down over her wrists. “Why are you here?”
He ignored her question and asked, “You’re Narcise?” She inclined her head and felt his eyes sweep over her. Before she could react, his hand whipped out and grabbed her arm, pulling it away from her body. “How did this happen?”
She didn’t have to follow his gaze to know that he was speaking about the bruising around her wrists from the manacles. That was nothing compared to the marks on the rest of her body, which was the reason she was wearing mens’ clothing today. She couldn’t fit in her gowns without a corset, and it was simply still too painful to be laced into one.
“I lost a fencing match,” she told him, forcing her lips into a rueful smile, meeting his eyes blandly. “It happens occasionally.”
He watched her closely, as if searching for a lie, or waiting for more information, and then released her arm. “What happens when you win?”
“Whatever I choose,” she replied. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m avampirslayer,” he reminded her.
“Then why did you not slay me?” she asked, moving her arms back and away from her chest to give him a good target she suspected he wouldn’t use. “I thought Chas Woodmore was merciless.”
“You might be more beneficial to me alive than dead. Where’s your brother?”
“Are you truly here to kill him? I’d lead you to him in a breath if I—” Narcise stopped, her blood running cold. “He’s coming. They’re coming.”
She could hear the voices, and knew they’d smelled the faint blood and perhaps even the new scent of Chas Woodmore. Or that her brother had become suspicious when she didn’t return to the parlor—which was where she’d been going when she came upon thisvampirslayer.
Woodmore looked as if he were ready to either lunge at her or duck behind the door, and Narcise made a quick decision. She was going to get away from Cezar, and this man was going to help her.
She opened her mouth and screamed as she dove for the epée on the floor.
* * *
One moment Chaswas ready to duck into the bedchamber beyond the open door to hide from Moldavi, and the next, his sister was screaming for help.
Cursing, he spun after her as she rose to her feet, her sword back in hand. “You,” he snarled, deciding he’d take her to hell with him. “I knew better than to believe them.”
But her eyes had widened with fear—something he hadn’t seen before, even when he had her plastered, immobile, against the wall—and just as the pounding footsteps reached the door, she whispered, “I’ll save you. Help me. Please.”
When the door burst open, Chas got his first glimpse of Cezar Moldavi. But he didn’t have much time to observe the man in detail, for he was followed by three othervampirs, and they were all red-eyed and fanged-teeth. They surrounded him without hesitation, blocking the door.
“What is going on here?” said the man who was presumably Moldavi himself. Slight of stature, dark hair with an odd, wide jaw, and rings glinting on all of his fingers.
Chas stilled, his attention bouncing around the chamber to see what might be utilized for an escape, or at least for a weapon. The thing about stakes; they weren’t good for distance. One had to get up close.
Narcise, the madwoman, had her sword, and he looked down to notice that it was once again thrusting into his chest. “Look who’s arrived for a visit, dear brother,” she said. Her expression had changed into something hard and blank.
“Do I know you?” Moldavi asked, making a little hissingtsksound. “Monsieur?”
