Giordan watched closely, his concern easing, as he saw her weight shift on her feet, and how she changed her center of balance to launch herself smoothly over one of the chairs, then used her momentum to fling that very chair back toward her rival. Admiration grew as he noted her employment of excellent fencing technique while moving her body in a more forceful, combative fashion than such an activity normally required.
He nearly missed the nearly imperceptible circle made by her wrist in a counter-parry, which might have caught him off-guard if he’d been her opponent. Pursing his lips, Giordan’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to watch more closely, trying to understand her strategy. This was most certainly not a fencing match, with parries and ripostes and the formal dance of back and forth and lunge…and yet she went through those motions like an expert.
And then…she ducked nimbly beneath her lumbering opponent’s arm, spun around behind him, sliced her saber down the back of his shirt, and then met his blade as he twisted and swooped toward her with a great, ringing clash of metal.
The clang reverberated in the close room, followed by the slide of metal against metal. Then once again, she stepped out of the routine and somersaulted away as the man, now obviously frustrated by his lack of progress, lunged for her.
After that, the neat fencing bout deteriorated into a battlefield match-up of two lethal weapons. Giordan felt his arms tense once again, readying to interfere, and he spared a glance toward Moldavi. But his host was watching him, as if to gauge his guest’s reaction to the battle, his gaze contemplative and yet hooded.
As their eyes met, Moldavi raised his glass and sipped, then slid his attention to the battle beyond.
Giordan’s attention returned as well, just in time to see Narcise rise up to make a perfect arc on her feet, her blade free and ready, and in one burst of speed, she clove the head from her opponent in a powerful stroke.
She completed her turn, then stood, her slender back toward Giordan and her brother as she wiped her sword. The back of her shirt clung damply to her lower back, but not one strand of inky hair had escaped from its fat knot. Nor did her shoulders or arms seem to be moving with labored breaths.
She never looked back at them as she replaced her saber in its scabbard and stood, waiting.
Giordan was about to speak when a door opened and two large men—vampires—walked in. As he watched in astonishment and growing revulsion, they flanked and escorted Narcise from the chamber.
She never once acknowledged Giordan or her brother, a fact which both fascinated and irked him.
At that moment, Giordan decided that he might indeed continue discussing his next Far Eastern spice ship with Cezar Moldavi.
* * *
Giordan’sprivate club and residence in Paris was what he thought of as his flagship establishment. Everything from the women and other entertainment, to the wine and liquor, and the other vintages, exuded luxury, pleasure, and perfect taste. But of course, it was also ridiculously expensive.
And every night, and through much of the day, Draculean patrons—along with a limited cadre of mortals—filled the seats and clustered around illegal gaming tables. For despite what the city’s residents had begun to call the Reign of Terror, life—and business—did go on.
There were dinner parties, theatre, and balls, the women shopped for fashionable gowns, and men visited their clubs—though now, they did it with worried glances over the shoulder and a definite strain in one’s smile. The whispers and low-voiced conversations in corners were no longer confined to gossip about who was doing what to whom, but were filled with warnings and worries. Who would be next?
Little of this, however, affected those of the Dracule. In fact, not only did government and authority mean nothing to the vampires, but such upheaval only made their lives easier. The more chaotic, the better.
Which was why Giordan suspected that Moldavi was more than a little involved in the ongoing rivalry between Robespierre and his so-called “terror as a virtue” campaign, and that of Herbert and the proposition of his atheist cult—both factions which promoted reason over religion, government over church. While the two factions argued, fought, and executed, the turbulent fall-out was beneficial to Moldavi who sought to exercise as much control as possible over his mortal counterparts.
Giordan had extended a particular invitation to the cloistered Moldavi to join him at the club this evening. He wasn’t at all certain that the man would accept, for he rarely left his subterranean residence, but he was hopeful that the possibility of continuing discussion on their potential business arrangement would draw him out. Aside from that, people rarely declined an invitation from him, simply because Giordan’s parties and fêtes were known for being lavish and exciting, and, quite often, with unique entertainment. He didn’t specifically ask that Moldavi bring his sister, but he knew it was likely that Narcise would accompany him.
Through the time Giordan had been absent from Paris, Moldavi had become entrenched in the underworld of the French Dracule. And on the rare occasion that he participated in social activities, he was usually accompanied by his sister. The better, Giordan had come to learn, to tempt friend and enemy alike into engaging with Narcise in battle.
There would be few men—mortal or otherwise—who could resist an opportunity to win a night with a woman such as she. The most troubling aspect of that particular arrangement was, in Giordan’s mind, whether Narcise’s brother forced her to engage in those gambles, or whether she did it of her own free will. If it were the former—and he was fairly certain it was, a suspicion supported by the empty expression on her face—there was yet another reason for him to disdain Moldavi, for exercising such influence over a woman was just as abhorrent and evil as bleeding children to death.
And so when Giordan, who’d been sipping a very fine French brandy with two companions in his favorite private parlor, was advised that both Cezar and Narcise Moldavi had arrived, he merely nodded to himself. The bait had been taken, and he hoped to have his curiosity assuaged.
He was more than a bit curious to see what Narcise would be like in a less combative, restrictive environment; whether that dull glaze would be gone from her eyes, and whether a woman who looked like her, and fought with the ferocity of a man, had any social skills at all. Or whether she was merely a well-trained puppet.
Giordan was master enough of himself to admit that his interest and attraction had been piqued, and sharply. And honest enough to note that he would suffer even the presence of the repugnant Moldavi to pursue it.
It didn’t take long before the invited guests found their way to Giordan’s presence, and his host duly welcomed the siblings, introducing them to Eddersley, Voss, and indicating the latter’s latest mistress, Yvonna. She was a mortal, and her eyes had sunk half-closed due to the earlier employment of an opium pipe. Now, she sagged quietly in a corner chaise while the men conversed.
Clearly, Cezar Moldavi had been in his late twenties when he’d been turned Dracule. His facial features and the swarthiness of his skin betrayed a strong Romanian heritage despite an underlying pastiness; and in fact, Giordan knew that Moldavi had only permanently left Romania within the last decade. Hisvoivodinain Moldavia had been very remote, yet the army within was the most fearsome and powerful in its nation.
He was many pounds lighter than Giordan, and slighter as well, but he had a square jaw that made his face seem oddly proportioned, verging upon awkward. His dark brows hung thick and straight over small blue-gray eyes, and his hair grew unfashionably like a thin walnut cap over his forehead and ears. He had surprisingly elegant hands that were covered in rings, and he was fashionably attired in a long-tailed, cut-away coat of dark red brocade and dun-colored knee breeches. His waistcoat did not stint on color, of course, for dull hues were only for the lower class. Moldavi moved with a barely perceptible limp that had to be from an injury prior to becoming immortal.
“We’ve met, albeit briefly,” Voss, the Viscount Dewhurst, said, nodding to the new arrival. His attention strayed, as of course it would, to Narcise.
“Ah, yes,” Moldavi replied, his face flattening in annoyance. His French wasn’t perfect, but certainly serviceable. “In Vienna. On that most unfortunate evening some years ago. If I recall, you left before the fire that destroyed the house, did you not?”
But of course Giordan knew about the incident that had burned Dimitri’s house in Vienna. ‘Some years ago’ had actually been almost a century, but such was the life of an immortal when decades became mere flashes in time.
