Another metal object, this one with a blunt tip that glowed white-hot. “Tell me everything you know about Giordan Cale. Everything. Everything.”
“Why?” he managed to ask. Why this obsession with Cale?
Moldavi’s only response was to pull his teeth back in a feral smile and jam the poker into the top of his shoulder.
The smell of burning flesh had Chas arching and twisting in his position, his body fighting the thongs as agony shot through him…from his shoulder, from the back of his knee, from the inside of the crook of his arm….all of it turned white hot and red as he babbled.
He didn’t know what he was saying, but the questions over and over were about Cale, Cale…always about Cale.
At last pain claimed him, and he eased into a world of peace.
* * *
When Chas peeledhis eyes open next, he could hardly breathe for the pain. Nor could he focus, for the room tilted and spun so violently, he had to close his eyes. But someone was prodding him to move, forcing him to stand, to walk.
Through a haze and with pure determination, he gathered his strength—both mental and physical—and concentrated on moving, thinking, banishing the agony. His eyes opened, his gaze focused, his limbs began to cooperate—if not sullenly—and his thoughts cleared…albeit slowly.
He wasn’t restrained, and was led into a room that was well-lit with many lamps and torches, along with another roaring fire. One side of the chamber was lined with a small dais, on which a dining table sat. Moldavi and another four or five companions sat at the table, which was littered with cups and goblets, bottles and flasks. They looked up at his entrance, and Moldavi said something that made one of them laugh, and the others look at Chas. At first he thought he was hallucinating from the pain when he recognized the short-statured man who was soon to be formally crowned the Emperor of France. But he blinked and refocused and could only come to the conclusion that he recognized him correctly.
The remainder of the space was empty, long and narrow and open. The only other furnishing was a long table at the other end, and from here, he was fairly certain he saw two long blades lying on it.
As Chas stood silently in front of the table, flanked by two burly—if not unintelligent-looking—madevampirs, he tried to assimilate the fact that Napoleon Bonaparte washere.
There’d been rumors of Moldavi’s allegiance to and alliance with the new emperor, but for him to be so intimate and in such close quarters was unsettling. It appeared to be a social engagement…but nevertheless, to have a powerful man so enticed by one like Cezar Moldavi…well, the Dracule were infamous for remaining uninvolved with politics or authority.
Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing if Bonaparte was engaged with the likes of Moldavi—it might keep him from the invasion of England that Westminster seemed to think was imminent.
Despite the obvious political fascination, Chas reminded himself he had more pressing matters to attend to. As he stood there, trying not to let his knees buckle, he realized he still wore his own breeches. They were sweat and blood-stained, but they werehis, and that meant the inside pockets still held the little smoke packets he had.
If he could get close enough to the fireplace and toss one of them in, an explosive puff of smoke would—God willing—roll into the chamber and give him the element of surprise…and the chance to escape. Hopefully after he sent at least one of those bastards to Hell on his way out.
Now that he knew Moldavi had protection, it made for a more difficult process. But there were other ways to get to the heart—through the throat, or shoulder, for example—although that would be much more difficult than pinning someone through the chest. A guillotine would slice through any metal protection Moldavi might have around his neck, but there didn’t seem to be one handily available at this time.
But he was still alive, and he had options, and Chas focused on those thoughts, even going so far as to slyly move his arm along the side of his breeches to confirm that the slender smoke explosion packet was still there.
It was.
Yet, he was still wavering on his feet. His body protested with every movement, and the burns and piercings were tender and enflamed with pain. He wasn’t certain how long he’d been here—hours, days, weeks?—but certainly he hadn’t eaten for a very long time. The gnawing in his belly wasn’t merely due to the presence of the Dracule.
The chamber door opened and in walked Narcise. She, too, was flanked by a pair of guards. She was also, again, wearing mens clothing—tight breeches and a close-fitting tunic-like shirt. Her hair shone like blue-black coal from where it was pulled back tightly into a knot. Her feet were bare.
She didn’t acknowledge him at all, and instead faced her brother and his companions. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“Entertainment, of course, my dear sister,” Moldavi said. “We have an esteemed guest tonight—” he nodded to Bonaparte— “and I have promised him something very thrilling. I hope you will do your best to make it so.” Then he gestured to Chas.
Narcise turned as if noticing him for the first time. “Him? You want me to fight him? What sort of entertainment would that be? The man can barely stand,” she scoffed.
Chas lifted his chin in annoyance. He wasn’t exactly ready to collapse, and he certainly didn’t feel as if his knees were going to give way. In fact, he was feeling stronger—and more furious—by the moment. More determined to get out of here alive, but taking one or two of thevampirsto Hell first.
I’ll save you. Help me, please.
If there was a woman in the world who didn’t need his help, it was Narcise Moldavi.
And if she thought turning him over to her brother for torture was a way to save him, she was even more disturbed than he’d thought. As far as he was concerned, all deals were null and void.
“You’re correct, my dear sister…which is why I thought we might want to even things up a bit.” He lifted his hand from a small box on the table, withdrawing a long cord. Chas saw that he was holding a leather thong with two feathers dangling from it.
She blanched, and even Chas could sense the tremor shuttling through her. Something changed in the chamber, some sort of ebbing of energy or life…and he realized that Moldavi must be holding Narcise’s Asthenia.
