Narcise turned to look, and the men holding her dropped her arms as she saw Cezar pulling something from the box. Even Belial had stepped away, as if unable to stay near her for this.
She couldn’t breathe.
It was a cape or a blanket…made only of feathers. Rows and rows of soft, light, brown…burning…feathers.
Now her breathing came fast and hard, shallow with panic as Cezar flung the cape out with a flourish, as if to shake off any dust or wrinkles. If that touched her…if he wrapped her in it…the room tilted, turning dark and off-center, and her knees nearly gave away.
“No,” she whispered as her brother stepped down from the dais, sauntering toward her as if about to present her with a most precious gift.
“Stop!” The desperation in Giordan’s cry penetrated even Narcise’s terror and pain. “No.Don’t…do…it.”
“By Lucifer,” Cezar said, pausing, his face hard and foxlike as he looked over. “If I had known how deep your attachment was, Giordan, I would have asked for a month instead of three nights.”
“Please,” he breathed, his voice a low, rough rumble. His eyes shone with misery and desolation. “Whatever you want.”
Narcise could hardly think. Her limbs were heavy as boulders, her lungs as tight as if they were being crushed by the very same thing. Pain from the proximity of the feathers added to the paralysis, and she could feel them as their presence wafted through the chamber…but somehow, through it all, Giordan’s words, his intent, penetrated.
It humbled her, weakening her even more than the feathers.
She gathered every bit of strength she could muster and said his name. “Giordan.”
And when she did, she put every bit of apology and shame and humility in those syllables as she could.
He looked at her then, and she felt the strength of his love and devotion for her travel across the chamber, through the pain and sluggishness.
And then she could no longer breathe. Cezar was there in front of her, his face a cold, tight mask, and with a flick of his wrist, the feathers were wafting down over her shoulders in a smothering blanket.
Narcise tried to smother the scream of agony, but even Luce’s most furious blaze through her Mark was nothing compared to this. Shaking uncontrollably, she started to collapse as the soft brush of the burning feathers encapsulated her, and someone caught her on each side, holding her erect.
The pain was so great that she couldn’t gasp or breathe or feel…she tumbled into a vortex of mad sensation: the softness of each feather, branding into her skin, the insubstantial weight pulling her down.
Vaguely, she was aware of being held upright, and hands on her flesh…molding over her breasts and hips…the smell of lust and perspiration, heavy and cloying…some shadowy, indistinct dampness, heat, pressure…
Then, in her dreamlike paralysis, she was aware of being moved: the brush of her feet against the stone floor, the change of position as she went from vertical to horizontal…something hard beneath her, pressing the cape of feathers even more deeply against her skin.
She was aware of crying out, perhaps screaming…but she hardly had the breath to do so. A mouth was on her, hands, a body shoving against her, questing and invading…the shift as the feathers were pulled away from one of her shoulders and that pain was replaced by the sharp penetration of fangs.
And then, suddenly, nothing.
* * *
When Chas was draggedout of the chamber, away from Narcise and Giordan, he realized he was being given a miracle—just like that day when the cat had run into the street and caused the accident which allowed him to sneak into Moldavi’s home the first time.
He still had his stake, now hidden in his sleeve during the walk to the dining chamber with Belial…and he was certain he’d be able to take at least one of his two captors by surprise.
As he faked a stumble, a quick flick of the wrist slid the weapon into his hand and loosened the guard’s grip on one side of him. When he righted himself and came back up, it was with the point of the stake ready. It found its mark with the same ease and power it always did, and he breathed a silent thanks.
By the time the other guard realized what happened, Chas had him slammed face-first against the wall, the stake at his back. “Get me out of here,” he said. “I want the way outside.”
He had to get out of the place so that he could come back in and free Narcise. And he knew exactly how to do that…for it had all suddenly become clear to him.
He’d figured out Cezar’s Asthenia.
As he was observing everything that happened—from the time he and Narcise entered her brother’s chambers, and his reaction to her presence, Chas suspected there was something wrong. Moldavi had seemed so pleased to see them…until they walked into the chamber.
Then, he’d ordered them out almost instantly. “Take my sister to the dining chamber,” he’d told Belial.
And every time Narcise moved closer, Moldavi had slowed and changed. His breathing, his voice, even his body had tensed. He’d tried to hide it, but Chas was used to watching for the signs of weakness from the prey he hunted.
