The Vampire Narcise (17 page)

He tried to feel only revulsion for the night of debauchery, but even two weeks later, the marks from bites he’d begged for in the blur of drunkenness and lust hadn’t quite healed.
And remnants of the night’s pleasures still weaved within his dreams.

As he picked up his drink, Woodmore noticed a little spider making its way along the edge of the table between him and Cale. He lifted his hand to smash it, but the other man raised his palm and said, “Allow me.” And as he watched, Cale scooped the spider onto one of the playing cards and dropped the creature in a corner, where, presumably, it scuttled away to safety.

Woodmore couldn’t help but eye the man curiously—a Dracule, sparing the life of a spider? Perhaps he felt some sort of bloodsucking kinship with the critter—and noticed that Corvindale had been watching as well with a bemused look on his face.

The earl looked as if he were about to comment, but he was interrupted by Brickbank.

“Woodmore, heard you tried to hang Cale on a stake, few weeks back,” said the man, peering into his glass as if hoping it would change to something French. “Something about smoke explosives?”

“It would have been unfortunate if Woodmore succeeded,” Corvindale said dryly. “For Cale still owes me for the last shipment.”

“But since the casks are nearly empty, that would have been to my benefit,” Cale retorted, giving rise to another round of laughter.

“It wasn’t my best effort, that attempt,” Woodmore admitted ruefully, thinking about how the little packets had fizzled and not puffed into a thick cloud of smoke when he’d thrown them into the fireplace. That had made it difficult for him to distract his victim. He looked at Cale, acknowledging at least privately that the man could easily have killed him that night. But for some reason, like the spider, Woodmore had
been spared. “But as it turns out, it was for the best. Corvindale tells me you’re intimately familiar with Cezar Moldavi and his place in Paris.”

The last vestiges of levity drained from Cale’s face. Corvindale said something sharp under his breath and Wood-more glanced at him, but the earl was watching as his friend raised a glass to sip.

“Dimitri is correct,” replied Cale, his eyes iced-over brownish gray.

Unclear as to what had provoked such a turbulent response, Woodmore nevertheless continued. “He’s the sort of bastard that deserves a little less efficient way to die than a simple stake to the heart, the damned child-bleeder.”

“On that, at least, we are all in complete agreement,” said the earl.

Indeed, the stories Woodmore had heard about Moldavi were enough to make his blood run cold. He found it disturbing enough that these immortal men, beholden to the Devil, needed to drink blood to live, but to take from
children
…and to leave them to
die
… It was tales like these that only confirmed for him that his dangerous mission was the right thing to do.

And the only reason he hadn’t attempted the assassination of the beast so far was that he knew he needed a perfect plan in order to outsmart Moldavi.

He looked at Cale. “I need to find a way to get in to his hidey-hole so I can kill him. Corvindale is financing the effort, and he’ll get me across the Channel.”

One of the reasons Woodmore was such an effective
vampir
hunter was his ability to sense the presence of a Dracule, and thus identify them easily. Even members of the Draculia couldn’t identify each other merely by sight, or smell, but even as he sat here in the midst of them, Woodmore’s belly
was filled with the familiar sort of gnawing-itching sensation that indicated the presence of a
vampir
. He became used to it after a while, as one did with a smell or aroma, but it was always present. Another advantage was Woodmore’s ability to move about in daylight, and his innate fighting ability and speed. And then there was his lack of an Asthenia.

Of course, being mortal, he had any number of things that could slow, weaken or even kill him.

Cale gave a brief nod. “I’m willing to assist in any way. I am more than passing familiar with the place.” He drank again, draining his glass, and set it deliberately at the edge of the table nearest the footman, who responded immediately to refill it.

“There’s a sister,” mused Brickbank. “Dashed beautiful, according to Voss. Can’t remember her name.”

“Narcise,” said Cale quietly, curling his fingers around the refilled glass. “I believe her name is Narcise.”

“Yes. She’ll be included in my plans as well,” Woodmore said. He knew from experience that some of the most vicious and bloodthirsty
vampirs
were the female ones. “Two for the price of one, Corvindale. She’s rather accomplished with the épée, I hear.”

“The saber, if I recall correctly. And rather than be your target,” Cale said, setting down an empty glass again, “you’d be better off utilizing her as an accomplice. There is no love lost between her and her brother and she’d like nothing better than to see him skewered on a stake.” His mouth twitched in a humorless smile as he added, “Unless things have changed in the last decade.”

“I can’t imagine they have,” Corvindale replied flatly, confirming for Woodmore that he was definitely missing some underlayer of conversation. He would get the story from Corvindale later. “He is the worst sort of dog.”

“What of the Astheniae? Do you know what theirs are?” he said, looking at Cale.

“But of course, no, or I would have employed it myself. No one knows Moldavi’s weakness. But because he keeps himself so cloistered, the assumption is that it’s something very common.”

“And the sister? Narcise? Do you know her Asthenia?”

“I do not.”

“Poor bastard Sabbanti died fifteen years ago,” Brickbank commented. “His was pine needles. Didn’t last more than five years before he got staked.”

Woodmore glanced at him with a wry smile. “He was one of my first slayings, in fact. I was sixteen.”

“Thought it was an unfortunate accident,” Brickbank replied, clearly stunned. “By Luce’s bollocks!”

“That’s how I make most of them look. I don’t need the damned Bow Street Runners sniffing around, complicating things. They get in my way often enough as it is.”

“It wasn’t long after that when you attempted to stake me,” Corvindale said. “Naturally you didn’t have a chance at succeeding.”

Eddersley, whose eyelids were always half-closed, suddenly looked interested. “You tried to slay Corvindale? And you’re still alive?”

Woodmore nodded. “He took the opportunity to educate me on the precise angle with which to employ my stake— I was slightly off, and therefore not nearly as accurate as I am now. And then the lesson deteriorated into a philosophical conversation about how, just as with mortals, there are good
vampirs
and evil ones, and then on to covenants with the Devil and how to break them when they are, indeed, unbreakable.”

“I merely convinced Chas that he should exploit his quite
exemplary skills toward ridding the earth of those Dracule who have a different perspective of how to live as immortals, among mortals, than we do. Rather than hunting us.”

“You mean, those who choose not to do business with you, Dimitri, or who otherwise compete with you,” Cale said. “You’re a ruthless bastard in your own way.” His glass had been filled and then emptied a third time, and the congeniality that was normally in his expression had completely disappeared.

“Aren’t we all?” Corvindale replied evenly, but, yet, there was no dangerous glow in his eyes. Instead his gaze was somber. “And isn’t that precisely why we’re sitting here— Woodmore excepted, of course? Because we’re all ruthless bastards, selfish and violent and lustful? That’s why Lucifer came to us with the offer in the first place. And not a one of us has changed since then.”

“Change?” Brickbank echoed, sloshing his drink. “Why the bloody Fates would we change? Live forever. Women—or men,” he added, glancing at Eddersley, who didn’t look particularly sleepy at that moment. “All we want. Power. Money. All of it. No one can touch us.” His eyes gleamed with pleasure.

“But therein lies the flaw,” Corvindale said, crooking a finger to have his own glass refilled. “We do not live forever. At least, here, on earth.” He gestured to Woodmore. “And some of us leave this place sooner than others, thanks to our friend here. At some point, we are beholden to Lucifer. We belong to him.”

Corvindale’s deep bitterness effectively flattened the congenial mood, and they lapsed into silence.

Woodmore was fascinated and horrified in turn by the depths of this conversation. They were saying the very things he’d struggled with ever since he came to know
Corvindale—and realized it was possible that all
vampirs
weren’t deserving of being hunted and killed in cold blood.

In fact, he suspected that Cale knew full well that his accusation wasn’t quite accurate—Corvindale didn’t employ Woodmore to simply assassinate his competition, or even those with whom he disagreed.

Woodmore certainly made threats to those who interfered or otherwise attempted to sabotage the earl’s business ventures, but his slayings were confined to those who were more like Cezar Moldavi, those
vampirs
who fed greedily and left their victims to die, or who otherwise used their strength and constitution to violate and terrorize mortals simply for the pleasure of doing so.

Because they had given away their conscience with their soul.

Thus, his occupation as a
vampir
hunter was one that brought Woodmore both revulsion and satisfaction. He associated socially with the very race he stalked—how much better it was to know well what he hunted—while picking and choosing among the servants of Lucifer to slay some and protect others.

It made for many dark, empty nights, lying in bed or in some form of transport, wondering if he truly had the right to be judge, jury and executioner of these men and women.

But he, of all men, was particularly suited to the task. And it was a cross he must bear.

Two months later

D
espite being at war with England, Napoleon’s Paris was surprisingly easy to enter, particularly with the resources of the Earl of Corvindale to grease palms and ensure that certain eyes turned blindly away from certain things. And for a gentleman like Chas Woodmore, whose Gypsy heritage gave him an almost Gallic appearance, the blending in was even simpler.

It was the getting out of the city that would be the problem.

But for Chas, there was only one element of the plan to be concerned with at a time, and the first was to gain entrance to Cezar Moldavi’s house.

It was past noon, well into the afternoon, as he walked along a
rue
in Le Marais. Although this was the area where the wealthy lived, the street was busy—filled with servants walking to and from the market, deliverymen and the residents rumbling along in their carriages on their way shopping and to other social engagements. No one would take note of yet another courier with a small paper-wrapped packet, particularly since he was dressed so as to be unremarkable in simple clothing and sturdy shoes. He’d settled a simple cap on his head, which had the result of covering much of his
thick, dark hair and shading his face. It also made him appear younger.

Nevertheless, Chas knew it was highly unlikely he’d actually make it out of the city. If he succeeded with his plan to assassinate Moldavi, and possibly the sister as well, regardless of what Cale had told him about her, then he would have the greatest chance of making it back to London. In that case, he’d only have to contend with getting past the soldiers at every corner of the city.

He couldn’t help a rueful smile, imagining Corvindale’s reaction if he had to carry through on his promise to take in Maia, Angelica and Sonia in the event of Chas’s demise. Maia, the eldest of the sisters and his junior by nearly ten years, would have plenty to say about it as well. Chas could already imagine her, with her hands on her hips and her foot tapping in annoyance. She was used to being in charge and managing the household, notwithstanding the dubious assistance of their chaperone Mrs. Fernfeather.

But there was no one better equipped, nor more trustworthy, than Corvindale to protect his sisters if something happened to him, and as such, for the first time in all of his travels, Chas had left instructions with Maia to contact the earl if he didn’t return or otherwise message her within a fortnight.

That was how long Chas expected it to take to infiltrate Moldavi’s homestead—if things went smoothly—and get close enough to his target, then get out of the city. He’d have one chance to drive the stake home, and God willing, he’d succeed. The
rues
were just as dirty and crowded in Paris as they were in London, Rome and St. Petersburg. He happened to prefer the countryside to the big, loud cities, perhaps because he was fairly forced to frequent them—and their seediest,
most dark and unsavory places—in search of Dracule. As he avoided a steaming pile of dog shit in the center of the walkway, which was really just the edge of the street, he pictured for a moment the small estate he’d just purchased in Wales, with its neat, unassuming manor house tucked amid rolling green hills.

It was likely he’d never have a chance to enjoy the place. He’d acquired it secretly, in hopes that it would be a private haven for him if he needed to hide his sisters from danger. For, just as he attempted to rid the world of
vampirs
, so were there
vampirs
who were bent on ridding the world of him…and who wouldn’t hesitate to use Maia, Angelica and Sonia to do so.

Thank goodness at least Sonia was tucked safely away at St. Bridie’s. The last time he’d seen her, when he’d come to visit, they’d had a terrible row. A flush of guilt warmed his cheeks as it occurred to him that he might never see her or any of them again.
God willing I’ll make it up to them all.

Then he realized he hadn’t been paying attention to the numbers on the houses, and had nearly missed Moldavi’s.

Here it is.

He walked past the columned, whitewashed front of the narrow but imposing three-story building, his attention moving from thoughts of his sisters and sharpening as he observed the area. A maidservant rushed past, carrying three large parcels that obstructed her view, and nearly collided with two footmen who were standing in the center of the walkway. Two carriages passed each other, harnesses rattling, hooves clopping. Someone shouted across the way from an unshuttered window, and there was a bellicose response from another window in the next building. Moldavi’s house, while it looked the same as the ones surrounding it, was the only one that seemed devoid of life.

From Giordan Cale, Chas knew that the house itself was only the facade of Moldavi’s residence, and that most of the living space was underground in well-furnished but windowless chambers. The servants—mostly
vampir
, but some mortal—lived in the aboveground floors, where heavy curtains were drawn over the windows during the day. It was also where merchants entered and deliveries were made, and these upper floors were the way Chas would gain access to the house. He just had to wait for an opportune time…or to create one himself.

The improved smoke packets that his friend Miro had made for him were in his coat pocket, but those were best used inside a confined space. And since this was his first visit to the area, he didn’t intend to do anything more than get a sense of the area.

He’d continued on his way to the end of the block. The houses that lined the thoroughfare were all similar to each other in design, with classical columns and landings. Built close together, these structures were part of an architectural revival that had swept Paris during the Revolution. Along with the city’s rebuttal of all things royal had come the desire to eliminate the opulence and richness the ruling class had imposed upon it.

Thus, the nouveau style embraced the simplicity of the Greeks and Romans along with symbolizing the rise of the bourgeoisie and their own seal on the city.

The scent of spring roses and lilies caught in the breeze as he walked past neatly trimmed gardens around to the next block. There was a small alley between two of the houses that abutted Moldavi’s, and he turned into it, still carrying his package.

The alley was deserted and he walked purposely along
toward the rear side of Moldavi’s house. If anyone saw him, he was delivering a package to Monsieur Tournedo—and could someone not direct him to whichever of these houses belonged to the gentleman,
s’il vous plaît?
If no one did, he’d have the chance to explore the rear of the house.

During sunlight was the best time to attempt to break into a
vampir
residence, for a good portion of the household would be asleep. He just had to find the right time.

And then as luck would have it, an opportunity presented itself. Looking back, Chas knew he couldn’t have planned anything better.

All at once, he heard a loud crash and clatter coming from the street in front of Moldavi’s house. The horrified whinny of a horse, followed by a scream and lots of shouting. More whinnies and even a terrible, agonized shriek from one of the beasts. Whatever had occurred, it wasn’t good—likely an animal would have to be put down—but it was also a guaranteed distraction to anyone in the vicinity.

Sure enough, as Chas peered around the corner toward the mess on the narrow street, he saw crowds gathering. Like executions, accidents drew the morbid as well as the curious. Which included, more often than not, everyone in the vicinity.

“It was a cat! She ran in front of me and I could not stop!” a driver was shouting.

“But you should have been looking!” raged another. “Now see what you’ve done!”

People were streaming from their houses, shouting encouragement and orders, crying out in shock and horror. Dogs barked and whined, and warning bells began to ring. Even a gunshot sounded, momentarily tempting even Chas to investigate further.

But, no…he had much more important and satisfying
things to attend to.
Bloody damned child-bleeder.
He was looking forward to seeing the man cower in fear for his life, knowing that only the thrust of a stake was between him and eternal damnation.

His lips settled in a feral grin that no one could see, he eased back behind the house. If anyone in the Moldavi household was awake, it was certain they’d be either looking out the front windows or standing on the front porch. Chas had the perfect opportunity and had to work quickly.

As trees gave shade, and thus provided shadow from the sun streaming inside the house through a window, he avoided the windows near the large oak that grew on the north side of the building. Best to find entry through a chamber that was less likely to house a Dracule. And the higher the chamber, the less likely it would be occupied when the master lived belowground. He eyed a window on the third floor and noted the sturdy brick edging around its gabled roof.

Just then, a streak of blonde shot around the corner of the house. It was a light-colored cat, and it appeared to be the one that had caused the ruckus out front. Once safely under a yew against the house, the feline stopped and looked up at him with unblinking gray-blue eyes.

“
Merci
,” Chas murmured to the creature as he slipped his package, coat and cap behind the bush and pulled a rope from inside his pocket. “You’ve given me an exceptional opportunity.” He swung the rope up onto one of the window gables and pulled tight when its hook caught around the lip of the peak.

The cat meowed, and to his amusement seemed to nod and then preen in acknowledgment, then ducked under the bushes and out of sight. The rope safely in place, Chas tested it and then began to climb.

He was quick and efficient, his movements smooth and
sleek, and moments later, he pulled himself onto the ledge of the window to peer in carefully. Empty of everything but a rug and a single chair. He smiled, but there was also a nudge of disappointment that no one was waiting to try to stop him. It had been some time since he’d been in a good fight.

Gathering up the rope, he looped it out of sight onto the top of the little roof so that it would be accessible on his way out.

Then, grateful for the continued chaos from the street beyond, he climbed into the chamber and walked silently to the door. Before opening it, he waited for the familiar sensation to come over him…the sort of itching in his belly that told him a
vampir
was near. The closer one came to him, the deeper and more violent the odd feeling he had in his gut.

There was a time not so long ago when Chas would have sneaked through the home of a Dracule and staked any
vampir
he encountered—often while in their beds, sleeping away the daylight. Even after he met the earl, and learned that at least one of Lucifer’s stewards was not quite the evil being his granny’s stories had made them out to be, he hadn’t become any less discriminating in his work.

But in the last few years, since he’d come to know Corvindale’s friends and realized that despite the fact that they had all tied their souls to the Devil, there were various degrees of immorality and violence, Chas had become less rigid in his choices. In his mind, every
vampir
could be a threat to mortals, but there was a divide between those who truly were, and those who simply tried to live and let live.

He heard nothing alarming and went out the door into the corridor on silent feet. A little twinge in his belly told him a Dracule was near, but it was so subtle that he knew it wasn’t in close proximity.

As he made his way through the house, mentally reviewing the rough sketch of a map Cale had made for him, it became obvious that the top floors of the house were empty and unused. That made his job even easier, for he’d be less likely to encounter anyone as he made his way to Moldavi’s private quarters below the ground.

Nevertheless, he utilized the servants’ stairs down through the back of the house, noting to himself that there were no enticing smells coming from this kitchen. Draculean households didn’t really need to cook much.

The twitch in his gut was getting stronger, and he slipped a stake from one of his inside pockets. But as he passed silently by the main foyer of the home, which was furnished so as to impress any casual visitors, he saw that a cluster of people still gathered in front of the house and glimpsed the gleam of shiny black paint on the side of an upended Landau.

It was safe to say that everyone awake in this house was out in the street.

As he made his way toward the staircase Cale had told him led to the underground apartments, Chas couldn’t resist thinking:
Could it simply be this easy? This Providential?

Sonia would say, yes, if he was doing God’s work, the Hand of the Almighty would arrange things so that it would happen. But Chas didn’t fully believe that such blatant miracles occurred like chess pieces being rearranged on their board.

His favorite Biblical maxim was “God helps those who help themselves.” And that was what he was doing.

He’d just about reached the entrance to the lower level when his belly gave a sharp twist and the odd itching feeling became uncomfortable. Just then a door opened in front of him.

Chas reacted before the
vampir
had the chance to see him:
he lunged for the unsuspecting man, grabbed his arm and had him pushed against the wall, forearm up against his throat, before the sot could take a breath. All in complete silence. The
vampir
goggled up at him, his eyes wide and shocked. Then they narrowed a bit as he seemed to catch his breath.

“Where’s Moldavi?” Chas asked in a soft voice, the stake’s point just beneath the servant’s waistcoat, pressing gently into his breastbone as his powerful arm eased up on the man’s throat.

He felt the footman draw in a breath and just before the bastard was about to shout an alarm, he jammed the stake through shirt, breastbone and directly into his heart.

His victim jolted, shock rushing back over his face, and Chas felt him shudder…then all life abruptly cease. Swearing to himself—for now he had the smell of fresh blood in the house, not to mention the problem of a dead body to attend to—he wiped off his stake and stuck it back in his pocket. Then he heaved the corpse over his shoulder and slipped quickly back the way he’d come, toward the servants’ entrance.