He gasped, stumbled backward, and she followed him, her saber ready as she landed on the ground, standing over him. Before he could blink, she had the blade settled at the side of his neck, and, firmly in her hand, the wooden stake she kept jammed into the knot of her hair.
“Yield,” she said, pressing the metal edge into the side of his neck.
If he did not, she had no compunction about using either the sword or the stake to send him to hell right then and there.
“I yield,” he growled, his eyes flashing with red fire.
Narcise kept the stake in her hand and the blade poised just-so. “Drop your weapon,” she ordered. She’d been caught unawares before by a challenger who’d yielded, only to attack her moments after she released him.
That had only happened once. And that was why she had yet another stake shoved in her tight sleeve.
With a furious grimace, he tossed the sword to the floor and, still with the blade in place, Narcise kicked the other one far away, under the table. She noted with grim satisfaction that the bulge of his cock had softened into nothing more than a little bag of flesh, hardly even filling out his breeches. She liked it when the bastards wet their trousers, but apparently this one hadn’t been sufficiently frightened for his life.
“Too easy!” shouted Cezar from the balcony, his lisping voice rising with mirth. “She bested you too easily, Godya! You lasted a mere fifteen minutes. What a sot!”
Narcise ignored her brother and, keeping the blade in place, stepped back and motioned for the man apparently named Godya to rise. “Slowly,” she warned, her eyes never wavering until he’d risen and she’d backed him out of the chamber, courtesy of the edge of her blade.
She’d made the mistake of underestimating her rival only once before. No one could ever say she didn’t learn from her errors.
Not until the door closed behind Godya did she lower her blade and turn to look up at Cezar.
“So sorry to have ruined your evening’s entertainment,” she said, taking no care to hide her loathing for the man.
“No sorrier than I, dear sister,” he hissed morosely. “I can’t remember the last time you were bested and gave us a real show.”
Narcise did. It had happened eleven months ago, when she’d tripped over the blade of her saber as it caught on the rug. She’d lost her balance and rhythm, and that was the end of the battle. Cezar’s colleague, whose name she’d never cared to learn, had wasted no time in slamming her onto the table, holding her hands pinned above her head as he used his own blade to cut down through her tunic and tear it away.
In an effort to add to the entertainment for the audience above, he’d fondled her breasts with rough fingers, then, breathing hot and hard, shoved his fangs into her shoulder. He sampled her for a moment, drinking deeply as she fought against the reflexive rush of arousal that always came when her blood was released thus.
Then, with her torso bare and her wrists pulled behind her back, he’d dragged her off to what she thought of as The Chamber for the rest of the night.
She hadn’t lost a battle since and, in fact, had sent three Dracule permanently to hell during three previous engagements.
Now she sneered at Cezar. “What a pity I didn’t provide enough entertainment. I’m certain it would be worth watching if you had a big enough bag between your legs to take me on yourself.”
And then I could skewer you with a stake and I would be free.
But of course, he would never risk it. Nor would he dirty his pasty-white hands.
Her brother was older than she in both mortal years as well as vampir years. He’d been twenty-two when Lucifer visited him and offered him a life of power, wealth and immortality. That was more than fifteen years ago, and he looked exactly the same as he had at that time. Even the crooked tooth and the awkward set of a broken jaw that had never healed properly remained unchanged. It was that malformed jaw that gave his voice the faint lisp.
Cezar had waited three years, until Narcise turned twenty, before he arranged for her to be offered to Lucifer. During that time, their elder brother, who’d become the voivode, or ruler, over Moldavia through his marriage, had conveniently died…and Cezar had married his sister-by-law, thus becoming the new voivode. Their father and the original voivode had died just after their brother’s wedding, and Narcise had come under Cezar’s control shortly thereafter.
She always counted herself fortunate that she’d managed to lose her virginity to a man she fancied she loved before being turned into an immortal Dracule. And that female Dracule couldn’t get with child—for they didn’t have their monthly flow.
Since then she’d had little power over her own body.
The door behind her opened and Narcise didn’t have to turn to know what was there. The rush of weakness flooded her and she gritted her teeth against the wave of paralysis.
It was, she thought dully as two of Cezar’s thugs approached, a good thing that her brother liked to watch her win more often than lose. For, despite his earlier comments, Cezar would have the loss of a titillating form of entertainment, as well as a bargaining tool, if he didn’t have his sister to beat up his friends and enemies alike.
Narcise remained still as her brother’s men flanked her on each side. One of them fastened a cuff around her wrist. Woven of three brown feathers that were soft and delicate against her skin, and yet burned as if they were a branding iron, the bracelet leached her strength by its very proximity.
Her knees trembled but Narcise kept herself as tall and straight as she could. It never ceased to amuse her that, despite them being armed with the one thing in the world that could weaken her, there needed to be two strong, burly Dracule who escorted her back to her chamber.
That knowledge was the only thing that kept her hopeful as, day after day, she lived an eternity under her brother’s control.
The knowledge that they were all terrified of her.
God and Lucifer help them if she ever got free.
Paris
September 1793
The first time Narcise set eyes on Giordan Cale, she was fighting for her safety.
It was yet another of countless evenings of entertainment for Cezar, and this time, he was seated off to the side on a raised dais with a single companion: a broad-shouldered man with tight, curly hair and handsome, elegant features.
Normally Cezar liked to display his sister’s capabilities to a small crowd of spectators. It was his way of advertising her abilities. But tonight, there were only the two of them watching from the unobtrusive corner as she fenced and fought with some man who’d angered her brother.
Her orders, tonight, had been to fight to the death, and Cezar had warned that she wouldn’t be released from the small arenalike chamber until she either killed her rival, or he bested her—which didn’t mean death for her, but something worse.
The poor fool was no match for Narcise, who’d been taught in swordplay and other acrobatic fighting skills by the best trainers Cezar could find. He wasn’t about to have his favorite amusement killed by an overzealous suitor or an angry enemy.
Tonight, her opponent was a “made” vampir, one who’d been turned Dracule by another vampir instead of being invited into the Draculia by Lucifer himself. Narcise wasn’t aware of what he’d done to insult her brother, for, in truth, Cezar could interpret the twitch of an eyelid or a simple cough as an insult. She didn’t particularly care.
Nor did she spare much pity for the man. She couldn’t afford to if she wanted to remain unscathed.
But as she whirled around to face her adversary, readying the saber for its cleaving blow, she glanced over and happened to catch the eye of her brother’s companion. He was watching her intently, and she had the brief impression of a tanned wrist and hand settled with its index finger thoughtfully against his mouth.