“Belial?” Cezar’s face tightened, and for a moment, she felt a notch of pity for her brother. To believe that one of his most trusted allies and servants—for no one was a confidant of Cezar Moldavi—would betray him and his trust in that way was a blow to his carefully controlled world. “He attempted to touch you?”
Narcise gave a particularly unladylike snort. “He went further than that, dear brother,” she said with a sarcasm-laden voice. “He wore a ring of feathers around his wrist one day when he came to deliver some wine to me, and attempted to convince me that I should allow him to feed on me.” The tremor was more from anger than anything like fear; Belial was a make, and she could squash him like a bug if he didn’t have the cowardly feather bracelet on his arm.
“Indeed.” Cezar’s voice was cold. “Did he succeed?”
She shrugged nonchalantly, despite the fact that her blood had begun to surge and race. “He did not, which was fortunate. I would have been powerless against him in the presence of those feathers—for no sooner had he backed me into a corner than one of the fabric merchants arrived. Monique interrupted and I was forced to decline Belial’s proposition.”
It must have been coincidence that the fabric merchant had, in fact, been Giordan Cale, in another of his disguises. He had sensed her upheaval, and when she told him about Belial, he became so still and quiet that she feared he would expose his identity and attack the servant. It was only her assurances that she was untouched and that Cezar would manage the problem on his return that kept Cale from throwing off his cloak and wig and going after the man.
“I suggest,” she now told her brother firmly, “that you keep him away from me in the future. Or I’ll kill him.”
Cezar nodded, and it was to her credit that he didn’t ask how she would do that. “I’ll see that he won’t bother you again. Perhaps you’d like to take matters into your own hands?”
Narcise smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Very well. I don’t wish you to kill him,” Cezar ordered. “But do whatever else you wish. I’ll arrange for him to select his sword tomorrow night.” He picked up his ever-present glass and looked into the blood-red liquid that clung to the sides when he swirled it. “But tonight, we have been invited to Monsieur Cale’s private club.”
Narcise’s heart skipped a beat. “Have you accepted the invitation?”
Cezar looked at her as he raised the glass of blood-drenched Bordeaux, one of his favorite drinks. She wondered whose blood was in there, and shuddered at the thought—the certainty—that it might be that of a child. He sipped, then drew the glass away. “I want you to seduce him.”
She didn’t have to feign surprise, and quickly changed her expression to include distaste. “I have no desire to seduce anyone, let alone Monsieur Cale. Might I remind you that I’ve already been at his hands. Against my will.”
“Consider this a different test of your skills. I’m not altogether certain you’ll succeed, in fact, Narcise. And that’s precisely why I wish for you to do so.” He tapped his fingernail against the side of the glass.
“No,” she said.
Cezar turned to look at her fully, and a dart of fear shot through her. “Are you certain of that?” he asked, the hiss in his voice more pronounced. “Perhaps I’ll give you to Belial after all. And Morderin as well.” His eyes burned orange-yellow. “I could dress you in that special cape I’ve had made for you…and then let you fight your way out of their hands.”
Narcise swallowed. The cape…the very words made her knees weak and her stomach swim. It was soft and light and made of dark, gossamer lace, and it was lined with sparrow feathers. The very thought of those feathers, in such abundance and such proximity against her skin made her feel faint.
He’d forced her to wear it one time, merely, he said, to see if it would fit. Thank Luce it had only been for a few moments. Belial and Morderin had had to hold her upright while her brother draped it over her shoulders, for she not only had no strength to stand, but the pain was so excruciating, she felt as if her skin was burning off. She could hardly breathe when it was on her, and even when he’d first pulled it out of the lead chest, her body had gone numb and weak with paralysis.
Perhaps if she wore it long enough, she’d die. And perhaps that was why Cezar hadn’t yet employed it other than that time.
“Very well,” she replied, forcing her voice to be strong.
He gave her a brief nod. “Excellent. And, now, of course, once you seduce the man, he’ll want to keep you.”
She was relieved that her gaze had been downcast when he spoke, otherwise, she might have given away her feelings. “Don’t they always?” she muttered loudly enough for him to hear.
“They do,” he replied. “But you might wish to stay with a man like Giordan Cale.”
Again, she kept her eyes down, praying he wouldn’t feel the way her heart leaped in hope. They would be at Cale’s house tonight. Perhaps she might never have to leave.
“To ensure that you don’t find yourself convinced to stay,” he continued smoothly, his lisp whistling more loudly again, “or if you don’t do precisely as I bid, I have a few reasons that might assist you in complying with my desires.”
Her heart swelled with dread and now she looked up at him, certain that naked fear and loathing showed in her eyes. “You are pure evil,” she said even as he gestured to the curtained window on the opposite end of the room.
“All Dracule are evil at heart, darling Narcise,” he reminded her. “After all, we wouldn’t be Dracule if we weren’t self-serving and greedy. Please. Open it and see.”
She stood on shaking knees, her belly swishing with nausea. The curtains covered a window that led not to the outside, of course, for they were underground, but that gave visible access to the next chamber. She was fairly certain what she would find when she opened the drapes.
But she had to be certain; she had to know what he would use to bind her to him this time. The heavy drapes swished open and she only needed a quick glance to see what was there. “Lucifer’s dark soul,” she whispered when she saw the children.
“One of them is a prince,” her brother told her proudly. “Or a comte or something of that nature. The royals are desperate to save their children from the guillotine, and will do anything to protect them—including pay for their safe passage to Romania.”
There were a dozen or more, of all ages from toddler to young teen. Mercifully all were sleeping—drugged, she assumed—which explained why she hadn’t heard cries or shouts from the next room. “That’s where you were,” she said, her voice still low, but now it was shaking. “When you claimed you went to Marseilles.”
He nodded, tapping his fingernail against his glass again. “I’ll take one for every hour that you disobey me, or that you are gone,” he said. “They’ll be awake and aware, and know everything that’s happening to them. I’ll even let the others watch in anticipation.”
“And if I comply? Will you release them?”
His brows lifted as one M-shaped line. “But of course not. I went through considerable trouble to obtain them. However, if you comply with my wishes and commands, I will leave them asleep until I am in need. They’ll never wake from their drug-induced state, and feel nothing when I feed.” His eyes danced. “I confess I rather prefer that option, for to feed whilst the young ones fight and cry is rather upsetting to the digestion and detracts from the moment. But if their blood is laced with the opium of sleep, it’s all that more pleasurable for all of us. The choice is up to you, my dear sister.”
Narcise felt unfamiliar tears gather at the corners of her eyes. Only Lucifer could be more black-hearted, more evil than the man sitting across from her. And yet…she remembered him when he was a boy, playful and yet awkward—only five years older than she. He’d played with her, plaited her hair, helped her care for her dolls, took her for long walks to pick the rare flowers that grew in the mountains. And then when he turned twelve or thirteen, everything changed.