Chapter 12
Narcise recognized both surprise and satisfaction in his eyes. His body still held her sword arm in place against the wall. And his arm, wedged beneath her chin, was making it difficult for her to swallow, but despite the stake in his hand, she had no fear.
If he used it, then she hoped he'd make it quick and put her out of her misery.
But if he didn't. . . perhaps he was the man she'd been waiting for.
"You've heard of me?" he said, easing up the slightest bit on her throat so that she wasn't looking up so sharply.
"But your reputation precedes you, Monsieur Wood-more. " She switched from French to English, with which she was more comfortable even after more than a decade here in Paris.
Indeed, everyone knew of the fearless and clever vampir hunter Chas Woodmore. How he'd somehow scaled a sheer cliff and sneaked into the mountaintop castle of the bloodthirsty Darrod Firvin to stake the man in his sleep. And how he'd tricked the princes of Tylenia and Tynnien into climbing aboard a small ship so that he could slay them as well.
The Dracule all murmured of the dark-haired Gypsy gentleman who slipped in and out of the shadows like a vampir himself, silent and deadly like a servant of Death. Ironically those who told the tales were ones who'd never actually met the man, for those who did weren't alive to tell the tales.
Which was probably why no one had included in their tales the fact that he was handsome as a dark angel, with thick black hair and intense green-brown eyes. And that he smelled like danger, tight and dark and manly. She scented a bit of blood on him, too, but it didn't smell like it would be his.
"My reputation?" White teeth flashed in his swarthy face, and he inched his arm away a bit more, but kept her sword arm pinned to the wall with his solid body. "Is that so? And here I thought my accomplishments went largely unnoticed. "
"I do hope you don't find such modesty too painful," she replied. "And I would appreciate it if you'd either drive that stake into my heart or remove your arm from my throat. "
"You don't have a preference?" he asked. He seemed sincere.
Narcise shrugged, and she realized that although she'd managed to catch her breath from their brief battle, she still felt a bit breathless. This man might be more than a match for her. "There are advantages to both. "
"Drop your sword and I'll release you," he said.
She complied, and he kicked the epee across the floor of her parlor. When he stepped away, his arm moving from her, she adjusted the sleeves of her manshirt, pulling them back down over her wrists. "Why are you here?"
He ignored her question and asked, "You're Narcise?" She inclined her head and felt his eyes sweep over her. Before she could react, his hand whipped out and grabbed her arm, pulling it away from her body. "How did this happen?"
She didn't have to follow his gaze to know that he was speaking about the bruising around her wrists from the manacles. That was nothing compared to the marks on the rest of her body, which was the reason she was wearing men's clothing today. She couldn't fit in her gowns without a corset, and it was simply still too painful to be laced into one.
"I lost a fencing match," she told him, forcing her lips into a rueful smile, meeting his eyes blandly. "It happens occasionally. "
He watched her closely, as if searching for a lie, or waiting for more information, and then released her arm. "What happens when you win?"
"Whatever I choose," she replied. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm a vampir slayer," he reminded her.
"Then why did you not slay me?" she asked, moving her arms back and away from her chest to give him a good target she suspected he wouldn't use. "I thought Chas Woodmore was merciless. "
"You might be more beneficial to me alive than dead. Where's your brother?"
"Are you truly here to kill him? I'd lead you to him in a breath if I-" Narcise stopped, her blood running cold. "He's coming. They're coming. "
She could hear the voices, and knew they'd smelled the faint blood and perhaps even the new scent of Chas Wood-more. Or that her brother had become suspicious when she didn't return to the parlor, which was where she'd been going when she came upon this vampir slayer.
Woodmore looked as if he were ready to either lunge at her or duck behind the door, and Narcise made a quick decision. She was going to get away from Cezar, and this man was going to help her.
She opened her mouth and screamed as she dove for the epee on the floor.
One moment Chas was ready to duck into the bedchamber beyond the open door to hide from Moldavi, and the next, his sister was screaming for help.
Cursing, he spun after her as she rose to her feet, her sword back in hand. "You," he snarled, deciding he'd take her to hell with him. "I knew better than to believe them. "
But her eyes had widened with fear-something he hadn't seen before, even when he had her plastered, immobile, against the wall-and just as the pounding footsteps reached the door, she whispered, "I'll save you. Help me. Please. "
When the door burst open, Chas got his first glimpse of Cezar Moldavi. But he didn't have much time to observe the man in detail, for he was followed by three other vampirs, and they were all red-eyed and fanged-teeth. They surrounded him without hesitation, blocking the door.
"What is going on here?" said the man who was presumably Moldavi himself. Slight of stature, dark hair with an odd, wide jaw, and rings glinting on all of his fingers.
Chas stilled, his attention bouncing around the chamber to see what might be utilized for an escape, or at least for a weapon. The thing about stakes; they weren't good for distance. One had to get up close.
Narcise, the madwoman, had her sword, and he looked down to notice that it was once again thrusting into his chest. "Look who's arrived for a visit, dear brother," she said. Her expression had changed into something hard and blank.
"Do I know you?" Moldavi asked, making a little hissing tsk sound. "Monsieur?"
Chas hardly took note of the other three vampirs, assuming they were the ones who'd been speaking with Moldavi earlier, and instead focused on gauging the distance and angle it would take him to thrust his stake into the man's chest. He flickered a glance at Narcise, trying to read something in her eyes that would either support or deny her previous plea of Help me.
What exactly was she asking him?
"We've never met," Chas replied to the man who'd walked around him as if he were a piece of furnishing he was considering for purchase. The hair at the back of his neck lifted, prickling uncomfortably at the man's frenetic movements.
Darkness rolled off Moldavi in silent waves, burning in eyes that seemed calm, but lurking deep within them was an odd light. He was too quick, too odd in his movements, yet the underlying energy bespoke of paranoia battling with control. There was no doubt in Chas's mind that this man was malevolence personified.
"Too dark and swarthy for my taste," Moldavi murmured to one of his companions-not his sister. "But who are you, then, and what are you doing here?" he said, standing in front of him.
"It's Chas Woodmore," Narcise said, sending Chas's shocked attention back to her.
How in the Devil's name is that going to save me?
Moldavi stilled and his eyes narrowed. "You're Wood-more?"
"I'm here to kill you," said Chas, never one to beat around the bush.
Moldavi turned to look at his companions, chuckling, and Chas felt the tip of Narcise's blade shift a bit. Whether by accident or design, he didn't know, but he didn't hesitate.
The next moment he was spinning away and then lunging toward Moldavi, stake raised to his shoulder. No one could react in time to stop him, and Chas felt a surge of triumph as his powerful thrust embedded the stake into the back of the man's torso. Right at the heart.
But instead of feeling the soft inside, the give of the heart after breaking through the skin next to the spine, Chas felt a shock of pain jolting his arm as he realized he'd struck armor-s
omething metal, based on the strength of the reverberations trammeling through his limb.
He swore as they descended on him then, all of them, fangs flashing, eyes red, hands tearing and clawing. He still had hold of his stake and, using his legs, he twisted and bucked, stabbing indiscriminately as countless hands and feet grabbed and kicked him. He felt something give in his shoulder, the tearing of skin, the burst of blood from his upper arm.
Something sharp slammed into his back, then his gut, and one of them yanked him up and threw him through the air. He hadn't caught his breath when he slammed into the wall and the world, mercifully, went black.
His last thought before tumbling into darkness was Corvindale is going to kill me.
When he opened his eyes again, Chas found himself reclining on a chaise or some sort of divan. A fire roared nearby, heating his skin uncomfortably. His body ached, his head pounded and he was thirsty.
It took him a moment to realize that he was dressed only in his breeches and that his wrists were tied on either side of him, restrained with leather thongs to the foot of the divan. His legs were also immobilized in the same way.
Something moved in his periphery and he looked over to see Moldavi, who'd shifted into his line of vision. He was with a young woman who seemed to stumble as she walked along with him.
"I have my own special armor," Moldavi said without preamble, directing the woman to sit on a chair directly in front of Chas.
"My informants neglected to share that detail with me," Chas replied wryly. "If they even knew. "
"It's saved my life more than a dozen times. Would you like to see it?" Moldavi pulled off his shirt to reveal a slender, ashen-gray chest dusted with shiny dark hair.
The man was slender, nearly skeletal, and at first Chas saw nothing that could be considered armor except for a dark circular shape over the center of his chest. It gleamed and he saw that it was metal. . . set into his skin.
"Look more closely," Moldavi said, leaning toward him, gesturing to his breastbone. "Do you see?"
And then Chas understood. The faint octagonal outline on-no, beneath-his skin, covering the entire breastbone and over his chest, was larger than that which was exposed beneath the skin. No larger than the spread of a hand, the whole was nevertheless generous enough to protect the heart from any stake.
"It's. . . Your skin has grown over it?" Chas asked, fascinated and horrified at the same time.
Moldavi nodded complacently. "Some years ago I realized how prudent it would be to have a permanent protection. We Dracule heal so quickly, of course, and so I made a place for the medallions of protection-I have one on my back as well, of course-by cutting a place for it in my skin. Oh, it didn't hurt, don't be concerned. And it makes me feel quite powerful. I kept the medallions there until the skin grew back over them-most of the way, as you can see, some of it is still exposed. I rather like the appearance of it. I have similar protection in my neck, of course. For, you see, now I can't be killed. Even by the fearsome Chas Woodmore. "
Moldavi shifted, now standing behind the woman. He moved her hair away, leaving a shoulder and the side of her neck bare. "You come from London, do you not, Chas Woodmore? Where you live with your three very lovely sisters?"
A shock of fear speared his insides. "You seem to be more familiar with me than I am with you. "
"Oh, I am very familiar with you, Monsieur Woodmore, and Maia, Angelica and. . . Sophia? What was her name?" He gave a brief smile, licked his lips, then bent slightly to sink his fangs into the bare shoulder of his companion. She tensed, stiffening at the pain, then relaxed.
The spike of worry for his sisters turned into a deep, heavy bolt of revulsion as Chas watched Moldavi gulp the coursing blood. His throat, visible above an elaborate neckcloth, convulsed as his jaw moved in the same rhythm-as if he couldn't get enough of it fast enough. The woman's reaction was nearly as unsettling: she closed her eyes, her face tightening with some expression that was neither wholly pain nor wholly pleasure.
As he fed, Moldavi watched Chas, his burning red-gold eyes fastened on him as if gauging his response. Chas wanted to look away, but he could not, and he felt his own body begin to stir in response.
No. He tried to force his attention away, but found himself trapped by the hypnotic gaze. The sounds of rushing blood and the quiet kuhn-kuhn-kuhn of Moldavi's drinking filled his ears. Chas knew he was being enthralled, but in his weakened state, he could hardly drag his eyes away. Desire tingled inside him, teasing and coaxing a deeper response and Chas tried to focus on the pain throbbing through him instead.
Moldavi released the pinch of pale flesh between his fangs, lifting his face with a slow smile. Blood stained his gums and the edges of his teeth, and Chas fancied he could even smell it on his breath.
"Very satisfying," Moldavi said, looking at him. "Would you care to sample?" He smoothed his finger over the oozing wounds on the woman's shoulder, offering a red-tipped digit to Chas.
He turned his face away, noting the pillow behind his head. His heart pounded rampantly as his stomach squeezed with queasiness.
"No? Perhaps another time then. I hope you won't think me rude, dining in front of you, but I offered to share, and you declined. " Moldavi licked the woman's shoulder, which Chas didn't see, but he could hear the sounds. Sloppy and wet, yet sensual.
He swallowed, his throat prickly and rough. His cock had begun to fill and he willed it to subside.
"Now," said Moldavi, pulling the woman's hair back over her shoulders, patting it into place and then giving her a sharp gesture to leave, "back to the matter at hand. London. . . and your informants. I must assume Dimitri has sent you here. "
"No one sends me," Chas managed to say, relieved that the feeding was over. The tightness in his belly released just that little bit, and he began to focus on his wrists. . . if there was anything that might be loose or weak. "I go where I will. "
"But it is well known that you and Dimitri-what does he call himself in England? Corvindale?-are associates. I find it unlikely that he hasn't at least encouraged you to find me. There was an incident in Vienna, you see, some years back. . . and Dimitri hasn't quite gotten over it. "
"I needed no encouragement to come after a child-bleeder," Chas told him.
"Oh, who has been telling tales? Tsk. " Moldavi stood and turned toward the blazing fire. When he shifted back around, he was holding a slender metal spike, hardly thicker than the tine of a fork. It glowed white-hot for a moment, then settled into red, then black.
A ripple of fear coursed along his spine, and Chas steadied his breath. This is going to be unpleasant.
"Perhaps you might tell me a bit more information about Corvindale. What his recent investments are, perhaps?" Moldavi smiled and that slender spike moved closer to Chas.
He steeled himself, his heart ramming furiously. "I'm not privy to that information," he said.
Moldavi's fingers curled around Chas's immobile arm, the digits ashen in color next to his olive skin. "I'm certain you know something. "
Chas shook his head, and groaned at the sharp pain as the spike slid through the soft part of the side of his arm and emerged on the other side. He closed his eyes, shuddering as the little rod burned his flesh, inside and out. Agony reverberated from that center of pain, dulling his thoughts and thickening his mind.
"Perhaps you might know when he is going to leave the country again? I've found it impossible to send anyone inside Blackmont Hall, for he has it well secured. If he travels, it will be much easier for me to. . . renew old acquaintances. "
Through the haze of pain, Chas saw that Moldavi had turned to the fire, and then back again, holding another of the slender metal spikes. "Anything you can tell me will speed things up a bit here," Moldavi said with a smile.
Chas managed to shake his head, and wondered yet again what Narcise had been thinking to say I'll save you. Help me.
The woman was obviously addle
d, or else she was a consummate actress. Just as unpleasant and self-serving as her brother.
Moldavi pinched a piece of flesh at Chas's side, along his firm belly. "My," he said, his voice shifting lower, "there isn't much here to work with, is there, Woodmore? Nevertheless, I shall prevail. "
He looked at his victim and said, "What about Giordan Cale?"
Chas tried to shrug, but feared it came across as more of a convulsion than anything else. He braced himself, but it wasn't enough to prepare for the sharp, searing pain as the thick needle went through the flesh of his abdomen.
"Giordan Cale," said Moldavi again, more urgently. His eyes glittered. "I understand he is in London now. What do you know of him?"
Chas opened his mouth to speak, and perhaps might have said, "Nothing. " At least, that was what he attempted to say, but it wasn't the answer Moldavi wanted. A rough jab through his bicep had him jolting and crying out in pain, and then before he could react, a second one in his other bicep. He was pinned to the divan's upholstery.
"Giordan Cale," Moldavi said again. "What is he doing? Where is he? Where does he go?"
"I don't. . . know. . . much. . . . " Chas stammered. "Water. . . ?"
Something splashed in his face a moment later, and he choked but licked his lips to get the essence of the water. Before he could fully recover, Moldavi had something else in his hand.
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 peeled his 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 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 unintelligent-looking-made vampirs, he tried to assimilate the fact that Napoleon Bonaparte was here.
There'd been rumors of Moldavi's allegiance to an 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 bloodstained, but they were his, 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.
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 inflamed 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 men's clothing-tight breeches and a close-fitting tuniclike 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 the vampirs to 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.
Feathers.
"You'll fight to the death. There will be no stopping until one of you is dead," commanded their host, tossing the chain to the floor in front of the table.
Narcise stiffened and Chas felt her shock.
"Yes, you've heard me correctly. He's a vampir hunter, is he not? A killer? And that is what he came here for. I'd hate to disappoint him, and have him return to Dimitri only to complain about my lack of hospitality. Woodmore," Moldavi said, looking at him, "if you succeed in killing this lovely sister of mine, I will generou
sly allow you to go free. . . back to your own sisters. "
The words dangled there enticingly and Chas glanced at Narcise. Her face had gone blank and her eyes empty, and for the first time, he realized what Corvindale had meant by describing her as having dead eyes. One of her guards lifted the feather necklace and slid it over her head.
She shuddered visibly this time, and he could see her breathing change.
"Or you can slay him," Moldavi told her. "Which is what I fully expect you to do. After all, you have had so many years of instruction. You should be able to best a wounded mortal. "
He settled back in his seat, a complacent smile hovering over his lips. "Arm them," he said, nodding to one of the guards.
As they faced each other moments later, each brandishing a long, gleaming blade, Chas gathered his strength and steadied himself. The sword, which would normally be comfortable in his hands, felt heavier than usual. Awkward and wearing. He looked at Narcise.
She was moving slowly, as if she had difficulty breathing, and he knew it was because of the feather necklace. That would make things all the more simple for him. Not that he truly believed Moldavi would set him free if he killed Narcise, but he intended to win and then, hopefully, set the smoke packet afire.
"Begin!" commanded their host with a clap of his hands.
She staggered, and he could see real pain in her face. He had a momentary pang of sympathy for her. . . for, despite the fact that he was hardly as powerful and agile as he normally was, he was certainly mobile. She hardly seemed able to move.
She lunged toward him suddenly, her aim off and the sword jamming into the ground next to him. Their bodies clashed and he automatically reached out to steady her. As they bumped together, almost like two lovers embracing, she whispered, "Help me. Escape. "
He stumbled back and whipped his blade around, wondering if he'd heard her correctly. . . wondering if it were another of her tricks. Her face tightened, her teeth bared in great effort as she lifted her sword and raised it over her head in a stroke that left her body wide-open for his blade.
Chas knew it was his chance, and he realized, as their eyes met when he swung his weapon around, that she knew it. At the last minute, he lowered his blow-which would have easily cleaved hand from wrist, head from neck, and hand from wrist again-and turned the blade to its flat side.
It struck the side of her torso, sending her staggering in the direction of the fire. . . which was precisely his intent. He came after her, and said, "Just as you saved me?" as he slammed the blade against her rising one.
"Was the only. . . way. . . " she muttered, and he saw a wave of effort crease her face.
Chas's knee buckled and he stumbled into the wall, his sword scraping along the floor as he used it to regain his balance. Hell, it was like fighting when he was in his cups. He wondered if the spectators found the sight amusing or entertaining.
They were near the fire now, and he had a decision to make. Trust her, or slay her, which would be easily done. Either way, he had one chance to use the smoke cloud. She seemed to have regained a bit of ferocity, somehow, and was coming at him again. "Please," she said over the clash of their swords.
Her eyes met his in that instant between the silver blades, and he saw pleading there. And desperation. Chas spun away, thinking suddenly of Sonia, and the argument they'd had when he visited her.
Who made you God? she'd said. Who gave you the right to judge who lives and dies? I should think you of all people would understand why they did it.
The pang of conscience, combined with the fear that he'd never see her again, and never be able to set things right-for he'd had his own harsh words: We all have our God-given abilities, and some of us actually use them, Sonia-unlocked something deep inside him.
Narcise was more familiar with the makeup of the house. Having her with him might slow him a bit, but at least he wouldn't get lost.
He could always slay her later if he had to.
"Be ready," he said, parrying sharply at her, lunging at her. The more he fought and moved, the easier it seemed to get. His body was returning. . . even as hers slowed. Although their conversation was soft, lost in the noise of battle and their distance from the spectators, he took care to keep his face away from Moldavi when he spoke.
She met his eyes, hers wide and hopeful, if glazed, and he reached into the pocket of his breeches with his free hand. "Thank you. "
He had the packet, he was lining them up alongside the roaring flames. "Way out?" he asked, slamming his blade against hers to muffle their conversation.
"There," she gasped, her eyes going to the corner as she raised her blade weakly.
She was so slow and clumsy that he sliced along her arm without meaning to, and heard a shout from the dais: "First blood!"
Chas saw a small door in the corner and noted that it was far from the dais. Perfect. He might have a chance after all. . . as long as Jezebel wasn't leading him into a den of lions or something worse. Like a locked door.
"Locked?" he asked, circling around and creating a vicious thrust that clashed with her sword.
"Don't. . . think. . . " she gasped. "No. "
He flipped the packet into the fireplace as he eased her toward the corner, waiting for the telltale explosion. Hoping to hell Miro's chemistry worked as well now as it had during their trials.
He was just about to give up when there was a soft muffled boom! and something shot from the fireplace.
Sparks and coals blasted into the room, and in the moment of surprise, he grabbed Narcise, half lifting her against his hip, and ran unsteadily toward the door, sword still in hand.
People were shouting and Moldavi was giving orders, but Chas ignored everything but the door. They had to get around the table and off the dais, and across the room. . . and he had the element of surprise. The puff of smoke rolled into the chamber, more slowly than he would have liked, but it was effective enough. His legs wobbled, his arms trembled and Narcise was little help in an ambulatory fashion. They fell into the door, the momentum of his running clumsy and imprecise.
She shifted, gave a groan of exertion. . . then all at once, she was moving. The door opened and they burst out of the room.
Narcise turned, suddenly strong and quick. "Help me," she said, leaning against the door as something slammed against it from the other side. Chas found the wooden bar and fit it across, barring the door, and then she said, "This way," and started down a dim corridor.
She must have lost the feathers along their way through the chamber, or maybe even yanked them off her neck, because now she was faster and more agile than he.
Chas wasn't about to complain; he still had his sword and a partner who seemed able.
They were going to make it.
She ran and he followed, his legs protesting, the aches in his torso screaming, but this was for life-the pain could go to the Devil. He was going to make it.
They came to the end of the corridor-a large, locked door-and just as they approached, a vampir guard turned to see them.
Chas didn't hesitate; it was second nature for him to duck under the attacking man, spin-albeit wobbly-and come back around from behind with the blade of his sword at neck level.
The man's head rolled to the floor in a gush and splash of blood, but Chas didn't hesitate. He went for the door, looking for the lock, and realized that Narcise wasn't with him.
Turning, he saw her, pale-faced, half-collapsed against the wall. The blood. It had to be the blood. He grabbed her arm and towed her toward him, but her eyes were rolling back into her head and she was having trouble breathing.
She collapsed into his arms and he realized it wasn't the blood-vampirs craved it, but it didn't make them faint.
"Where's the key?" he demanded, hearing shouts in the near distance. Damn the vampire sense of smell. . . they could track them as well as a dog could.
She murmured something he couldn't
understand, and saw that she was severely incapacitated. Then he realized, through the intensity of the moment. . . "Feathers. "
Narcise nodded, barely, and he realized why she'd never escaped on her own. Moldavi had the entrances and exits lined with feathers, or somehow used them to block it for her. He glanced around but didn't see any sign of them. . . but for all he knew, they could be embedded in the door frame. She shuddered and tried to grasp him, but her fingers were weakening.
Now he didn't know if it would kill her to go over the threshold-assuming the feathers were there, and in great numbers, obviously-or whether once past, they would no longer affect her, even if she was so greatly weakened. But either way, he had to decide to take the chance, or leave her behind.
"Where's the key?" he demanded again, then realized the guard was there for a reason.
Gingerly, still holding Narcise up with one hand, trying not to step in the pool of blood-he didn't need that scent clinging to him as well-he fumbled around the vampire's body.
Just as the voices turned down the hallway, and he could feel the pounding of feet on the floor, he found the key hanging on a ring at the man's waist.
Chas yanked it, praying it would come free, and the man's body jolted in protest. He used his sword to slice down blindly and cut the bloody thing from his waist, taking a chunk of clothing and skin with it.
Key in hand, a weak and useless Narcise over his sword arm, he lunged for the door. They were coming, and he nearly dropped the key from his weak and clumsy fingers. . . but he fit it in as their pursuers appeared in the hall behind them.
Fifteen feet away and the door opened. Chas lunged through and dumped Narcise on the floor as he spun to close it behind him, struggling with the lock again in the light of a dim sconce.
By the time he had it in place the force of the others on the opposite side had the door surging in its hinges. "We've got to get out of here," he said, turning to gather up Narcise again.
But, praise God, she was on her feet-if pale-visaged and wide-eyed. . . and she was bloody damn smiling. He yanked the torch from the wall, even though she wouldn't need light in the dark, and they started running together.
"We made it," she gasped. "We made it. We're in the catacombs. "
Chas looked around and realized they were in a stone-hewn tunnel lined with. . . skulls. Giordan Cale had described it to him, and had even drawn a rough map of the tunnels that Chas had committed to memory.
She was right. They'd made it.
And despite the fact that he hadn't accomplished the task for which he'd come, he felt more than a little satisfied.