Glad for the interruption and the distraction, Narcise watched as her companion sat back down at the table and poured himself a cup of ale.
"Do you want some?" he asked, then commenced to pouring one for her without waiting for a reply, then set the cup near the opposite edge of the table. He settled back in his seat and took a drink.
She walked over hesitantly and picked up her serving, sipping the strong, bitter drink. It was heavy and warm, and she didn't particularly care for it...but she found that having something for her hands to do, and her mouth and thoughts to focus on, was a good thing.
"What was the crucial moment?" he asked, pouring another slug into his cup.
"Why do you want to know? So you can find a way to my weakness and slay me?" she shot back, affronted by his curiosity when he seemed so reticent and judgmental.
"Perhaps I only wish to understand you better," he replied. His words were gently slurred. "I haven't had the occasion to converse with a vampir on such a subject."
"Because you're usually trying to kill them."
"Yes. I should have killed you when I had the chance," he said. His eyes were dark and unsettling. "But it would be a sin to destroy one with such beauty."
"I'm certain it wouldn't be your first," she answered, sipping again from her cup as she leaned against the wall, keeping herself distant from him. "Sin, of course."
"No, indeed not. I'm nearly as evil as you are, Narcise," he said. "What was the crucial moment? Or will you not assuage my curiosity."
"As you can imagine, vanity was my great weakness. I am fully aware of how my appearance affects those around me. Men have only lust in their eyes and hearts when they look at me, women hate me or envy me. I had a lover when I was sixteen. Rivrik. My first, and...only...in all the ways that matter." She nearly choked on the lie, but in her mind it was true.
What she'd had with Giordan could not be classified as love. At least, not anymore.
"Poor Rivrik," murmured Chas. "I can only imagine his terrible fate." He refilled his cup again, and she could tell that the jug had become much lighter.
She wasn't alarmed by his obvious intent to drink himself into oblivion, but rather curious about it. And, she suspected, in the morning he'd remember very little of what she told him tonight. "I had an injury-a burn, from an oil lamp. It was on my face, and I was terrified that it wouldn't heal, that I'd have scars forever. And that Rivrik would no longer love me."
"Because, of course, there was nothing about you to love other than your face and body," he said.
Narcise ignored him. "When Luce came to me and promised that I'd live forever, that I'd never age and that I'd heal completely...I didn't have the strength to decline. And that's how it happened."
"And Rivrik? I'm certain he was delighted to have you intact-except for your damaged soul, of course. But why would he care when he had the rest of you?"
Since these were thoughts Narcise had already considered and raged over, torturing herself with them decades ago, his words didn't sting. Too much. "He died not long after. I'm fairly certain Cezar had something to do with it."
"I'm surprised you didn't offer to turn him Dracule so he could stay with you and your beautiful, youthful self forever."
Now she was annoyed and pushed herself away from the wall. "Almost immediately after I accepted Lucifer's covenant, I realized what a mistake I'd made. I never even considered visiting such a fate on Rivrik."
"Ah, then. A Dracule with a conscience. With regret. They are so very far and few between." He upended the jug and the last bit of ale sloshed into his cup.
Then he lounged back into the chair, his legs spread haphazardly, his head tilting back so much that she thought he'd fallen asleep. But then he moved, loosening the knot at the top of his shirt, and yanking it from the waist of his breeches. He'd already toed off his boots some time earlier, and now she noticed his dark, long feet, bare on the wooden floor.
"And so, then, Narcise," he said suddenly, sitting up. His face had turned dark and fierce, and he set the cup on the table without looking. His eyes, lit to glowing by the gas lamp, pinned her gaze. "Here we are."
She opened her mouth to reply, but he'd heaved himself from his chair, and now he made his way to the other side of the table. His fingers brushed the top of it as if to give him balance, and he walked smoothly but with the slightest bit of stagger that indicated just how far into his cups he was.
Narcise's heart began to thump very hard, and her mouth dried. Even drunk and sloppy, he was dark and exotic looking. Intimidating with his superior height and broad shoulders.
Yet, she made no move to recoil or otherwise back away, even when he came right up to her. But when he grabbed the front of her chemise and slammed her up against the wall, she was so shocked she didn't have time to react before he put his face right up close to hers.
Eyes furious and dark, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a ferocious grimace, he said, "If you ever attempt to enthrall me, I'll kill you."
Chapter 15
Chas opened his eyes. The room was dim with threatening dawn, a pale scrim of light cast over the furnishings.
He sat up, still feeling the remnants of last night's wine and ale. The empty jug sat on the table where he'd left it and the scent of stale hops permeated the chamber.
Narcise slept next to him on the bed, warm and close and smelling of sleep, of her. Fully clothed. Out of reach.
A rush of desire flooded him and he closed his eyes again, trying to push it away. He couldn't allow his thoughts to go along that route. Too dangerous, too degrading.
She was a practiced seductress. Aside of the fact that eroticism and sensuality always went along with the Draculia, he'd seen evidence of it when he came in upon her little tete-a-tete with the servant Philippe.
The poor sot had been out of his mind with desire and need...and the devil of it was, he had no idea what was happening. He had no control over himself or his actions.
Chas's mouth tightened and he settled on disgust. He'd not fall prey to that sort of lure. He'd never allow himself to be used thus, to lose mastery over himself. He recalled the fury he'd summoned when he dragged her up against the wall last night and threatened to kill her. He would. If she ever turned those lulling, coaxing, burning eyes on him, he wouldn't hesitate to do it.
He slid off the mattress, one of those rare people who hardly felt the effects of overimbibing. There was a dull, gentle pounding in the back of his head, but other than that, and the need for a drink of water, he felt as he normally did in the morning. Although it really was much too early to be up and about for a gentleman; normally one didn't see the light of the sun before noon.