Free The Vampire Narcise by Colleen Gleason Page A

bed…which wasn’t an altogether prudent thing, for his gaze then lit upon a variety of other accessories in The Chamber.
    Chains with manacles hanging from a plastered and painted, rather than stone, wall—which gave it an absurd appearance of civility. A rack of whips. A small metal box. Carved ivory phalluses, of varied sizes. Even small knives: too dainty to slice one’s head from one’s shoulders, but certainly dangerous enough to cut decorative nicks into one’s flesh.
    Giordan’s belly churned, knowing that each of those items had been used many times over. And those were only the items he saw at a glance. Narcise, Narcise…how can you be less than mad after this?
    “So which shall it be?” she pressed, her voice a little more tense now. She was as rigidly controlled as he struggled to be. “Surely it cannot be that difficult a decision.”
    “Where is the peephole?” he asked. For now, he must ignore her question. The very thought was enough to weaken his already stretched control.
    She looked at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes skittered to the wall across from the manacles and chains. Cezar hadn’t attempted to even hide the small holes through which he must observe. They were hardly larger than the arrow slits in a medieval castle, but there were several of them, at varying heights, in the plastered wall. Not obvious enough to distract one from one’s pleasure, but certainly there.
    Without preamble, Giordan walked across a thick rug to the wall and spoke into the dark slots. “I don’t wish to bespied on, Moldavi.” He could scent the stew of male need and lust through the holes, and knew that at least several of them from the previous room were there, prepared for even more entertainment. And, indeed, as he looked into the dark spots, Giordan saw the faint glow of several pairs of orange and red eyes, burning, blinking and then turning away.
    He suspected that his host might be annoyed, perhaps even furious, at his statement, but Giordan was confident that the man wanted badly enough to buy into the spice ship he was sending to China, and that he would acquiesce gracefully.
    His need for fresh opium was a strong incentive.
    But of course, too, Cezar Moldavi needed always to be in control, and a conflict that he couldn’t win—such as this with Giordan—would make him appear to be out of control.
    So, once the male scents had faded and he knew they were all gone, he turned back to Narcise. She was watching him warily, and as far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved.
    “What is it to be, Cale?” she asked a third time. “You only have until dawn.” The edges of her full lips were white with tension.
    “Neither. I’m not going to touch you,” he said.
    A strained silence settled over the room.
    “Are you mad?” she whispered. Her hand had moved, and he could see its faint tremble as she rested it against her throat. A bit of color rushed into her face.
    “Just a bit.” Giordan pulled his attention away and said, “Is there anything to drink in this torture chamber?” Blood whiskey would take the edge off his senses.
    Narcise didn’t reply; perhaps she didn’t trust herself to speak, either. But she walked over to a cabinet he’d hardly noticed and pulled out a bottle of, praise the Fates, brandy or whiskey. As soon as she removed the cork, its warm, pungentscent filtered through the air, telling Giordan that while Cezar didn’t provide his best brandy, it was still a far sight better than what most of the taverns in England served. The rush of the amber liquid sloshing into a small glass was the only sound for a moment. She poured a second one, surprising him faintly, and then turned to look at him. She left one of the whiskeys on the small table and stepped away, sipping from her own glass.
    “Your name…it isn’t French,” she said suddenly. Although they had conversed briefly before, Giordan hadn’t truly appreciated the low duskiness of her voice. But now, it