Two weeks later Reither's Close, a village outside of London

Narcise paced the small chamber, trying not to imagine what was happening in the pub below. Trying not to picture the meeting between Chas and Giordan Cale.

More than a week ago, she and Chas had arrived on the British shore in the dead of night. Safe.

Between his careful planning, the livres and guineas he'd used to grease palms and her ability to enthrall, their exit from Paris and subsequent passage through the English blockade of the Channel had gone expediently and smoothly.

Without even a detour to London, they were on their way to Chas's secret estate in Wales, but had stopped for three nights at an inn in Reither's Closewell, a small village west of London, so that he could send word to Corvindale and wait for a response.

Everything had gone well during their stay until Chas extricated himself from Narcise's arms-and bed-and informed her that he was to meet a gentleman in the public room below.

When he said, "Perhaps you don't remember Giordan Cale, but he's a confidant of Dimitri," Narcise's entire world had halted.

"Not titled, but rich as Croesus and," Chas continued with a bit of a laugh, "more than a match for me. I met him when I sneaked in to stake him. Obviously we both lived."

Narcise found her voice. "Obviously."

"I can meet him below, but it wouldn't be as private if I asked him up here. Less chance of us being seen."

"No," was all she said. But inside, her body was shriveling into panic. She had to close her fingers together to hide their sudden trembling.

Was Chas watching her closely, or was it her imagination?

"Very well, Narcise."

And she wondered what, if anything, he knew about their history.

For, despite their continued intimacy, she hadn't told Chas about what had happened with Giordan and Cezar. Those events of a decade ago were no longer relevant, and there wasn't any sense in reigniting the memories, reliving that horrible time.

As she imagined their conversation, she tried not to think about the fact that Giordan would scent her the moment he approached. Her presence was everywhere on Chas, and Giordan would know not only that she was near, but he'd immediately understand the nature of their relationship.

Would he even care?

As Narcise continued to trace the boundaries of the room, avoiding the narrow strips of fading sunlight from between awkwardly fitting shutters, she found herself wondering just what was, precisely, the nature of her relationship with Chas.

Not that Dracule had relationships like mortals did. After all, eternity was a very long time. Marriage was futile-at least with a mortal, who'd die long before the Dracule would, not to mention grow old and shriveled while the vampir remained ever young. And female Dracule, at least, didn't seem able to procreate-at least not in the way their mortal female counterparts did.

And as for love... Narcise had come to realize that love was a mortal concept. A mortal curse. Dracule didn't truly love, because to love meant to place someone before oneself. And a vampir simply did not do that. Ever. If one even thought about doing such a thing, Lucifer burned and blazed through the pulsing coils on one's back and influenced those actions back to where they should be: to self. Of course, a Dracule was all about passion and lust and pleasure, and if one happened to give it during the time one was also receiving, then so be it.

Therefore, what had been between her and Giordan couldn't have been love. Not at all.

For more than three weeks, she and Chas had been together as partners in their escape from Cezar and lovers since that morning he'd kissed her. And since the day Chas had told her he had feelings for her, and how much he loathed the fact that he did, the bond between them had been strengthening.

Not simply a bond of passion and lust, but a layer of respect and blossoming affection. She trusted him, she wanted to be with him, she enjoyed his body. Yet, Narcise was under no impression that she loved Chas.

She sensed that she could just as easily awaken one night and realize she wouldn't truly miss him in her life. That if he left, she would be sad, but not...destroyed.

Perhaps that was because she'd come to realize one disturbing thing about Chas: he hated-perhaps even feared-her Draculean tendencies, and he loathed himself for being attracted to a vampir.

It was as if he were at war within himself: he wanted her to bite him, to feed on him...but he hated himself when he responded to such titillation.

Yet, he cared for her. Deeply. He brought her little gifts-flowers, lace, hair combs. Even an ivory busk, which fit into the vertical pocket of her corset, down between her breasts. No more than two fingers wide, as thin as a knife blade and about as long as her hand, it was beautifully carved with more flowers, and leafy vines, and a sun radiating bold rays.

"Because I know how much you miss the sun," he'd said when she looked at it, smoothing her fingers over the delicate design. "You can keep it near your heart."

She had. She'd slipped it into the little pocket of her corset and even now, she pressed her hand there, between her breasts, and felt the sturdy little placket there.

Then she heard the pounding of hurried, ascending footsteps and then the hasty scuff as feet reached the top, and Narcise froze, waiting. If Giordan had somehow come back with him, or-

The door to the chamber opened sharply and her heart surged into her throat as she looked at the blur of a figure rushing in. When she scented and recognized Chas, his hair dark and wild, his face tense and angry, she went even colder. What had Giordan said? What had they done?

"I'm leaving," he said, throwing clothing into his pack, hardly giving her more than a brief look. "For London. It's Voss. He's abducted Angelica."

If Chas was unsettled about being with a vampir himself, he was even more rigid and terrified about his sisters being abducted or otherwise seduced by a Dracule. He well knew the violence and terror that could be inflicted by one of them.

If one were to be honest, Narcise must admit that she had had more than a few pangs of envy that these three mortal women had a brother who loved them so much and was so concerned for their safety that he would risk his own life to keep them safe. And, apparently, Chas would leave the side of his lover when one of them was in danger-even if said lover was in grave danger herself.

"London?" she repeated, a variety of thoughts shooting through her brain. "But that's the first place Cezar will look for me. For us," she added.

"It certainly is, but I have to go, Narcise." Chas stopped and looked up at her. "I've made arrangements for you to stay here. You'll be safe, and Cale will take you on to Wales while Corvindale and I find Voss...."

But Narcise hadn't heard anything after the words Cale will take you. Her brain simply froze, her stomach plummeted and she felt dizzy. Nauseated.

I can't see him again. I can't.

The memories flooded back, the glimpses of sleek, muscled shoulders by firelight, her brother's face rising behind them, lips peeled back in pleasure and pain...the scents of depravity and the raging in his eyes. Do you have any idea what I've done for you?

She swallowed hard, gave her head a little shake. No. By the Fates, no.

"I'll come with you," she said quickly.

Chas stopped his packing and looked at her sharply. "But you don't want to go to London. It's too dangerous."

"You'll protect me," she said, smiling with a bit of seduction. Not too much. "I don't want to be away from you, Chas." She dropped her voice low, trying to keep the panic out. "You got us out of France, you've outwitted Cezar every step of the way...and London is your own city. You'll be even sharper and smarter there. As well, I'd like to meet your sisters. And Dimitri again."

His face eased just a bit. "I confess, I would rather you come with me. But I didn't think you'd want to take the chance."

"London is a big city," she replied, relief sweeping her. "There are, I'm certain, many places to hide. Aside of that, Cezar wouldn't expect us to go there, and hide in plain sight."

Chas nodded. "Then pack up. I'll send word to Cale that his services to take you to Wales won't be necessary."

"I'm certain the man didn't wish to be bothered with such a task anyway," she said, turning to stuff her own belongings-such as they were-into a different satchel.

If she'd hoped for a reply, some sort of indication regarding Giordan's feelings toward her, she didn't receive one, for Chas had already left the chamber.

Forcing herself to breathe normally, she closed her eyes for a moment and thanked the Fates-or whoever-that had helped her avoid what would have been an untenable situation.

Traveling to Wales with Giordan Cale?

Narcise would have run back to Cezar first.

London, a week later

"You're a very unusual vampire, to be sure, Giordan Cale."

He looked up from where he'd been casually feeding on Rubey's warm, creamy shoulder as a bit of foreplay and withdrew his fangs gently. Swallowing the last essence of sweetness, he smiled slightly and soothed the marks with his tongue and lips.

"In what way?" Giordan replied, settling back against the arm of the divan.

Rubey, who was half reclining on the opposite end of that furnishing, made a fetching picture. She had strawberry-blond hair that curled around her face when not restrained, and where one could occasionally find a thread of gray. Tonight she wore it in a loose tail gathered at her nape, little curls flirting with her temples and ears. Her lushly curved but slender body reminded one of a peach in color as well as in taste, and Giordan fancied she even had a permanent hint of peach brandy in her essence. It was, after all, her favorite libation, and he kept her supplied with an excellent selection of it. Her face was more striking than classically beautiful with wise green-gray eyes that tipped up at the sides and very high, sculpted cheekbones.

He'd never seen her in anything but the most expensive, fashionable clothing, and tonight was no exception. She wore silky pale green with darker green and yellow ribbons that gathered up the bodice of her dressing gown. Thanks to him, said bodice was loosened, exposing a vast expanse of breast and one marred shoulder, where thin trickles of blood gathered in the hollow of her collarbone.

"Why, and how long would it take me to count the ways," she replied with a woeful shake of the head and the lilt of the Irish. Her eyes sparkled with wit and intelligence.

Giordan gave a brief smile and thought about loosening those ribbons at her bodice even more, but realized he wasn't all that interested in pursuing that avenue tonight.

"Perhaps I could trouble you to name just one way," he replied mildly, his thoughts slipping from the conversation to...other topics that, generally, he preferred to leave alone in the darkness. Where they belonged.

He rose from the divan, clad only in shirtsleeves and the current male fashion of pantaloons, and went to the cabinet. But of course they were in her private apartments, in a separate building from the pleasure house and the rest of her staff-most of whom were otherwise privately engaged as well.

"Very well," she replied, and he felt her eyes on him as he poured a glass of whiskey.

There were two small decanters of ruby-fresh blood from which he could add to the drink, but he wasn't certain where they'd originated, and he dared not take the chance.

Ever since what he'd come to think of as the After Hell, he'd had to be very careful about where and on whom he fed.

A lot of other things had changed as well.

"You switched the mousetraps," Rubey mused as he poured her a small glass of the peach brandy.

"And that makes me unusual? The poor creatures were being crushed in the neck by the springs of the traps," he replied, handing her the drink.

"Aye, and why should it matter to you? The mice don't belong in my place, and I'm going to see that if they trespass, they pay the price," she replied tartly.

"A bit bloodthirsty, are we?" he asked, aware of a niggling discomfort with her choice of topic. He was different now, and even Dimitri didn't know about it all.

He just thought Giordan's feeding preferences had changed...but it was so much more than that.

"But now the new traps, they let the little bastards just get captured until they're set loose," Rubey said. "To weasel their way into someone else's house."

"Better that than yours," Giordan replied, and considered that it might be a good diversion to loosen those ribbons at her bodice after all. He settled back down on the divan much closer to her this time, his thigh lined up along where her skirts angled off the sofa.

"And then there's the way you feed," she said, eyeing him closely. "Sure as the day's long, you're not like any other vampire I've ever met. Excepting Dimitri, of course, but he don't feed on anyone anyway."

"I am discriminating in my choice of libation," Giordan agreed, sliding his fingers up to the ribbons and filtering his fingers through the loose knots. "Aren't you?" he asked with a smile.

But of course, Rubey didn't cast up her accounts if she partook of a piece of steak or a chicken leg....

He could still remember those black, bleak days when he hadn't realized what was happening, and he hadn't understood why he'd feed and then no sooner had he finished than it all came furiously, violently back up again. His mouth and throat had been scorched dry, his belly sore and weak from the constant purging. The taste of bile-laden blood, rushing back up through his throat and burning into his mouth and nose, was a disgusting, degrading sensation he'd never forget.

Thank the Fates for Drishni and Kritanu, helping him understand how he'd changed. How he must have answered the voice that said in his head: Choose.

How he'd found light after all the darkness. Soothing, peaceful, warm...after so many years of darkness.

If it hadn't been for them, he'd have gone mad.

More mad than he'd already been, after Narcise.

Rubey made a moue of distaste. "Sure and it's ironic, the way I run a house of pleasure for them who drink blood when the very thought of a bloody steak or the leg of a hen makes me ill. My pappa couldn't ever understand why I was happy with only potatoes and greens."

Giordan might have replied but his shift toward the ever-expanding exposure of her bodice was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Blast it," Rubey said, disappointment clearly in her tones. "What is it?" she called.

The door eased open and one of her servants-a large brute of a mortal man named Eduardo, whom Giordan didn't wholly trust-stepped in holding a small silver tray. "A message has just arrived for Mr. Cale," he said.

Giordan took the note, which was marked with Corvindale's seal, and broke into it. "Meeting here tonight with Wood-more. Voss still in city. Come."

He closed it up, a myriad of emotions running through him-the foremost and strongest being pain. Darkness. But Giordan drew in a deep, steadying breath and after a moment, his red vision and the pounding, trammeling feeling eased. His fingers relaxed.

There was a time when he'd have had no qualms, no hesitation about snapping the neck of someone like Woodmore-particularly since, several months back, he found the man in the rooms Giordan had let in London, preparing to hang his heart on a stake. Some sort of gray-black smoke was trickling from the fireplace and Woodmore was caught off guard by Giordan's wakefulness during the day and, he learned later, a malfunction of some sort of smoke explosion.

But those days of quick, efficient violence had gone, and when Giordan learned that his would-be attacker was none other than Chas Woodmore, associate and friend of Dimitri, he'd allowed it to end as a misunderstanding. He'd even helped prepare the bastard for his mission to assassinate Cezar Moldavi.

But his easy assistance was before he'd responded to Woodmore's request to meet him in Reither's Closewell...and smelled Narcise. Everywhere. Everywhere on Chas Woodmore.

Even the information Woodmore had wished to share-that Cezar Moldavi had not, in the past decade, forgotten his obsession with Giordan-didn't concern him.

After all, it had been a decade for Giordan as well. The ten years had been both interminable and all too brief, too close. Too raw.

Now, he stood and made himself walk casually over to the chair where he'd removed his shoes, sit and pull them on.

He'd known they were together, of course; that Wood-more had helped her to escape from Paris-or had abducted her. No one was clear on the details. But to smell her thus...so lush and rich and feminine. Narcise.

The moment was as if he'd slammed into a stone wall: he lost his breath, he felt the shock of pain reverberating through him, he turned numb.

After, Giordan wasn't certain how he'd managed to make it through that meeting at the inn, once he'd caught her scent. It was the way it rolled off Woodmore, the way it seemed to permeate him and mix with his own essence...mocking and familiar and horribly insidious.

His vision turned dark and red even now. He couldn't ignore the memory of the disgust in her face, the horror in her eyes.

As if anything she could think about him was as horrible as what he'd done. For her.

He'd tried to explain, to make her understand...but she didn't want to listen. She wasn't ready to listen.

Either she'd never loved and trusted him at all, or she hadn't loved and trusted him enough.

At it was, he didn't know whom to thank that Narcise had decided to go with Woodmore to London instead of having Giordan take her to Wales. He doubted he would have survived that trip with his sanity intact.

"Is everything all right?" Rubey asked.

Giordan wasn't certain how long he'd been silent-he'd finished dressing and was starting toward the chamber door before she spoke. "A summons from Dimitri," he said with an ironic tone. "When the earl beckons, one must answer."

She was watching him with those shrewd eyes. "When will I see you again?" she asked. Not with petulance, not even with invitation, but as a businesswoman, scheduling an engagement. Rubey was no man's woman through her own volition, and not for lack of being wooed.

"When next I need to feed," he told her smoothly, then moved quickly back to her side. Pressing a farewell kiss to her temple, he said, "With your permission, madame."

"Of course," she replied haughtily. But he felt the weight of her curious gaze following him out the door.

The trip to Blackmont Hall, the residence of the Earl of Corvindale, was hampered by a carriage accident on Bond. Giordan didn't begrudge the delay, for it gave him more time to mull, to consider, to settle. To decide if he even meant to go.

The streets were relatively quiet, for the shops were closed this late at night, but the thoroughfares were by no means deserted. Carriages and hacks trundled by, many pedestrians skirted the shadows-some of them up to no good, some of them simply walking from one pub, club, theater, or party to another.

Giordan sat quietly in his richly appointed carriage and considered how far the bounds of friendship reached. If it were anyone other than Dimitri, he would ignore the summons. When Woodmore sent him the secret message to meet in Reither's Close, Giordan had gone, not realizing what awaited him.

But he did now. And he wasn't certain he'd be able to handle being in the same chamber as Woodmore and not think of peeling the man's flesh from his body. Despite who he'd become.

He hadn't laid a violent finger, hand, or fang on anyone since the After Hell.

Instead of dwelling on thoughts of Chas Woodmore, Giordan forced himself to review what he knew, wondering why Dimitri felt it necessary to have him present tonight.

Voss had run off with Angelica Woodmore. He claimed it was to keep her safe from Moldavi's men, who'd, predictably, followed Woodmore and Narcise from Paris.

Giordan had been in London-although with Rubey and not in attendance-the night of the abduction, when Belial and three others had entered a masquerade ball and murdered three people. That night and the next day, he and Dimitri had had to work together to enthrall witnesses and change stories. Otherwise, the news might cause a mad panic in London such as there had been in Brussels some years back after a similar occurrence. Shortly after, Giordan left to meet Woodmore in Reither's Close and break the news of Angelica's kidnapping.

But by the time Giordan had returned to London, with, presumably, Woodmore on his heels, Angelica had been safely retrieved by Dimitri.

Still, the earl was furious with Voss for taking one of the Woodmore sisters while he was responsible for them during their brother's disappearance, and by the tone of his message tonight, he intended to find Voss and square things with him. Which, in Dimitri's mind, likely meant to kill the bastard.

Ever since the incident in Vienna a century ago, when Dimitri's house had gone up in flames, there'd been bad blood between the earl and Voss. This current situation involving Angelica-which the earl would interpret as impertinent and insolent, at the very least, and a grave insult at worst-made the situation even more untenable.

And therefore, Giordan would answer the summons if for no other purpose than to reason Dimitri out of cold-blooded murder, and to help him find Voss if necessary.

Which was, it seemed, how far the bonds of friendship extended.

Blackmont Hall-which was nearly as dreary and cold as its name and resident suggested-was surrounded by high, smooth, brick walls that were topped with sharp metal and wooden pikes and studded with gas lanterns. The two dozen lamps were lit every night and extinguished every dawn whether the earl was in residence or not. Aside of that structural barrier, Dimitri had an entire retinue of guards-both mortal and make-at his disposal, watching the sisters and the grounds.

If there was a place in London safe from Belial or unwanted guests, it was the Corvindale residence.

Giordan was well-known to the gatekeeper, and he was waved in after he removed the hat and cloak he'd donned against the ever-present drizzle. Crewston, the Blackmont butler, opened the front door and said, "His lordship is in his office with several persons. Including his young wards." His tone indicated his disdain for the inclusion of the two Woodmore sisters in a meeting clearly meant for men only. "Apparently there was some sort of event this evening."

Handing his hat and cloak to the butler, Giordan stepped into the foyer and stilled. Narcise. Was. Here.

It was with great effort that he didn't pause in his strides, although he did slow and his movements turned jerky as he walked past Crewston down the corridor. His heart pounded, his blasted hands wanted to become damp, but by the Fates, he wouldn't allow that. He swiped his palms on his trousers and kept walking.

Pausing outside the study door, which had been left slightly ajar in-he suspected-a show of empathy and warning for him by Dimitri, Giordan listened, waiting for an opportune moment to make his entrance. The earl had given him the advantage of surprise, and he was going to make full use of it.

Someone was speaking in tones threaded with distaste. "You must be Narcise Moldavi. The vampire." He recognized the voice wafting through as that of Angelica Woodmore.

"I am." Narcise's voice was low and dusky as it always was, yet it carried a hint of annoyance. Giordan's heart thumped uncomfortably and he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, nearly missing the Woodmore sister's response.

"Are you here so that we can welcome you to the family?" came Angelica's reply.

Clearly she wasn't any fonder of the idea of Narcise and Woodmore being together than Giordan was.

Or, no, perhaps it wasn't that the two of them were intimate that disturbed Giordan, when one came down to it. It was more the fact that she was here. He'd have to see her. He might even have to speak to her.

All the while pretending his entire insides weren't warring, desperate for her again.

"In fact, mademoiselle, I'm here, endangering my person only because of you." He heard the faint clink of a glass over Narcise's voice. She sounded hard and unemotional. "When your brother learned that Voss had abducted you, he insisted on coming to London, despite the danger to me."

Suddenly furious that Narcise would blame the young mortal for her own weaknesses, Giordan opened the door. He stepped inside with smooth, controlled movements, his face expressionless. "You know very well you didn't have to come to London with him. Don't blame your own cowardice on the girl, Narcise."

He couldn't have planned for a better entrance. All eyes swung to him, but he was only looking toward one pair. They flashed with bald shock and a ripple of fear...and then into cold, emotionless sapphires. Fear, oh, oui, it was there. And well it should be. If she had any concept how deeply he struggled to keep himself in the light...how much, even now, after his change, he'd consider risking it, just to grab her by the shoulders, to shake some sense into her-to force her to understand, to care about what he'd done....

The voice in his head, the one of the light, said: She's not yet ready. She cannot hear you.

But oh, yes. A woman could indeed drive a man to do what was unimaginable. To do something he could hardly conceive. For love or, just as readily, for hate.

A little shudder of nausea rippled deep in his belly and he pushed away those sordid, awful memories.

Narcise was standing near the liquor cabinet, dressed in masculine clothing. He could see that she'd been disguised as a man-and an elderly gent, if one accounted for the faint lines that had been drawn on her face to emphasize wrinkles and aging. Ironically it was Giordan who'd taught her that trick during his clandestine visits to her. Smudges added to the gauntness of her face...a face that was still as beautiful and perfect as it had always been. A mask covering perfidy and fickleness.

She held a hat that, presumably, had just been removed in an exposure of her gender and identity.

Narcise didn't respond to Giordan's entrance other than to add a flash of fangs to her sneer as she tossed the hat onto a table. Sipping from a glass of whiskey, she walked over to stand deliberately next to Woodmore.

But Giordan was no longer paying attention to her. He'd turned his back, although he was aware, of course, of precisely where she was standing and how she'd moved. He forced his curling fingers to loosen as he looked at the other occupants in the chamber.

"Miss Woodmore, Angelica, meet my friend Mr. Giordan Cale," Dimitri spoke, rising from his seat in the corner.

"Chas, what in heaven's name is going on here?" Maia Woodmore demanded.

"I've been attempting to tell you," Woodmore replied mildly. "And I will...if we aren't going to have any further interruptions?" He glanced at Narcise, but it wasn't a look of reproach as much as it was one of affection.

Ah, the damned fool loved her.

"You're taking us home, Chas," Maia said firmly, and at that moment, Giordan felt a bit of sympathy for Dimitri. This elder of the sisters was clearly as headstrong and stubborn as her brother-and not nearly as tactful. "Tomorrow." It was more of a command than a question, or even a request.

Narcise shifted, and so did her lover. "I'm afraid that's impossible right now," Woodmore said.

"What do you mean? You're here, you're back. There's no reason for us to stay here any longer," Maia said.

"Don't disappoint the girl, Chas," the earl said. "Take her home." Then he glanced over. "Or perhaps Giordan would like to take on governess duties?"

Giordan snorted in return. "I wouldn't dream of depriving you of the honor, Dimitri." He bared his teeth in a false smile and accepted a glass of much-needed whiskey from the earl. It was all he could do to keep from slugging it down.

"But why can't we go with you, Chas?" demanded Maia.

"Corvindale is and will remain your guardian for the foreseeable future," Woodmore replied flatly, "but I wasn't going to stand aside and let Voss compromise my sister."

"I'm not compromised," Angelica said stubbornly.

"It doesn't matter," Woodmore replied, glancing around the room. "We know he was here tonight, Angelica. Whether you invited him or welcomed him or-"

"I certainly didn't invite him!" The girl was clearly outraged and offended. "I wouldn't invite a terrifying creature like him anywhere!" Apparently she shared her brother's distaste for the befanged Dracule.

"It doesn't matter," Woodmore continued sternly. "Corvindale and Cale are going to help me find him. And then I'm going to kill him."

Giordan kept his tickle of annoyance at Woodmore's assumptions to himself, and felt rather than saw Narcise move to the other side of the chamber behind him. She stayed carefully out of his eyesight. Her essence stirred the air, still as lush and feminine as it had been in Paris...but yet not quite the same.

"Since it appears that you will be under this roof for some further time, Miss Woodmore-Angelica-perhaps you might find your way back to your chambers," Dimitri said abruptly, standing from where he'd been brooding in a corner chair. "The night is waning."

Giordan, who, in some ways knew his friend better than Dimitri knew himself, suspected the man had used up his not very extensive patience. The earl's library and office had been invaded, not to mention his hermitlike lifestyle disrupted by the new additions to his household, and would be, it seemed, for sometime to come.

The earl wanted everyone gone.

In the flurry of the sisters Woodmore bidding good-night and farewell to their brother, and the earl's insistent ushering of them out of the chamber, Giordan managed to position himself so that Narcise would be unable to quit the room without passing directly by him.

As it happened, whether by accident or Dimitri's intent, Narcise was separated from her lover and left alone in the chamber with Giordan. She would have slipped past him, the cowardly woman, if he hadn't moved a half step to stand in the way. Now she must brush against him if she meant to escape and avoid a conversation.

"Good evening, Narcise," he said.

She was close, so close, that not only her essence but the warmth of her presence surged against him. Yet, he absorbed the assault as if withstanding the force of a blow and would not allow her to escape from his gaze.

"Giordan," she replied in a voice as cool as her icy-sea eyes. An ink-black coil of hair clung to her temple as if it had been smashed there by the heavy hat.

For a moment, he wavered-the darkness, the loathing and disgust, shimmering, threatening to drop like a heavy curtain-but it was just an instant of madness. He recovered himself. "And so you have found your escape at last. My felicitations. I hope it is all that you've dreamed."

Ah, his tones were so easy, so casual and absent of irony, devoid of the shame and anger he felt. The humiliation. They were so loose, unlike his twisting insides, unlike the impossibly tight curling of his fingers.

"It is," she replied in a matching tone. It was as if they'd settled at a cafe and discussed the weather over coffee and tea whilst overlooking the Palais Gallery.

He made certain he showed no hint of the bloodlust that simmered beneath his skin, throbbing, dark and hot and suddenly insistent.

"My only regret," she said, still looking up at him with eyes as emotionless as a pair of black-mounted amethysts, "is that Cezar still lives."

"What is this?" Giordan responded lightly, oh, yes, still so lightly despite the heaviness threatening his mood. "Your vampire hunter could not complete the task?" Faint surprise and polite regret tinged his words. "I was under the impression that he traveled to Paris for that purpose only."

"Alas, no, for when he found there was a choice between having Cezar and protecting my well-being...well, of course you see how that turned out."

Direct and sharp, her words and meaning stabbed him deeply. And twisted, as if the blade was in his entrails, raking a cross through his insides in the manner of the Japanese seppuku.

Nevertheless, he kept his expression emotionless. "If only it were always so simple," was all he replied.

"Narcise." Woodmore's smooth voice interrupted from behind them.

"Chas," she said, brushing rapidly past Giordan as if he were a Corinthian column. The scent of her relief swamped him.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting. My sisters are a bit over-set," said Woodmore, looking down at Narcise and then at Giordan. Comprehension shone in his dark Gypsy eyes. "And Corvindale is fairly apoplectic that Voss has been inside Blackmont Hall."

"Not to mention the fact that his entire household has been upended," Giordan replied with a faint tinge of malice. "For the foreseeable future. I cannot say I blame him."

Woodmore continued to look at him with cool challenge and the faintest of complacence. If the vampire hunter hadn't known before, he knew now at least something of the history between him and Narcise. But if he was under the impression that Giordan would be competition for him, he was sadly mistaken.

"Indeed, and my sisters are just as disrupted. Thus, the first thing to appease everyone-including me-is to find Voss and take care of him. I don't want him anywhere near my sister. Then we can leave London." He looked at Narcise. "And go someplace where you'll be safe."

Corvindale returned at that moment. "Are you leaving now? Excellent. Good night." His expression and tone left no room for further conversation, and giving Giordan a wry look, Woodmore gestured for Narcise to start down the corridor.

"We are gone, then," he said. "Dawn is almost here. I'll see what sign I can find of Voss while the sun is up. Look for word from me in the afternoon. If luck is with me, I'll find the bastard and stake him in his sleep."

"By the Fates, you look as if you need a drink," Dimitri said to Giordan as soon as they were gone. "The Devil knows I do. Bloody damned women."

By Luce's dark soul, it wasn't a drink he needed. "No," Giordan said. "I'll take my leave before the sun is up."

And he followed Woodmore and Narcise's path down the hall, inhaling her essence in his wake.

No, indeed. It wasn't a damn drink he craved.

"You aren't truly going."

Chas paused in his packing to look up at the tone of accusation in Narcise's voice.

"Of course I'm going," he replied firmly, shoving a trio of stakes into his leather sack. "She's my sister, Narcise. Do you think I would leave her safety up to chance? Especially with Voss?"

Two weeks after their gathering in Dimitri's study, Angelica had been abducted by Belial. According to Voss-who'd seemed unaccountably concerned-she was being taken to Paris to be delivered to Cezar.

The other vampire had been convincing in his argument that he, Voss, should be the one to go after her and bring her home, despite the fact that Angelica's own brother was a vampir hunter. And though even Dimitri's stubborn opinion had been swayed by Voss's points, Chas wasn't about to sit on his hands while his sister's fate was in the hands of a bloody damned vampire.

Especially one who'd already attacked her once. And who'd sneaked into her chamber and done God knew what else while she was under his thrall.

He shoved a clean shirt into the pack with more violence than necessary. The only reason Voss wasn't dead right now was that he'd been wearing protective armor when Chas had seen him last, when he'd come to White's club to deliver the news that Angelica was on her way to Paris. And because the damned man was right-he could gain access to Cezar.

"But Voss is smart enough, and Cezar likes him because he always has information he wants." Narcise argued the same points that had been made previously. "For sale, of course. He won't be suspicious of him, so Voss will have no problem getting in. And with those smoke-cloud packets you gave him, he'll have an easy way to escape."

Chas stopped and gave her a hard look. "I don't want him anywhere near my sister. Not only do I not trust him, not only have I heard legend upon legend of him ruining women, but he is also a Dracule."

The moment those words slipped from his mouth, Chas regretted them. Not the sentiment of course, but the way he'd expressed it, for Narcise's beautiful face blanched.

"And so you can commingle with we Dracule, we damned and damaged demons...but not your sister."

Her words were bitter, and Chas felt a wave of self-disgust-for the memory of himself panting beneath her, blind with need, ensorcelled by her texture, taste and scent...and begging for her to tear into him with her fangs...burned tauntingly in his mind.

And yet...it was no mere lust that drove him. There was something much deeper in his heart. If only he could reconcile it with who she was: immortal, damaged and bound to a demon.

"Blast it, no, Narcise." He shoved his fingers through his hair and resisted the urge to throw something. "It's different for her than for me. I understand what I-I understand what it's like." He'd been hunting the creatures for years. He knew their faults, their weaknesses. Their pure center of self.

He fully comprehended what he was doing to himself by being with one. Unlike his naive sister.

"Well, Chas, I suggest you begin to help her understand. Because from the way she was acting that night in Dimitri's study, I wouldn't be surprised if Angelica was in love with Voss. And she doesn't know what to do about it. She probably doesn't even realize it."

Over my bloody damned dead body.

"Never," he snapped, yanking up his satchel. By God, he'd never wish such a thing on his sister: to be in love with one of these warped-souled beings. It was an untenable hell of its own. "And even if she fancies herself in love with him, I won't permit it. I'll kill him first."

"I'll come with you, Chas," she said, standing in a swirl of dark hair and smooth slide of her pale gown.

"Don't be a fool," he said, his voice softening. "You can't allow yourself anywhere near Cezar. Paris might be a big city, but you know as well as I do that he has spies and makes everywhere. I won't risk you, Narcise."

"It was almost impossible for us to leave Paris safely the last time," Narcise was arguing. "Cezar still has makes and mortal soldiers watching for us everywhere...you know it. You'll never get out of the city again, with or without Angelica. Let alone into Cezar's place."

Chas wondered whether she was more terrified that he was leaving her alone, or that he might not come back.

Or that she might have to see Giordan Cale again.

He reminded her, "But the last time you were with me, and he was searching for you-"

"But, Chas..."

"And aside of that, Cezar would see me. You know that for certain. He'd be delighted to welcome me back into his lair."

He didn't understand why she was being so unreasonable...so uncharacteristically weak. Narcise was the strongest woman he'd ever known-how else could she have survived her years of captivity with her brother?

Surely it wasn't just that she was frightened of being left in London. A little niggle of certainty wormed into the back of his mind and he thrust it away. No. Surely whatever had been between her and Cale was truly over and done with. The hatred between them had rolled off in palpable waves.

Between Dimitri and Rubey, who was intimate with Cale, he would find out what their history was.

"Chas, please," Narcise begged, and a wave of anger rushed through him.

"Don't insult me by implying your brother is more than a match for me," he said flatly. "If we knew what his Asthenia was, I'd have brought it to him long ago." Even as he said these words, he realized the argument was weak. But he didn't have a choice. Angelica was in danger, and he wasn't about to sit back and place her safety in Voss's hands.

And if he had the time to go to Scotland, to visit Sonia and beg her to help him one more time, Chas could learn what Cezar's Asthenia was. While Angelica had visions of people in their moment of death, their youngest sister had a different gift. She was able to see what a person feared the most-and for the Dracule, it was the Asthenia.

Chas had used Sonia more than once in the past to help him learn the specific weakness of a vampire he was hunting, but once she learned why he was asking for her help, she'd refused to be part of it. "Neither of us have the right to make such judgment," she'd told him piously.

"But you've been given a gift...and so have I," he'd argued back. "We're meant to use them."

"No," she'd said...and he'd recognized fear lurking in her eyes.

But he was certain she'd help him this time-to find Cezar's weakness, knowing that their sister's safety was at stake...yet, there was no time now. He'd have to trust Voss to carry out their plan and free Angelica...and as soon as he could, Chas would relieve his sister from the vampire's presence.

And then he'd kill Voss.

Chas looked at Narcise, filling his eyes with her. He never tired of her beauty, he never lost the awe he felt when he looked upon her perfection, and although it was blasphemy-terrible, shameful blasphemy-he thought what a boon it was that Lucifer had turned her immortal. That her looks would never fade, that her face and figure would never age.

It would have been a shame to lose such exquisiteness. Such artistry.

"You'll be safe here, Narcise," Chas said, gesturing to the stone walls around them. The quarters he'd prepared for her were in the cellar of an old monastery ruin.

Perhaps two years ago, he'd flushed out and chased away a group of made vampirs who'd used the place as a haven. The only access to the cellar was through an old wall in a cemetery that sat on one of the hills on the outskirts of London, and the entrance was well-hidden. Aside of that, there was a barrier of crosses and other religious markings that would keep vampires away-with only one secret passage through which one might manage to gain access. He'd had to help Narcise across that threshold in order to be safely contained, and it had been some time until she regained her full strength.

Thus, he knew she'd be safe here. Not only did Narcise, armed with her saber and vampire strength, know how to take care of herself-but no one would find her or cross over into the place...unless Chas wanted them to.

He drank in the sight of her again and felt something painful twist deeply inside him. He would return to her. And he'd find some way to manage loving an immortal with a warped soul.

"You'll be safe here, Narcise. He won't find you, and then when I get back we'll go to Wales."

"Very well," she acceded. Her gaze settled on him and he recognized a tinge of fear...and something softening her eyes.

His heart tripped and a wave of desire and uncertainty rushed over him. He would come back. But would she still be here?

Chas dropped his satchel and went to her, striding across the room and pushing her back against the rough wall. He took her mouth, covering her lips with his in a deep, needy kiss.

Sweet and warm and lush, she melted against him, her fingers cupping the back of his head, pulling him down into her. Chas closed his eyes, memorizing her, feeling every curve and rise of her body printed against his. I love you.

"Be safe," she breathed as he pulled away to catch a breath, staggered by the force of his emotions. "Come back to me." She reached up to touch his face, her fingers gentle along his jaw, brushing his hair back.

A ripple of fear shimmered in his middle. "I'm in love with you, Narcise. Make no mistake...I'll return. But..." he said, all at once knowing what he had to do. Knowing he had to take the chance. He had to know. "While I'm gone, you have other things to attend to."

Narcise blinked, her eyes wary and confused.

"Do what you must do," he said steadily, trying not to think of what could happen, "to let go of the past. Otherwise..." His lips tightened. "I love you, but I won't wait for you to come to love me."

No. She had to free her heart from whatever kept it locked up, away from him. And then...somehow, he'd figure out a way for them to be together.

A vampire hunter and an immortal woman with a warped soul.

As he caught up his satchel and swept from the chamber, her last words followed him. "I can't lose you, Chas." She wouldn't.

But how would he go on if he lost her?