Chas opened his eyes to find bright sunlight blazing through a half-shuttered window.

He lay there for a moment, looking up at the wood-beamed ceiling festooned with random cobwebs, then off to the side and around an unfamiliar chamber. He couldn't remember where he was or how he'd come to be here.

Yet, shifting in the bed on which he lay, Chas felt hardly a niggle of concern. There'd been many a night that had taken him places he hadn't expected to go; many times he'd awakened after too much drink or women or both...quite often after routing a group of vampirs.

But as he turned, he saw her, lying on her side on the bed next to him. And with that sight came the rush of memories-some strident and clear, others murky and hot and red.

But first, before he tried to make sense of what was real and what had been dreams...he just looked. Such beauty, such exquisite beauty was breathtaking. Even in repose, she appeared unimaginably lovely.

Her cheek, perfectly ivory, without a flaw, rested on hands folded as if in prayer-an irony in and of itself. The position caused her already full, sensual lips to plump out even more enticingly, and an endearing pudge to her face. Her eyes were closed of course, but that was one thing he remembered clearly: the intense blue-violet color in them, ringed with black, flecked with dark colors.

Long, shiny hair, the color of coal, clung to her face and throat, tumbling into a pool on the bed between them. He reached over and touched it to see if it was as silky as it appeared. It was.

He could see the shadow of her breasts where they showed through a low neckline of the chemise she was wearing, the curve of them as they bunched up against the mattress. A ripple of attraction seized his belly, but he ignored it.

This was Narcise Moldavi.

He was in bed with a vampir-and one he'd meant to kill, at least at some point.

Chas sat up gingerly, noting that Narcise slept on the side of the bed farthest from where the sun would stream through the window, and felt the remnants of aches and pains throughout his body. His naked body.

With that realization of pain, more details came filtering back...Cezar Moldavi and his metal spikes and the burning poker...the fencing match between him and Narcise...the smoke packets that had worked almost as well as they had during their trials...perhaps they'd gotten a bit damp during the trip across the Channel.

Things were murky after that. He remembered everything being slow and dark and red, of pain and agony with every movement, the world tilting and spinning. There were times of running, stumbling along as if forever and ever...up some stairs...

Here. Into this chamber.

There things turned darker and hotter, and memory confused with dreams and nightmares. He closed his eyes and saw an image of Narcise, rising naked and glistening from a bath...there, in the corner...of her with eyes red-gold and hot, her fangs long and white and lethal...blood...there was blood and pain, and he had an image of her on top of someone, tearing into him...

Narcise stirred next to him and then she opened her eyes.

When she saw that he was awake, she sat up abruptly. "You're alive." Her eyes were wide with shock and happiness, making her even more beautiful with her dark hair swirling about her shoulders against a thin white shift.

Chas felt another loosening inside his belly, deep and fluttery. She was right there, she was lovely and sensual and they were alone. He wasn't so weak that he couldn't reach over, pull her to him-

He closed his mind to the temptation. She was a vampir. She'd coerce, coax, lull...seduce him...drag him into the Devil's dark world.

"I don't remember much," he said.

"You nearly died," she said. "From an infection. The doctor came, more than once, but he wasn't certain if you'd live."

Chas sank down onto his back, remembering even more. The screaming pain on his side, the cool, quick hands administering to his wounds, the haze of heat and confusion that followed, Narcise... He stopped his thoughts, afraid of where they were about to lead. It was impossible not to be attracted to her.

He tightened his lips. That was Lucifer's game, wasn't it? She was irresistible for a reason.

"What day is it? How long have I-we-been here?" he asked instead.

"Nearly a week," she told him.

"A week?" Shock and concern almost had him sitting up again. "It's been a week since we left your brother?"

Narcise nodded.

Good Christ, Corvindale was going to be furious. Surely by now Maia had followed instructions-reluctantly of course-and contacted him about Chas's disappearance.

He turned his gaze back to hers. "You stayed here with me?" he asked.

"Of course. I wasn't going to let you die." She frowned irritably. "I'm not my brother."

An image of Narcise, bending over him, her slender hands on his skin, flashed into his mind with sudden clarity. Bending over him, near his-

Despite his lingering weakness and the raw pounding in his head, he sat up abruptly, yanking the coverings away from his right hip, knowing what he would find....

"What have you done to me?" he demanded, staring at the four neat little marks on his flesh. Repugnance and fury rushed over him as his belly tightened and fluttered. He stared at her, not trying to hide his revulsion. "You dared?"

Her eyes had widened again, then returned to normal. She tightened her full lips and lifted her chin defiantly. "The infected wound wasn't healing, and the doctor could do nothing more for you. There is something in the saliva of a Dracule that promotes healing, and so I thought to help you by applying it."

Chas heard what she was saying, but it took a moment for her meaning to penetrate the fury. "There are bitemarks," he said, still angry...feeling violated and unsettled, particularly by the sordid image that went along with the knowledge. Narcise, bending to him...her sensual lips closing intimately over his skin, the pain of penetration, but the release from swollen veins...nausea mixed with that shiver of lust, deep in his belly, and Chas swallowed hard.

This is what they do. They enthrall. And lure.

"I hoped that drawing out the poison, whatever was infecting you, removing it from your body, would help, along with my saliva. Whatever it was, it worked to keep you alive."

He looked away, his heart beating too hard, his fingers curling into the blanket. "I'm finding it difficult to be grateful," he managed to say. "But I suppose I must be."

She'd withdrawn from the bed in the face of his blatant anger, and now she looked at him from where she stood on the other side. "At least you're honest," she replied, and turned her back to him.

As he watched, at once struck by the intimacy of sharing this space with a woman he mistrusted, reviled and yet desired, she began to braid the inky waterfall of her hair.

"Did you enthrall me?" he asked, lifting his head, still on edge and furious as he watched her slender shoulders and the delicate edge of her shoulder blades through the thin chemise. She had sleek and elegantly muscled arms, unlike any he'd ever seen on a woman, and he could see the roundness of her buttocks, the curve of her hips. He hated that he wanted her, that his body was changing and responding to her mere presence.

Narcise had stilled at his question, then turned slowly back to face him...so slowly, it was as if she were in agony. "Did I enthrall a helpless man? An unwilling one?" Her deep blue eyes were both fierce with rage and awash with pain. "If you knew what I've lived through, how I've been violated over decades of captivity, you would never have asked such a question."

Chas felt as if he'd been struck, and he let his head fall back onto the pillow. Mortification and shame warred with that lingering revulsion and distrust, and he stared at the ceiling, utterly aware of her, knowing he'd wounded her deeply...asking himself why he cared.

She was a vampir. A handmaiden of the Devil. One of a race who preyed on living creatures and took from them, who'd given their souls for immortality, power, money...vanity. The very act of their feeding was an inherent violation of life and liberty. They were conscienceless, depraved, self-centered creatures, with Corvindale being the only real exception he had encountered-the only one who didn't find it agreeable to feed on living humans.

Chas had been gifted with the ability to sense, stalk and slay these creatures-he knew there was a reason he had. That he was meant to do this as surely as a priest was meant to consecrate the hosts. But.

Narcise had finished her braiding in silence and now she walked over to the single chair on the other side of the chamber. Chas noticed how she avoided the sunlight spilling through the window, but that she looked at it with longing.

Yes. These were creatures who'd given up the light to live in darkness. And sometimes, they regretted it.

"What do you plan to do next?" she asked.

"I need clothing and food," he replied, "and then I must send word back to London. To my sisters."

"London. Is that where Dimitri is? I'd like to find him, and see if he would...well, I know he and my brother are sworn enemies. And I hope that he might help me."

"Corvindale? He might be willing to be of assistance. I suppose you want me to bring you to him."

Her expression, which had been taut with anger and hurt, lightened. "Is it possible? To get to London, through the blockade?"

He had a mild wave of surprise that she would even be aware of the war between England and France, but then he recalled who her brother's companion was. Surely even Narcise had been privy to some of the political discussions between Bonaparte and Cezar. "Yes, but it will take some preparation."

It could be a fortnight or more, and all the while, Corvindale would be saddled with Maia and Angelica. Chas would never hear the end of it.

Then a terrible thought struck him, turning him ice-cold. Moldavi would want revenge on him for escaping, and for taking Narcise with him. And the first place he'd look to do it would be with Maia and Angelica.

He was up and out of bed in an instant. "Where are my clothes? My breeches? My shoes?" He must send word to Corvindale, at least, that the girls would be in danger. The room tilted but he didn't care.

"They're gone. You only had your breeches, and they were so-"

"I need something, I must get word back to London." He looked around the chamber as if expecting clothing to materialize.

She'd risen from the chair and before he'd even taken a step, she was handing him a neatly folded pile. "You didn't allow me to finish. I was able to obtain clean clothing for you."

Chas took them silently. If he weren't so intent on getting out of the inn to see to business, he might have been chastened by her tone. But he couldn't worry about that now. Moldavi had had a week. A week. Through his alliance with Bonaparte, he could have sent people after Maia and Angelica already, crossing through the blockade.

His knees wobbled a bit as he drew on the breeches, but Chas ignored it. There'd be time for weakness later. The shirt fit well, but the boots were a bit tight-although certainly adequate. As soon as he was dressed, he started for the door...then stopped, with his hand on the knob as he turned back to Narcise.

"I'll be back as soon as I can. I trust...I trust you'll be well alone here?"

She lifted her brows in a wry expression. "I've been alone for the last week, Woodmore. I suspect I'll do just fine in your absence."

Narcise wasn't at all oblivious to Chas Woodmore's revulsion toward her. She didn't completely understand it, but it gave her a sort of comfort, knowing that he wasn't about to force himself on her.

Or try to, anyway.

She had no worries about protecting herself from him. Aside of the fact that he was still weak enough to be wavering while on his feet, she was also, of course, stronger and faster than he was even in his prime. Nor did he seem inclined to attempt to slay her, either...although she wasn't completely certain he wouldn't try.

The last week of tending to him, however, had helped to ease Narcise into her new life: a life where she was beholden to no one, a life where she made her own decisions, procured her own nourishment, clothing and even drawing supplies.

Nevertheless, she was never wholly comfortable leaving the public house-especially at night, when she knew Cezar or his makes could be out looking for her. She'd become adept at enthralling mortals to gain whatever it was she needed: pencils and paper, a pouch of sous or livres, clothing for herself or Chas...even a full, hot vein on which to feed.

Philippe had visited her chamber more than once. She wasn't certain if it was coincidence that he was always the one to bring new water for the bath, or whether he sensed that there was a reason he was drawn to this particular chamber.

Until now, Narcise had always approached feeding as some necessary evil akin to submitting to her brother's friends. A mortal was brought to her, and she fed. Or, during the span of months when she attempted to starve herself rather than submit to Cezar, a jug of fresh blood was forced down her throat.

There was a residual layer of eroticism that always aroused her when she was in such an intimate situation, but it never required satiation-at least on her part.

Philippe seemed eager enough, and more than once during the three times she'd enthralled him had he managed to get himself-or herself-half unclothed. There were moments when she nearly allowed herself to finish what they, or more accurately, their bodies, obviously both wanted...but she never could succumb so far.

For decades, she'd protected her emotions and her heart-not to mention her mind-by separating herself from the reaction of her body and keeping all but the physical response locked deeply away. She was fully aware of that, cognizant of that steely control.

The one chink in that armor had come with Giordan, and since then, she'd melded it back together so tightly she suspected it would never soften again.

Now that she was free of Cezar, however, Narcise realized there could be a chance for her to open herself again. And after ten years, she hadn't forgotten nor forgiven Giordan. No, in fact she burned with revulsion and loathing for him...but she remembered how it had felt to be awakened. Not with malice or control, or even by reflex.

But with love and affection.

Neither of which, of course, young Philippe possessed toward her-but at least he had no malice or control.

Or so she was thinking as his insistent hand slipped beneath the hem of her chemise. Her fangs pulled free from his flesh and he tried to find her mouth, desperate for a kiss, but she refused, nipping instead at his ear and feeling his cock slide against her belly through layers of cloth. "S'il...vous plait," he whispered thickly, and when she pulled away, he frowned petulantly.

Narcise shook her head, looking into his glazed eyes, knowing that he didn't truly know what he was doing-or wanting-any more than she ever had during those dark nights in The Chamber.

She released him, pulled him free from her thrall and from her arms, and was just stepping back when she heard the doorknob rattle.

Philippe was still too numb and slow to react, or even to understand what was happening, but Narcise knew, and she turned away an instant before the door opened. Chas swept into the chamber in the dark swirling scents of wine and power.

Later, she never fully understood why she felt the need to try to hide what had been going on-but it didn't matter. Chas's eyes flashed to her and then around the chamber. The expression on his face spoke clearly of his disgust and aversion.

"Leave," he snapped at Philippe, the poor confused boy, who stumbled awkwardly from the room with, Narcise knew, half-formed memories of a very intimate situation.

She had a moment to wonder briefly if he'd ever come back, but then irritation and affront spurred her to face Chas. "If you're afraid your sensibilities will be offended, perhaps you should knock the next time you decide to enter."

"Perhaps it would be best if you found another place to...do...that. I don't wish to be any sort of party to your depravity." His eyes flashed with that cold loathing...yet Narcise felt a shifting in his breathing, an awkwardness in his heartbeat. He strode across the chamber, much steadier on his feet than he had been when he left. She scented food along with the heavy weight of wine, tobacco and smoke, and realized he must have eaten belowstairs. And, from the smell of it, drank quite a bit of wine.

She knew her fangs were still slightly extended, and that her eyes had just banked from their burning glow, but she turned away.

"I have no choice," she said. "If I don't feed regularly, then it becomes more difficult for me to control my..." She bit her lip, her cheeks warming.

He'd walked over to the window and snapped the shutters closed, as if shutting out the cool night air would cleanse the room of tension. In fact, it did just the opposite-trapped the scent of blood and wine and musk, and of Chas Wood-more and his energy, his nobility, all the more tightly into the chamber.

Narcise felt a stirring low in her belly, a little flutter that she hardly recognized. No. Not him.

She turned, fighting to pull her fangs back into place. Perhaps she should leave. The sun had nearly set. She could do what she needed to do away from his judgmental, greedy eyes.

"Word is out that we've escaped from your brother," Chas said flatly. "Not only does he have his makes pouring through the streets and along the Palais searching for us, but because of Bonaparte, he's got the soldiers on the watch during the day."

A tremor of fear shivered in her belly. "Are we trapped? Will they find us?"

"Of course we aren't trapped," he replied, disdain replacing revulsion. She found she preferred that reaction to the disgust in his face. "I can get us out of Paris and across the Channel, but it will take more planning than I'd anticipated." His face turned expressionless and his eyes skirted away. "We'll have to stay here for a few days longer."

Narcise nodded. A bolt of relief that he didn't intend to leave her alone made her smile a bit and relax. She wasn't quite ready to be completely on her own yet, particularly in the same city where her brother lived.

There was still that blind fear of being found, and dragged back to his chilly, dark chambers. "Did you send word to Dimitri?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "How will you get a message through the blockade?"

"We have several methods of communication. In this case, I used a blood pigeon, which navigates across land and sea, and will find the particular person to whom it's trained to scent by following his or her blood."

"It smells Dimitri's blood from London all the way here?"

"No, no. We have many pigeons cloistered about the city, and they each have a location to which they fly, or return home. Once in the vicinity of its home area, the bird will scent the blood and go directly to its master, wherever he is." Chas had taken a seat in the chair. He rested his elbow on the table next to him and turned up the gas lamp for the darkening room.

"You're very concerned about your sisters," she said, wondering what it would be like to have a brother like Chas Woodmore instead of Cezar Moldavi.

"Our parents died more than ten years ago, and since then it's been just the four of us. We're very close, of course, but I travel a lot, and so they are often left to their own devices under the watchful eye of their chaperone. But I miss them always, for each of them is so different."

"Tell me about them. I've heard rumors...your family is quite special, isn't it? You have what is called the Sight?"

"Thanks in part to my great-great-grandmother, who fell in love with her late husband's groom. He was a Gypsy and since she'd already been married once according to her father's wishes, now that she was a widow she decided she'd wed whoever she wanted. And so she married her groom. Her great-granddaughter, my Granny Grapes, used to tell us stories about vampirs when we were younger."

"That's why you are so successful with hunting the Dracule. Who could be better than one whose family comes from Romania? How did you ever decide that it was important to seek us out and kill the vampirs?"

Chas rose abruptly and walked to the bellpull, ringing it sharply. "Forgive me, but it seems odd to be talking about such things with you."

"Because you're sworn to kill me? But you haven't. In fact, you helped me. Perhaps you aren't such a merciless hunter after all."

He looked at her suddenly over his shoulder. "Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am only now planning how to slam a stake into you, pinning you to the bed." His eyes were dark and glittering. And that was when she realized how very drunk he was. "Or perhaps there are other thoughts weighing on my mind."

Narcise's breath clogged and a sharp spear of desire shot through her belly. Her first reaction wasn't revulsion, however. And that frightened her nearly as much as the thought of being taken back to Cezar.

She was saved from replying by a knock at the door, and as Chas was speaking sharply to whoever had come, she went over and opened the shutters again. Drinking in the cooling air, scenting the chill breeze wafting from the Seine, mixing with smoke and trash and stewing meat, she looked out over the street below.

What if Cezar was out there, right now, looking for her? What if he looked up and saw her peeping down at him? Or across the way-there were windows across the narrow street so close she could jump to them.

Narcise ducked back inside the chamber and realized she and Chas were alone again. "Your sisters? It's said it is they who have the Sight," she said, hoping to keep the conversation light...at least until one of them decided to go to sleep.

"The two younger ones do," Chas replied. "After a fashion." He still stood at the door, now positioned there with his arms folded over his chest. "But Maia, the oldest, who is still younger than I am by nearly ten years, does not. However, she makes up for it by commanding every aspect of everyone's lives in the entire household."

His lips relaxed and nearly eased into a smile-the first one she'd seen on him, it seemed. The effect was very nearly devastating, giving him a soft, sensual look in a highly shadowed face. A dark angel, she thought again-and not in the same way of Lucifer.

"I can hardly imagine how she and Corvindale will get on," Chas continued, the smile going even wider. "For in my extended absence, I've arranged for the earl to attend to them."

"You speak of her with such affection," Narcise said. "My brother cared for me so much that he sent Lucifer to me." She made no effort to hide her hatred and bitterness.

"And so that is how it happened? You blame your brother?" Chas's voice was whip-sharp and filled with judgment.

But Narcise had come to terms with her fallibility long ago. "I blame my brother only for begging Lucifer to turn me Dracule, for sending him to me, but it was of my own will that I agreed to it."

"He came to you in a dream?"

"He came, as I believe he must always do, at a most crucial moment, and yes, in a dream. Where one is the weakest, the most vulnerable to his suggestion. I know of no one who was given the opportunity and who declined the Devil's bargain. If I ever met such a person, I would like to know how he did it."

She closed her eyes for a moment, curling her lips into themselves. "Someone once said to me that I was the strongest person he'd ever met. But by the time I became strong, it was much too late." Her insides heaved at the memory of Giordan-and she locked it back away. "I'd already given my soul."

Someone knocked at the door again, and Chas, who she realized had been waiting for the arrival, opened it. A servant brought in a large jug of ale and two cups, placed them on the table, and left without a word or glance at either of them.

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."