"My sister, Narcise," Moldavi murmured. He gestured to their empty cups on the table, and his steward moved quickly to fill them.
Giordan realized his breathing had ground to a halt and he reminded himself that, even though a vampire couldn't die from suffocation, one did have to breathe or become weakened.
She was lovely. Incredibly lovely.
He'd heard about her, of course. Who hadn't? Rumor had it that Cezar Moldavi's sister was bait, a tool, and even a bargaining chip for her brother. But Giordan, who'd met-and had-many lovely and exotic women during his travels hadn't expected to be so thoroughly entranced, and from a distance.
From his seat on the dais, Giordan studied her, attempting to be objective. And yet, one could be objective and still describe her as the most beautiful woman one had ever seen.
She was tall for a woman, and her rich, black hair was pulled into a large, tight knot at her nape. Her skin glowed like a pearl; it was fair and yet rosy luminous. He caught a brief glimpse of startling blue eyes that tended toward the violet end of the spectrum. They were outlined by dark lashes that made it appear as if she wore liner, as the Egyptians had to emphasize their eyes. But for her, it was a natural occurrence, and such artifice would be unnecessary.
And her face... Her features were incredibly perfect, magnificent really, with a lush, dark pink mouth and a straight, delicately formed nose.
If her face was exquisite, one could hardly expect that her figure would match it with such perfection...but it did. And the clothing she wore, unusual garb that clung to every curve, including her bound br**sts, displayed the fact that Narcise Moldavi was this millennia's Helen of Troy: the face and figure that could launch a thousand ships.
The only element marring the perfection of countenance and form was the dull fog that veiled her expression, clouded her eyes. She was an empty doll, an emotionless puppet.
So distracted by his examination of her figure was he that Giordan didn't listen to the short commands given by his host, nor did he notice at first when another man joined them in the room.
But then he saw. Her opponent appeared larger and stronger than she, and like Narcise, he carried a deadly sword. But his was a broadsword, dual-edged, and heavier than her more elegant weapon. For the first time, Giordan understood that this was no simple fencing bout with foiled blades.
He turned to his host, intending to ask-and demand, if necessary-not to observe such an unmatched battle, but Cezar made an abrupt gesture. "Watch," he said. And then to the rivals, who stood mere feet away from the raised table, he said, "To the death."
Giordan stifled a reflexive response, and felt his muscles ready themselves to interfere if it became necessary. And surely it would.
Even the fierce expression that transformed Narcise's face didn't ease his concern, yet the change in her countenance Giordan found fascinating and quite striking. Her eyes flashed with loathing and determination, but she appeared so slight and much too elegant next to her burly rival.
And when she whirled into action, all taut grace and feline movement, Giordan's breath caught yet again. He was alternately entranced and tense, watching and waiting like a parent seeing their child make a jump on horseback for the first time.
Her dark hair gleamed in the light flickering from the sconces studding the walls, her slender arms were quick, and her teeth, fangs extended, were bared with ferocity. But her eyes did not burn red, and she seemed calm. Very much in control.
Giordan watched closely, his concern easing, as he saw her weight shift on her feet, and how she changed her center of balance to launch herself smoothly over one of the chairs, then used her momentum to fling that very chair back toward her rival. Admiration grew as he noted her employment of excellent fencing technique while moving her body in a more forceful, combative fashion than such an activity normally required.
He almost missed the nearly imperceptible circle made by her wrist in a counterparry, which might have caught him off guard if he'd been her opponent. Pursing his lips, Giordan's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward to watch more closely, trying to understand her strategy. This was most certainly not a fencing match, with parries and ripostes and the formal dance of back and forth and lunge...and yet she went through those motions like an expert.
And then...she ducked nimbly beneath her lumbering opponent's arm, spun around behind him, sliced her saber down the back of his shirt and then met his blade as he twisted and swooped toward her with a great, ringing clash of metal.
The clang reverberated in the close room, followed by the slide of metal against metal. Then once again, she stepped out of the routine and somersaulted away as the man, now obviously frustrated by his lack of progress, lunged for her.
After that, the neat fencing bout deteriorated into a battle-field matchup of two lethal weapons. Giordan felt his arms tense once again, readying to interfere, and he spared a glance toward Moldavi. But his host was watching him, as if to gauge his guest's reaction to the battle, his gaze contemplative and yet hooded.
As their eyes met, Moldavi raised his glass and sipped, then slid his attention to the battle beyond.
Giordan's attention returned as well, just in time to see Narcise rise up to make a perfect arc on her feet, her blade free and ready, and in one burst of speed, she clove the head from her opponent in a powerful stroke.
She completed her turn, then stood, her slender back toward Giordan and her brother as she wiped her sword. The back of her shirt clung damply to her lower back, but not one strand of inky hair had escaped from its fat knot. Nor did her shoulders or arms seem to be moving with labored breaths.
She never looked back at them as she replaced her saber in its scabbard and stood, waiting.
Giordan was about to speak when a door opened and two large men-vampires-walked in. As he watched in astonishment and growing revulsion, they flanked and escorted Narcise from the chamber.
She never once acknowledged Giordan or her brother, a fact which both fascinated and irked him.
At that moment, Giordan decided that he might indeed continue discussing his next Far Eastern spice ship with Cezar Moldavi.
Giordan's private club and residence in Paris was what he thought of as his flagship establishment. Everything from the women and other entertainment, to the wine and liquor, and the other vintages, exuded luxury, pleasure and perfect taste. But of course, it was also ridiculously expensive. And every night, and through much of the day, Draculean patrons-along with a limited cadre of mortals-filled the seats and clustered around illegal gaming tables. For despite what the city's residents had begun to call the Reign of Terror, life-and business-did go on.