Cezar Moldavi was fully aware of his sister's disappearance, and with whom.
Certainly he was, for he rarely allowed anything out of his control to happen. Those days of being pummeled and pushed and bullied were long behind him. Now, everything he did was carefully planned, every possible outcome examined, accepted or rejected, and Cezar Moldavi had long since destroyed anyone who could remember him as the sniveling, snot-nosed coward he'd once been.
Except for his sister, whom he loved.
And hated.
Despite the stimulation of two lovely mortal women who fondled and stroked and tempted him to feed on them, his mind was elsewhere. He knew precisely when Narcise and Cale left the chamber, how long they were gone and who had fed upon whom by the time they returned.
And although he was disappointed with the turn of events, he'd expected it. It had been one of the possible-and, in fact, most probable-outcomes. He would have liked to have been surprised, but the fact that he wasn't surprised wasn't such a great tragedy, for, again, he'd been prepared.
Cale was a striking, powerful man, absurdly wealthy and well-thought-of in both the Dracule and the mortal worlds. He was used to getting all that he desired.
And so was Cezar.
But then again...nothing had truly happened between Cale and his sister. Cezar could smell it: a brief feeding, nothing more. Narcise would pay for her disobedience...but not in the way she might anticipate.
And that was why Cezar allowed himself to be convinced by Cale's smooth explanations for what had obviously happened. The scent of satiation was everywhere in the chamber, clinging to Narcise; there was no way to hide what had occurred. And so, admirably, Cale didn't attempt to do so.
"And see how I injured myself," he said, gesturing to his wounded arm. "I imposed upon your sister, and was able to convince her to assist me. I'm deeply gratified that she agreed, for I fear my shirtsleeve would have been stained otherwise." His smile was charming, even reaching his eyes. Yet, behind the smile, there was a hint of warning. "And Mingo-you understand how valets can be-would be beside himself."
"Certainly," Cezar replied, approving of the very well-cut lines of the other man's clothing. Not as ostentatious as some of the other high fashion here in Paris, with the brocade cutaway coats of pastel, but nevertheless extremely well-made and perfectly fitted. He must get the name of his tailor. "I'm certain Narcise had no real qualms about assisting our host." His expression and voice were bland, and as he glanced over, he saw the flare of nervousness in her eyes.
Good. But do not expect the sword to drop so soon, my dear sister. I have need of you first.
If nothing else, Cezar Moldavi had learned to plot and plan and manipulate instead of rushing in. And until he got what he wanted from Giordan Cale-which was more than a mere share in his next spice ship to China-he would look aside and allow Narcise to help him.
At the very least, it would provide some very stimulating activity.
Giordan looked out over the glittering lights. There were gently rocking carriage lanterns, and higher, stable street-lights. The glow of oil lamps, from bright yellow to dull amber, shone from unshuttered windows. The City of Light, named for being the center of education and enlightenment since the medieval monks built their narrow streets, was a more apt nickname than most realized.
He was high enough, here on the silent rooftop, that the shouts and cries from below were indiscernible, mingling with the low hoot of owls and the distant rattle of bridles and carriages. Bonfires blazed in red-orange pockets as spectators waited, reserving their places for the morning's executions. Giordan fancied he could even see the wicked gleam of the guillotine blade in its large black frame.
He wondered how long this madness would last, how long the likes of Robespierre and Hebert would escape a similar fate. Giordan had lived more than a hundred years, and one thing he'd come to realize was that fanaticism and violence had a way of turning on to those who wielded them.
A cool breeze ruffled his curls as he lifted a glass to sip his favorite Armagnac. Warm and pungent, the brandy's potency was a different experience than that of the lifeblood he'd enjoyed earlier this evening, courtesy of Damaris. Not for sustenance did he enjoy the liquor, but for pleasure and weight and taste, and the different sort of looseness it gave him.
So it was for the Dracule: when they ate cheese or fruit or pastries, or any sort of food, or partook of wine or ale, it was purely for pleasure. Texture, taste, scent. A reminder of their enjoyment from mortal days, a social activity. But not at all necessary.
He allowed the brandy to settle on his tongue, swirling it thoughtfully in tandem with a myriad of thoughts, a spectrum of emotions. A burst of laughter erupted below, coming from one of his balconies on a lower floor. Ah, good. His guests were enjoying themselves.
What more could a man ask?
Friends, companionship, social engagements... He was rarely alone. He need never be lonely.
Yet...he'd escaped from his own lavish party to find solitude on the private rooftop. Potted lemon and orange trees, surrounded by luminaries, released their scent into the breeze. A long ledge, planted with rosemary and thyme, contained the low bushes as they sprouted fragrantly. There was a bench if he chose to sit, and even a small pit should he wish to burn the neatly tied fagot resting in it. A fat beetle scuttled across the edge of the bench and Giordan smashed it with his boot.
Pity that he could only utilize the space once the sun went down, for he wondered how different Paris would appear in the daylight. What the creamy rows of houses and their peaked roofs would look like, neat and perpendicular and shoved together like rows of pointed teeth, knit together like the patterned stitches of a shawl.
Perhaps if he had such an unobstructed view, he might see La Chapelle-Saint-Denis from here: the place of his origin, of his birth.
Not his literal birth. He wasn't certain where that had been; in the countryside, he suspected. But the place where he'd lived-no, no, where he'd existed. Merely existed.
Those memories still pierced him, still caused his throat to close up. Still, more often than he cared to admit, had him waking, desperate, in the middle of the day, wondering if there would be enough bread for dinner or a place to sleep. Remembering the scrap of wool he tried to huddle beneath during the snows. Fighting off the memory of rough hands and the stink of unwashed men unlacing their breeches, shoving him into dark alleys.
Here he was, rooftops and decades away from those days, from his own Terror.
And, here in Le Marais, only a few streets from a new obsession: Narcise Moldavi.
A shadow moved on an adjacent rooftop across the way, but he'd already sensed the cat. Elegant and slinky, padding four-footed across the ridge, it turned and looked at him with knowing blue-gray eyes. The moon stroked its pale fur with a hint of blue and silver, leaving the creature to look almost luminous.