The Vampire Narcise

Narcise curled her fingers around the slender grip of her saber and steadied her breathing. Her fangs had sprung free, filling her mouth.

Her opponent leered at her, his own fangs thrusting long and bold as he lifted his own blade. Its silver gleamed red-orange in the low candlelight that danced around the edges of the chamber. The man was taller than Narcise, and much stronger, and thus he was certain he'd take her down.

That bravado, that certainty, was apparent in the haughty glint of his burning red eyes, the swagger in his step, and the ready bulge behind the flap of his trousers.

He wasn't fighting for his sanity.

But Narcise was fighting for hers.

She wore her hair scraped back in a tight knot to keep it from flying into her face. Her clothing was nothing more than a short, tight tunic that bound her breasts close, along with slim-fitting trousers. They allowed her not only freedom of movement, but also provided nothing loose or flowing for her partner to grab on to. Her feet were bare.

She started it, knowing her best chance was to take him off guard and to keep him that way. She rushed toward him, then feinted nimbly to the right as he lunged awkwardly and swiped his sword through empty air.

She heard the little gasp of anticipation for a good fight. It came from the spectators sitting just above them in the balcony, but Narcise spared no attention for her brother Cezar and his companions. She fought for the right to leave this chamber alone tonight, to be sent to her private room unaccompanied and untouched...instead of with the man who now spun on his feet and leaped back toward her.

Her lips closed around her fangs, she pivoted and ducked beneath the swing of sword blade. She felt the heat of her own eyes, burning with fury and intent, and knew they glowed just as red-gold as the candles studding the walls and the blaze of fire in the corner. Blood rushed and pounded in her veins, her body's reaction to the desperation and fear she tried to quell.

Her opponent grinned as he vaulted over the table after her, his feet landing heavily on the stone floor on the other side. There were two chairs in the space as well, and a tray of food and wine that wouldn't get eaten--for Cezar liked to set the scene. It wasn't merely a battle, like that of the Roman gladiators, where the fighters were released into the arena. No, he had to make a story around it, create a setting.

It enhanced the pleasure of watching his sister fight for the right to sleep alone that night.

Narcise felt the stone wall behind her, and a flicker of fear as her attacker stepped closer, blocking her view of the space behind him with his bulk. He grinned down at her, his fangs glinting and his lips wet and full. Her mouth dried and she fiercely drove the apprehension back.

I will not yield.