As he fed, Moldavi watched Chas, his burning red-gold eyes fastened on him as if gauging his response. Chas wanted to look away, but he could not, and he felt his own body begin to stir in response.
No. He tried to force his attention away, but found himself trapped by the hypnotic gaze. The sounds of rushing blood and the quiet kuhn-kuhn-kuhn of Moldavi's drinking filled his ears. Chas knew he was being enthralled, but in his weakened state, he could hardly drag his eyes away. Desire tingled inside him, teasing and coaxing a deeper response and Chas tried to focus on the pain throbbing through him instead.
Moldavi released the pinch of pale flesh between his fangs, lifting his face with a slow smile. Blood stained his gums and the edges of his teeth, and Chas fancied he could even smell it on his breath.
"Very satisfying," Moldavi said, looking at him. "Would you care to sample?" He smoothed his finger over the oozing wounds on the woman's shoulder, offering a red-tipped digit to Chas.
He turned his face away, noting the pillow behind his head. His heart pounded rampantly as his stomach squeezed with queasiness.
"No? Perhaps another time then. I hope you won't think me rude, dining in front of you, but I offered to share, and you declined." Moldavi licked the woman's shoulder, which Chas didn't see, but he could hear the sounds. Sloppy and wet, yet sensual.
He swallowed, his throat prickly and rough. His c**k had begun to fill and he willed it to subside.
"Now," said Moldavi, pulling the woman's hair back over her shoulders, patting it into place and then giving her a sharp gesture to leave, "back to the matter at hand. London...and your informants. I must assume Dimitri has sent you here."
"No one sends me," Chas managed to say, relieved that the feeding was over. The tightness in his belly released just that little bit, and he began to focus on his wrists...if there was anything that might be loose or weak. "I go where I will."
"But it is well known that you and Dimitri-what does he call himself in England? Corvindale?-are associates. I find it unlikely that he hasn't at least encouraged you to find me. There was an incident in Vienna, you see, some years back...and Dimitri hasn't quite gotten over it."
"I needed no encouragement to come after a child-bleeder," Chas told him.
"Oh, who has been telling tales? Tsk." Moldavi stood and turned toward the blazing fire. When he shifted back around, he was holding a slender metal spike, hardly thicker than the tine of a fork. It glowed white-hot for a moment, then settled into red, then black.
A ripple of fear coursed along his spine, and Chas steadied his breath. This is going to be unpleasant.
"Perhaps you might tell me a bit more information about Corvindale. What his recent investments are, perhaps?" Moldavi smiled and that slender spike moved closer to Chas.
He steeled himself, his heart ramming furiously. "I'm not privy to that information," he said.
Moldavi's fingers curled around Chas's immobile arm, the digits ashen in color next to his olive skin. "I'm certain you know something."
Chas shook his head, and groaned at the sharp pain as the spike slid through the soft part of the side of his arm and emerged on the other side. He closed his eyes, shuddering as the little rod burned his flesh, inside and out. Agony reverberated from that center of pain, dulling his thoughts and thickening his mind.
"Perhaps you might know when he is going to leave the country again? I've found it impossible to send anyone inside Blackmont Hall, for he has it well secured. If he travels, it will be much easier for me to...renew old acquaintances."
Through the haze of pain, Chas saw that Moldavi had turned to the fire, and then back again, holding another of the slender metal spikes. "Anything you can tell me will speed things up a bit here," Moldavi said with a smile.
Chas managed to shake his head, and wondered yet again what Narcise had been thinking to say I'll save you. Help me.
The woman was obviously addled, or else she was a consummate actress. Just as unpleasant and self-serving as her brother.
Moldavi pinched a piece of flesh at Chas's side, along his firm belly. "My," he said, his voice shifting lower, "there isn't much here to work with, is there, Woodmore? Nevertheless, I shall prevail."
He looked at his victim and said, "What about Giordan Cale?"
Chas tried to shrug, but feared it came across as more of a convulsion than anything else. He braced himself, but it wasn't enough to prepare for the sharp, searing pain as the thick needle went through the flesh of his abdomen.
"Giordan Cale," said Moldavi again, more urgently. His eyes glittered. "I understand he is in London now. What do you know of him?"
Chas opened his mouth to speak, and perhaps might have said, "Nothing." At least, that was what he attempted to say, but it wasn't the answer Moldavi wanted. A rough jab through his bicep had him jolting and crying out in pain, and then before he could react, a second one in his other bicep. He was pinned to the divan's upholstery.
"Giordan Cale," Moldavi said again. "What is he doing? Where is he? Where does he go?"
"I don't...know...much...." Chas stammered. "Water...?"
Something splashed in his face a moment later, and he choked but licked his lips to get the essence of the water. Before he could fully recover, Moldavi had something else in his hand.
Another metal object, this one with a blunt tip that glowed white-hot. "Tell me everything you know about Giordan Cale. Everything. Everything."
"Why?" he managed to ask. Why this obsession with Cale?
Moldavi's only response was to pull his teeth back in a feral smile and jam the poker into the top of his shoulder.
The smell of burning flesh had Chas arching and twisting in his position, his body fighting the thongs as agony shot through him...from his shoulder, from the back of his knee, from the inside of the crook of his arm...all of it turned white-hot and red as he babbled.
He didn't know what he was saying, but the questions over and over were about Cale, Cale...always about Cale.
At last pain claimed him, and he eased into a world of peace.
When Chas peeled his eyes open next, he could hardly breathe for the pain. Nor could he focus, for the room tilted and spun so violently, he had to close his eyes. But someone was prodding him to move, forcing him to stand, to walk.
Through a haze and with pure determination, he gathered his strength-both mental and physical-and concentrated on moving, thinking, banishing the agony. His eyes opened, his gaze focused, his limbs began to cooperate-if sullenly-and his thoughts cleared...albeit slowly.