Clearly Cezar Moldavi had been in his early twenties when he’d been turned Dracule. His facial features and the swarthiness of his skin betrayed a strong Romanian heritage despite an underlying pastiness; in fact, Giordan knew that Moldavi had only permanently left Romania within the last decade, although he’d made extensive trips throughout Europe prior to settling in Paris. His voivodina in Moldavia had been very remote, yet the army within was the most fearsome and powerful in its nation.

He was many pounds lighter than Giordan, and slighter as well, but he had a square jaw that made his face seem oddly proportioned, verging upon awkward. His dark brows hung thick and straight over small blue-gray eyes, and his hair grew unfashionably like a thin walnut cap over his forehead and ears. He had surprisingly elegant hands that were covered in rings, and he was fashionably attired in a long-tailed, cut-away coat of dark red brocade and dun-colored knee breeches. His waistcoat did not stint on color, of course, for dull hues were only for the lower class. Moldavi moved with a barely perceptible limp that had to be from an injury prior to becoming immortal.

“We’ve met, albeit briefly,” Voss, the Viscount Dewhurst said, nodding to the new arrival. His attention strayed, as of course it would, to Narcise.

“Ah, yes,” Moldavi replied, his face flattening in annoyance. His French wasn’t perfect, but certainly serviceable. “In Vienna. On that most unfortunate evening some years ago. If I recall, you left before the fire that destroyed the house, did you not?”