Tonight, her opponent was a “made” vampir, one who’d been turned Dracule by another vampir instead of being invited into the Draculia by Lucifer himself. Narcise wasn’t aware of what he’d done to insult her brother, for, in truth, Cezar could interpret the twitch of an eyelid or a simple cough as an insult. She didn’t particularly care.

Nor did she spare much pity for the man. She couldn’t afford to if she wanted to remain unscathed.

But as she whirled around to face her adversary, readying the saber for its cleaving blow, she glanced over and happened to catch the eye of her brother’s companion. He was watching her intently, and she had the brief impression of a tanned wrist and hand settled with its index finger thoughtfully against his mouth.

She also noticed, in that blink of an eye, that, rather than focusing on her, Cezar sat back in his seat, covertly studying his companion. Without pause, Narcise finished her flowing movement, slicing the head from her opponent with a clean stroke.

Ending with her back toward the dais, and her audience, Narcise remained thus as she wiped her blade with a pristine white tablecloth. Then, with no acknowledgment to her audience, nor to the dead vampir whose damaged soul was filtering permanently down to hell, she stood, waiting for the door to be opened and her guards to appear. Grateful that tonight’s competition had been relatively easy, she slipped the clean saber into its sheath.

She could hear the murmurs from behind her, the slightly sibilant hiss of her brother’s voice, and the answering rumble of his companion, neither of which induced her to acknowledge them. Any intimate of her brother’s was automatically an enemy of hers.

It wasn’t until weeks later that she even learned his name.

Giordan Cale was all about money.

His ability to earn it, find it, inherit it, save it—and then, to multiply it several times over—was what got him into the predicament he was in: an immortal lifetime in which to spend more money than Croesus ever dreamed of.