Page 118 of Besieger
Emerick’s legs were beginning to give way beneath him and his tongue ran nervously over his fangs. He needed blood, otherwise his body would not withstand another night of Victor’s vigour.
“I would love that, but…” He drew back slightly and the apron slipped to the floor. Victor’s eyes reflected the light, eager and hungry. “I must deny you the pleasure. I need to feed, my love. I need more than a few droplets of blood. You are starving me.”
“Really?” Victor arched an eyebrow and flashed him a lopsided smile. He leaned back on the counter and crossed his arms.
“Yes… Show me some mercy! Let me drink blood from others, please.”
Emerick made a poor attempt at play-acting, he was not good at begging.
“I haven’t changed my mind, Erik. You drink only from me.”
“Then let me take a sip… to replenish my strength.”
“Later… maybe.”
If only Emerick could be allowed to go into town and find a drunk, a lonesome figure, really anyone who crossed his path in the narrow streets of old Tarnovo. He would drink and the salt of the blood would coat his mouth, and he would drink his fill, so that when he came home he could feast again—a meal of a different kind, a carnal dish, a welcome appetiser.
“I have married such a cruel man!” He scoffed and pulled the robe tight around himself, feigning offence. “Had I foreseen that you would become a man so consumed by his own greed, I never would have given you my hand in marriage! Have you always been like this?”
“If I keep feeding this hunger of yours, we will both starve.”
Emerick tsked. There was no winning with this man. Even if Victor consented later tonight, he would give Emerick enough blood only to placate him, not to actually feed him or sate his appetite. A few drops of blood; no more, no less.
STEFAN, 2020
Against his better judgement, Stefan had grown accustomed to having a vampire as a patron. It had been a cruel attempt for a joke on Victor’s part to leave Emerick there during those first months at the Bean, as a means to have him under constant supervision. Emerick could neither eat nor drink, but if he wanted to occupy space Stefan had him order beverage after beverage, using him as a test dummy for the baristas to practise their latte art. Emerick watched Pavel or Vasili pour the steamedmilk and rotate the cup, doing their best at making hearts, flowers and swans. While the vampire paid—and tipped—generously for the wasted coffee Stefan also found ways to make Victor atone for his betrayal of the pack.
“Stop wasting time on pastries and focus on finding us a better roaster.” Irena had tried talking sense into him but Stefan’s feline mind continued to needle and harass Victor to the point that the bakery’s owner got involved. The man had proposed—in no gentle terms and with an open threat—that Stefan should take his business elsewhere if he found the work of their establishment wanting. There were plenty of other bakeries that could stock the Bean with whatever bizarre things Stefan wanted, the man said.
“Stefan, you are not our primary customer, I have told you this multiple times. Nor do we specialise in pastries, we makebread,” Victor said, aggravated, the night after yet another argument with his actual employer. “I barely managed to convince my boss to do your regular deliveries and now you want more.”
“It’s only a cookie. What’s the problem?”
Stefan chewed on the straw of his drink. He shook the glass, and the ice cubes swirled in the liquid with a pleasant click. It was not the season for iced drinks, but he had been craving an iced macchiato for a while. It also gave him the perfect excuse to try a new brand of vanilla and lavender syrup.
“Leave the man alone, you lunatic,” Irena chimed in from behind the bar. “It’s alwaysit’s only a cookie,it’s only a muffinwith you. This is acoffeeshop, how many times do we have to tell you? I swear, every time you shift you get stupider.”
Stefan ignored her and folded his arms on the counter. He took a long sip of his drink and turned towards Victor.
“A man with your talents should have his own business—your own patisserie. Sure, you make good bread but it is bread. You need to elevate your work, expand.”
“I am not taking out a loan from the bank and scouting garages I can turn into a bakery just so you can have lemon bars andSacher-Torte whenever the mood strikes you.” Victor ignored the compliment and shifted his gaze to the far end of the bar where Emerick sat in silence, watching them bicker.
“Oh, that Sacher-Torte was divine, Victor.” Irena smacked her lips at the memory of the cake and came over, done with washing the cups and saucers at the sink. “I hate to agree with him, but you do make great desserts.”
Victor took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose.
“You are making me regret my choice of work. Both of you.”
He met Emerick’s gaze and cocked his head in the direction of the door, urging him to put an end to the conversation. Stefan and Irena had been in the middle of closing for the night when he had come in, umbrella in hand, his hair and jacket damp from the drizzle outside.
“If both Irena and Stefan are in agreement then you really must be a goodchef pâtissier.” Emerick stood and straightened his clothes.
When he had first come in tonight Stefan almost failed to recognise him. He was wearing clothes that were modest and strangely appropriate for the chilly weather. Wool trousers, a knitted sweater with a high collar; he even had a jacket and gloves.
He looks like someone’s grandfather. He can’t have dressed himself, Stefan bit his lip, restraining himself from voicing the thought.
“Why don’t I help you buy apâtisserie?” Emerick asked, suddenly turning to Victor. “A little shop of your own where you can prepare whatever you like.”
