Page 12 of Besieger
“Is my darling bride plotting something?” he purred. From the moment he had dragged her in that dirty hole, he called herhis bride, as if he had not moulded her to be the wife of other men. Men of his choosing.
“No, I—”
“I told you… Iwarnedyou, Dulior. This one dies by my hand,” Rorgon yanked at her hair, making her cry out. His nails dug into her cheek and broke the skin. His thumb scraped at her lower lip, baring her teeth. “Or have you grown tired of him? Is a loving husband not to your liking? Are the jewels and dresses he orders for you not finely crafted?”
“No, I would never—” she tried again, but the words died in her throat.
With both of his hands still holding her head, she felt something pull and tear at her dress. The laces of her bodice tightened cruelly around her ribs. She gasped and heard the necklace snap and spill from her throat.
He is doing it with his mind!
Her heart raced, overcome with horror, as more of her clothes tore and ripped. Rorgon had never tried to lie with her. He had seen her naked, intruding when the maids were bathing and dressing her, and he never shied away from being near her. When in a good mood, he was even affectionate, like a father doting on a young daughter. He had left kisses; little pecks across her forehead and cheeks. If he was feeling particularly giddy, drunk with blood, he would go as far as to kiss her collar bone. Never anything beyond. Never anything to disfigure her.
If he touches me now, it will undo me.
“Then what? Why the questions?”
Dulior looked into his yellow eyes, his sharp features framed by soft ashen hair, his short beard and moustache. His Cupid’s bow mouth and the rows of sharp teeth now bared in a pitiless grin.
He let go of her hair and grabbed her face again, his fingers digging deeper into her cheek. She could feel his thumb pressing against the bone. He could crack her face so easily.
If he broke her face, would she heal?
Years ago, after the hellish transformation had run its course in the hole where Rorgon had birthed her, Dulior had never fallen sick. Her hair and nails had stopped growing; her body had shut down. If she cut her skin it healed before her eyes. No bruises appeared if she stumbled or got hit. But there had to be a limit to this power.
“I…”
Slowly, with tears running down her face and Rorgon’s hand, Dulior tried to speak. Her whole body trembled from shock.
“I can see in Gustave’s mind and the others… the servants… I know what they are thinking. I thought…” she choked, and saw her own fingers gripping tight at the lapels of his coat. Hadn’t she seen these very clothes worn by her husband before they had gone missing one day from his chest? “I thought…”
Rorgon’s mouth brushed against her face and sucked at the tears. For a fleeting moment his lips scraped the side of her mouth. The sound that escaped her was so small, so nauseating to her own ears. Like a trapped animal.
“My flower,” Rorgon breathed low, the exact opposite of her frantic breathing. Her heart was pounding, as if it meant to shatter her ribs. “You will let me know if he hurts you, won’t you?”
Dulior nodded. He kept sucking her tears, the grip on her face finally loosened. The hands that moments ago tore and bruised her, now held her close against his chest, cradling her like a child.
Deciding to kill Rorgon came easily, now that she knew he would never interrupt or pry the schemes from her mind. What worried her was the uncertainty; could a daemon like him even die? What would happen if she failed? Would he confine her back into another pit of his design, starving her, leaving her to wither in the dark and dirt?
Dulior spent her waking nights devising ways to rid herself of this plague. Rorgon had never shared the circumstances of how he had come to be.What daemon madeyou, Father, or did we all crawl out of Paris, besieged by a thirst for blood?The two of them seemed similar in the age of Blood, she could not fathom him existing long before her. If he could threaten her under pain of death, then surely death could reach him too.
A pillow would not suffocate him. She could easily command someone else to do the final blow and bring the knife to him, but no human stood a chance against Rorgon, she had seen him move things across rooms without lifting a single finger. When impatient, he would leap up through windows high above the ground. He fed every night, fed until he tired of the blood’s flow in his mouth and death’s sweet scent.
Like Dulior, he enjoyed this monstrous feast, the salty nectar pulsing out of their victim’s veins, the bodies growing cold in their embrace. Rorgon had always enjoyed having an audience, though he never shared. The mortals he picked, he claimed only for himself. She saw it in the ruby glow of his lips, the flush of his cheeks and the spark in his eye, as he greedily drank.
Unlike Dulior, he despised half feeding on a single human and refused to keep them alive afterwards. His victims lasted like the morning dew. He swept over them, dragged them into dark and solitary corners, whispering sweet nothings. The mortals fell in love with him even as he sank his teeth into them. The bodies he let slip down from his hands to lie in crooked angles on theground, left them to be found by either dogs or scavengers. Sometimes he robbed them, rifling through their pockets for coins or trinkets. If their clothes pleased him he’d strip them, a habit he abandoned only after gaining access to Count di Flaviari’s wardrobes and chests.
Seducing him was pointless. They had never shared a bedchamber. Even back in the hole they had slept apart. If he touched her and played with her hands, her hair, the skirts of her dress, or pulled at her jewels, it was done simply because he could. Never out of desire. Never had he kissed her with want. Ownership was what he felt for her, and she in turn owed him gratitude. Gratitude for being permitted a life by his side.
Tricking a mortal to lure him was useless, if not reckless. Rorgon would peel their mind open and see Dulior reflected back at him, her plans laid bare.
It would have to be me.
Rorgon had gifted her eternal youth and beauty, groomed her to be an eternal widow. He had moulded her from the earth soaked with his own blood—in the image of Lilith.
It has to be me. I have to end it.
Like a screeching owl she would come to him in the night bearing a gift of her own. One final offering to close the vicious cycle. He would eclipse her no more.
