Page 122 of Besieger
“No.” Silvio smiled, his thumb gently brushing Emerick’s lips. “I have only just begun.”
Emerick suppressed a laugh, but his face burned hot despite himself, and he nuzzled closer.
“Rest and sleep, and when you wake up—I shall be here, as I always am.”
“Mine,” Silvio whispered, voice full of reverence, eyes drinking in all of Emerick.
There was an unspoken question in that single, fragile word.
“Yours,” Emerick vowed, letting sleep take him.
The persistent and desperate rapping at the door woke him for the second time. A servant rushed in, breathless and trembling, to rouse theMarquis, and deliver the news that Ingenuar was dead.
When Silvio had returned from his audience with the All Father his clothes were covered in blood. Emerick had seen the blotches on the sleeves and on the front of the polo—the once sepia colour now darkened to black, the garment discarded on the floor. He had been too tired to ask, and then the thought escaped him entirely, once Silvio’s hot mouth was on his throat.
Silvio had not killed Ingenuar. Emerick could not explain it, but he knew his lover had not. Whatever Silvio had done that night in the Coven during the brief interval they were separated, it was not to kill the All Father. It had been something much worse, and Emerick dreaded finding out what.
He shook off the memory and refocused on the letter and its archaic German words hurled across the page.
“I need time to prepare,” he said slowly. “And I will not be travelling alone.”
All the while Scarlett had remained in the dim light, unmoving like a statue, her lilac eyes following him. How beautiful she seemed to him at that moment, how monstrous in her still elegance.
“Of course,Marquis,” she said and held her hat with both hands. “I will make the necessary arrangements in the Coven to welcome you and any servant you choose to bring.”
Emerick wanted to correct her, but there was no time, or need, to explain how he had entangled himself with the lycans. He did not have servants here. He was noMarquis, no vampire noble.
“Do not keep your master waiting. He has waited long enough, and is eager to have you back at court.”
Epilogue
ELAY, 1096
A MAGICIAN HAD TAKEN UP RESIDENCE with the newly married Count and Countess di Flaviari. At first Elay’s father thought the man to be a relation of the bride, but there was little resemblance between them. While the Countess was of dark skin, a shy beauty with voluminous auburn curls and of timid nature, the magician was fair and although not an old, fragile man—barely into his fourth decade—his hair was already grey, shining silver in the candlelight.
The magician was an eccentric who boasted of having seen and partaken in many a battle. Nordic blood filled his veins, but nevertheless he adored the French; ah, how he loved the French; and most importantly, he loved his young ward. He wore expensive clothes befitting a man of high stature and had an appreciation for the arts. Elay’s father invited him to get an opinion on a business proposition.
“What does a magician know of wine, Father?” Elay asked.
His father dismissed him, eager to meet the man who dined at his neighbour’s table. But it was not wine his father intended to bargain with the magician.
“You would make an excellent groom,mon ami,” the magician appraised Elay, toasting to his health and beauty.
“Monsieur, do you have other daughters?” Elay’s father inquired, excited by the prospect of his son joining the ranks ofnobility through marriage. The union would open all the doors previously closed to Elay. Elay himself had never sought to marry; he was already in his third decade and expected to take over from his father in a few years’ time. He did not need a wife to grow and produce wine.
“I do not.”
The magician’s eyes never left Elay. The wide table overflowing with drink and meats, and fruits, might as well have been bare before him. He drank his wine sparingly.
An air of strangeness hung over the man, in the way he sat in his chair and how he placed his hands on the table, how carefully he picked and used the knife and fork. Elay followed the movement of the fingers heavy with rings; the nails glistened in the flickering light, as if made of glass. On the few occasions Elay joined their conversation, the magician always seemed to know what he was going to say, even before Elay opened his mouth to speak. He heard the words before they formed in Elay’s mind.
When he saw their guest at the door, he was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of desperation. He tried to grasp at excuses for the two of them to linger a little longer at the gates, searching for reasons to meet again.
“Think of me into the night, and I will come.” The magician’s voice was soft, lulling.
“And if I think of you in the daylight?”
“Then wait.” The magician tittered and stepped closer. His hand brushed at Elay’s coat, fingertips tapping at him gently. “Wait for me until the sun bleeds into the stars.”
