Page 19 of Besieger
“What?” Dulior looked at Silvio, his mind forever locked for her.
“You have come for me. If it is me you want, I will not go without him.”
For a moment he looked as if he was going to fight her, tear away from her spell and forsake her. Until his eyes dropped back on the man, and the hunger bubbled up. A madness had settled in his eyes. “Tell me… tell me how to help him, please!”
Sharing the dark rite felt pointless to one so young and fresh such as him. His blood was still mortal, still weak. If she hit him, his neck would break and he would perish under the sun. It was also too late for the other man—he had already lost far too much blood.
It will not work anyway, Dulior smiled and told Silvio what to do: drain the body of its sublunary fluids and replace them withhis own daemonic ichor. She was convinced that the moment her love’s tongue lapped at the blood he would be undone, unable to hold on to reason, Silvio would drink that fool dry. With a sick satisfaction she watched as Silvio kneeled and pulled the man closer. She could not hear what he was saying and it did not matter.Let them have that one last moment, right before the teeth tore the flesh and the blood bloomed inside Silvio’s mouth.That first drop of mortal blood to bind him forever.
She heard him gasp, then moan. She liked that sound as much as listening to him beg. Her master had rarely fed in her presence—watching another daemon feed was gruesome and beautiful to her. She watched Silvio push the man back to the ground, face buried in his neck, drinking, sucking out every drop of that delicious warm blood.
The last heartbeat in the desert faltered and stopped, with Silvio’s fangs tightly pressed against it.
As she had instructed him, Silvio tried to give his blood, but the man’s mouth would not open. She stood back, watching the nightmare unravel at a safe distance, as Silvio cut his arm again and again, the blood raining down on the corpse. That dark blood wasted on the barren sand. He pulled out the arrows still lodged into the corpse, breaking them.
“Enough, my love,” Dulior started to say, eager for their wedding night to unfurl.
The body under her husband stirred and the mouth cracked with a groan, the blood no longer seeping out. With silent horror Dulior watched her husband press his bleeding wrist to the gaping mouth, urging the other to drink, for the dark magic to finally take hold.
It had been hours since she had chosen her new husband, yet he had not once asked her name, nor thanked her for her gift. Hours had passed and there they still stood, thethreeof them. They dug shallow pits under the corpses of the horses and during the day slept in the ground. Dulior tried to coax Silvio to lie in her hole, but he refused to let go of that man.Amerigo, he calledhim, babbling, raving. Silvio was afraid to let him go, even for a moment, clutching on to him as they trekked the dry land.
Dulior hated the sight of them.
Disgusting thing, she thought and prayed that thing was strong enough to catch her thoughts. She wanted him to know how undesirable he was, a burden that would only slow them down. How sh? would discard him the moment she had a chance.
Weeks passed and Dulior was eager to get back home, to her servants and warm chambers. She was tired of digging her fingers into the ground and pulling the earth apart so she could squeeze her body between roots and stones like a worm. Beside her, in a larger grave, lay her husband, still dragging that man with them, that wraith of a creature.
More deserters had crossed their path and Dulior had taught Silvio how to feed, how to break the men’s bones and drink his full, becoming stronger with each kill. What little they left behind she gave to that man, if they saw sheep or horses, she let him have all of it. Even livestock was too good for him but Silvio insisted, he had dragged the man all the way long, from the Byzantine Empire all the way back to the Kingdom of France.
Only when she set foot in the familiar streets of Paris did Dulior realize she had yet to rid herself of Gustave, and cursed herself for not killing him sooner. The Count’s death would have passed unnoticed among so many others, claimed by sickness or a sword. Yet she liked beingCountess di Flaviari, she was not ready to relinquish the power and influence that had come with the title. Neither could she kill the man herself. She pulled Silvio aside and made him a promise—one man’s life for another.
“Drink your full on my husband and take his place,” she whispered the venom into his ear. Then she pointed at thatwretch, at Amerigo. “And in return, I will let you keephim.You can have him as a servant.”
They did it together; she called Gustave into her chamber and Silvio dragged him into the shadows. He broke Gustave’s neck from the force with which he bit down, a pool of blood running across the bedroom floor. It took longer to go through each servant and cloud their minds, replacing one man’s image with another. The Count for them was now younger, reclusive, taking to the same schedule and diet as his wife. The kitchen staff would have to be reduced, the amount of food and wine as well. A new stableboy was hired to take care of the Count’s horses, and the maids and errand boys were introduced to one Amerigo who was to have a room of his own—any room, so long as it was small and far from the master bedroom.At least his mind I need not cloud and temper with, Dulior thought bitterly. With each new husband, each new household, she had diligently scried into the minds of her maids and valets, teaching them to turn a blind eye towards their mistress’ peculiarities. To not notice the food she never ate, or how she navigated the halls in darkness, never aging, never falling sick.
With the former Count’s body buried in the garden and the servants bowing to her new husband, Dulior was now free to look forward to her wedding night, the first one she arranged for herself. There would be no more of her master’s bargains with strangers bound to her hand. She had chosen a simple cream gown, loosely wrapped around her shoulders and waist; the less there was on her, the faster Silvio could undress her.
She barely had time to climb in bed and pull the covers around her, when the bedroom door opened and the new Count di Flaviari entered. He was wearing whatever had fitted him from Gustave’s wardrobe, and the discomfort showed—the tunic was tight around the shoulders and the leggings were too short. The colours did not suit him as well. It looked all wrong on him, or had she grown too accustomed to seeing him in armour and soot?
Vaguely she recalled that among the little belongings he had brought with him from the crusade, there were two broadswords. Back then, the sight of the weapons astonished her. In a few years, once he had gorged himself on blood, he would have no use for swords or bows anymore. He would be able to tear and break men with his bare hands.
“Come to bed, husband,” Dulior beckoned when Silvio hesitated at the threshold.
He was holding a candle, although fully aware that he no longer needed to rely on it to see in the dark. The curtains were drawn, letting a faint wash of moonlight fall across the bed and the pale curve of her body beneath the bedding. Slowly, she started to pull back the covers and reveal more of herself. The gown slipped from one of her shoulders, giving him a glimpse of her full breasts.
“Is this what daemons do?” his question startled her. Surely, daemons were allowed to love, and there was so much love she craved to give him. “Is it required of a maker to bed their fledgling?” Silvio added without moving. The candlelight flickered across his stern face.
“Yes,” Dulior nodded, her eagerness rising.
She had taught him that word—fledgling; a word to describe how he had come to be. A hatchling of her blood. Dulior was going to teach him so much more than words now. She would fashion him into the perfect groom, a daemon worthy of the night, until he stood as her equal.
How would it feel, she wondered. She had bedded many a man but never one such as him. Daemons could love, she was sure of it, and Silvio’s making was a testament of that. She was deliciously frightened of what it would feel like to lie with a daemon. With the one forged especially for her.
She stood up a little and gestured for him to give her the candle so he could undress. Silvio took a step back. His eyes never falling from hers, never straying to the rest of her.
“Then I shall attend to my fledgling, if this is what my mistress’ teachings dictate,” he bowed, his entire frame stiff. It was the indifference in his voice that struck her.
Silvio left the room he had hardly entered, taking all the light with him.
