Page 23 of Besieger
There was something unsaid in Ingenuar’s statement that bothered Silvio.
“So you also bed them?” he frowned.
Living with the same mortals for a long period of time was dangerous but these ones knew their masters were supernatural creatures. On top of that, keeping them indoors and drinking their blood repeatedly—like penned livestock—was too egregious. Whenever they needed to feed, Silvio and his family would do so outside their home. In the early days Dulior had brought a guest or two with the specific intention of killing them but had quickly tired of these games. Finding a victim in the streets or the tavern was far more exhilarating and worth the hunt; a stranger’s blood more delectable compared to the staled comfort the Coven offered.
“Bed them, suck them dry,” Ingenuar made a dismissive gesture. “I find it easier to govern when I don’t have to forbid my children to do what is in their nature to do. A hungry child is a painful thing to watch, let alone command. It makes the mind restless, drives the body to sickness.”
“What laws do you impose on your Coven?” Silvio asked, dreading the answer.
“Feed and sire fledglings, if you must. Refrain from conflict with your fellow nightwalker, or if you so desperately insist upon it—bring the matter to the court. There is no other law above that of my will,” the All Father’s eyes met those of theMarquis, boring into him.
And the Regent will help me reinforce it,the words reverberated in his mind, pouring in like liquid fire. Silvio clenched his jaw, looking at the man, unwavering. He disliked when Ingenuar invaded his thoughts, commanding, goading him.
“What a circus of delights you keep, my liege,” Emerick threw his head back and laughed. Silvio did not share the enthusiasm.
Ingenuar’s gaze moved slowly from master to fledgling. Silvio could not tell if he was prying into Emerick’s mind or if the All Father was simply studying him. Emerick betrayed nothing; he lounged in his chair in the same easy posture; his arm bent on the armrest, fingers buried idly tangled in his hair.
“Speaking of delights,” the All Father clapped his hands. The maps and parchments on the table began to fold in on themselves and move off the surface. Silvio watched them gently flow and find their places on a nearby wall between books and glass globes. “It is customary for the Regent to receive a gift from me—”
The door opened and a servant entered. Emerick raised his eyebrows, staring at the mortal with eager curiosity. The man bowed and stood to the side. It was the same man who had opened the hidden door in the ballroom the day before. Silvio noticed that he was one of the few people who walked in close proximity to the Coven Master. He was also holding a gold ring heavy with keys. Silvio found the concept of doors and locks here to be redundant, serving merely for show and a false sense of security. The All Father could enter and peruse thoughts and move objects without touching them.What use does he have for keys and locksmiths? It is as if these vampires are desperately clinging to a false sense of normalcy, of humanity.
“Show our guests to the antiques. Let them choose what they want, and arrange for it to be shipped to… Paris?” Ingenuar looked at Silvio for confirmation. They were yet to find suitable accommodations in Béziers.
The servant led them to a chamber, more a vault than a salon. All of its walls were covered in numerous masterpieces, some of them original, others forgeries, so deftly wrought not even their discerning eyes could tell the difference. The tables and desks were crowded with pieces of art carved from wood, stone, iron or bronze. Little statues, candelabras, pocket watches, a small collection of perfumes never opened. Boxes overflowing with jewels, gold tiaras and crowns, caps and elaborate hats. A grand piano made of beech wood was placed at one end of the room, covered in a layer of dust and a kind of lace cloth trying to protect it from aging.
There was hardly any place for them to sit, let alone stand without bumping into something. In one corner they saw an armchair and a couch that looked like they had never been used, the velvet and cushions intact, never feeling the warmth of a human’s touch. The room resembled a time capsule, full of antiques and cherished possessions. Things which Ingenuar must have collected over the centuries.
Candles were lit for their comfort while they examined the objects. Their trembling shadows danced on the walls as they walked back and forth, reverently looking and touching these treasures.
Emerick stopped to marvel at a statue, a marble one, likely Greek, some forgotten god whose name was lost. Half of its hand was missing, the naked form looked grotesque in the dim light, as it pointed in the distance with a crippled limb. The facedemanded silently, as the fingers of the other hand were clenched in a fist. Emerick’s frock brushed against the statue as he moved in closer, his eyes narrowed over the firm white torso. He pressed his palm against the marble muscles and let his fingers slide down, the lace of his shirt caressing the stone flesh.
“Feels just like you,” he cocked his head and sniggered, now sliding his hand upwards towards the face of the statue.
Silvio looked over his shoulder. He had been studying Emerick through his reflection in a mirror he found crammed behind a drawer and a stack of old books. There was something enchanting in following others by their glass doubles, looking at their movements and gestures reversed. His hand had stopped in mid-air as he went to touch the smooth surface.
“Hardly,” Silvio acknowledged the comment, continuing to look at Emerick’s back. His long hair was combed and tied in a black ribbon imitating the current fashion. The mass of dark hair spread over the black velvet of his frock. “Stop staring at that thing so intensely. I am not going to take it,” Silvio let out a tired sigh, his fingers finally slid down the glass… and caught on it as it cut him.
“Now, do not be jealous. Of course you feel more comfortable than this fellow,” Emerick laughed, still touching the marble biceps.
Silvio snarled and jerked his hand back. Again something scratched and clawed at the skin of his index and middle finger. A thin line of blood oozed down the glass before it melted right into the mirror.
“What gift will adorn our new home, your very own coven, my lord, theMarquis? Please, not another painting, we have too many of those already.”
Silvio’s eyes remained fixed on the mirror. The scratch on his fingers had already healed, leaving nothing but the smooth intact flesh of his fingertips. He ran the flat of his palm down the glass again, over the place the blood had disappeared but felt nothing. No bumps, no cracks. Whatever had scratched at him was nowgone. The surface bore no blemishes, not a speck of blood.As if it had evaporated into the air. The room is not warm enough for that.
“Sil?”
Emerick appeared behind him, his hands locked around Silvio’s waist as he leaned in closer, also staring at the mirror. He raised his eyebrows and nodded towards his lover’s extended hand, asking silently if anything was the matter.
“Nervous?” Silvio could feel the slight mockery at the edge of his voice, no matter the warm embrace. “Regent of Béziers. TheMarquis,” Emerick whispered in his ear, shoving him against the drawer.
Emerick pushed against Silvio whose hands pressed flat over the glass, his mind pondering over this newfound mystery. It could not have been that he hallucinated the whole thing, it was not possible. But with Emerick’s breath in his neck and playful hands digging under his tucked shirt, Silvio could not concentrate.
A forced cough came from the door. They could not see the servant’s reflection in the mirror from this angle. He was still standing at the doorway, waiting, a stone expression on his face.
“I have been meaning to ask,” Emerick ignored the servant, his mouth against Silvio’s neck. His lips brushed the skin as he talked. Silvio straightened his back, letting out a whimper. “In the French court, theComteis the closest companion and attendant to the king, but you are no king. You are amarquis. Why? Why have you chosen this title? The other Regents have titles that reflect their origin, and ours do not. We have lived among the French for far too long, but they are not our people. Why didn’t you choose something Roman?”
Silvio laughed. Sometimes he liked to recall his mortal years. The face of his father a distant blur, the features had melted in his memory far too soon. But he still pieced together fragments of his childhood in Naples. Remembering made things easier, ithelped him preserve their sanities. That they had not been born like this—they had been made.
