Page 25 of Besieger
He had taken out a new book to read—another one of hers, a gift she had received from her recent suitor. Dulior watched as Emerick flipped through and ran a finger across the page, reading a scribble in the margins. Her suitor had left notes next to every scene depicting seduction, pleading for Madame’s devotion. Among the humans visiting her chamber, this one was the most prone to decadence. He had come with a scandalous reputation, and a collection of books nurturing it further.
“Ah, look!” Emerick lifted the page so Silvio could see, and pointed. “It is a story about a Marquise and a Vicomte. An educational reading, perhaps?”
“Where do you keep finding this filth?” Silvio asked, not bothering to move from his seat. He was leaning against the window. The night breeze danced in his hair, he looked content and calm in a way that made Dulior uneasy.
“In your home,Marquis. A gratuity left by a frenzied swain,” Emerick sneered and turned the page, making himself comfortable on the bench.
“Throw it out the window.”
“I was thinking of reading aloud. Ourménage à troiscould use to listen to something uplifting. It is a long ride back to France.”
Silvio grunted and tried to kick him in the shin. Emerick lifted both of his legs and let them rest on the empty space next toDulior. He cleared his throat. preparing to read the first chapter when Dulior reached out and snatched the book from his hands.
“Have you read this one, mother? Did it prove to be a dissatisfaction?”
Like yourself, Emerick’s voice slid inside her mind and her fingers tightened, crushing the book’s spine and leather cover. She hurled the damaged book on the floor, the pages full of her lover’s words and adorations, now spoiled by that thing’s foul touch.
Silvio looked at the fallen book, studying it. The light of the lanterns filled his green eyes and her heart hurt seeing him like this. If they were alone in the carriage she would sit next to him and ask for his hand. He always gave her his hand, to walk side by side and dance and make introductions. How his lips brushed her knuckles in greeting or in parting, his touch so light like the flutter of a moth’s wings. And now, those same lips spewed poison, corrupted by that man and his greed.
“When we get to Paris, I will have the servants pack our things. An inconvenience you will need to bear for it will be a quick one. Whatever we leave behind, you may do with it as you wish. It is yours. I am leaving the house and the money to you.”
“Of course you will!” Dulior cut him off, spitting the words. “It is all mine to begin with. Do you think there is a single ducat to your name? Between the two of you there is nothing of value, not even a rag. The title of Count… I gave that to you.Everything!” She looked from Emerick to Silvio. “I gave you all—from the clothes on your back and the trinkets you drape on your whore, to the very blood that runs in your ungrateful veins.”
Silvio straightened in his seat and looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time this evening. He started to take off his gloves. Slowly, pulling one velvet finger by velvet finger, handed his left glove to Emerick, then worked on the right one. He rolled the sleeves of his shirt and dragged a fingernail up along his forearm, tearing it open. The blood began to drizzle and run down his clothes, on the bench and on the carriage floor. Hedug his finger in the wound keeping it from closing, and the blood continued to flow. Outside the horses gave out a sound of distress, but they kept their steadfast gallop under the driver’s whip.
“Take it,” Silvio said with an even voice and extended his arm to her. “I will allow you to lay your mouth on me and take what is yours. But, Madame,” he watched the blood drip and splatter their shoes. All the blood he had drunk across centuries, pouring onto the floorboards and road dust. “This will be the last kindness I will give you.”
The book on the ground had turned red, absorbing the blood. Droplets bounced off its cover and smeared Dulior’s skirts. Emerick continued to sit with his legs stretched out, his boots close to her hand. There were splashes of blood on his breeches. The smell in the carriage had turned rank and nauseating—all that blood and then the faint notes of tobacco and lilac.
“It is time you let go, Madame,” Silvio went on, wrist split open and his green eyes boring into hers. He pressed another finger into the wound and pried the skin apart. She saw the muscles of his arm straining, fighting to heal. “I have been your husband long enough. I have been Monsieur di Flaviari for as long as you needed me to be. And I have been patient with you as any son towards his mother. But my patience—and that of mylover—has run out. You have not buried a husband in centuries, Madame. It is time you returned to your calling, and seemeanswer mine. Let me be Silvio Bracci, the man you promised greatness—that day in the fields of Antioch.”
SILVIO, 1791
Marquis Bracci handed the last letter to his lawyer, his signature still wet on the bottom of the parchment. The lawyertipped the melted wax from the spoon and pressed down the seal. The uneven smear of red wax looked crude upon the document but Silvio liked the sight of it. He wished he could hold on to it but it was safer in the hands of his lawyer, away from the eyes of other immortals.
“Arrangements have been made for Monsieur Gabrielli’s yearly stipend.” The lawyer nodded in Emerick’s direction across the table. Silvio’s lover was swirling a glass of wine—this year’s vintage, courtesy of their new neighbours. “Your secretary has hired hands for the vineyard and they can begin work immediately. Renovations to the tower have also been completed, but more on that from your secretary. Monsieur Corbin assures me that all your wishes have been met. No expense spared, judging by his letters.”
“And the house staff?” Silvio asked. A crude plan of the tower was spread in front of him. He could not wait to see the underground work.
“As instructed, Monsieur Corbin has appointed men and women from the city—locals. Maids, valets, kitchen staff, stablehands and a gardener. On the matter of a private tailor, would not one from Paris suit the Marquis’ tastes better?”
“No, find me someone here.”
“Of course. Am I missing anything?”
The lawyer looked through his paper again, going over the list of the errands.
Silvio turned to Emerick, but his lover was ignoring them, busy looking at the label on the wine bottle.
“That will be all, Monsieur. Time will tell if we need to expand. For now, let us work with what we have,” Silvio smiled, growing eager by the minute. “You have been most diligent, Monsieur. Expect a handsome compensation for all your efforts.”
The lawyer nodded, appreciative. Considering himself dismissed for the evening, he made quick work of gathering his things and left the two men alone.
“Tailors,” Emerick sighed, still turning the bottle in his hand. “Have you not tired of dressing me, Silvio? What designs have you made now, and what poor mortal is going to stitch them together?”
TheMarquisbit his lip, refraining from answering. Hedidhave designs and hehadseen them come to fruition through the help of tailors he visited in secret and erasing their memories once the orders were complete. The clothes had already arrived at the tower, neatly arranged in their respective rooms and wardrobes. Silvio had not seen the finished products yet because he wanted to see them in the flesh.
They rode out to the tower once the sun had set. From the outside the structure was crude and bare, resembling a medieval watchtower that had long gone served its purpose. Silvio did not want to attract attention, not when the building was meant to house vampires. He needed something that was practical, large enough to serve his purposes, but easy enough to defend.
