Page 58 of Besieger
After they moved the body, Raffaelle lingered in the study. He had fallen on his hands and knees, crawling on the floor, and pressed his face where Ingenuar’s body had lain. The wooden boards were cold and creaked under his weight. The others had whispered, panic overflowing their words, that the corpse had no blood. It had either been sucked dry or the Blood had evaporated with nothing to sustain it. That was why their father’s remains were falling apart, crumbling, the limbs barely holding on to the net of muscle and sinew.
The Blood—
It had been centuries since he had last suckled at his father’s vein. He liked the acrid taste, the promise of power, the whisper of rot. Ingenuar did not share his blood with his brood, maybe not even with Lady Scarlett in the midst of passion. He demonstrated his affections closer to his heart, and was not as consumed with bloodlust as the rest of them.
How Raffaelle hungered for that blood. He imagined Ingenuar cutting his wrist and letting the ichor spill into a basin or a carafe. Filling glass after glass of this cursed nectar, draining it all andending his life. Or was it someone else who took it from him?Could a vampire drain another, and leave them to die?
He ached to put the theory to the test.
Raffaelle pressed his face to the ground, running the whole length of his tongue over the patch of Ingenuar’s ghost on the floor. He tasted moisture. It was not blood, no. Its colour was too light, like spilt water or another liquid. He lapped, and it was like trying to taste the very air. There was no flavour, only wetness; the weight of decades upon his tongue and face. He groaned, the sound coming from deep within his gut, and continued to lick at the floorboards, lifting his head only when he heard movement. A servant stood in the doorway, staring at him, face frozen in horror. When their eyes met, the human turned and fled.
It matters not,Raffaelle mused, swallowing. His tongue and lips felt bruised; the gums around his fangs ached.If the one who made us can fall, so can the rest of us.
Slowly, he rose and adjusted his clothes. He ran a hand through his long blond hair, sweeping it back. His siblings were calling for him. They had decided to burn the body, what remained of it, in a funeral pyre.
The day after the pyre, Tabes woke him up. The demon was shoving him towards the edge of the bed, prying the covers and blankets away, so he could bite and tear at Raffaelle’s neck, and gulp on his blood. He did not know if all demons feasted on blood or if they needed it for the same reasons as vampires; but he did not care either. He liked being engulfed in Tabes’ embrace, fulfilling his part of the pact. Servant and master. equally sated.
For once, the demon had done him the mercy of wearing his own face. The frame of his body was small, his skin a shadedarker, warmer and silkier than that of theComteor theMarquis. Tabes’ eyes were slanted, the colour of his irises light brown, almost golden, like honey. He was shorter than Raffaelle, always looking up at him. And his lips were fuller, and softer, and sweeter than Emerick’s. Tabes had a mouth which always smiled with devilish intent.
He preferred his servant like this, in his true form. The longer Tabes pretended to be Emerick, the harder it was to tell what was real and what was not. Raffaelle was getting lost in the game, jumping at the sight of the real Emerick whenever their paths crossed.
Raffaelle’s breath shook from the early hour and exhaustion. He kept thinking about theMarquis; how late he had arrived, theComtein tow, for the pyre. Then after the spectacle, he had stumbled on them again. They were standing outside, facing the gardens as they talked. Silvio held an unlit cigarette in one hand, gesturing with it towards something in the distance. When he finally put the cigarette in his mouth, Emerick leaned in and lit it for him. Silvio’s expression changed, gazing up at his lover, eyelids heavy with adoration, or pride. When he exhaled the smoke, his mouth curled in a sorrowful smile and Emerick said something. The two of them went on talking quietly.
Raffaelle found it hard to sleep during the day, he could not stop seeing Ingenuar’s shrivelling form, nor could he rid himself of the smell of smoke. There was ash under his fingernails and at the back of his throat.
Decades ago, when he had made the deal with Tabes, Raffaelle wanted to know people’s secrets, the ins and outs of the Coven. He had patiently waited for theSultanato pay her respects to the All Father, and see a glimpse of her Court, but the Regent had never once visited during Raffaelle’s lifetime. As for theBasilissaand thePatrikia, he had sieved through everything of interest on them from a footman long ago.
Meanwhile, Mihaela was leaving tonight for the sultanate. An elder, protective brother would offer to accompany her on thejourney, to keep her safe. Raffaelle made for a poor traveling companion. But what about a demon whose mind cannot be read or rearranged? Tabes could alter his appearance at will. He would make a wonderful tribute for theSultana—it meant Raffaelle would lose his servant’s eyes here in the Berlin Court, but gain insight into the Imperial Harem.
With the All Father dead, Raffaelle was forced to abandon the ploy, desperate to keep his assets close. There would be other ways to earn theSultana’s favour.
“Lord Nhalme has requested your presence in the library, my lord,” the footman said when he brought up the breakfast tray to Raffaelle’s chambers.
He nodded in acknowledgement and took the tray from the man. He had ordered from the kitchen smoke-dried black tea, andKaiserschmarrnwith apples and cinnamon. Powdered sugar stuck to Tabes’ mouth and chin as the demon ate, making small sounds of delight. Much as Tabes enjoyed drinking blood, his sweet tooth was almost endearing.
“This is delicious,” the demon said between bites. He had wrapped a sheet about his waist, not bothering to dress after getting out of bed, immediately stuffing his face with fruit and cream. The teapot was already empty, and Raffaelle wondered whether he should call another servant up with more refreshments. The whole mansion was buzzing from anxiety. The mortals had seen their Master dead and burning on the pyre. The display had frightened and confused them, so they threw themselves in the familiar routine of chores and duties, trying to make themselves as small as possible and out of the vampires’ sights.
Raffaelle reached across the table and picked up a tea spoon, turning it under the light. He frowned, shutting out the surrounding noise. The Council needed a new Coven Master. Thrones were not meant to lie empty, least of all the All Father’s.When it’s my turn to offer a name,who will I pick?
He was not worried that the Council would appoint him. Raffaelle had no such ambitions.It might be Nhalme, as the eldest of Ingenuar’s bloodline. Scarlett… Scarlett is by far the better choice.The Coven adored the All Mother and was already under her governance.Even the mistresses of the East would find this appropriate, and settle their differences.
The mistresses—Raffaelle froze, recalling theSultana’s hunger for conquest. He intercepted most of Betül’s letters, and Nhalme had ordered no news to travel of Ingenuar’s death. Only a single night had passed, but theSultanahad her ways of keeping abreast of how the Coven was faring. How fast would her soldiers cross the continent and seep through the mansion’s walls like sand? Would she be merciful enough and allow the Council to join her court? Surely, she—
“—listening, are you?”
Tabes snatched the spoon out of Raffaelle’s hand and tapped him on the forehead with it. He frowned, jerking his head back and out of reach.
The plates and saucers were empty, not even a crumb left, and the demon smacked his lips, sticky with syrup. He lifted one leg up, perching himself on the chair like a monstrous bird; even his head was tilted to the side as he watched Raffaelle.
“I was telling you to be on the lookout for thedraugr.”
Raffaelle raked his brain for what was special about the moniker, trying to recall what little he knew of the denizens of Hell.
“Have you seen thisdraugryou speak of?”
Tabes laughed at him. “If I have, I might not live long enough to tell the tale. The sight, if there is one, will drive me mad.”
Like a sailor staring at a lighthouse, Raffaelle thought, frowning at the image. He had no taste for adventures or fairytales.
