Page 96 of Besieger
Is that why you are still young and beautiful, wolfling? Have I made myself a puppet?
He sniggered, barely restraining himself as he fed from his new friend, the werewolf. Silvio would simply have to wait, left to his own devices while Emerick accustomed himself to the new title and the responsibilities it dragged with it. The Béziers Coven would do alright without him for a few days, he trusted the staff to cope on their own.
Beside him, Victor’s breathing had steadied and he no longer clutched at the sheets. The night terror had passed.
“Have you experienced any cravings over the years? Anything unusual?” Emerick enquired, staring rather too intently at Victor, willing him awake.
Victor had not aged much since 1944. He had lines around his eyes and mouth; wrinkles formed on his forehead when he frowned, and his hands and fingers bore scars, small cuts and burns. Not a grey hair to be seen.
“Cravings?” Victor repeated. His eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. Only the lower lip moved when he talked, like a hollow doll.
“Around the full moon or—?” Emerick did not bother to elaborate.
“I wouldn’t call them cravings.” Victor’s voice was low and dry. “The first months… I… couldn’t control my body. I devoured meals without tasting them. I couldn’t control my emotions, they got the better of me, whether I was alone or in company. I was a danger to myself. I sought jobs that would isolate me, work that was physically taxing, the better to exhaust myself by the time the moon beckoned.”
“No cravings for blood?”
“I don’t remember…”
“But you are eager for mine, are you not?”
“Yes.”
Ah—there it is, finally: a confession.One drawn out by force, but a confession, nonetheless.
“And have you made others like you, other werewolves?” Emerick used the word deliberately.
For what else would Victor be but a wolf? He certainly was no vampire. A few drops of vampiric blood did not constitute a turning; they did not grant immortality. But they made one hungry for more, and Emerick had indulged Victor every time his friend had asked.
“Others? No. Never.”
Emerick tsked and laid his hand over Victor’s face, closing the eyelids. His palm burned where it touched the clammy skin. The body beside him shivered as he began scrubbing away, upbraiding the threads, their conversation no longer meant to linger like a dream-coated memory.One of many, gone.
Sometimes he wondered what the result would have been… what if he had drained Victor completely and fed him the Blood, repeated what Silvio had done to him with the dark gift? Not too much, only a little. A thimbleful. A taste of eternity to help a fallen soldier cling to life’s atrocities a little longer.
“Erik…” Victor mumbled and shoved Emerick’s hand from his face. He tried to turn around but was caught in the sheets. “What time is it? What are you doing in my bed? Go to your own bed, inyourownroom.”
“I do not like sleeping alone.” Emerick’s voice shook as he rubbed his palms together, trying to rid himself of the sensation of sand between his fingers.
Victor grumbled in protest but there was no fight left in him. Emerick watched him drift back to sleep, lying close beside him in the dark.
VICTOR, 2017
The pot bubbled, the smell of meat and vegetables wafting through the kitchen. Victor stirred the broth with the wooden spoon and took a sip from his wine glass. One of his colleagues had recently been in Portugal on holiday and brought back a bottle of port for everyone at the bakery. At first, Victor had meant to use it for cooking, he was not especially fond of wine, but when he uncorked the bottle, the aroma was so rich and sweet, he had to take a sip. He nursed the glass in his palm, swilling the liquid around as he kept an eye on the stove.
He felt, rather than heard, Erik approach.
He was wearing a pair of trousers and a shirt Victor would have sworn was his, but he was in too good a mood to argue.At least it’s buttoned.Erik’s hair was cut short, a habit he had fallen into every night after he woke. Sometimes Victor would wake up first and find Erik beside him, his hair long and spilled across the pillows and sheets, like a broken spiderweb.
“I did not know you liked wine.” Erik picked up the bottle and studied the label. He sniffed at it, crinkling his nose.
“I enjoy the occasional glass or two.” Victor shrugged and picked up a knife to chop the remaining vegetables. He had toremind himself not to cook too much, being the only one in the house who actually ate food.
“In that case I will order you a few bottles from Béziers.” When Victor frowned at the name, Erik elaborated. “I have a vineyard in France. It has been in operation since the eighteenth century. I am sure we will find something to your liking in the cellar. Perhaps not port. What about Grenache-Carignan… or Mourvèdre? Something with backbone.”
“Choose one of your favourites. One of theMarquis’best vintages.” Victor smiled despite himself. It was the wine, it had put him in a light mood; the heavy sweetness of it travelling in warm waves down his torso with each sip.
“Oh, I haven’t tasted any of it.” Erik left the bottle on the counter and went to look at the concoction in the pot. He lifted the lid and studied the broth curiously. “The last time I had wine was during the Crusade.”
