Page 99 of Besieger
“Of course,” Jürgen stammered and tried to hide his embarrassment by drinking from his cup.
Emerick suspected the reason the captain admitted them to his dining area lay in the cargo Marquis Bracci travelled with. In addition to their few possessions, Silvio had arranged for crates of wine to be loaded into the hold. A few bottles were distributed among the seamen as inducements to turn blind eyes and grant the Marquis his privacy; the remainder were meant to be sold once they reached Greece.
“Monsieur…” Jürgen cleared his throat, this time addressing Emerick. “Officer Weber tells me you have found yourself without entertainment and have taken to walking the deck at night. It is dangerous to be unaccompanied in the dark.”
Silvio’s hand froze over Emerick’s hip, and he looked up from his plate, searching for Officer Weber among the guests.
“You are welcome to peruse my private library.” Jürgen’s cheeks were flushed from the wine and it made him look boyish and charming. He looked so pristine, surrounded by his men, all dressed in their finest: gloves placed on their knees, cravats ironed, the brass of their buttons shining light of the lanterns.
“I would love that.” Emerick smiled, looking forward to the distraction.
Once the modest dinner had concluded, they invited him and Silvio to stay for a glass of sherry; a luxury Emerick had no appetite for. He had no patience to linger at the table with the officers and make conversation. That was far more to theMarquis’ taste; he would leave Silvio to talk with the men and make merry. True to his word, Jürgen made an excuse for him and guided Emerick to the rear of the captain’s cabin. He apologised for the clutter on the desk and the crumpled sheets on his bunk.Slightly larger than ours, Emerick scrutinised the sleeping space. Though it did not look like the captain was sharing with anyone.Good, Emerick took note of that little detail.
Jürgen presented him with a well-worn leather tome, its pages yellowed from time and use. The title was etched in gold letters on the front, in German.
“Ghost stories at sea?” Emerick laughed, flipping through the book. “Are you trying to scare me, Captain?” What an odd choice of literature on a ship plagued by so many deaths. There were pictures of a ship at night, not much different than their own.
“If the book is not to your liking, Monsieur, perhaps…” And here Jürgen looked around the room eager, searching. His eyes fell on the table with the charts and dividers. He picked up a ruler and pointed it upwards, first at the ceiling then whipped it towards the window of his gallery.
Emerick’s eyes followed the movement, for a moment lost for words.
“I’ve seen you at night… Monsieur.”
When you are on deck, you always stand so still and gaze at the sky. You search the night stars with a sadness in your eyes, I…
“Captain.” Emerick tore himself from the tide of thoughts that spilled from Jürgen. His voice was loud and too sharp for the kindness being offered. “Captain,” he repeated more gently, drawing closer. He reached and picked up the ruler, pretending to brush Jürgen’s fingers by accident. “Are you stalking me, Captain? I thought the men aboard were dying from sickness, or is there a prowler in our midst?”
“N-no, Monsieur, I… It is nothing but ship fever! I have seen the symptoms before—the hallucinations, the loss of appetite. It will pass,” Jürgen stammered, too stunned to draw back when Emerick shortened the distance between them.
“Very well.” He nodded and kicked one of the chairs from under the table. Jürgen did not seem to notice it. “Teach me to navigate by the stars, so I am never lost, so that I know how to find you, Captain.Mon Capitaine.” Emerick purred, enjoying the flush spreading on the man’s cheeks and neck, the shine in his eyes.
Jürgen nodded, uttered something quietly to himself before clearing his throat and pulled out a chart, a shining sea of ink dots and careful markings.
The lesson lasted until dawn.
A series of cold winds besieged the vessel after barely a fortnight of smooth sailing, drawing out what little warmth had been left in their cabin. Frost danced on Silvio’s eyelashes. Theyhad turned white, giving his eyes a ghostly glare. Emerick blew on them and the frost melted into tears on Silvio’s face. He licked them, edging into Silvio’s hand as theMarquisworked him, grip tight and pumping. They had fed on another passenger; another nameless corpse drifting somewhere in the dark, while their own bodies were warm and eager.
“We shouldn’t… look too… healthy.” Emerick tried to keep his voice steady but his hips rocked with the movement of the ship. Silvio’s thumb was playing with the head of his cock, and he squirmed.
We have to be careful, he wanted to add.We’ve killed far too many of them already.
“I will not watch you starve,” Silvio objected, his free hand pulled at Emerick’s long hair, winding it around his palm.
“No… you feed me plenty.” Emerick nodded and leaned in.
Silvio laughed, amused by the implications, and the accusation, in the words. He always had a voracious appetite and seemingly bottomless amount of vigour, enjoying Emerick whenever it pleased him. Their lovemaking had been frequent enough even before he finally freed himself of his wife, but there was another factor at play now, one that drove Silvio insatiable: mad with equal cravings for flesh and blood. They no longer needed to hunt daily, not for centuries, feeding at their age was for pleasure alone. Something had changed within Silvio; something Emerick could not quite name.
Were the other Regents so plagued and starved when they ascended?
“Marquis—”
“No.” Silvio’s hand moved faster, up and down the cock. He let go of Emerick’s hair to grab him by the throat, and squeezed, his fingers still entwined in the long strands. “We have no titles on this ship.”
“Sil…”
Emerick gasped, his voice hitching. It embarrassed him how easily this dirty little trick had undone him. He spilled intoSilvio’s hand with such force, his body buckled but there was nowhere to go. He was trapped between the cabin wall and Silvio’s body on the bunk, wriggling like an eel caught in a net, and he did not want to be released. It felt good. He moaned when Silvio finally released him, all of him, to lick the semen off his palm and fingers.
Propping on one side, Silvio pulled a book from under the pillow and tapped it against Emerick’s head. It was the book Jürgen had lent him, the one about the Flying Dutchman and its ghastly crew. He planned to return it tonight.
