Page 102 of Besieger
“Not anymore. Come, you promised me a bath.”
EMERICK, 2017
“I did not know vampires could dream.” Jürgen’s voice pierced the veil, rousing Emerick from his slumber. “Did you have a nightmare? You were talking in your sleep.”
He blinked and Jürgen’s weathered face melted into Victor’s.
Emerick blinked again; the sands of the dream fell from his eyelids. He was in Victor’s room. How had he gotten here—the bed? Had Victor once more begged to forget, until Emerick obliged, taking away the hours, leaving Victor to think that this was the first time he woke that night, that Emerick had slipped under the sheets as a jest?
Something is different.
Victor lay on his side, caressing Emerick, fingers drawing shapes across his bare collarbones, his heartbeat loud and eyes glowing yellow. A wolf, sated.
He tried to sit up and moaned. He was sore, the insides of his thighs rubbed raw. Victor’s neck and chest bore a mass of clawmarks and bites, his lips swollen. The memory of sitting in Victor’s lap flashed through his mind—he became aware of how damp the sheets were and the pillows thrown across the floor—Emerick propped on his elbows, rising to catch his reflection in the mirror before he stopped short. There were no mirrors in this room. Nor was he in a narrow cabin with his Captain. He was in Bulgaria. In a house bare of possessions, newly purchased and scarcely lived in.
This is Victor, my wolfling.
He placed both palms on Victor’s temples and drew him near. There was far too much to erase. This was more than a drowsy conversation in the warm darkness of the room. And how would Emerick explain the devastation of the bed once the memory of their coupling was gone? How would Victor react to finding the traces of Emerick’s lips and hands, and not recall any of it?
No, Emerick sighed and pressed his forehead to Victor’s. He had already done it once, erased the first time Victor had kissed him; the sensation of his lips trembling with anticipation, in relief. How Victor’s stubble tickled, and how sad Emerick had been to see it shaved clean later despite the spicy scent of the aftershave. He was tired of having a fading collection offirst timeswith the wolfling.
When he first began erasing and rearranging Victor’s mind, it was just for convenience; it was easier to puppeteer and goad him in the right direction. Emerick had forgotten what it meant to be patient, what it felt like to allow things to happen in ways that did not benefit a vampire, ways that did not yield immediate pleasure. He had not anticipated how much he would enjoy Victor’s company. Days had turned into weeks and the weeks into months, and soon Emerick found himself looking forward to the mundanity, the ordinariness, of being around Victor and the pack. But the longer he stayed here, the harder it became to maintain the lies he had so eagerly planted in the soil of the werewolf’s consciousness.
What if…
What if he allowed Victor to retain all of his memories? What if Emerick stopped pushing Victor through the present in a pursuit of a future he would only have to erase in time?
One mortal lifetime, no more, no less; that was how long he could entertain himself beyond Silvio’s light. To remain and live—here, now—as a man. No titles, no immortals and no servants. Only himself and Victor. Maintaining the charade had drained Emerick, the threads were too many. Victor’s memories encompassed all these people and foreign lands, and Erik…a mask theComtehad put on at a moment’s notice, without a second thought. Erik had taken a shape outside the sands of time and lived through Victor, haunted him, unable to fade away. A companion… not a lover or a servant.Kinship, not servitude or devotion.
It was so tempting—so easy.
He had seduced Victor once, what seemed like ages ago. How would Emerick set about winning him over this time? What would ensnare the wolf, after Emerick had scrubbed clean the recollection of fleeting brushes of fingers, bodies passing in hallways, lips meeting in the dark, mouths full of blood.
“Please,” he whispered, inhaling shakily. He dug his fingers into Victor’s golden hair. “Please do not forget. I don’t want to be the only one who remembers.”
“Mmmm,” Victor huffed, but he could not hold the frown. He smiled fondly. “I told you to speak German if you want something.”
“I—I am saying I do not think I can walk to my room.” Emerick swallowed his guilt and wiggled his toes. He was not lying about this at least, his legs felt weak. “You will have to let me stay here for the night.”
“I suppose I can make an exception,” Victor said and drew Emerick closer.
PART III: MERCURY DEVOURING HIS SON
CHAPTER TEN
SILVIO, 2017
AMONG HIS BRETHREN, Felivar had been the hungriest, the greediest—a gluttonous demon.
Desire had always been a mutable thing, festering the appetite within him. It could never be quenched. The more he drank, the more he ate, the flesh he crawled over and pressed beneath him, the bodies he drained and filled, he still could not perceive his own physical manifestation; the vessel, the host of desire he embodied. His shape would always rely on others’ fancies, fears, and inclinations. As a demon he took the form his pr?y wanted the most, no matter whether the hunger had been born out of lust, hate, or sweet desperation. Humans reshaped him in the imagetheycraved, and when he gazed upon the crystal surface of a lake, it refused to reveal his true face and form. He passed unseen, continuing to feed from human delusions and wants, ever ravenous.
If the world around Felivar refused to give, then he would take a likeness by force. He had already stolen a name, it was only natural he should claim a body for his own, too.
It took him centuries to learn how to bleed, to condense a fraction of his being into something for long enough so that itcould be cut and made to bleed. And then there was the matter of who could swallow and retain the ichor he offered; what kind of mortal would survive the hunger Felivar would imbue in their veins?
He began to hunt for those who were the most starved, whose desperation and greed were loud enough to summon him.
Ingenuar had not been his first choice. Felivar had found his way to him drawn by the man’s fierce will to live; that desperate refusal to let go. With Felivar’s blood, Ingenuar could become a father whose children no longer succumbed to sickness or death. He could sire other daemons, more hungry mouths to follow and obey Felivar.
