Page 110 of Besieger
He chose them meticulously, favouring the young, with flowing black hair and dark eyes. He tolerated their company, rancid breath and sweaty hands for as long as it took to bite down and drain them. He drank one, rarely two, on those nights explaining to Kyrillos that the older the vampire, the less blood he needed. Hunting at his age resembled a bad habit he could not rid himself of: that tempting taste of a forbidden indulgence.
“As a fledgling, you will need a great deal of blood. Always go for adults. Youths and babies—although delicious and easy prey—do not have enough blood in them. You will need to kill by the dozens, otherwise you will grow weak,” Silvio explained as he cradled the body.
His hand cupped the back of the head, a feather-light gentle touch, like a mother nursing a baby to her breast. A guttural sound rumbled from deep within him as he tore himself from the flesh, his teeth and lips red, and let the body fall. He stepped overit, careful not to sully his shoes; the man, now cold and dry. held no worth for Silvio. A nameless corpse, to join all the others.
The scene perplexed Kyrillos, not because of how quickly Silvio killed these fools, but because of the way he disposed of the bodies—they were refuse meant for someone else to collect. Kyrillos knew that no one cleaned up after the vampires, neither here nor in Greece. It was up to the immortals to cover their tracks, to remain hidden in the shadows, to feed unnoticed and undisturbed amid the technicolour brightness of the modern age.
The whole spectacle of Silvio’s killings unnerved him, making him eager to return to the Coven and to his master’s bed. There, he could be fed upon in the same fashion, yet spared, unlike all the bodies with their limbs entangled in their long hair, thrown aside like broken dolls. Unlike them, Kyrillos was so warm, so willing.
During the day Kyrillos saw to the greenhouse; he enjoyed the rays of the sun as they broke through the glass roof and the palm leaves. He instructed the workers on where to place the sculptures and how to arrange them. These marble monuments were temporary; Silvio wanted to replace them, but the garden looked somehow bare without them, too wild and untamed. It had been Kyrillos who suggested taking some of the busts and chiselled heroes from the antiques room and having them displayed here. They sprinkled the bottom of the fountain with coins and trinkets dating to the time of Emperor Trajan, to lend a shimmer to the water as orfe swam above them, their little mouths gaping open.
The work in the mansion was slow. Kyrillos liked to sit by the fountain and read through his master’s correspondence, aligning it with the ledger. His clothes absorbed the damp smell of earthand grass; the humidity made him sweat, and he always returned to his master’s chambers flushed and in need of a shower.
Silvio was waiting for him, his robe tied loosely, an eager glow in his eyes. At the sight of him Kyrillos bowed and hurried to the dressing room, thankful that the maids had laid out and pressed his master’s clothes the night before. He only had to—
“What news, Kyrillos? Has there been word of my consort?” Silvio’s voice dipped, and his hands worked Kyrillos free of his damp clothes.
“N-not yet, my lord.”
He knew better than to sidestep or argue when Silvio threw the waistcoat and shirt to the ground, and ran his hands across Kyrillos’s tense shoulders, his fingers pressing ever so gently. He buried a hand in Kyrillos’s hair and tugged playfully, ruffling the curls.
“Why do you track mud across my floors and attend to me in sullied clothes? How neglectful you have grown.”
There was a bite in his master’s tone. Words that might have sounded teasing now scorched, and Kyrillos was desperate to be allowed to turn and see his face. Silvio remained behind him, unseen, denying.
“I… I was in the garden, my lord. Seeing to the final stages of the work on the greenhouse.”
“Is that why I find myself waking alone? You have been crawling in soil and gravel all day. It is not proper for a man of your station to be filthy.”
Kyrillos could not meet his master’s eye as he was shoved out of the dressing room and towards the bathroom.
“Clean yourself and have a car brought in front. Any of the men on call can drive me into town.”
“Will I not be accompanying you, master?”
Silvio narrowed his eyes at the muddy shoes, the crumpled and dirty trousers. Something was bothering him and it was not Kyrillos’s sullied appearance.
“Do you promise to be good?”
Always. Kyrillos’s pulse quickened; his heart pulsed in his throat and in his ears. He had only strength to nod but his master was no longer looking at him. He was toying with his cigarette case. It snapped open and shut between his fingers, long enough for Kyrillos to see that it was empty. He made a note to refill it before they went out.
The drive to town felt like prolonged torture. Kyrillos had been ordered to take in the passenger seat and rode in silence as his master sat in the back, legs crossed, a frown distorting his youthful face. He opened and snapped the cigarette case, opened and snapped it, each click louder than the one before. As intended, Kyrillos had refilled the little box, had even offered to light one for his master, but Silvio dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
The silent agony of the evening bled into Silvio’s hunt. He sent away every human who came near him, shrouded himself in shadows, and kept to the alleys in search of someone worthy of his palate. Kyrillos watched at a safe distance, cold and shivering. It was getting late.
If he doesn’t feed now, he will have to drink from me.The thought should have horrified him, seeing how angry his master was. He would be cruel, impatient. It excited and frightened Kyrillos to be at the receiving end of that anger, at the mercy of Silvio’s hunger.
A man pushed past Kyrillos, startling him from the fantasy, and he watched as the human made his way over to where Silvio stood. His step was sure, his body swaying to a tune only he could hear. His hair was tied in a low ponytail, and it swayed in the same rhythm, mesmerizing Kyrillos as it swung from side to side. The man stopped abruptly and Silvio walked up to him, already tugging at the man’s jacket and scarf, baring the neck. Something in the motion made the victim jerk and break free of the spell.
The man tried to run, hands clutching at his torn neck but Silvio did not chase after him. He stared at the mortal until hecollapsed on the ground, screaming. The alley cracked with the echo of bones breaking, and Kyrillos watched as the man’s arm twisted and bent at an impossible angle, dislocating the shoulder as the forearm broke in two. The torso contracted and the body bent backwards, clattering on the ground, the hair draped over the wailing face like a veil. A mercy, Kyrillos thought, glad not to see the man’s horrid expression anymore. Silvio let out a long, drawn sigh, and dabbed at the sweat on his temples with a handkerchief.
Kyrillos had seen vampires make objects levitate and fall to pieces on the ground. He had watched them light candles and fireplaces with a flick of their tongues, doors opening at the snap of a finger. He had never seen what Silvio had done to that man.
“Cold?” Silvio’s eyes twinkled with amusement, as his servant shivered like a leaf.
Kyrillos opened his mouth to object—he had not realised he was trembling until Silvio draped his cashmere coat around him—and breathed in the strong fragrance of Silvio’s cologne and the sticky, sick smell of blood. Some of it was still lingering on his gums from when Silvio had kissed him.
The blood of the man he just killed.
