Page 111 of Besieger
“Look at you, your teeth are chattering.” Silvio’s hands locked on either side of him, and urged him along, back towards the car. “Let us get you warmed up, back at the Coven.”
Silvio’s correspondence was gradually redirected to Berlin. Every day, Kyrillos woke to calls and emails from lawyers or from Silvio’s assistant—a secretary or valet of some sort—who handled the estate on behalf of Monsieur Bracci. Was Kyrillos aware that his employer refused to be ushered into the world of technological advancement and preferred instead to rely on hisassistants? Yes, Kyrillos had quickly become aware of this and the implications behind it. Managing a household had been challenging enough, but he had time and experience, a senior staff, and Scarlett who also helped him from time to time. Overseeing Silvio’s private estate and business lay outside his expertise and comfort zone.
“Read me the emails, or forward them between the lawyers. They can go to my secretary for decisions on the tower.” Silvio dismissed him when Kyrillos tried to voice his concerns.
“What about the vineyard? There are acres of land, human workers, facilities, marketing and matters of import and export.”
The list went on and on, and Kyrillos wished he could sit down on the floor right there and ponder it.
“My secretary,” Silvio repeated, this time firmer. “It goes to him to handle and decide in my stead. He knows what to do. He knows how to manage my affairs. This is not his first time.”
The emails continued, followed by letters and newspapers that Kyrillos delivered each sunset. He arranged for French newspapers to come to the mansion, together with their German counterparts, and the occasional magazine or booklet Silvio might find interesting.
Out of all his responsibilities, Kyrillos continuously failed at only one. The only important one. Until today.
On the day Emerick had been made Regent, he left the Berlin Coven, promising Silvio to come back once he had seen to—and properly arranged—matters in Béziers. Silvio had patiently waited for his lover’s return until the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. Eventually, two years had passed, and still there had been no sign of theMarquis; two years during which Kyrillos had failed to locate and retrieve the one thing his master craved.
He was on his way to the game room after a meeting with Silvio’s lawyers. They had examined the bank accounts held in Emerick’s name, attempting to establish theMarquis’whereabouts and, more importantly, the reason for his silence.They found records of plane tickets to and from Germany and Bulgaria, a house deed, and multiple inconsequential purchases. A joint account had appeared one day and Kyrillos squinted at the name of the second owner, ransacking his mind, yet failing to recall any vampire named Victor Gabrielli. The lawyers assured him it was legitimate, all done as instructed by Monsieur Gabrielli himself.
It had taken them months, but they found him nonetheless. Whatever he was doing instead of abiding by his duties, theMarquiswas in Bulgaria, leading a different life, pretending to be human.
In hindsight, it felt foolish not to have thought to search for a vampire in the same way one would search for a man. Kyrillos was not accustomed to perceiving them as human, going about their daily routine with mundanity and repetitiveness. They were ethereal, horrifying and undead. Kyrillos could not imagine them completing chores, buying groceries or living in crammed spaces among mortals. And yet, it had proven easy, so very easy, to find Emerick once Kyrillos stopped thinking of him as a vampire. Or perhaps there was a part of Kyrillos that did not want to find Emerick, to let theMarquisreveal himself when and if he saw fit. It was too late now, Kyrillos had seen the receipts, the paperwork. He would have to show them to his master.
Kyrillos entered the game room and the sight of Silvio made him wonder if he should mention the joint account and the house. His master did not care for the specifics; all he wanted was a location.
The Coven Master was playing billiards on one of the tables, a cloud of cigarette smoke trailing him as he moved back and forth. Sometimes the motions of his body were too fast, driving the tip of the cue so hard into the ivory balls that Kyrillos feared they might crack, and the felt rip beneath them.
The maids warned Kyrillos that the master had retreated to the game room following the visit from the Countess di Flaviari. Judging by the sight of him—his rolled-up sleeves, hisdishevelled hair, and the thickness of the smoke—Silvio had been here a while. The ashtray was piled with cigarette butts and burnt matches.
Good news, I bring goodnews, Kyrillos reminded himself, before he closed the door and stepping further into the room. Silvio ignored him, continuing to stalk around the table; he bent over it and set the cue for his next shot, angling it. The crack of ivory against ivory echoed like thunder in the vast room.
Serving Silvio came at a price. He demanded more than Ingenuar ever had of the human servants. He insisted things to be done in a particular way, mimicking how he ran the household in Béziers. Yet Kyrillos remained—no, hebeggedto stay. He obediently drew up the staff plan, extending it to include positions the previous Coven Master had no need of: tailors, painters, sculptors, even architects.
Kyrillos had been twenty-seven when he was made butler—the only one with a key to the Master’s bedroom. Back then, Silvio had made a bet with him: a private game for the two of them to play while they waited for theMarquis. He had come home in a good mood after a hunt, eager to propose.
“If you manage to seduce me, if you make me fall in love with you,” Silvio had breathed against Kyrillos’s neck, drawing their bodies closer so that he might hold his waist. “I will turn you into a vampire. But you have only until you turn thirty.”
What a cruel game, Kyrillos chewed on the inside of his cheek, imagining himself forever bound to Silvio’s side. There were far worse fates for a mortal, thePatrikiaused to warn him.
The three years he had been given to complete the task had seemed like all the time in the world, and not nearly enough. A glimmer of a second in the eyes of a vampire.
“How many vampires have you made?” Kyrillos could not help but ask back then.As if it matters... He did not care how many others shared the Blood with Silvio. All that mattered was that he could be one of them. He was alreadyan obedient little thing, as Silvio used to call him. All he needed was the Blood.
“Two,” his master answered, fangs glistening with saliva, his mouth curled into a mirthless smile. He was enjoying this: toying with his pet.
What a good pet Kyrillos could be, if only he had eternity to perfect it.
“Two? And I have to convince you to turn me??”
Silvio had laughed at the horror that twisted Kyrillos’s face.
“I have sired two vampires. Perhaps I shall make more now. Make me turn you, Kyrillos.Make me hunger for it.”
Kyrillos’s time was running out. Come spring, and he was going to celebrate his thirtieth year. They spent most nights together; Kyrillos bore teeth marks under his collar and kept finding small trinkets laid out for him. Silvio continued to take him hunting, consulted him on matters concerning both vampire and mortal residents alike.
Yet, he never let Kyrillos taste a lick of blood.
I found theMarquis, Kyrillos told himself.I will give him what he wants, and he will turn me.
