Page 117 of Besieger
In another life and another time, Emerick had witnessed Silvio and Dulior’s countless vows before gods and priests. Sworn in sickness and in health, the Count and Countess reunited again and again. The couple knelt in front of icons and pedestals, orstood silent like statues, dressed in their finest. The ceremony was repeated so many times that it had lost all meaning: a farce, a promise barely kept, the newlyweds’ kiss the only intimacy they ever shared.
Emerick had lost count of the proceedings, the ritual a necessity if their family were to continue with its wicked charade. He never imagined a wedding for himself, where he would be the one to stand at the altar, swearing devotion and love.Till death do us part—it was a laughable promise for a vampire. Death had united him with Silvio. Death had made them possible.
And yet, the man who stood before Emerick was not Silvio. There had been no church dome to echo his vows; the human behind the desk was no ordained priest. Emerick and Victor’s wedding lacked the spectacle and the riches of a Parisian cathedral. It had been an ordinary ceremony, scarcely more than a mundane task; the two grooms dressed in suits, the vows exchanged in hushed voices and then Emerick signed a piece of paper. They were pronounced married by the well-oiled machine of the German administration.
In the days that followed, Emerick began to say the wordhusbandaloud, getting accustomed to the shape of it on his tongue, on his teeth. Every time he called Victorhusband,he received a different reaction. Where Silvio had bristled and narrowed his eyes in contempt every time Dulior called himhusband, on Emerick’s lips it was endearing. Victor would look at him, a little dazed, and a flush would spread beautifully over his cheeks before he composed himself. Other times Victor would lower his gaze, drinking Emerick in, closing the distance between them, coaxing more endearments and caresses.
Silvio had been the sun: burning, blinding, inevitable. He encompassed everything and everyone. Emerick had always wanted to be scorched in his embrace, to have his mouth fill with embers, his skin set on fire everywhere Silvio had touched him. He could not look away from the sight that the Blood gave him.They were no longer the lordling and his squire, the Count and the majordomo. TheMarquisand theComte. They had become something beyond their control, swept along by the Blood.
Of course, Silvio had never been the only one. There had been others, men and paramours who enthralled Emerick as the centuries went by. But he had watched each of them die or forget him. Victor, however, had not died when Emerick left him in Berlin in 1944, nor had he forgotten.
Victor scorched Emerick with each breath and touch. He was mortal and tasted of salt, meant to age and wither. His blood clotted in Emerick’s throat like honey, thickened by aspiration.
“One mortal lifetime,” Emerick whispered, and bought a house, even when he expected a summons from Silvio, calling him back to demand that he attend to his duties in Béziers and to the Coven.
He watched the seasons change and still no messenger found his way to Emerick’s door.How far would Silvio’s patience stretch, he wondered, tempted to put it to the test. Years ago, on boardDer Merkur, a man by the name of Jürgen had asked for one mortal lifetime with Emerick—no more, no less. At the time, Emerick did not dare entertain a madman’s fantasy; he could not make such a promise—he had been bound as theComte. But now—here, with his wolfling—and asMarquis,he could rule without a shadow, challenging and eroding the limits of Silvio and the Coven’s tolerance.
“One mortal lifetime with Victor. No more, no less.” He breathed, overcome with giddiness.
There was the sense of guilt, of course, but not towards Silvio, no. Silvio had learned to share Emerick, even if he had done so reluctantly. The guilt was towards Victor and how much Emerick relished their time together.
He found that marriage suited him, despite the many flaws of mortal life. The house in Tarnovo, once all the repair works were finished, lacked the overflowing opulence of the tower in Béziers. It was simple, functional, full of trinkets and things thatVictor had collected over the years. It had no servants or maids endlessly coming and going from room to room. A cleaning firm came once a week and even that felt temporary, for Victor insisted they do things themselves. The last time Emerick picked up a dusting cloth was when he bowed and called Dulior ‘Madame la Countess’. Now he found himself washing dishes and tableware under the watchful eye of his husband, or boiling soup in pots of various sizes.
A vampire doing household chores and cooking—Emerick would have laughed at his predicament, had he not been too busy trying to remember the names of electrical appliances and their various uses.
Sometimes they entertained guests in the sitting area of the house with its fireplace. Thick carpets and scattered pillows, windows soaring to the ceiling. In the mornings the blinds were drawn, but at night Emerick would cast them aside so he could watch the garden, waiting for Victor to come back from a hunt, the shape of a beast emerging from the trees.
In the bedroom, in their bed, Emerick kissed him; he bit his tongue, gently lapping at Victor, blood mingling with saliva. His husband groaned against his mouth, drawing him closer. The blood ran down Emerick’s chin and Victor licked at it eagerly, desperate before the cut healed itself, his eyes glowing in the dark.
He had grown accustomed to the idea of waking in the early hours of the day; his senses dull and numb, the weight of his limbs tugging him down, back beneath the covers. Emerick forced himself awake and down the hallway, away from the safety and warmth of his marriage bed, and into the brightly lit kitchen.
The air brimmed with static and the smell of powders and freshly baked bread. The espresso machine clicked and the last drops of coffee fell into the tiny cup, which Victor chugged with no ceremony or finesse. Emerick had spent countless hours at the Bean and could not help but note how much Victor differed fromStefan. Stefan turned it into a ritual, there was an art to coffee brewing, whether he did it for himself or a paying customer; he measured, arranged and savoured the first sip of the warm beverage. For Victor, by contrast, coffee was a necessity—the fuel that helped him stay awake when night fell, so he could be there for Emerick.
In much the same way that Stefan took great care with caffeine, Victor did with baking. He prepared the daily recipes, checked the delivery lists, and demanded the same diligence and discipline from his apprentice. He would come home tired but content with his day’s accomplishments, his hair and clothes dusty with flour and powdered sugar, his mouth still carrying the vague taste of Turkish delight and dark chocolate.
Emerick watched his husband pull out a tray from the oven and set it on the kitchen counter. His hands and forearms were coated with flour, and when he swiped the sweat off his forehead, the powder smeared across his face and into his hair. Emerick breathed in the sweet scent of the bread and tried to do the math of when Victor must have set the dough to rise, and when he would have gotten out of bed to come downstairs to knead it. He would fold the dough in half and stretch it out, again and again. There were machines for that type of work—both here and at the bakery—which made the process easier, fasterandcleaner. But Victor preferred doing it by hand. He said the bread tasted better.
It brought forth the memory of Victor’s rough hands, slick with scented oil, massaging Emerick. Nimble fingers worked him hard, making their way slowly down his body, kneading and pinching at his skin. It was a pleasant memory, one from which Emerick was still sore, and it was not the impending sunrise that made his legs weak as he leaned against the door frame.
“You’re still up,” Victor observed.
Emerick tugged at the sleeves of his robe—despite its length he had missed to tie it, it barely covered much of him—and looked up with a smile he hoped was alluring and not betraying his fatigue.
“I wanted to see you off. Come back to bed, you know I like waking up beside you.”
Victor tittered and lifted his cup to take a sip, only to realise it was empty. He muttered under his breath and busied himself with the machine, preparing a new cup of coffee.
“Don’t worry, I will be there when you wake up later. Are we staying in tonight?”
“Perhaps?” Emerick took a step closer. The heat from the oven made him dizzy. He could not recall the last time he had fed. He was long overdue a proper meal. “Unless there is somewhere you would like to go.”
He flattened his hand against Victor’s chest and very slowly started untying the knots holding the apron.Ah, to see him wearing nothing but this apron and get manhandled like last night.
Victor leaned into the touch and pressed his forehead against that of Emerick.
“I could stay in a little longer.” He breathed into Emerick’s ear, and flattened his hips against his husband’s.
“Mmm…”
