Page 120 of Besieger
“How romantic.” Stefan had rolled his eye.
“Isn’t it?” Emerick had grinned, his smile all sharp teeth and smugness.
Months later the vampire had come in, wearing a wedding band on his hand. Stefan noticed it because Emerick kept twisting the ring around his finger, obviously unaccustomed to jewellery. But Stefan had already expected that strange turn of events as Victor had pulled him aside one day to ask how Stefan had proposed to Leitian.
“Want a demonstration?” Stefan had teased. “I am already on my knees every time I taste your baking.”
Back then Victor had rolled his eyes, the faintest flush spread over his cheeks. Stefan knew Victor took pride in his handiwork, whatever his grumbles about the orders for the Bean.How it must frustrate him that Emerick can’t eat any of it, Stefan chuckled.The more for me, then.
And now, two years after the wedding ceremony to which apparently no one from the pack had been invited, it was only a matter of time before Victor had his own patisserie.Chef pâtissier Victor Gabrielli, oh, Stefan loved the sound of that.
With the delicious fantasy tucked away at the back of his mind, Stefan finished sweeping the floor.
I have to find a way to thank Emerick. What do vampires like?Stefan pondered, recalling how he had once brought a map of the Rila Mountains, and Emerick had shown an interest in it.
It had been a map he had used on a recent hiking trip and wanted to make notes for the next venture. He planned on asking Victor and the other men of the pack to join him. They could hike up to the Seven Rila Lakes, then trek all the way to the Rila Monastery, and be back home by bus or train. If the weather was good and there were not too many tourists, they could shift and run down the slopes and through the woods. But most of all, Stefan wanted to try out a coffee kit he bought. The moka pot and the canister of gas did not look as though they would add much weight to his backpack. Lei used to say he always focused on the wrong gear when they went shopping. He ought to belooking at tents and sleeping bags, not portable coffee stands. Lei agreed that everyone liked coffee; it tasted good and a freshly brewed cup would warm and uplift them during the trek. But the moka pot was not going to help if they got caught in a blizzard or they had to camp outside the mountain huts if there were no vacant beds. If Victor came on the trip, Stefan could persuade him to bring some home-baked pastries or sandwiches, they would go great with the coffee. Thinking about it made him giddy with excitement.
Maps. He likes maps, Stefan blew at a stray lock of hair that had fallen on his face, recalling how Emerick had fixated on the broad sheet of the hiking map, busy reading it.
There was an old atlas, yellowed with age, at his parents’ house. He could call his mother and see if the thing was still there. If they had not thrown it out, it might be in the basement.
Stefan braced himself mentally for the phone call. His mother would bombard him with questions—Why do you need that atlas? Aren’t there maps online?—and after what seemed ages, his mother would agree to look for the old thing and send it. She would ask one more time before hanging up why her son wanted the atlas, and he would once again insist and plead for it. She did not need to know her son wanted to use a dusty, USSR era atlas to woo a vampire.
He had his back turned when the doorbell chimed and someone came in. Strange, Stefan could swear the sign readClosed. It would not be the first time a patron barged in while they were closing for the night, insisting that their order would not take long, wouldn’t Stefan please make an exception?
“We are closed,” he called over his shoulder. He had experience with people like that; he was good at guiding them back outside.
When no one spoke, Stefan turned around and saw a woman standing by the door. She wore an odd, hourglass-shaped velvet dress—smooth and inviting to the touch. She had a hat with a net, perhaps lace, which obscured her face. Her jet-black hair fellin waves around her shoulders, her lips were painted with dark red lipstick, and her eyes bright as lilacs. She was so pale, too pale for a human. In her gloved hands, she clutched a flat object, holding it a little too close to her chest.
The woman took a step forward. Stefan saw her leg lift, the heels of her shoes clicked on the tiled floor, once, twice—and she appeared a step behind him, her gloved hand resting on the counter. At the exact spot where Emerick had been sitting moments ago. Her perfume was divine, it muted everything else in the shop, and the dress was backless, revealing the line of her shoulder blades and spine.
“Are you a man worthy of service, Stefan Kamenov?” the woman asked, not looking at him. Her voice was sweet and thick as ambrosia. If she so much as glanced at him, he was going to prostrate himself on the floor, at her feet.
“There will not be a need for that,” the woman stopped him from debasing himself, having read his mind. “Instead, I want you to deliver a letter.”
She placed the object on the counter and tapped it with her finger. Her gloves disappeared under the sleeves of the dress. Stefan had to force himself to look away from her and frowned at the item. It was a thick folded sheet of paper. And it was red.
“This is for your friend—the vampire,” she instructed him.
Stefan grimaced. There could be no mistake for who the letter had been meant—there was only one vampire in Tarnovo.And now there are two of them, he thought with annoyance.
The woman stared at him, expecting.
He picked up the letter.
Go!Deliver! the woman ordered, her lilac eyes glaring at him, unblinking, and Stefan dashed out into the street.
The light in the kitchen was on; it cast the rest of the floor in blotches of shadow and glimmers of light. Stefan saw it when he walked out back through the garden; the glass door stood open, the blinds drawn. It was embarrassingly easy to get into the Gabrielli house.They could at least install light sensors or something outside, he mused and searched the ground floor.
As his eye adjusted to the dark, he saw the outlines of the furniture, a glass left on the table, a pair of slippers. It was oddly quiet, he knew neither Emerick nor Victor would be asleep, especially when they had left the Bean no more than an hour ago. He could sense them somewhere in the house—smell them, peppered with the unmistakable scent of blood. Stefan started towards the staircase, when he caught movement on the sofa. A pair of yellow eyes glared at him, and like a wolf stalking its prey, Victor’s shape took form.
Victor was sprawled on the sofa, back against the armrest, a body draped at a strange angle over his lap. It stirred, and the smell of blood grew stronger. Emerick’s face was pressed into the crook of Victor’s neck, mouth and chin smeared with blood. When he lifted his head, his movements were slow, dazed, his pupils blown wide from the bloodlust. He wiped his mouth, and stood up; his body moved like he was a doll on strings. Beneath him Victor let out a growl—his mouth also stained, wet and red, eyes burning with golden fever.
“Stefan,” Emerick rasped and swallowed; the words he uttered delayed and sticky. “We were not expecting you.”
The blood ran in rivulets down his chin and throat, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. His short hair was dishevelled, parts of it wet with blood. An odd thought crossed Stefan’s mind, he felt slightly hysterical at the sight before him. In all those years he had known Emerick, he had never seen him drink blood. There had been no killings that could be assigned as the work of a vampire in Tarnovo—or anywhere in Bulgaria. His vampire guest had kept his promise. He had been good.All this time he had been feeding on Victor—his groom.
“You’ve got a letter,” Stefan said in a flat voice.
