Page 20 of Besieger
DULIOR, 1790
Dulior unfurled her fan and closed it again as she looked out of the carriage window. There was no sign of Silvio after she kicked him out. The outpost was silent, few of its windows lit at this hour. She could hear the horses snort and grunt, struggling with the straps and reins, eager to move. Across from her, on the other bench, Emerick was reading a book. His long legs were crossed; she saw the mud on the soles of his boots. He was still wearing the blood-stained shirt from earlier.
They had grown so accustomed to tolerating each other’s existence that they relied upon it, leaning in to that mutual dislike. It was almost comforting. Dulior narrowed her eyes, studying him and the booklet he was holding. There was something oddly familiar about it. It took her a minute to recognize it as one of her own.
He’s been in my room!The thought filled her with disgust.
She wanted to hurt him, to take away the joy of doing something as simple as sitting there and reading, of having that moment of peace and quiet.
“How can you debase yourself like this?” the words came spitting out of her mouth, the bile burned her tongue. “Playing the servant all these centuries.”
“Have you not put me in this role, Madame?” Emerick replied without looking at her. His eyes scanned the printed page slowly, from right to left, like a human would. The fingers of his righthand made to turn the page, running down the paper and back cover eagerly.
“Thisis not what I intended for you, and you know it.”
Emerick closed the book and put it on his lap. He appeared to be thinking, his gaze cast downward, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There were still specks of blood under his chin and on his collar, places that Silvio had not managed to lick dry. Slowly, he raised his gaze and Dulior felt the full weight of his black eyes.
“You had meant for me to die. To be fed upon by your newly made child. For him to suckle on me and then clutch at your breast and beg for more.”
Suddenly the air in the carriage felt like it was forced out of her lungs, invisible fingers pulled at her clothes and at her head, turning her to face him, unable to look away. Emerick’s fingers tapped on the cover of the book and an echo of that tap reverberated inside her skull, slowly piercing through the bone.
“Oh, how it must eat at you to have given us this life and not be allowed to partake in it. You are Silvio’s wife but that isallyou are. And me—the servant, the footman, thevalet de chamber, themajordomo,” he was spitting the words. “At leastIhave played my role well and to your liking, while you, Madame, have not been satisfactory in any of yours—neither as wife, nor as mother.”
The phantom fingers prying on her head pushed down, making her gasp and drop the fan. The pressure oozed down her whole body, it felt like he was touching her everywhere all at once. Her lips trembled with the effort not to gag, the blood drained from her face. The presence disappeared with the same force it had engulfed her as if it had never been there. But her body remembered, her arms were covered in gooseflesh. Her mind was desperately trying to put up walls and guard itself but it was too late. He had seen inside her.
Emerick turned his head away, returning to the booklet. He licked at his thumb, and flipped through the pages, searching for the place where he left off, already having forgotten her.
A voice called out to the driver and the carriage jolted, the horses finally given leave to move. The door opened and Silvio stepped in. His face was flushed from warmth and drink, his breath reeking of alcohol. Stumbling forward he sat next to Emerick and pressed against him, excruciatingly close and made to say something but stopped. Instead, he leaned back and closed his eyes, his whole body slowly relaxed, allowing the carriage’s rhythm to lull him into slumber.
The Coven will make things right, she thought, eager to reach Berlin.
Dulior watched the two men and the chasm that had opened between her and them only grew wider. If she bent forward and reached out, she might brush Silvio’s hair, or smack her fan across Emerick’s smug face. Yet she did not belong in the same space as them. She could smell and taste them, painfully familiar with the sounds and movements of their bodies. Bodies bound by the same blood. No longer hers, but theirs.
CHAPTER THREE
SILVIO, 1783
THE COUNTESS WAS BUSY with preparations for a costume ball. She ordered white powdered wigs and a set of white suits with gold embroidery in the shape of constellations. She envisioned specks of gold around their eyes and lips, the tips of their fingers dipped in turmeric so that everything they touched would bear their mark. Their lips would leave a golden halo everywhere they pressed.
Silvio allowed the tailor to take his measurements, not sharing in the excitement of seeing Madame dressed in breeches and a waistcoat once her costume was done. Behind her back, he ordered a third suit in indigo, its pockets full of sea salt, the lapels and sleeves embroidered in white floss, cascading like a shower of stars. No powdered wig, no ribbon to hold back the hair but silver balm for the lips and black kohl to rim the eyes. If only Silvio could persuade Emerick to dip his hands in mercury, he would, but the fact that the majordomo was also to attend the ball, in costume no less, was scandalous enough. Whatever effect Dulior sought to make by showing up in a gentleman’s attire would be all but undone the moment Silvio appeared with silver staining his mouth and streaming down his neck, while golden spice smudged Emerick’s cravat and shirt—his mouth a resplendent mess.
Having fulfilled the little that was expected of him for the preparations, Dulior dismissed Silvio, eager to have the house to herself for once. If she was preparing to entertain guests or a lover, Silvio could not tell, nor did he care to linger at the door to find out. Emerick was waiting for him in the stables, tending to their horses. The carriage would only slow them down tonight; Silvio had a list of places he wanted to visit before the sun rose.
For a small fee the owner of the perfumery kept his shop open well into the night, as long as the Count gave him ample notice. Sometimes the man’s thoughts would illustrate Silvio as a rake or poisoner, or a poisonous rake, who bought perfumes for both his wife and lovers. Leaving the horses outside, they stepped into the building and away from the busy streets of Paris. There was a garden behind the store with a discreet back entrance, but Silvio preferred to enter from the front. The sight of the high polished shelves lined with bottles and boxes always excited him. He was greeted by an assortment of sweet-smelling potions, tall flasks with amber-hued liquids and neat piles of soaps and creams. As a vampire he no longer enjoyed or tasted food but perfumes were where his senses relished.
The perfumer, Monsieur Beaumont, waited eagerly behind the counter dressed in his white apron, his spectacles catching the mellow light from the elaborate chandeliers. The drapes were pulled over the windows, granting them too much privacy for such a mundane transaction.
“Count di Flaviari, always a pleasure,” Beaumont made a bow, the tip of his nose almost brushing the counter.
Silvio nodded in the man’s general direction, his face turned towards the shelves behind the glass doors. Next to him Emerick sniffed loudly and wrinkled his nose, frowning. He looked like he had put something bitter in his mouth and could not get rid of the taste.
“My order, Monsieur, is it ready?” Silvio addressed the mortal.
“Certainly, Monsieur le Count,” Beaumont took out a small vial and placed it on the counter, twisting off the cap. His eyes shone with a satisfied gleam. “I trust the Count will be pleased with the result, the notes have blended beautifully.”
The perfumer dabbed a little of the fragrance on a piece of cloth and handed it to Silvio. He raised the cloth to his face and inhaled, his lungs filling with the musky blend of worn leather, beeswax and incense. The scent stirred memories of the past, of the mornings spent in a church’s sanctuary, eager to go and sit in front of a fireplace, where he and Rico spilled drinks, replacing the frankincense with wine and sweat. The perfume unfurled with a trace of lilac, it made him suddenly hungry. Silvio’s appetite grew the more he breathed it in.
“Exquisite,” his eyes flickered toward Emerick, as he nodded in approval at the mortal. Silvio offered the cloth to his lover to sniff. Emerick looked at him as if Silvio had lost his mind but humoured him nonetheless. “Do you like it?”
