Page 5 of Besieger
Lord and Lady Wheatley.
Herr und Frau Brandt.
Herr und Frau Sturge.
Lord and Lady Hull.
Until they were back as Count and Countess di Flaviari, her most prized alias.
The carriage picked up speed, their bodies bounced, scattering the memory of all the men Silvio had once pretended to be. They were traveling under the guise of diplomats bound for Prussia. The forged letters and seals in his pocket were meant to get them through borders and into inns without too many questions. They allowed them to encounter no trouble as the days went by, using the quiet of the night to hunt, passing through towns and feeding on any poor mortal out on the street. At a posting station they switched horses and coachmen, erasing the memories of thosewho served them, filling their pockets with coins as an act of mercy.
“Where will we lodge in Berlin?” Silvio broke the silence, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.
Pulling at the heavy curtain, he watched the shadows of the lanterns flicker beneath the carriage. There were mountains in the distance, peeking through the canopy of trees.
“We will spend the night at the Coven. They have prepared rooms for us there,” Dulior replied and closed the fan. She let it fall in her lap. “It is best to keep with your own.”
Did I give her that in an attempt to get into her good graces?Silvio narrowed his eyes at the fan. It did not look familiar. Surely he had bought her gifts and danced with her at balls. He was not neglectful when it came to appearances.
“Rooms? Am I expected to share your chamber, Madame? Or do they know we are husband and wife in name—and name only?”
The words slipped from his mouth with a scornful leer. Dulior stared at his face, her eyes unblinking. How she must hate him! When Silvio once asked why she had turned him into a vampire her answer was that it was done out of love. She had fallen desperately in love with him; why else follow him from France all the way to the East? Why else step between the men chasing him and save his life? But that was centuries ago and she no longer invited him to her bed. The door was always open—that much he knew—but she had stopped calling for him.
Surely when she lay in bed with her lovers and admirers they wept for her, promising to rid her of Monsieur, this distant and heartless man who was undeserving of her affection. Silvio had seen strangers visit and have tea with her in the drawing room, always sitting too close, their faces flushed from eagerness—or turned pale from the blood loss—leaning in to whisper. Dulior lured them in like a spider and fed off them, sometimes for days. The men roamed the halls of his home and bowed down to him, delighting in making a cuckold out of him. Silvio bowed back ingreeting, his lips curled in a pleasant smile. Had these men not seen the complete lack of him in the master bedroom? The wardrobes and trunks were full of dresses, powders and creams, gloves and hats belonging to Madame. There was no trace, no scent of Silvio in those rooms. Not a single piece of paper to his name. Not even a discarded box of matches.
Whenever a servant needed him they knew to go directly to Monsieur Gabrielli’s room.
“I take your silence to mean that me and Emerick will be sharing.”
He nearly addedbedjust to spite her, as childish as it was.
Do not humiliate me in front of the Coven, Silvio,” Dulior warned and her gaze hardened. She reached for the fan, whether to resume fanning herself or to hit him with it. He found all of this far too amusing, being enclosed in the carriage for hours was making him giddy.
He pressed the fingers of his hand to his lips in an attempt to hold back the laughter. He could not hear the rest of Dulior’s warning over the noise coming from outside.
The body of the carriage shook and wheeled to the side as something heavy fell and scurried across the rooftop. The carriage door opened, letting in a sudden blast of cold wind, and Emerick stepped through. The door slammed shut behind him. His riding boots and breeches were covered in mud, his collar and cuffs stained with dried blood.
He is a sloppy eater when he is in a hurry, Silvio observed, tittering quietly to himself. Similar to previous nights, Emerick had jumped off the carriage and came running back once his search for lost souls on the road had borne fruit. Silvio slithered in the driver’s mind, ordering him to whip the horses into a gallop and gain speed—make up for the time lost as his lover hunted.
Emerick patted down his clothes and slid into the empty seat next to Silvio, draping his arms over the headrests. His hair was dishevelled from the wind, its full length falling freely down hisback. Instantly the small space began to soak in with the musky scent of his perfume and the bubbling notes of blood.
“We should reach Berlin by the morrow,” he announced, looking between Silvio and Dulior.
“Or sooner, if you stop walking out of the carriage mid-journey,” Dulior scolded him, and reached into her sleeve. She pulled a silk handkerchief and offered it to Emerick, tilting her chin up. The initials DDF were embroidered in red along the lace-trimmed edge.
Emerick made to take it, but Silvio was faster. He swooped in and snatched the silk right from beneath Emerick’s outstretched fingers. He shoved the kerchief into his pocket, next to the papers, and roughly took hold of Emerick’s chin. Jerking his head to the side, Silvio inspected the smears Dulior had meant to wipe.
The blood had dripped down Emerick’s chin and neck, staining his shirt; he had managed to clean most of it before running back to the carriage. Leaning in, Silvio breathed in the smell, searching for the long gone warmth of a mortal body. Ignoring Dulior’s disgruntled expression, Silvio licked at Emerick’s neck, running his tongue up to the chin, desperate for the dry patches of blood. His fangs scraped against the skin, making Emerick shiver.
“Poor thing. Are you hungry?” Emerick laughed and cupped Silvio’s face in his palm. The blood on his sleeve was still wet.
With a mouth still pressed against Emerick’s throat Silvio swallowed—the sound too loud and wet—before pulling away. The space around him was pulsing in the corners of his eyes. He regretted not stepping out to feed earlier. Emerick’s thumb brushed his cheek and prodded at his lips.
“Shall I order the coachman to stop when he sees anyone—anything—move outside?” Emerick offered, loud enough so that Dulior could hear. Their mother frowned at Silvio, at the pitiful state he must have. He could not concentrate on anything other than Emerick’s fingers on his lips, now pressing against his teeth.
“No,” Silvio managed to shake his head, breath hitching in his throat, “we stop when we reach Berlin.”
The tip of Emerick’s finger slid across Silvio’s fangs leaving behind a line of crimson nectar. Silvio let out a moan of desperation as the blood slowly filled his mouth. He swallowed, the sound deafening despite the rumbling of the speeding carriage. The cut on the finger was starting to close, he could feel the flow of blood lessen before he bit down into the flesh and pulled at Emerick’s hand. Vampires did not feed on each other’s blood—it would not nourish them. The act served for pleasure and staved off the real hunger. It was not the first time he was drinking Emerick’s blood, nor would it be the last. But it was the first time they did it with Dulior watching. A part of Silvio wanted to stop, he had gotten a taste and it was enough.It had to be enough. There was no need to show her this side of him: the one consumed by blood lust and desperate for more. The side of him she had once begged to possess.
