Page 52 of Besieger
René’s face turned red and he spluttered in shock. His master picked up the spoon and turned it in the light before dipping it in the broth. How hard could it be, he had once been mortal and had eaten. Emerick blew on the spoon—a rather ridiculous attempt to cool it—and offered it to his butler.
“You fed me so many nights, René. You can do this for me,non?”
“My lord… this…”
“Emerick,” TheComtecorrected in a tender whisper. “Say my name and be a good boy for me, René.”
Let’s have you warmed up and fed, and I will reward you, he breathed into René’s mind, watching the redness in his face turn to a beautiful blush, the arousal blooming. At odds with etiquette, René opened his mouth and allowed himself to be spoon-fed. When the bowl was emptied, Emerick arranged their chairs closer together and leaned in, eyes narrowing.
He was gentle and slow. First taking René’s gloves off, then loosening the cravat, he placed it on the table and undid all the buttons until there was nothing between him and the throbbing vein on the mortal’s throat. He wanted to get as close as possible, suddenly overwhelmed with the thirst for blood. How sweet it had tasted when Emerick was reborn, that first drop of human blood. How long he had waited until he could drink from a living man. Like sinking his teeth into a honeycomb: the thick syrup filling his mouth, sticking to his teeth and trickling down his chin—the overflowing sweetness.
Human blood was sweet, but Silvio’s blood was like mulled wine, warm and heavy with flavour, rich. He would have a taste of Silvio later, in bed.
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Emerick trailed his lips down René’s neck and kissed it before his mouth went up the curve and under the man’s chin. “I often think about that night, at thethermae—of you as a young man with me in the water. How quick you were to serve me.”
“Yes—” René tried to nod, his hands reached for Emerick, urging him closer.
“How fast your heart beat when I fed off you… when I touched you…”
Emerick pressed down, his fangs pierced the skin, and the blood instantly filled his mouth, making him moan. Against him, René stiffened instinctively from the pain before he slowly relaxed and yielded, letting him have it all. Emerick swallowed and a shock ran down his whole body.
Before he could stop himself, he spat the blood onto the ground, kicking back his chair. Wiping at his mouth, he spat again, desperate to rid himself of the taste.
Something is wrong.
The taste… that vile, wretched tang reminded him of the animals he was forced to feed off as a fledgling vampire. Even when Dulior had finally deemed him worthy, she led him to the sickest, filthiest of humans, made him crawl in the gutter after them. Death was a blessing for these poor souls, but Emerick had to force himself to keep the blood down. Either drink from the dead or die with them.
René’s blood was alive, but barely. Something was poisoning his body, leaving the bloodstream rancid, rotten and retching.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. René was sent to his room; instructions were given to the staff that he was not to be disturbed. Michel took charge of the household and oversaw the arrangements; no guests were permitted to enter the tower. A physician was called, a carriage dispatched for him, and for a moment Emerick thought of calling René’s wife but decided against it.
What if it was nothing? René had grown old, people aged—why should not their blood also change, lose its savour and delight? Perhaps it was the stress, the deaths that had beset thefamily and held René awake at night. Or it was the late hours he kept, so he could serve his immortal masters.
“There is a growth in his stomach,” the physician announced while washing and drying his hands at the basin.
He examined the butler once and was made to do it again; Emerick would have sent him a third time if it would make any difference.
“What he needs is rest. Bloodletting can help mitigate some of it,” the physician explained, scribbling down on a slip of paper. He talked about diets, salt baths and herbal compresses.
A footman saw him out with a promise to call in the morning. Or better yet, if the patient regained his strength, to have him driven into town and treated there.
Silvio pulled Michel aside and gave instructions for René’s things to be packed and sent home to his wife and children. He wrote a hasty letter and sealed it with wax, before giving it to a footman to deliver to his solicitor.
When Silvio returned to the tiny room in the attic, Emerick was standing by the door. His shirt splattered with blood.
“He is dying, my love.” TheMarquisbrushed a stray hair from Emerick’s face. He could smell the disease from here. “He has been dying for some time now, we simply did not see it.”
“He does not want to leave.”
TheComtelooked up, and the hurt and confusion in his eyes was threatening to overflow.
“Nonsense!” Silvio dismissed him. “I have already sent word to his wife. His son is to come in the morning and escort him. He should be home, with his family. With mortals. I paid the doctor to attend him, for as long as it takes. And a pension has been arranged for the family. They will be provided for.”
“He does not want to leave,” Emerick repeated, becoming angry.
Silvio gazed into his eyes, motionless and silent.
“Thenmakehim leave,” he hissed, not bothering to lower his voice. “We can make him leave and live however little time hehas as a human—as he is meant to be. We have entertained him for far too long. It is time for our fragile little toy to leave the doll’s house.”
