Page 55 of Besieger
When his blood-kin offered no entertainment, Raffaelle turned to the servants. Ingenuar’s household was teeming with life: maids and footmen, kitchen hands and seamstresses, drivers and gardeners. In the first century of his stay in Berlin, Raffaelle had tasted them all. Not choosing any favourites—mortals had long lost their charm and value—he plucked these little helpers, distracted them from their daily chores so he could have a mouthful of their youth before casting them aside. The Coven’s eager bite-sized morsels were ripe with memories of the other council members, the All Father and All Mother, the whole court.
All their secrets danced on the tip of Raffaelle’s tongue.
He knew that Betül wrote letters to theSultana—her conniving spy, buried deep in this part of the continent. Her letters were sealed with blood and wax; they broke so easily when Raffaelle tore them open. Though he could not read the words, he liked to admire Betül’s beautiful handwriting, how the symbols flowed along the page in calm waves.
The maid who was supposed to leave the letter for the postman trembled at his feet. Raffaelle erased her memory, left her to think the letter had been successfully dispatched, and thanked her for the service with a kiss.
He was aware of Penelope’s quarrels and resentment towards theBasilissa. The Berlin court suited her better than the pantheon in Greece. Sometimes she would freely offer news from Athens if the mood struck her, but Raffaelle preferred the things she left unsaid. He had been in her mind and in her veins.
French vampires… ah, French vampires, Raffaelle thought with a gleeful smile. They were his favourite. Dulior, with her desperate need to belong, to be appreciated by the Coven. Raffaelle did not understand her aspirations, but he found them entertaining, and he nurtured them whenever the Countess visited. He paid his respects and offered gifts, sometimes to her husband’s chagrin.
Did Raffaelle know that the Béziers’ Coven refused to welcome all vampires? TheMarquis’court kept its circle intimate and refused to expand.
How did the All Father tolerate such a travesty, the Countess’ husband demanded of Raffaelle, and Raffaelle made a show of sympathy and shook his head. Meanwhile Silvio and his consort had just arrived the day before, and the Countess’ mood soured deeper into resentment.
Centuries earlier, when the di Flaviari family first arrived at court, Raffaelle had numbered among the many in the ballroom, eager to see what delights the All Father had planned for them. He heard of a certain valet who was a thorn in the Countess’ immaculate garden. Yet that night Raffaelle saw no valet escorting the couple.
The man who accompanied them was a vampire: a stunning figure who apparently occupied the thoughts and imaginations of both wife and husband—albeit in opposing ways. The Count was unskilled at masking his thoughts, he was an open book for the whole court to read.
There are three in that marriage—three!Rafaelle had erupted in laughter realizing the fact.The walls echoed with his mirth at how deliciously pathetic this all was.Ingenuar means to give these lovebirds titlesandpower?
Raffaelle had laughed again, earning frowns from those near him. A servant almost dropped the tray he was carrying.
To his utmost disappointment, the newly appointed Regent and his consort did not make a habit of visiting the Coven. They would show up at rare occasions, when summoned by the All Father, or to make arrangements for the French Coven. Raffaelle watched theComtestrut around the mansion, waiting for his lover, sometimes occupying himself with a servant. Emerick’s German was improving; Raffaelle could tell by how quickly the servant became flustered from theComte’s the playful innuendoes and jests.
Some of the older vampires, Nhalme in particular, did not like Emerick flirting with the staff. They did not like how easily mortals were drawn to him—to that honeyed voice of his. What secrets they must have whispered to him, exposing where their masters slept during the day or worse—where their allegiances lay within this court.
“Can’t Emerick read the servants’ minds anyway? He does not need to talk to them to gather information,” Raffaelle’s fiendish servant Tabes had asked one night, barely concealing his amusement and glee—as a demon he often found the intrigues between the vampires entertaining. His own thoughts were concealed, a dubious boon bestowed upon demonkind. It meant Raffaelle’s secrets would also stay hidden, but so would Tabes’.
“Any vampire can pry into another’s mind from a distance. It is easier when done face to face,” Raffaelle explained, as a slight shiver ran down his spine. Naturally, Emerick had tried to pierce his mind before. Back then, Raffaelle had had nothing to hide and did not bother to raise walls around his memories.
Now, however, there was much he wished to keep hidden. Most of all, a particular someone he needed to keep away from theComte’sprying mind.
Back from an evening’s hunt, Raffaelle looked around his chambers, at the chaos of clothes tossed hither and thither, at the plates of food and half-empty glasses littering the table. His servant lay sprawled on the bed, one leg bent so he could rest a magazine against it. His clothes appeared strangely familiar…but the trousers were too long, and the shirt sagged around his shoulders and gaped at the sleeves.
“Whose servant am I entertaining?” Raffaelle nodded in the general direction of the mess, frowning at the smell of leftovers.
Someone had brought food up to his room, more than once. He wanted to know what face Tabes had worn when he ordered these treats and opened the door to receive them. It was not unusual for a vampire to collude with the staff, but Raffaellewanted to know whose likeness his servant was wearing. If needed, he intended to put an end to it.
“One of the All Mother’s lady’s maids,” Tabes answered leisurely, flipping through the pages of the tabloid.
“Not the senior one, I hope. That charade will not hold.”
“Oh, no, no. The new one—Katinka? Do not worry: she won’t be any trouble. I’ve arranged it,” Tabes smiled devilishly over the glossy pages.
“While wearing my face,” Raffaelle did not bother to phrase it as a question. He had learned what to expect of the demon’s machinations already.
“Naturally.”
The thought of Tabes pretending to be him while he tumbled with a maid—the All Mother’s maid, at that!—made him shiver from the sheer clumsiness of the affair. The demon changed faces so easily and so quickly; it was unnerving.
“Use a different face for your games. Not mine,” Raffaelle huffed and crossed the room to open a window.
A woman’s perfume lingered in the air, faint but present. He could not recall Katinka’s face, but now he knew what fragrances she favoured, one rather too sweet for his taste or her household station. Some of the food on the plates looked fresh, the carafe of white wine untouched. Perhaps the woman had left minutes before, barely passing him in the hallways. He racked his memory, but he could not remember seeing any maids.
He had been preoccupied with pretending to be a good host to the di Flaviaris.
The night is young,he noted, glancing outside the window. He did not have a view of the front yard; sometimes he was thankful for that. The last thing he needed was a servant or visitor catching a glimpse between the curtains of the goings-on in his bedchamber. Especially with how reckless Tabes tended to be. The longer the demon stayed under his roof, the bolder he became.
