Page 57 of Besieger
How absurd, Raffaelle thought, unable to look away. He had never seen Emerick drink blood, but here he was, watching theComtehave breakfast, enjoying a hearty meal after a good fuck.
Tabes noticed him staring and smiled. Not a toothy smile, no. His lips stretched into a wide grin and his whole face beamed with delight. He kept chewing the toast, licking jam from his fingers. The aroma of apricots was so strong and sweet that Raffaelle almost growled with hunger.
“Why are you him again?” Raffaelle grunted. Tabes had done him the mercy of shifting after intercourse.
“Because I was sure you wouldn’t like it,” the demon sneered.
Tabes’ neck and chest were covered in bite marks and scratches. Raffaelle had not bothered to heal them when they were on Silvio’s body. There had been something satisfying in leaving those marks, a visible claim that this man—fake or not—belonged to him. That he had a Regent who served him unconditionally. When Tabes changed shapes, the bodies did not carry over any wounds or imperfections from the previous form—a demon would heal fast well on its own—which meant that he had kept those same marks on purpose.
He remembered when they had first met, decades ago. Tabes had come across as a vengeful spirit in a morality play. He waswearing the skin of a servant, someone who had died a long time ago. Raffaelle had killed the man himself, breaking his neck in a fit of fury. Yet now, that very same man was scurrying down the corridors of the Berlin Coven, chattering excitedly to a footman. Raffaelle tried to read the man’s thoughts, but could not. A veil separated him, one muffling all sound and motion around. Next thing he knew, the man—this revenant approached, and addressed him by name, goading him.
“What are you? Came back to haunt me, eager for revenge?” Raffaelle had asked.
“Revenge will not feed me.”
Raffaelle could not remember if the voice matched the face; he had never paid much attention to those who served him.
“Then what dish would satisfy you?”
The spectre sneered and the flesh on the face sagged like a mask coming loose. It had not offered to strike a deal. It had not attempted to persuade him to surrender his soul or anything pertaining to eternal damnation. Vampires were already damned: what more could a demon possibly offer?
“Your blood and company in exchange for my services,” the thing had said and smiled. It flicked its tongue over its lower lip like an eager reptile.
There was a certain perversity in allowing such a creature to drink his blood, a lesser being feeding on the blood of a son of the All Father.
“Whatare your services?” Raffaelle had asked, and the demon ignored him.
“You may address me as Tabes.”
During the course of their conversation Raffaelle had discovered that this uncanny creature’s mind was in fact impenetrable—a bothersome quirk for this lowly, hellish aberration. There were others of its kind, princes of Hell and patrons of immorality. Tabes listed their monikers until Raffaelle was sick from the lecture:Astarothguided thieves;Cariesencouraged corruption;Forentewas marred by hunger, agluttonous prince;Memon, the harbinger of wrath;Vihal, the tortured.
“And do all demons look like you?”
“Of course not. Some are so hideous that even a fellow demon cannot bear to gaze upon them, let alone a human. Their eyes would refuse to absorb the image, allowing barely hints of the whole to form. Not even mirrors can capture adraugr’s true reflection.”
Then Tabes hadshifted.
Not into Emerick. That would come later. Raffaelle would have to request that shape specifically, practically beg on his hands and knees, pathetic, crawling like a rodent. He would have to dare utter the request aloud, when he could wait no more and his frustration had overflowed. To speak theComte’s full name so Tabes could morph into him. Demons could read desire buried in the mind, and Tabes had already seen what Raffaelle wanted a long time ago. But he had to say it, make the words flesh.
Oh, how Raffaelle had pleaded, surprising even himself at how low and dry his voice had turned, parched and yearning.
All for a man he hated.
The All Father’s broken body lay prostrate on the ground. The man to whom Raffaelle once bowed and swore his fealty was now nothing but an empty husk at his feet. He was dimly aware of the figures moving on either side of him, coming and going from the study.
“Call theMarqu—”
“This does not leave the Coven!” Nhalme snarled at his brothers and sisters, pointing towards the room.
Scarlett’s skirts brushed against Raffaelle’s legs. She pressed a pale hand to her mouth, and a muffled cry escaped between herfingers. Her whole upper body trembled, tears of blood welled her eyes. The agony overtaking her face and body looked divine on her, the All Mother bereft of her immortal consort.
Raffaelle reached and took hold of her upper arm, steadied her, and drew her closer.
Someone—a human—moved along the room with a broom, sweeping, the sound of broken glass clinked faintly but unmistakably. Raffaelle glanced around, only now taking note of all the shattered mirrors and conservation glass from the paintings and drawers. When Scarlett leaned into his embrace, shards crunched under her heels.
He looked down at the corpse, decomposition slowly setting in. The pigment in Ingenuar’s skin and hair was fading right before his eyes. The grey hair had turned white, the thin lips snarled upwards to reveal teeth and rotting gums.
His maker was dead.
