Page 65 of Besieger
The stranger looked down at his creation, silver eyes unblinking in the boiling darkness. He gave the man all the ichor he could spare, forced him to swallow it whole, pressing a palm to the weathered face so that he could not spit it back up. He did not know how much time passed before the man’s body stirred on the ground and stood up, but he was different. Something within him had changed. The man’s grey eyes darted around,searching; they now reflected a hunger, an appetite that the stranger knew well. But he could no longer hear the man’s thoughts; the cacophony of sounds and flickering images of people and places had slowly died away. Ebbed away as a dying breath. It was a mercy to not hear anything anymore, save the occasional bird of prey flying through the forest.
It had finally worked.
With the blood he should see me. Not as what he desires me to be, but as how I am meant to be seen.
“Come,” he said and offered his hand.
The man ignored it, instead he clawed at the earth, his heart pounding louder, faster.
“Who are you—what have you done to me?”
The stranger huffed and stood up, brushing mud and twigs from his clothes. He had no patience for children, and this one—his first—was proving to be difficult. Even after being fed and offered a gift.
“You may call me Felivar,” the stranger said. His true name spoke of his gluttonous nature, but this new one… He preferredFelivar. It was what the woman had called him when he came to her that night, mistaking him for her lover.
He extended his hand again, growing impatient. The man flinched but took it. The blood had not changed him outwardly, the man’s face was still mapped with scars, the years still etched around his eyes and mouth. Perhaps next time, Felivar was going to choose someone younger.
This one would have to do. For now.
“Come, my son.” His mouth twisted in a fiendish smile. He could still taste the man’s blood where it had mingled with his own, like the ichor of the gods. “Myeinvala. My chosen one.”
*
It did not take long for Ingenuar to see that Felivar had not chosen him for his looks or skills. He was simply the first humanto cross the creature’s path, and he looked healthier than most. Healthy enough to undergo Felivar’s sick designs. By the time they had reached the village, it was already late; his wife and child had died waiting for him.
“Give them your blood.” Felivar ordered and crouched over the bloated bodies.
The Blood. It had healed Ingenuar, it ran through his veins and invigorated him, like sparks and fireflies dancing at the tips of his fingers. Everything around him was ugly and barren, yet it shone with a new light. His eyes were adjusting to the world, its sounds now reverberating with life, with yearning.
He was slowly able to distinguish parts of the figure of his saviour. It appeared to be a man, young judging by the sound of his voice and the way his body swayed, as if walking on air. His hair was dark and his slanted eyes…whatever Ingenuar could discern of them—they were bubbling pools of quicksilver, spilling down the eye sockets, threatening to blind and unhinge any who met Felivar’s gaze for too long.
Ingenuar slit his wrist and watched the blood drip over his wife’s face. The wound on his arm sealed within seconds. Felivar’s distorted face curled into a smile, the eyes burned brighter. Ingenuar’s wife remained lying on the ground. Dead and cold. The only movement in the hut came from the ants as they crawled over the spilled porridge and nested in the ridges of his daughter’s face.
Felivar tsked and rose. He stepped outside, surveying the village and its few remaining inhabitants. The fever had spread, taking in both man and beast. Felivar feared that his power to plunder mortals’ minds had been lost in the making of his firstborn, but he could still hear the other villagers and their children; how sick and scared they were in the dark, in the cold. He could hear everyone but Ingenuar.
“South,” Felivar said, and Ingenuar followed the finger pointing outwards. “There are villages to the south. We will find others and try again.”
Ingenuar followed. Followed this man, this thing, this revenant—in tales they were known asdraugr. He left his village a widower and bereft of his child’s laughter. But in Felivar’s footsteps he was reborn as a son: the firstborn whom his new father doted upon, impatient to teach and reshape him in his own image.
*
1788
Paris had never been to Ingenuar’s taste. He had made the journey to satisfy his own curiosity and catch a glimpse of the groom Countess di Flaviari was so jealously hiding from the Coven. Time and again Dulior had refused to introduce her fledgling to the Court.
He found the vampire, this Count, waiting outside the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin, fidgeting with his coat, as a servant stood a few paces behind him, holding a lantern. The flame flickered every time a moth blundered into it, and it made the Count’s shadow twitch, his scowl deepening the longer he stood out in the open.
“Where is the carriage?” A familiar voice called out and Dulior stepped through the doors, fastening a cloak around her shoulders.
The Count did not bother to acknowledge her; then, seeming to remember they were not alone, he said belatedly:
“I have sent for Emmerique. He should be here in due time.”
Dulior scrunched up her nose and adjusted one of her gloves, tugging at the fabric.
“It is because of your valet that we are leaving before the final act. He might at least have the decency to be punctual.”
“You are welcome to go back inside to your lover, Madame. He will keep you warm while I wait for mine.”
