Page 6 of Besieger
Sensing his hesitation, Emerick slowly freed his hand and lifted Silvio’s face to the light. He whispered in their familiar Latin, too softly to make out and stroked Silvio’s hair. Breathing in slowly, Count di Flaviari straightened in his seat and brought his lover’s wrist to his lips. He grinned, noticing the rings on Emerick’s fingers; the dirty shirt sleeve ended in a lace cuff. It was a small change from how he usually dressed as the majordomo, and Silvio could not wait to watch Emerick step into the role he had planned for him.
Dulior could not risk him walking around the Coven shaking from hunger or nibbling on Emerick, or worst of all, mimic his lover by also jumping off the carriage and delay them further. She kicked Silvio out the moment they reached the posting station. They needed to be clever feeding in a foreign country.Draining an entire mortal and leaving the body behind was out of the question, they had to take in a little blood at a time and cloud the victim’s mind.
Silvio first fed from a stablehand once the boy finished leading the change of horses into the stable. He held the boy’s body in his arms as if it was made of glass, ready to shatter in his grip. He drank more than he meant to, losing himself in the beating of the youthful heart and the salty taste of life. His mouth and gums were still sticky with blood as he stepped outside in search of a second course.
Having only just arrived at the posting station, their former coachman wasted no time on spending his coin on wine and a hearty meal. The man greeted Silvio, lifting the bottle and offered him a swig.
“With the way Madame is, you will need it more than I will, Monsieur.”
Silvio laughed with him, his laugh booming and red. He missed the taste of wine, could no longer remember it. He missed walking the streets of Paris, barely keeping himself upward with Emerick at his side, the two of them planning their newest mischief. If Silvio had not been made into this thing, he would have drowned himself in alcohol until the crusades were nothing but a distant memory.Until I, too, would have buried the memories of the sins we once committed in the Lord’s name.
The coachman must have been drinking even before the switch—his blood was tangy and heavy, and Silvio found himself lost in the flow again, growing deliciously drunk. The blood was like mulled wine, warm and thick. He could almost taste the spices on the tip of his tongue as he pushed the man’s body facedown on the bench. The poor fool would freeze to death unless someone came to help him.
Laughing, Silvio staggered back to the carriage, licking his fingers. He nodded to the new coachman who whipped the horses into motion the moment the Count climbed inside. He found Emerick and Dulior as he left them, sitting on opposite ends andblissfully ignoring each other’s presence. His mother was resting her head against the window frame, eyes closed, alone with her thoughts, while Emerick was reading a slim volume. Peaking over his shoulder at the pages, Silvio frowned once he realized it was another one of those libertine novels. Even worse: he had seen this edition ofLe Sopha, Conte Moral—another gift by Dulior’s courtiers, one of the many cluttering her chambers. And Emerick had taken it for the road.
The urge to snatch the filthy volume and hurl it out the window, leaving it for a Prussian peasant to find and puzzle over, flickered through Silvio’s mind. Instead, sucking on his lower lip, chasing after the fading taste of blood, Silvio nuzzled against Emerick and spent the rest of their journey in an intoxicated drowse.
Emerick looked up from his book when the carriage came to an abrupt halt, and listened. He and Silvio had changed clothes, throwing away their dirty blood-splattered garments in exchange for the more sombre set of suits. Dulior had watched them put on the black waistcoats and breeches, the black velvet ribbon in Emerick’s hair. The white of their shirts and cravats stood out too sharply, making their eyes seem to glow and sparkle, their skin still flush and warm from the blood. They hardly had time to clean their boots before the coachman announced their arrival. It amused Silvio to note that they had about them the air of a funeral procession, despite how for him the whole arrangement was as a kind of christening. He even dabbed perfume on his neck, and pushed back his unruly curls with a mix of honey and oils.
“No,” Silvio shook his head when Emerick made to stand up and get out first, so he could hold the door for them. “You do not have to do this anymore.”
The carriage door opened, held by a strange man, head bowed as if deliberately avoiding their gaze. A burst of light flooded the carriage, forcing Silvio to squint. With the corner of his eye he saw Dulior lift a gloved hand, waiting. He stepped outside, inhaling deeply before he donned the mask of Count di Flaviari; then he took his wife’s hand. If tonight was as he planned, it would be the last time he played the groom to this creature.
“Remember what I told you, Silvio. Do not embarrass me,” Dulior’s skirts brushed against his legs and she put her hand firmly on his elbow, leaning in to whisper. Her breath smelled sweet, like rot.
“When have I ever?” he offered her a smile, his face turned to watch Emerick follow them at a distance as they made their way up the gravel path leading to the mansion. “I have been nothing but devoted to my mother’s every want and need.”
He felt Dulior’s step falter and he placed his other hand on hers, pulling her close. The side of her body reluctantly pressed against him, and his fingers locked over her delicate knuckles. Silvio’s smile widened, turning into a sneer as he felt her pulse quicken when Dulior made one last futile attempt to put some distance between them. For centuries he had watched her sigh and hope, and hunger for their bodies to slide into a lover’s embrace. Tonight he was going to deny Dulior the freedom to move as she pleased, and watch her recoil from his touch.
The blinding light was pouring from the many tall windows of the building, all set ablaze, casting shifting shadows over them and the servant who hurried forward. It was a massive three-winged, E-shaped rectangular structure with a gabled roof. Silvio could make out numerous statues perching along a large stone cornice at the height of the upper floor, each set upon a shallow pedestal, leaning in to welcome them like gargoyles, poised to leap. The two-story facade was overgrown with ivy, making parts of the building melt into the trees and bushes, left to be slowly devoured by the garden. The courtyard had a few carriages, but the sounds and smells of horses quickly faded asthey began climbing the steps. A grand double door rose before them, so massive one could probably enter on horseback with room to spare. It stood wide open like a maw, letting out more of the light. Candles burned on top of crystal chandeliers and piled on candelabras in the entrance hall. Through open doors Silvio saw dining rooms and drawing rooms with fireplaces crackling—the sudden blast of heat and light was unbearable. The air smelled of smoke and spices, heavy and suffocating as if it was trying to drown the smell of the dead who lived here.
And there were humans—mortal servants—who moved from room to room, some of them stopped to bow and greet the guests. With each mortal they passed, Silvio allowed himself to overstep and peer in their minds, curious to see through their eyes. The servants did not know what Silvio and his companions were but they recognized them as something else, something superior by nature. Some were afraid, others were curiously spellbound, devouring their visage and clothes with their eyes. Silvio let out a chuckle, delighted; without turning back he could tell that Emerick was also feeding on the attention and recognition. The di Flaviari household knew its masters were different but Dulior had always taught him to re-arrange his servants’ minds so they never grasped under whose employment they really were. The mortals here, it seemed, werepermittedto know their masters were not human.
The man who had opened the carriage door led them down a long corridor full of little ornaments and paintings in the contemporary style[3], similar to those in the di Flaviari house back in Paris. They were accompanied through the passage by the whispers of the maids and footmen, and their own footsteps on the polished hardwood floor. When they finally stopped in front of another set of massive doors, the servant stood to the side, bowing.
“Count and Countess di Flaviari,” a voice announced behind the door as it began to open, ushering in a glamour of voices.
Silvio took note that an announcement for Emerick did not follow, and cast a quick glance at Dulior. She must have mentioned his lover to the Coven, if only in passing, but it was obvious they had chosen to wait until their arrival, still uncertain about the relations within the family and how Silvio would introduce them. Surely the Coven was aware that there was another vampire who shared their blood.
They found themselves ushered into a great hall with figures standing on both sides, their reflections duplicated in the dozens upon dozens of mirrors in gilded frames. It was a similar room to the halls they attended in Paris, meant for dancing, whispers and court intrigue. Silvio found such places loud and overwhelming, too many bodies moving on all sides, brushing against him, tempting, teasing.
There was no dancing or music in this hall. It stood bare of cheer and motionless—it was dead quiet. The vampires were staring at them, whispering their own campaigns openly. Someone’s laugh echoed crudely and quickly died away. Silvio saw figures dressed in evening attire, lounging in chairs and couches, their eyes aglow with interest and hunger. The few mortals in the room walked among the vampires, carrying trays with glasses and ashtrays. A male vampire was sitting on an exquisite couch, his long blond hair cascading over his shoulders, as he leaned in to whisper something to his companion, nodding in their direction. He held Silvio’s gaze and his pale lips twisted in a smile before the man lifted his hand and gestured for a servant. A boy no more than sixteen appeared among the mass of bodies, carrying a tall crystal glass in his hand, and bowed.
“That’s him. That’s Ingenuar!”
Dulior’s voice called Silvio to attention and he looked away, forgetting about the vampire and the boy. A few meters from them, at the back of the hall was a small pedestal on top of whichrested a red sofa in the style of Louis XV. The man sitting in the centre of the sofa appeared almost mortal at first, until Silvio was close to see that there was nothing natural in his facial features or the way he sat. The same applied for the dark-haired woman standing to the side of the sofa, hands clasped in front of her, the skirts of her dress pooling like crashing waves.
The All Father appeared to be a man in his late fifties with short light blond hair, turning silver around the temples, and eyes so light Silvio could not tell their colour from this distance. He had a nicely groomed short beard, a shade darker than his hair, streaked through with grey. There were laugh lines around his full mouth, peaking through the beard, and crows’ feet around the eyes. His brow was prominent, and his nose was crooked, as if it had been broken and poorly healed a number of times. Age and years of hard labour were etched so deeply into the man’s face, so strong that not even the immortal blood had erased them on the day he was turned.
And how were you made?Silvio wondered.Did an angel descend from the Heavens, or a demon crawl from the bowels of the earth, and feed you the Blood? Or were you born alone in a nest of Blood and Gore, forever to roam the realm of night?
“You are closer to the truth than you know, Count,” the man’s voice startled Silvio, his thoughts laid out bare and exposed for the whole Coven to see.
Silvio felt his cheeks burn. Of course the All Father would read him so easily. But he was too fascinated to be ashamed. It was the first time a vampire had seen his thoughts. He was used to walking mute and undisturbed between Dulior and Emerick, his thoughts his and his alone.
“I meant no disrespect, All Father,” without letting go of Dulior, Silvio raised his free hand to his chest and bowed his head.
“Please, call me Ingenuar.All Fatherimplies a responsibility I cannot maintain, especially when there are so many unruly children,” Ingenuar said, a smile lighting his weathered face. Hespoke French with a particular accent, there was something off in the way he pronounced certain words and sounds. It sounded Germanic, coming from lands and people no longer in living memory. He spoke slowly, his voice both cruel and tender.
