Page 78 of Besieger
“Why didn’t you? Seemed like the easiest option,” Victor said. He, for one, would have chosen the latter; it was quicker and safer. It also would not have confined him to be stuck in the air for hours. If his friend wanted to talk, they could just as well have done that in Berlin, and spared themselves the theatrics.
“That would have been preferable, wouldn’t it?” Erik echoed Victor’s thoughts, his voice cutting through the chatter and the roar of the engines. “Pull you aside, find a secluded spot, just the two of us. Talk. I look into that beautiful head of yours, you answer all my questions like a finger puppet. But no, I wanted to leave, put some distance between me and Berlin. I needed time to think. I am in need of a distraction.”
You will keep me entertained, won’t you, Victor.
Victor shook his head; he was beginning to recognise when Erik invaded his mind, and he hated the sensation of it, however his friend was doing the trick. No other lycan Victor met had that influence, that presence. There was nothing animalistic about him, yet the longer Victor looked at him, the more devoid of human traits he appeared.
“I am a vampire,Liebling[26]. You know that or have you forgotten?”
Erik rested his chin in the palm of his hand, leaned back in his seat, looking at Victor with a kind of weary sympathy, as though they had already had this conversation.
“You have always known. I told you when we met. You said it was a bad joke, a Frenchman’s poor attempt at humour. That Iwas trying to impress you so you would let me go without proper identification papers.”
The fuselage of the plane shuddered, cutting through a cluster of clouds and into a dust storm. Specs of sand pelted the acrylic illuminator. The seatbelt sign lit up over Victor’s head. He could not make out anything through the illuminator. The sky was glowing orange with sand.
A sandstorm…over Europe?Despite the tempest raging outside, the shaking inside the plane was light, it would not wake him had he been asleep; it was more like the gentle rocking of a train. It brought back a memory—he had been in uniform, soaked; it had been raining for weeks and his boots were always wet. He and a few other men from his division were moving through the compartments, checking papers. Two Frenchmen had boarded the train, their passes declared them as envoys, but Victor knew better: the ink ran where he tapped it with his finger; the stamps were wrong; the level of clearance non-existent. Victor should have arrested them, instead he had guided Erik and his companion towards the door.
“But this is not what happened, is it?Youwere the one trying to impress me back then, Victor. Not me. You let me go, and that is how I found you later—in the snow, hurt,” Erik assured him. He clicked his tongue; he seemed tired all of a sudden, the lustre had gone out of his eyes. Tired and stock-still. The sandstorm outside was starting to die down. Victor attempted to peep through the little window, but Erik’s hand had once more found its way onto Victor’s leg; it distracted him from the view of the sky. “Memory can be such a fickle, fragile thing. So many threads to keep track of.”
“I…m not trying to impress you.” Victor’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Like a child attempting to talk for the first time, goaded by a parent’s enthusiasm. The sounds that came out of his mouth were slurred, awkward. He could taste copper and the stale ghost of tobacco at the roof of his mouth.
“I find that hard to believe, seeing how you have booked us a room with only one bed we are supposed to share. Really, Victor, you are not subtle at all.”
Erik suddenly stood up and ran a hand down Victor’s chest, leaving a wet trail over his shirt. His face was dewy from the shower; droplets of water beaded and ran down his arms and chest. His hair was damp, tied in a bun at his nape. The towel around his waist covered enough of him, but Erik had to keep it in place with one hand. With his other one he pushed Victor against the curtains, forcing him to lean against the window—before Victor’s very eyes, the airplane cabin had dissolved and rearranged itself into a room. The steam drifting from the bathroom was so inviting, Victor hadn’t had time to shower when they arrived, he had run down to sort things at the hotel reception and left Erik on his own.
Hotel…? Where are we?
“As obvious as you are, if I am not careful, I might actually fall prey to your charms in my vulnerable state.” Erik teased.
Victor opened his mouth to protest. When he tried to move forward the room tilted, as though struggling to retain its form; his feet lost their ground—like trying to walk through a sandstorm—and he gripped the curtains to steady himself. To his right he spotted a mirror above the desk, reflecting the two of them and the room. They were in a hotel suite, just as Erik had said, except Victor could not remember how they had got here. He had no memory of getting off the plane or the tedious waiting in line with other passengers. Too many pieces were missing; the change in scenery was too abrupt to be natural.
Why not take me to your place? he remembered Erik asking, with genuine concern. The thought had only briefly crossed his mind before Victor dismissed it entirely. There were too many people he preferred to avoid in the building he rented, to say nothing of the members of the pack. Bringing Erik there was the last thing he wanted. Better to stay at a hotel.
Their few belongings were thrown on the floor—Victor’s backpack, still as he had prepared it for the airport, and a couple of shopping bags from the duty-free; Erik had stopped to buy a change of clothes. He looked around the suite he could not remember booking, taking in every detail. It was a vast room, sparsely furnished: two chairs, a writing desk, bedside tables on either side of the king-sized bed, a wardrobe. A mirror at the desk, mirrors on the doors of the wardrobe. Victor caught their reflections in the glass, how much he stood out in such a room, and how uneasy it made him. The colours around him were warm and bright, the wooden surface of the furniture gleamed, and the scent of honey and wax filled his nostrils with each breath. The lamps of both sides of the bed were turned on, the curtains drawn; he did not know what time it was and did not dare check his watch. It must have been night, shadows danced in the corners, making the room appear more cosy than lavish. The air conditioning hummed, warming the space, adding to the comfort.
We are in Tarnovo, a voice said inside his head, and Victor did not know if it was his own.You drove us here, from the airport in Sofia.
Or did Erik drive?The thought of driving across the country and not having any recollection of the journey, made Victor feel sick. He had never experienced such gaps in his memory.Not since that first full moon. Since then, he had done everything in his power to retain his mind, no matter the cost.
Erik had stepped away, rummaging through the bags with his back to him. Victor pulled the curtains to the side. From up here he could see a sliver of the Tsarevets Castle, it was somewhere on the left, covered in dozens of lights, and the church at the top of the hill, illuminated by the floodlights. Below, the hillsides were thick with houses; their tiled rooftops appeared as if stacked on top of one another, clustered between the trees. Some of the old houses had back gardens, little hidden pathways and steps ran up and down the slopes, linking the houses to the mainstreets. Erik had made a remark about buying one of these houses and renovating it in the spring. Victor had dismissed his words, too focused on not stumbling into any familiar faces.
How long have we been here?Victor was too frightened to ask aloud.What have we been doing?
He remembered giving Erik a tour, walking him in and out of churches, the two of them marvelling at the icons and crosses, the museums dedicated to the revolutionary movement, the shops and workshops selling souvenirs and small keepsakes. His friend soaked in all of it, eager to learn more of the history of this place and its peoples. He mouthed words and phrases in Bulgarian, repeating what he had heard from curators and passers-by. In a secluded alcove he had guided Victor and undone the scarf around his neck, raising onto his toes to run his mouth over the pulsing flesh. Gooseflesh spread all over Victor’s skin before the teeth found purpose. Erik had been so gentle, like a lover stealing a kiss, and Victor had let him drink and coo under the flow of blood.
We arrived so late. You fed me and I fed you,Erik’s voice sounded so tempting.
Food, yes, Victor had gone down to the reception to arrange room service to send up breakfast. His mind wandered, already picturing the coffee on the breakfast tray, how bitter and scalding it was going to be. Stefan always complained how Victor drank his coffee like a barbarian, with no taste for the finer things in life. Black coffee, no sugar, no cream.
Coffee.
Stefan.
Victor sat down on the edge of the bed, frowning. How was he going to broach the subject with the pack? Was he obliged to bring Erik to Stefan? Erik was the first, if not only, vampire Victor knew, and he felt strangely protective of him. Leaving the hotel and introducing Erik to the pack meant that he would have to share.
But first he needed to collect himself, gather into one all the scattered fragments of his time with Erik.I barely know where—when—I am, I cannot face Stefan like this.
Erik was sitting on the other end of the bed, combing his hair with a comb, the sort you find in the pockets of old suits. He probably had nicked it from someone at the airport or the gas station. Erik’s hair was long, it felt almost to his elbows in heavy dark-brown waves, covering his back. Victor could not look away, watching entranced. Scars crossed Erik’s shoulder blades and back. Some were light and clean-cut, others dark, suggesting wounds once deep and bloody. Faint scratches were visible on his waist and upper thighs, as if something had grabbed him and dragged his body around. The scars were old, yet they would never heal or fade. They held not only a shadow of pain but a reminder that the man carrying them had once been human.I am a vampire, Victor, or have you forgotten?Time had not been allowed to heal these wounds; their current state suggested their bearer had not died a peaceful death. Erik lived in a body that appeared young and near-perfect at first glance, but it remained irrevocably damaged. An unchangeable carcass.
