Page 91 of Besieger
“Formyself.”
Stefan wanted to laugh at the words. They hung heavy in the empty space between them, holding—finally—a glimmer of truth, and yet they seemed devoid of meaning. Something spoken as a reassurance, a false promise, a name whispered in the dark, a hand pulling at his wrist so he would not look away.
“Whatever you are planning…” he started to say, his own words tasted sandy in his mouth.
“But where are my manners,” the vampire laughed softly. “I never asked—what is the proper way to address the pack leader? Do I bow? Or do you want me on my hands and knees?”
The thing’s attempt at a joke fell flat, and Stefan shook the ghostly web of fingers off his body, straightening in his seat.
“Is that what vampires do, crawl around each other? Are you here to grovel?”
As he said this, the thing—no,Emerick—began to move, slowly, as though struggling to command his limbs. He twitched and clawed at his suit. He took off the coat and let it fall on the floor, dropping after it on all fours. The waistcoat accentuated Emerick’s waist as he crept towards Stefan, his back arched like a predator stalking its prey. The invisible hands descended on Stefan once more, forced his legs wider; his feet drew lines in the sand that had pooled around the sofa. The sight made him blink confused—why was there sand in hisoffice—but the questionnever fully formed as unseen fingers grabbed the back of his neck, pressing against his shoulders and throat.
Emerick stopped between Stefan’s legs and looked up, all teeth and unblinking dead eyes.
“Where is your hospitality, Stefan?” He cooed, body oozing closer, trapping Stefan between him and the sofa. Everywhere he touched, Stefan felt like sandpaper scraping against his skin. Emerick’s tongue darted between his canines, the wet pink tip slid across the lower lip. He ran his palms up Stefan’s thighs, nails scraping at the fabric of the trousers. “Will you not offer me a bite?”
“I—”, Stefan was just about to answer when…
A sharp knock at the door shattered the scene and Stefan jolted upright on the sofa, wide awake, heart pounding; his hands were desperately trying to push the empty air, but the vampire was no longer there…there was nobody else in the room. The creature—and the piles of sand—had evaporated. Somehow, the cup was back in his hand; it slipped and smashed on the floor. Only then did he realise he must have nodded off. He patted at his clothes, struggling to breathe. He coughed, and it hurt; his throat was dry, and the bitter aftertaste of coffee made it worse.
Without waiting to be invited, Irena stepped into the office and flicked on the lights. Stefan covered his face, hiding from the sudden brightness.
“Vasili said you are here. Sleeping apparently.”
When he could finally see and breathe, Stefan blinked at her in drowsy confusion. Besides the two of them, there was no one else in the room. The pot Vasili had brought earlier was empty, and a notepad with sketches lay discarded beside it. Stefan squinted at his own penmanship, having no memory of the crypt he had outlined.
Irena murmured an insult and bent down to pick the broken pieces of glass from the floor. She was wearing a pair of bleached jeans and a white pullover with grey and blue detailing. She must have kicked off her shoes in the corridor, not wanting to drag aline of mud and water after her. A pair of thick wool socks reached up to her calves, giving her a strangely homely look. Warmth oozed from her in waves; her familiar scent filled the room, grounding Stefan.
A nightmare. He had dozed off while reading about vampires and they had bled into his dreams.It was only a dream; the vampire was never here.Stefan let out a half-suppressed laugh. He looked down and saw how wide his legs were thrown sprawled. He was parched.
“If you are done messing about, I need you,” Irena scolded. She had placed the shards in a napkin and was holding it gingerly in her hand. “The vampire is here.”
Stefan opened his mouth but Irena ignored him, calling over her shoulder:
“You can come in.”
Emerick stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He was dressed in black, in a familiar three-piece suit. He looked like an eerie replica of Stefan’s dream with the exception of his hair now being short. The front of his trousers was a little wrinkled, and there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes as they fell on Stefan and his awkward pose on the sofa.
Did you have a bad dream?The colour drained from Stefan’s face when the vampire’s voice reverberated in his head.
“Irena…” he coughed, struggling to clear his throat. “Irena, this is Emerick. The Martinet. Emerick—Irena, my second.”
“It’sMarquis,” Emerick corrected him, but there was no bite to his voice. “I came to discuss the terms of my stay.”
“Are more of you coming here?” Irena asked. She was straight to the point.
“I do not believe so,” Emerick’s pose was leisurely. He looked around the room, familiarising himself with the surroundings. When he noticed the notepad with Stefan’s scribbles, he smiled.
“And your master? Won’t he be making house calls, checking up on you?”
Emerick seemed to think about it for a moment; his eyebrows drew together in a mild frown.
“If he needs to, he can find me.”
That doesn’t answer the question, Stefan noted. Despite his general disorientation, he could not help but be amused by the interrogation. Emerick was too cocky; he would benefit from a lesson in honesty.
“Where will you be staying for the duration of your…” and here Irena mused over the right term, searching her memory for what Stefan had told her. “…your stay?”
