Page 93 of Besieger
“When is Lei coming back?”
“In two weeks. She is designing a private garden. Those take time.”
“I hope she is not designing a garden for a vampire.”
He knew Irena was not serious, but the idea made him laugh, a little too loud, too excitedly. Where had they sent his wife this time? Was it France or Belgium? Or both? Her business trips were becoming more frequent, and the more he missed her, the more reckless he grew.
He leaned back in the sofa and looked at Irena, who had got up to rummage through the paperwork on the desk. She was mumbling something about the ledger and a heating bill.
She was born a shifter—a lycan, a werefox—descending from a long line of other shifters, foxes roaming the Balkans until, one day, generations later, their great-granddaughter crossed paths with Stefan. Irena was born into this life; Stefan had been made.Madeinto this thing: an obedient little creature, howling at the moon. Made and sculptured by the cruel hands of a man who created him out of spite, as punishment. Stefan was no different from a vampire, another human plucked from its mortal confines, its soft flesh turned into a hard cage, a creature of the night.
He called Emerick a thing because Stefan was also a thing: a broken and pieced-together thing. Things were made to be possessed and used, so why not keep Emerick? Why not see how best to put this deceitful bauble to use?
CHAPTER NINE
VICTOR, 2017
THE HOUSE REQUIRED a series of renovations, both to preserve the historical layout and façade, and to modernise its interior. Victor had no idea how Erik was paying for any of it. What troubled him more, however, was how easily his friend had acquired the property. He had employed a succession of lawyers and bankers to negotiate with the real estate agent, yet it was not the negotiations themselves that unnerved Victor.
It was the seller’s behaviour during the transaction, as though he were not only willing, but grateful, to relinquish the house.
Move in immediately?Of course, nothing as simple as that. All copies of keys for gates and locks were handed over without hesitation; papers were signed. Victor found his name on the signature line as co-owner, and he signed reluctantly, still frazzled by the ease of it all.
The two-storey house had a garden—arrangements had to be made for that as well—and a basement Erik paid attention to last. He uttered something about a coffin, and moved on through the building. The kitchen, once renovated, could accommodate a range of appliances that would be any baker’s dream. Then there was a dining room, a sitting room, two bathrooms and two—perhaps three—bedrooms, depending on how they chose to arrange the space. At least a bedroom for each of them, or soVictor thought, until he woke up the next morning with Erik by his side on a bed too small for the two of them.
“Go to your own bed, inyourownroom.” Victor tugged at the blanket, pulling it higher to shield himself from the cold.
“I do not like sleeping alone.”
Something in the way Erik said it made Victor think he had never slept alone. Such a strange notion, never to have known solitude even in the privacy of sleep.
“How would you even fit a partner in a coffin? Wouldn’t it be too crammed for two?” Victor asked, recalling a book he read once about vampires sleeping in wooden boxes filled with earth.
“I do not sleep in coffins, you know that.”
“What about the coffin in the basement?”
“That one is for emergencies.”
Erik offered no further explanation, as if it made perfect sense to have a casket tucked among the gardening tools and shelves of cleaning products. The coffin remained in a corner, collecting dust, waiting for whatever might constitute a vampire emergency.
“I am not used to sleeping alone,” Erik said at last, the words ebbing into something like an apology. “What if someone comes and tries to burn me in my sleep?”
“No one is breaking in to kill you,” Victor assured him but Erik kept finding his way into Victor’s bed most nights. To the point where Victor was surprised when he woke up alone. He had grown accustomed to the company, to the weight of another body beside him, to the stolen blankets and pillows.
On one such day, Victor came downstairs to find Erik sprawled across the sofa, reading one of Victor’s books. It was in German. The majority of the books he owned were written in German or in Nordic languages Erik did not know, but enjoyed deciphering all the same. Moving Victor’s belongings from the flat to the house helped make the place feel like home. A strange home, indeed.
Each day Victor noticed something new around him, of the many curiosities Erik had carved into the structure, this vampire lair. The bedroom doors had massive cut-glass knobs which cast prisms of colour across the walls when the sunlight hit them. They reminded him of the sun catcher stickers Leitian had put on the kitchen windows of her own home. It was a beautiful and strange detail, one which Erik would never see as it was meant to be seen.
There were other design choices that puzzled Victor: windows high as the ceiling, and benches for garden repose, surrounded by flowers that closed their petals at night. Lamps and reading lights; one area of the cellar’s wall had been set aside, meant for dozens upon dozens of wine bottles. The inside of the house, although functional and homely, carried the air of a picture Erik might once have seen and was now trying to replicate. A place Erik had only heard about, but never lived in.
It is as if he is playing with a dollhouse,Victor frowned at the analogy and shook his head, eager to dispel the thought.
He walked over into the sitting area and sat at the edge of the sofa, gently pushing Erik’s legs aside. He felt exhausted and in need of sleep. Dealings with the pack, the move and waking up before dawn to go to the bakery, were taking their toll. Victor did not age, but all of a sudden, he felt too old.
“How did the meeting with Stefan go? You never told me,” Victor broke the silence when Erik continued to read.
“I think he is warming up to me.”
