Chapter One #4
“Both you and Dulior are overreacting. Do you think they are going to dress up for us?” Emerick asked, switching to Latin, looking at Silvio’s reflection in the mirror.
When they wanted to speak in private they resorted to vulgar Latin, or if Dulior was in the same room a mix of Latin and Neapolitan.
“I do not know,” Silvio replied, his tone serious.
“Let us first go there and see this coven and its masters. If things go well and they appoint you, there will be other opportunities to visit,” Emerick walked over and pulled the bolt of silk the boy had presented earlier.
He ran his fingers through the cloth, reminiscent.
Turning to the tailor he said in French, “Make a second suit for me in black. If you have pearls, sew them in the cravat and shirt sleeves. Use gold and red floss for the embroidery on the coat. I want foliage. Make it match the embroidery you do for Monsieur Count di Flaviari.”
The air in the carriage was stagnant and the back of Silvio’s neck was sticky with sweat, making his hair wet.
Despite the biting winter air outside, he had taken off his coat and undone the buttons of his shirt as low as decorum allowed.
It had been days since he last fed and he was becoming self-conscious of how big his canines felt in his mouth.
Gazing out of the carriage window he ran his tongue over the fangs and counted the hours until they arrived at the next posting station to switch horses.
He did not need to drink blood every night but the journey was draining him.
Across from him Dulior sat with perfect poise on the cushioned bench, lazily fanning herself, sometimes switching the fan between gloved hands.
She was wearing a dress in an exquisite Indian floral pattern, full of reds, blues, greens and yellows, and a white compères with lacing on the front so she could fasten it herself.
Silvio knew it was hand printed because his wife liked to brag about the craftsmanship that went into each of her dresses, how expensive the cotton and, oh, how numerous the pearl buttons around her neck and sleeves.
Lifting one leg, he rested his riding boot against the bench and brushed at the hem of the dress, its skirts pooling around the seat and onto the floor.
Dulior looked down and scoffed, continuing to move the fan from left to right, right to left.
Compared to him, she had a regal look about her—the Countess out on an errand with her forlorn husband.
Her hair was arranged in a hairnet tied in the back, with tiny pearls like teardrops matching those dangling from her ears.
Dulior was a beautiful woman, for as much as Silvio resented her he could not deny it.
And yet, despite her best efforts and manipulations, he would never acquaint himself with the full beauty of her soft, dark skin.
He never laid his head against her breasts and breathed in the perfumes and powders sprinkled in her red curls.
Sometimes he allowed her to walk beside him, and take his hand when they were in public.
She was almost as tall as him, taller still in her heeled slippers.
They gave her the perfect excuse to look down on him with her cold grey eyes.
Sometimes, when the light of a candle met her face, Silvio saw a hint of green around the irises and flecks of gold.
How he would have loved to look into those eyes and listen to her honeyed voice as she told him about the siege of Paris she withstood as a little girl.
Allow her story to create an intimacy between them, one that immortal mother and child craved and lacked.
But every time she recalled her numerous husbands across West Francia, how bitter her past and graphic her search for someone worthy, Silvio would avert his gaze and shut her words out.
When she plucked him from the battlefield centuries ago she had called him mon c?ur, and he had not understood.
Their first marriage was a blur, Silvio could not recall taking her hand or her name.
The next time he opened his eyes they were husband and wife, his lover debased to the station of an attendant.
My heart, my love, Dulior had whispered, bringing Silvio’s face to hers. Her mouth tasted barren.
My betrothed.
In the darkness of the bedchamber he had watched as layer after layer of silk fell to reveal more of her, like a rose in bloom. A flower he had left to wither alone, untouched.
My husband.
She had tried again, her voice heavy with blood. Silvio had been young then, unable to control the thirst, and his eyes had widened at the sight of her tongue dripping red as she beckoned him to the marriage bed.
Dulior had watched him fall on his knees and beg to be allowed to leave.
“Without me, you will die,” Dulior dismissed his pleas, pulling her robe back on. “You can barely feed yourself, let alone that miserable creature you made.”
In the dawn of his second birth, Silvio had known nothing of daemons or vampires—understood them even less.
It would be many centuries later when he would learn that Emerick’s turning should never have been possible.
For a newly made vampire to make another—it was a risk even for the oldest of their kind.
Both of them should have died that night.
Dulior had nurtured Silvio’s fright and confusion.
She might have admired Silvio’s resolve and desperation—if Emerick had ever been planned to partake in their wedlock.
She let him believe that without her, Emerick was going to die.
Silvio needed her for only she could anchor Emerick to the fragile thread of blood, connecting him to Silvio.
He let her do it. Permitted her to govern them as long as the blood held.
For as long as it served her.
No. For as long as he is mine, Silvio corrected himself.
As Countess di Flaviari, Dulior had no real need to keep Silvio by her side, he had quickly served his purpose as groom.
She had secured the gold and treasures from her previous marriage, a mansion, and an army of mortals to attend and worship her.
Men and women alike kept sending her letters and cards, inviting her to make an appearance.
Silvio was a puppet she brought along as a means to avoid uncomfortable questions and even uglier glances.
Any man could fulfil that role and even go beyond, by sharing her bed.
But she wanted Silvio. Mon c?ur. My heart.
Silvio did not understand the sobriquet she kept for him until it was time to renew their vows decades later. They renewed the vows again after a few more decades. And again, at the turn of the century.
And again.
Monsieur et Madame Desrosiers.
Lord and Lady Seymour-Conway.
Signore e Signora Marchetti.
Monsieur et Madame Aubert.
Monsieur et Madame Fortier.
Monsieur et Madame Michel.
Signore e Signora Ginóbili.
Lord and Lady de Lavoasie.
Herr und Frau Rakowitz.
Lord and Lady Wheatley.
Herr und Frau Brandt.
Herr und Frau Sturge.
Lord and Lady Hull.
Until they were back as Count and Countess di Flaviari, her most prized alias.
The carriage picked up speed, their bodies bounced, scattering the memory of all the men Silvio had once pretended to be.
They were traveling under the guise of diplomats bound for Prussia.
The forged letters and seals in his pocket were meant to get them through borders and into inns without too many questions.
They allowed them to encounter no trouble as the days went by, using the quiet of the night to hunt, passing through towns and feeding on any poor mortal out on the street.
At a posting station they switched horses and coachmen, erasing the memories of those who served them, filling their pockets with coins as an act of mercy.
“Where will we lodge in Berlin?” Silvio broke the silence, resting his chin in the palm of his hand.
Pulling at the heavy curtain, he watched the shadows of the lanterns flicker beneath the carriage. There were mountains in the distance, peeking through the canopy of trees.
“We will spend the night at the Coven. They have prepared rooms for us there,” Dulior replied and closed the fan. She let it fall in her lap. “It is best to keep with your own.”
Did I give her that in an attempt to get into her good graces? Silvio narrowed his eyes at the fan. It did not look familiar. Surely he had bought her gifts and danced with her at balls. He was not neglectful when it came to appearances.
“Rooms? Am I expected to share your chamber, Madame? Or do they know we are husband and wife in name—and name only?”
The words slipped from his mouth with a scornful leer.
Dulior stared at his face, her eyes unblinking.
How she must hate him! When Silvio once asked why she had turned him into a vampire her answer was that it was done out of love.
She had fallen desperately in love with him; why else follow him from France all the way to the East?
Why else step between the men chasing him and save his life?
But that was centuries ago and she no longer invited him to her bed.
The door was always open—that much he knew—but she had stopped calling for him.