Chapter One #5
Surely when she lay in bed with her lovers and admirers they wept for her, promising to rid her of Monsieur, this distant and heartless man who was undeserving of her affection.
Silvio had seen strangers visit and have tea with her in the drawing room, always sitting too close, their faces flushed from eagerness—or turned pale from the blood loss—leaning in to whisper.
Dulior lured them in like a spider and fed off them, sometimes for days.
The men roamed the halls of his home and bowed down to him, delighting in making a cuckold out of him.
Silvio bowed back in greeting, his lips curled in a pleasant smile.
Had these men not seen the complete lack of him in the master bedroom?
The wardrobes and trunks were full of dresses, powders and creams, gloves and hats belonging to Madame.
There was no trace, no scent of Silvio in those rooms. Not a single piece of paper to his name. Not even a discarded box of matches.
Whenever a servant needed him they knew to go directly to Monsieur Gabrielli’s room.
“I take your silence to mean that me and Emerick will be sharing.”
He nearly added bed just to spite her, as childish as it was.
Do not humiliate me in front of the Coven, Silvio,” Dulior warned and her gaze hardened. She reached for the fan, whether to resume fanning herself or to hit him with it. He found all of this far too amusing, being enclosed in the carriage for hours was making him giddy.
He pressed the fingers of his hand to his lips in an attempt to hold back the laughter. He could not hear the rest of Dulior’s warning over the noise coming from outside.
The body of the carriage shook and wheeled to the side as something heavy fell and scurried across the rooftop.
The carriage door opened, letting in a sudden blast of cold wind, and Emerick stepped through.
The door slammed shut behind him. His riding boots and breeches were covered in mud, his collar and cuffs stained with dried blood.
He is a sloppy eater when he is in a hurry, Silvio observed, tittering quietly to himself.
Similar to previous nights, Emerick had jumped off the carriage and came running back once his search for lost souls on the road had borne fruit.
Silvio slithered in the driver’s mind, ordering him to whip the horses into a gallop and gain speed—make up for the time lost as his lover hunted.
Emerick patted down his clothes and slid into the empty seat next to Silvio, draping his arms over the headrests.
His hair was dishevelled from the wind, its full length falling freely down his back.
Instantly the small space began to soak in with the musky scent of his perfume and the bubbling notes of blood.
“We should reach Berlin by the morrow,” he announced, looking between Silvio and Dulior.
“Or sooner, if you stop walking out of the carriage mid-journey,” Dulior scolded him, and reached into her sleeve. She pulled a silk handkerchief and offered it to Emerick, tilting her chin up. The initials DDF were embroidered in red along the lace-trimmed edge.
Emerick made to take it, but Silvio was faster.
He swooped in and snatched the silk right from beneath Emerick’s outstretched fingers.
He shoved the kerchief into his pocket, next to the papers, and roughly took hold of Emerick’s chin.
Jerking his head to the side, Silvio inspected the smears Dulior had meant to wipe.
The blood had dripped down Emerick’s chin and neck, staining his shirt; he had managed to clean most of it before running back to the carriage.
Leaning in, Silvio breathed in the smell, searching for the long gone warmth of a mortal body.
Ignoring Dulior’s disgruntled expression, Silvio licked at Emerick’s neck, running his tongue up to the chin, desperate for the dry patches of blood.
His fangs scraped against the skin, making Emerick shiver.
“Poor thing. Are you hungry?” Emerick laughed and cupped Silvio’s face in his palm. The blood on his sleeve was still wet.
With a mouth still pressed against Emerick’s throat Silvio swallowed—the sound too loud and wet—before pulling away. The space around him was pulsing in the corners of his eyes. He regretted not stepping out to feed earlier. Emerick’s thumb brushed his cheek and prodded at his lips.
“Shall I order the coachman to stop when he sees anyone—anything—move outside?” Emerick offered, loud enough so that Dulior could hear.
Their mother frowned at Silvio, at the pitiful state he must have.
He could not concentrate on anything other than Emerick’s fingers on his lips, now pressing against his teeth.
“No,” Silvio managed to shake his head, breath hitching in his throat, “we stop when we reach Berlin.”
The tip of Emerick’s finger slid across Silvio’s fangs leaving behind a line of crimson nectar.
Silvio let out a moan of desperation as the blood slowly filled his mouth.
He swallowed, the sound deafening despite the rumbling of the speeding carriage.
The cut on the finger was starting to close, he could feel the flow of blood lessen before he bit down into the flesh and pulled at Emerick’s hand.
Vampires did not feed on each other’s blood—it would not nourish them.
The act served for pleasure and staved off the real hunger.
It was not the first time he was drinking Emerick’s blood, nor would it be the last. But it was the first time they did it with Dulior watching.
A part of Silvio wanted to stop, he had gotten a taste and it was enough.
It had to be enough. There was no need to show her this side of him: the one consumed by blood lust and desperate for more.
The side of him she had once begged to possess.
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 and blissfully 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 of Le 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.