Chapter Two #5
Getting closer, the first thing she noticed was the church tower, the small cross at the top, beckoning.
She imagined climbing to the top, her fingers digging into the stone, searching for cracks to pull herself upward.
There were no ornaments or sculptures, no gargoyles or angels, gazing down upon the masses, weeping.
The tower was smooth stone, rising into the heavens.
Perhaps one day she was going to bury the remains of her husband in the bushes and flower beds around the structure, and when she looked down from the top, she would see the grave blooming in the moonlight.
A delicate smile curled her lips at the thought, and she was almost tempted to try and ascend the stones now, when a door closed with a bang behind her.
In the dim light of the moon two figures came out of the church, staggering, their voices disrupting the night.
One of the men was trying to free himself of the robe he was wearing, while the other man tried to pull at the cloth, pleading with his companion.
The sound of their mirth drew her in, laughter and words in a lilting tune she did not understand at first.
“…and what was that thing you asked that poor man to find and bring to the church?”
The words were starting to take shape, the Latin spoken too fast, ringing and spilling all around her.
“A hedgehog,” the man managed to get his arms and head free from the cloth. He threw it over his shoulder, ruffling his hair with a quick swipe of the hand. When he spoke, his words harmonized beautifully with those of his companion. They complemented each other so well, like singers.
“That ball… with the…” the man searched for the right word, pulling his companion close, as if conspiring. “With the quilts! You have seen it, I’ve shown it to you in the Scriptures.”
“There are also beasts with scales and dozens of heads in those pages. That does not mean it is all real.”
“Ah, that is a problem for poor sir Chevalier. And besides, what happens in the confessional is sacrosanct—I cannot discuss it with you further.”
The man, probably a priest, shrugged and took out a coin purse, dangling it.
“Let’s go get some wine.”
Dulior could taste the wanton mischief in that voice. She had never heard a man of the cloth speak like that, and it amused her. However, it was the other man who drew her attention, the one who was trying to talk some sense into the priest.
“Did you… did you steal from the altar gifts again?”
“That is why they are gifts, Silvio. Why collect the coin if it is not meant to be spent?”
Silvio pressed a hand to his face, cursing under his breath.
The other man went ahead without him, walking towards the promise of fulfilment under the patronage of the Church.
Dulior pressed closer to the wall, pulling the shadows around her and crept nearer.
Delicately—almost shyly—she reached out and unveiled Silvio’s thoughts.
This was not the first time his friend had committed such a sacrilege, and many a church in the neighbourhood had suffered from this spoiled jester.
He was no priest but a young noble meant to learn the Scriptures, who instead wasted his days testing the patience of the clergy.
Silvio was charged with keeping him in check—and so far failing miserably.
In Silvio’s mind, Dulior saw them waking drunk in various states of undress and unrest in taverns.
Or barns and stables when the coin ran out and the tavern-keeper lost patience.
Silvio was young, around the same age as Dulior before she was turned, back when Paris knew only fires and rivers running thick with carnage.
His dark brown hair reached to his collar, falling in loose waves over his forehead; fatigue marked his face marring his features.
And Dulior noticed how when he frowned, the side of his mouth curled up and the bridge of his nose wrinkled.
He had a strong jaw and full lips she was sure were soft and would taste of honeydew, right before she sank her fangs into them and they burst in red salt.
She wanted to see his eyes, to step into the faint light and brush his hair back, uncovering the whole of his face.
They would almost stand at eye level, Dulior observed, feeling a giddy thrill by the thought of having a man meeting her gaze directly, rather than looking down at her.
Her master and husbands had always been taller than her, older, ill-favoured.
“Silvio!” a voice called from the darkness. It was the other man, the blasphemous youth. “Silvio, hurry! By the time we get there Segal will close the tavern!”
“Do a little jig!” Silvio called out, and continued to walk with the same pace, if not slower. “Once he hears the coins jingle, he will throw the door wide open for you!”
Dulior did not catch what the other man replied, if he ever did.
Silvio paused under a window and blinked up at a torch burning there.
Moths circled the flame, desperate to close in, their wings singing in the heat.
The light illuminated his face and Dulior had to restrain herself from leaving her hiding place and grabbing him.
Her heart was beating so loud, even a mortal might hear it.
All the exhaustion on Silvio’s face was washed away by the bright light of the torch. The only shadows that danced around his features were those of the moths above him. He lifted his hand, as if beckoning the insects to crawl on him for safety, their little grey wings flapping frantically.
His eyes were green, their colour paling in the light but green nonetheless.
She liked his eyes; they reminded her of a garden.
She imagined herself in his arms lying in a bed of flowers, a nest overflowing with sweet nectar and fragrant blossoms, the sun shining through the tree branches and making his eyes glow.
How would his mouth feel against hers, kissing down her neck, her breasts, her thighs.
His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer.
The Blood would look wonderful on him, it would keep him young and strong, and hers.
She would make quick work of ridding him of bothersome thoughts and chores.
He was going to serve no one, least of all that man he followed like a shadow, day and night, in and out of inns, making excuses for all the devilry left in their wake.
She wanted him. Wanted the taste of him. To draw him towards her like the flame drew these wretched moths whose charred corpses now crunched under his shoes.
She wanted to watch him burn in her embrace.
Dulior knew she would not find Silvio in the dance halls or great houses her husband frequented.
He did not appear to be the type to eat and drink with noble men discussing the king and his knights.
Neither would he be at every church yard, as she had hoped.
All she knew began and ended with the knowledge that he frequented churches.
She did not know which ones though. Saint-Germain-des-Prés continued to be her safest bet; walking past it whenever she could, casting a glance through the doors and windows of the nearby taverns.
She hearkened for his voice, and for the voices of humans around her, gazing through their eyes, in a desperate search.
A thirst was building up inside her. She was burning up, the craving so strong it set her on the edge.
Her evening walks turned into a barren pursuit. Silvio had vanished from the streets of Paris as though he had never existed. It vexed her, spoiling her mood and appetite. It turned the blood to ash in her mouth, yet still she drank, and still she went for more.
While Paris was bereft of her newfound passion, the city was abuzz with excitement.
A wave of hysteria was sweeping through its citizens, men and women alike.
Even her husband talked about it at dinner.
The Pope had called Christendom to arms, rallying the masses to reclaim Jerusalem[5].
A council had taken place and letters were dispatched, an echo of the battlecry Deus Volt[6] reverberated through the continent.
Dulior did not like the sound of it. Gustave had assured her he would not ride out and leave her a widow for the glory of God. Even if he wanted to, he was far too old for such adventures.
“Home is where I belong. With you,” he kissed her as the sun set, lifting her curls to trace her neck.
Deus Volt, the voices called and the days rolled out without news of Silvio.
She watched men gather in front of churches, falling to their knees for a priest’s blessing before riding out.
Muck and dirty rain water splashed under the hooves of the horses as they were leaving the city.
Wave after wave of them rode out, an army heading East.
The winter winds scraped at Dulior’s cloak as she made her way, just about to finish with her evening route.
The blood she drank earlier kept her warm and pleasantly distracted from another fruitless search.
She felt the sun already starting its ascent, warning her to hasten home.
The memory of how the light had burned her at Rorgon’s makeshift pyre still haunted her, despite how her skin had quickly mended after.
She did not wish to know how long her daemonic body could withstand the sun, if even, and besides, it was not light she yearned for.
Ahead of her on the street, a stableboy was fastening sacks and rolled up bundles to the saddle of a horse.
Its rider had still not mounted and it kept tugging at the reins; the stableboy ran a hand over the horse's mane, his head pressed against that of the animal, talking softly to it.
Two other horses stood nearby at the ready, loaded with gear.
Dulior saw sword hilts peeking out. Their riders were dressed for the winter cold with hooded cloaks and scarves drawn high obscuring their faces.