Chapter Four #4
Silvio cocked his head to the side as his hand fished out a small case from his pocket; it caught the light with a playful glint when he opened it and took out a cigarette.
Its metal surface was engraved in flowers, their long stems and petals crawled over it.
The cigarette tucked between his lips, he took out a matchbox and lit a match, lifting it to his face.
When the tiny circle of flame touched his face, Mihaela saw that his eyes were a lively green; they flashed and twinkled in the light, oddly inviting.
“I didn’t know vampires could smoke,” she said.
She unzipped her jacket and dropped her bag on the ground, and ran a hand through her hair. It was wet from the snow. Why is it so heavy? What did I pack? She could not recall packing for… For what?
Emerick appeared behind her to help her with the jacket, patting off a few specks of sand from her shoulders. He had discarded his coat and without it she saw his half-buttoned shirt. If she tilted her head just so, she could see his bare stomach.
“We do not need to smoke, but there are advantages to it,” Silvio leaned on the window, and regarded the noise coming from the square. He tapped the ashes into a glass ashtray on the windowsill hidden behind the plush curtains.
“It is useful when you want to lure humans. You appear less suspicious if you are standing outside smoking than if you were situated there on your own,” he continued, taking another drag.
When he exhaled, the smoke curled around his lips and jaw.
“You can invite a human to join you outside, away from others and out in the open. Or the human can approach you, asking for a cigarette or a match. A fine opportunity, one that allows you to get closer to them.”
“Earlier you said that alcohol can affect us and the blood. What about drugs?” Mihaela felt silly asking questions about things that were either obvious or she should know them by now.
Four months were plenty of time to experiment, test legends of folklore and fiction, and suffer the trials and stipulations of a fledgling vampire.
Instead I spent those four months writing my master’s thesis and stuck in archives.
At the mention of drugs Silvio made a face. His features crinkled, wrinkles appeared around the bridge of his nose and he drew his eyebrows in a frown, like a cat given to sniff at a piece of citrus. As if the very thought offended him.
“Drugs spoil the blood, poison it. It is worse when a human is sick and pollutes the blood further in their attempts at recovery. Pumping their veins full of chemical filth. If you drink from them you will sicken as well.”
“Alcohol makes the blood sweet and heavy like honey,” Emerick added, striding towards the window. He took the cigarette from Silvio’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “Drugs… medicine… they turn the blood bitter, slower.”
Both men’s profiles were illuminated by the street lights and the projectors surrounding the square.
They stood like wraiths before her, their faces hidden in shadow.
The only visible feature on Silvio were his eyes when he turned to look at his companion.
Emerick pressed the tiny red light of the cigarette into the ashtray, leaving behind only the lingering smell of tobacco.
Mihaela could hear the rising chatter outside and a voice bellowing—FOUR—followed by countless others, yelling the same.
THREE.
My parents…
She scowled, unable to remember what she had told them.
These two had been in a hurry. The bag shoved in her hands, her father saying…
What was he saying? He had not been talking to her.
Was Mihaela pretending to be sick at home or had she promised, despite her better judgment, to come to the dinner party?
TWO.
Mihaela looked down at the bag she had packed. A set of clothes, her passport, her notes and papers. Her thesis left unfinished—the khan’s judgment yet to be passed. Her father had made a comment. Something about Emerick’s clothes being unfit for the weather and how he was going to catch a cold.
“You won’t impress the ladies with a running nose,” her father had said. The two men had laughed, she heard them in the corridor.
No. This isn’t right. Emerick never met my father. It must have been one of my cousins.
With her heart quickening, Mihaela tried to step towards the window, frowning as she searched for the right words, for the right memory. Had she been home tonight?
All the while, there was this intrusive sensation of sand.
Sand? Why sand, of all things?
When it snowed and the temperatures dropped below freezing, workers from the municipality would scatter a mixture of sand and salt to prevent slipping.
She always noticed it because the salt clung to the leather of her shoes and ruined it.
The sand had never bothered her before. Instead of salt coating her, it had been the sand that followed her around.
The street grit had penetrated her thoughts today for an unknown reason.
It was as if a cruel fae was insistently crunching grains beside her ears, coaxing her to remember.
Can Emerick and Silvio hear it too?
She opened her mouth to ask when the first explosion sounded, followed by an unceasing barrage of sound and fury, the whole city set on fire.
A volley of booms reverberated through the hotel, the night sky exploded in light.
Reds and greens, and gold, and white. The fireworks were quickly echoed from the nearby buildings, refusing to allow even for a moment of silence.
People ran to look out their windows; some set off cherry bombs.
Others streamed to the streets, glasses in hand, they joined the dancing at the square.
They held Roman candles and waved sparklers, lighting mortars and sky-rockets.
Comets shot to the sky and burst in bright chrysanthemums. And in the midst of this chaos, as the room was suffocated by the smell of sulphur, she heard the orchestra downstairs playing the national anthem.
Silvio gave out a muffled laugh, a small sound of surprise, his face turned upwards bathed in the lights.
He marvelled at the display. But Emerick was looking at Mihaela, studying her, his back to the celebrations, his black eyes unblinking.
Silvio turned and whispered something in his ear, nodding to the square.
Emerick’s face remained unchanged, fixed on her.
1992 had arrived. It found Mihaela in a luxurious hotel suite, in the company of the undead, welcoming the New Year in a place they ought not to have been. The Marquis, the Comte and the foundling—the only vampires in the whole of Bulgaria.
While the plane ride to Berlin was quick, getting to the Coven felt like ages.
A car picked them up from the airport, the chauffeur nervously holding the doors open for them, his mind a cacophony of timetables: How many hours until sunrise?
Is there going to be traffic on the way back?
Will everything be ready for the guests when they arrive?
Madam would meet and escort them to their rooms. How long was the Marquis staying?
There were more names and coordinates the mortal went over in his mind. Sometimes Mihaela saw flashes of a large building, a mansion, ballrooms and precious paintings, candles burning, a kitchen teeming with staff. The images shattered the moment the car engine started.
“Is there anything…” Mihaela began, then stopped, frowning.
Next to her on the backseat Silvio turned to face her, waiting.
He wore the same set of clothes—no point in carrying luggage for a day trip, he had explained—and this time when he took out the cigarette case she saw that it was covered in irises.
The handkerchief in his breast pocket was embroidered with flowers: wild violets, a silver thread tracing their petals like beads of morning dew.
She sensed a faint perfume rising from it, something leathery, smoky.
She wondered if there were floral engravings on the back of Silvio’s watch or if there were other trinkets in his possession fashioned as blossoms.
It was odd for him to care so much about flowers when Mihaela clearly recalled the face he had made when they walked through the Sofia airport.
On their way to the gate they had passed the duty-free and souvenir stand.
Silvio’s face was one of utter disgust, he even lifted a hand to cover his nose.
Didn’t he make the same grimace, repulsed, when he stepped through the door in my parents’ flat?
Back then Mihaela had sniffed the air and she detected only the faint smell of rose oil—her mother was fond of the smell and always had a flask or two.
The Sofia Airport smelled of sweat, reheated food, and chemicals.
But it also carried a hint of roses, giving locals and tourists a whiff of what they could experience if they visited the Rose Valley, the centre of the Bulgarian rose-growing industry.
For Mihaela the smell was nostalgic and pleasant.
Silvio’s whole mood, however, remained sour until the plane took off.
“Yes?” he urged when Mihaela stayed silent.
“What will it be like? The Coven.”
“Depends on what you go there for,” came Silvio’s unhelpful answer.
“What have you been there for?”
A sly smile spread on his face.
“My divorce. My ascension. And now—to bring you.”
“It doesn’t sound like you visit often.” Mihaela ignored the bait. It was like talking to Astra: whenever Mihaela tried to have a serious conversation with her, her partner would deflect or answer cryptically. Mihaela had no patience for riddles or wordplay, so she ignored them.
“I have a beautiful home in France. Why would I leave it? Everything I need is there,” Silvio straightened his back and shoulders, and leaned into the leather seat. “You are welcome to visit after you settle with the All Father.”