Chapter Five #3
Something stirred in the dark. He turned to the sound of heavy footsteps expecting to see Silvio behind him but there was no one.
A nearby bush rustled and a tiny creature emerged, making its way across the garden.
A hedgehog, out into the night. It stopped and lifted its little head, sniffing the air before continuing on its journey.
He watched the creature disappear and smiled, full of good cheer.
There were no roses in their garden. Silvio had arranged for exotic flowers, a sea of pinks, purples, and blues: fig-trees and lilac bushes. The gardener tried to meet his master’s demands but his exasperation was almost audible, a garden was not complete without roses.
Emerick might grow accustomed to this, to eternity with Silvio, to a second chance.
A fresh start in Béziers. Away from the cold and suffocating embrace of a mother, and into the veiling guidance of an ever-present father.
He took out the fabric he had been clutching in his pocket.
The centuries had not spared the silk, once smooth and Venetian yellow, now coarse and bleached white, a gift from Silvio to his majordomo, small, yet costly, which Emerick wore with every setting of the sun.
If Silvio knew he had kept this tattered old thing he would laugh and cast it away, replace it with a new one, something extravagant.
Count di Flaviari had spoiled Emerick but Marquis Bracci would engulf him in every pleasure known to man, pushing the limits of his hunger beyond the realm of reason.
The Marquis had watched his lover get anointed in the thermae, patiently waiting for the servants to feast on the Comte, and the Comte to feast upon them, drawing blood with each burning kiss and caress he left on their mortal skin.
That night, in their bedchamber, Silvio’s mouth had been sweet and soft as a ripe fig.
There were times when Emerick found the tower too vast, too opulent.
Everything within it was excessive, overwhelming to the eye, with all the art hanging from ceilings and walls, the very windows painted, no surface left untouched.
Everything desperately begged for attention when the only thing worth Silvio’s attention was Emerick, and Emerick alone.
Silvio had laid him on their bed like a sacrificial lamb on the altar of a starved god, ready to be swallowed in a single mouthful, ever ravenous for more.
That first fortnight, the Marquis hardly allowed him to leave the bedchamber.
Silvio feasted on him, overcome with hunger and desire.
He worshipped every part of Emerick, an altar of the flesh demanding its slab of meat.
No matter how big the bed, Emerick would somehow find himself pressed against the mirror, his breath clouding the glass, his mouth open, lips and tongue lapped at the cool surface, while Silvio kissed his shoulder blades, and crept upwards Emerick’s neck.
His throat and face relentlessly covered in kisses, mouth parting to receive the cool wet tongue, his whole body trembling from the effort to remain on his knees.
Silvio appraised him, a glint of possessiveness twinkling in the green of his eyes.
He never found Emerick wanting; yet there was want and hunger in the way his hands roamed over Emerick’s body, the way Silvio’s mouth sought and claimed him.
The way he breathed Emerick’s name as a binding spell.
Rico, Rico, Rico. Undone and reshaped into whatever image Silvio decreed.
Every time they were together, Emerick melted into the embrace, into the kiss, as famished for it as his maker.
My deviser. To be made and unmade—and made again.
A pair of hands cradled his face, positioning him closer to the wall of mirrors, as Silvio held him, forehead pressed between Emerick’s shoulder blades. A mouth moved against his lips in a liquid motion, mute words spilling out of it.
You feel so good, in a sigh of pleasant exhaustion, an unknown voice cut inside his head, its timbre crackling, cold and from somewhere within the room.
Emerick groaned against the mirror, his breath fogging the glass.
His reflection was odd and broken until the features slowly rearranged themselves into those of his own face.
He could not focus on Silvio’s image behind him, only on the mouth kissing him.
His lips, his throat. Hands slid down his face, fingers pried his mouth open.
Fingers dug into the flesh of his thighs, locking him in place, spreading him wide open.
Delicious, the voice came once more.
Emerick jerked away, dazed, saliva dripping down his chin. Body sleek with sweat.
“What was that?”
“Mmmm?”
“What you just said… I...” Emerick could not focus; he was on the verge of a climax, desperate for it. Silvio kept him firmly in place, pressed down against the mattress, pushing more of himself inside, thrusting, in and out.
“You want me to talk, Rico?” Silvio chuckled and clicked his tongue. “Do you find me wanting?”
The Comte looked up at the mirror, part of the glass lay shrouded in shadow, the rest danced in the candle light.
It loomed down on them, reflecting their entangled forms, a mass of limbs and sweat, blood and semen.
Silvio’s face was buried in Emerick’s shoulder, hidden, teeth biting down playfully until they weren’t.
When the Marquis finally lifted his head up, the glow of the candles bathed his face and his eyes flashed lighter; the green had paled to grey.
Emerick blinked and the eyes looking down at him had their familiar and green shade again.
Later, where there was nothing to distract him, Emerick pondered the All Father’s gift.
There was nothing extraordinary about the mirror.
In fact, if Silvio had not pointed it out, Emerick would never have known that the glass in the middle came from the Berlin Coven.
Silvio had ordered the mirrors on both sides to be cut in the same size and furnished them in identical gilded frames.
The three mirrors were indistinguishable from one another; yet the one in the middle reflected the whole of the bed, leaving no place for the Marquis and the Comte to hide as they reposed.
Emerick slid his hand down the smooth cold surface, his nerves aflame, expecting to hear the voice of the All Father from the other side of the thing… and was met only with the silence of his own reflection staring back at him.
“Ridiculous,” he laughed out loud.
If Ingenuar wanted to spy on his brood, he would have to do it like any other vampire—by getting into their heads and commanding them. He would certainly not be glorifying Emerick as he did it; the All Father did not leave tributes at the same dais as the Marquis.
That was Silvio’s voice… if even… Emerick had been too engulfed in the pleasure of the act. Even if his lover had said something in the heat of the moment, the words had slurred with the rest, melting down the glass, fogged by Emerick’s breath.
A perverse part of him revelled in the attention.
If asked which time he held most dear, Emerick would name those first years in the tower.
They were like children, drunk on the infinite pleasures that youth and time offered.
Their hunger never sated. They were reborn, Silvio, especially.
The robes of a count were cast aside for the mantle of marquis, and Emerick loved it; loved the spectacle, the mirrors, the riches, the servants, the lovers they shared.
In time he had learned to cherish even the grotesquery of their home, and, despite himself, he even loved the outfits fashioned by Silvio’s tailors, spilling from the wardrobe and into their bed.
All for Silvio’s amusement and pleasure.
But most of all, he loved the blood. From his mouth to Silvio’s, and back, returned tenfold.
They were not meant to be alone. The tower was designed to house other vampires, to be their safe haven, the French court of the undying and any creature of the night who called.
Word had quickly spread of how Silvio had declined his maker admission to the French Coven, and it brought more vampires to their door. Visiting cards and letters kept arriving and piling on the Marquis’ desk.
René left a stack of unopened letters and a newspaper on the writing-desk, and turned around the room, unsure of what to do next. Emerick watched the hall boy fidget nervously with the sleeves of his livery, before finally taking pity on the youth and nodded towards the blouse laid over the chair.
“Help me put that on.” The Comte made a circular motion with his finger before resuming the fastening of his breeches. “An easy task, n’est-ce pas?”
The mortal glanced at the shirt then at Emerick’s bare chest, and mumbled unintelligibly before hurrying over.
The blouse was transparent, made of lace and tulle, with billowing sleeves tailored tight around and up the wrists with the help of dozens of tiny buttons.
It had a high collar; buttons at the back of the neck kept it all in place.
Emerick was not teasing when he asked for help dressing.
The breeches were a tight fit of black velvet, he scarcely managed to put them on, breaking out in a cold sweat as they pulled and worked the fabric over his hips, one leg at a time.
He had considered putting on riding boots but then dismissed the idea, he was not planning on going out tonight, and the clothes were enough of a prison as it was.
He settled for a pair of velvet slippers with white embroidery.
Emerick felt trapped; the tightness of the clothes suffocated him. It highlighted each and every line and curve of his body. His torso felt more exposed than if the shirt had been unbuttoned, his entire chest was visible under the lace.
Did Silvio get my measurements wrong?
It was not possible. His body could not change, neither could his measurements.