Chapter Five #6
Emerick’s eyes shot open at the sound of the voice.
He had dozed off, the paper scattered over him and the floor.
Some of the pages were torn and crumpled, the cat lay sprawled on top of them.
The animal looked up, its eyes wide and at alert before letting out a mheeewl; then rolled onto its back, exposing its fuzzy belly.
“What if a servant were to come in and draw the curtains right back?” Silvio asked and shoved Emerick against the back of the chaise, so he could lie beside him.
“Then they will find us burned to cinders in each other’s arms,” The Comte said drowsily, letting Silvio rest his weight upon him.
“I would like that…” The Marquis breathed, his voice low and heavy from sleep.
His hair was tousled, and he had come down wearing only a banyan.
The garment loosely belted around his waist, showing his naked chest. Emerick ran a hand through the silk and gently pushed it off Silvio’s shoulder.
His fingers caressed the line of his lover’s throat.
“Then I will see you… one last time… as you are meant to be—in the sun,” Silvio sighed, eyes clouded from exhaustion.
Emerick cupped his chin and lifted it up, thumb stroking Silvio’s lower lip.
There was something unnerving in the way the Marquis spoke, in the words, it was as vexing as it was hopelessly romantic.
They had wandered through the world of the living for seven centuries.
Night after night, they woke; unchangeable marionettes of flesh, with only their minds withering away, churning beneath the weight of time.
They dwelt in a constant state of dying. Neither truly dead, nor fully alive.
On a number of occasions Emerick had walked into the bedchamber to find Silvio staring at the mirrors over their bed. From this angle, Silvio could not see his own reflection; he had a vacant look on his face, as though caught between reverie or sleepwalking.
“You will tell me, won’t you?” Emerick whispered, continuing to caress Silvio’s cheeks. He brushed the hair from Silvio’s forehead gazing into his eyes. How warm—how verdant they are… “You will tell me when life has become enough?”
Silvio nodded.
Emerick thought of the drapes hanging from the ceiling in the bedchamber; how they pooled round the bed in a shower of velvet and satin, hiding them from prying eyes.
When the curtains were drawn it was only the two of them, the bed and the mirrors.
It had been unnerving at first, but he had grown accustomed to it—accustomed to the notion of a silent watcher, replicating their movements.
“Why don’t you go ahead and get ready upstairs?” he suddenly offered.
Silvio raised his head and frowned. They had been drifting in and out of sleep upon the chaise.
What if the cat, if it was still in the room, decided to jump on the curtains and bathe them in light?
Nor did he like the thought of Elay walking in on them like this.
He still did not trust the newcomer, Dulior’s brother.
He grabbed the belt keeping Silvio’s robe closed, and pulled it, exposing more of his lover’s nakedness.
Silvio’s cheeks turned pink, eyes growing wide, wakeful and eager.
He exhaled and his chest trembled from the effort to contain himself.
Emerick ran a hand under the robe, grinning when he felt only skin as he caressed Silvio’s thighs.
The Marquis had come downstairs directly from bed, without bothering to put on drawers or any other undergarment.
“Wait for me—kneeling at the foot of the bed. Naked.”
The Marquis and Comte were both worshipped and feared in their small coven.
Their servants knew not to overstep unless summoned.
Elay had yet to learn to exercise that caution.
He repeatedly ran into his hosts, kept trying to accompany them on their nightly hunts.
A number of times the vampire tried to do the chores of a hall boy, even quarrelling with Alexandre.
What a troubled creature that man is, Emerick sighed, while he was sitting in the library.
He wanted to be patient, allow Silvio enough time to go and make himself ready.
Let him wait a little longer, Emerick thought, gazing at the cat sunbathing on the rug. Its fur looked warm and ruffled. He waited a beat and stood up, patting his legs before finally heading upstairs.
Long ago…before each of the count’s numerous wedding nights, Emerick would beg Silvio, again and again—Leave her…
Is this how eternity is going to be for us?
—and each time Silvio would say no; that he could not.
They had grown exhausted from the confines, the stale routine of a household servant and a reluctant groom.
Silvio’s tone back then was one of defeat.
Both of them hanging by a thread, their bodies going through the motions, performing this charade, this illusion of matrimony, day after day.
If only Emerick could glimpse inside Silvio’s thoughts and see what kept them bound to that woman for so long.
This was how they were meant to live, as immortal deities.
Gods had their favourites, and Emerick was Silvio’s.
His chosen one; his offering; his sacrifice—laid as a meal before the God of Hunger.
Emerick did well in his worship of the Marquis but sometimes, sometimes, he liked to be worshipped in turn.
He adored the look of abandonment and pleading in Silvio’s eyes.
The same look his lover was giving him now, by the edge of the bed, gazing up at him, waiting to be permitted closer.
Silvio had been so patient as he watched Emerick undress, shedding his clothes agonizingly slowly. How should I reward my maker? How best to show my pleasure at the sight of you? At the obedience with which you are kneeling on the ground, naked and hard.
Emerick grabbed a fistful of Silvio’s hair and shoved his lover’s face against his pelvis.
Silvio groaned, a starved echo of Rico’s name, stripped of any and all sense of decorum, and began to eagerly lap and suck, gorging himself on the organ, saliva dripping down his chin.
Each time he stopped to catch his breath he pleaded for more, repeated Emerick’s name in fervent prayer.
“Yes. I want your mouth full of me. My name. My cock.” He pushed Silvio’s head back down, and kept him there for an agonizing second, his hips still, enjoying the view.
When Silvio was allowed to re-emerge, his eyes were clouded from pleasure, his hair a mess, lips wet and bruised.
He climbed on the bed and mounted Emerick.
A sheen of sweat ran down his face and chest, but Emerick’s attention was on the trail of scented oil oozing down the inside of Silvio’s thighs.
His breath caught, and his mouth curved in a wicked smile.
“What has the Marquis prepared for me?”
“You kept me waiting for too long—I took some liberties while I waited. I hope I have not ruined your plans for the evening.” Silvio tried to sound apologetic and failed. The look on his face was devilish, carnal.
He pressed down on Emerick’s erection, slowly, eyes locked on his lover as he did it, breath catching the more of the length disappeared, filling him.
A starved, desperate moan broke from Emerick as he watched.
He loved being ravaged and giving in to Silvio’s appetites, his hunger only for him.
Idolised the shamelessness and abandon of the act.
“Rico—”
Silvio’s voice was low and sultry, utterly enthralled.
His eyes kept darting down to where their bodies joined, his own erection betraying how near he was to ruin.
He spread his hands across Emerick’s chest and started to move.
First slowly, easing into the sensation, his rhythm steady, the movements of his body prolonged and desperate with need.
What a glorious sight he made, riding Emerick in the gloom of the bedchamber, responding to every touch, every kiss. Each breath cut short with a moan of yes and please.
Hunger incarnate, Emerick chuckled and pressed his fingers into his lover’s mouth, stifling the tide of groans. His knuckles pushed and tore against the fangs, blood beaded down Silvio’s eager tongue and his master moaned, lapping at it.
Later, when the sun set, they went down to wash and bathe.
Not having nearly enough, Emerick mounted Silvio over a bench in the tepidarium and teased him anew.
His fingers pushed, spread, and pumped, his mouth and teeth left marks all over Silvio’s chest, biting at the hard nipples, riding his thighs raw.
He bit his tongue and made Silvio beg, blood running down Emerick’s chin, until the Marquis was allowed to lick him clean.
They rode the bloodlust submerged in the hot water, the steam caught in their breath, giddy with laughter, erratic but finally, equally, sated for the night.
“You are back early,” The Comte observed. He looked up from the table at the human. “You were granted a full week.”
“There was nothing left to do. I could not stay in the city longer, had I wished to. There is nothing for me there, my lord.”
Time had not been kind to René. Once the hall boy who served for the vampires’ amusement in his youth, he had become a man of fifty, burdened by the consequences of mortality.
His curly hair, once jet-black, had turned almost completely white, and when he wore a beard it made him look older, frail and tired.
He had recently shaved for the sake of appearances, a black armband the only indication he was in mourning.
His body had lost its quick reflexes and vigour, something which Emerick had insisted a butler did not need.
As long as the house was properly tended, it did not matter how fast René would climb the stairs to answer the door.