Chapter Seven #10
Victor opened his mouth to protest. When he tried to move forward the room tilted, as though struggling to retain its form; his feet lost their ground—like trying to walk through a sandstorm—and he gripped the curtains to steady himself.
To his right he spotted a mirror above the desk, reflecting the two of them and the room.
They were in a hotel suite, just as Erik had said, except Victor could not remember how they had got here.
He had no memory of getting off the plane or the tedious waiting in line with other passengers.
Too many pieces were missing; the change in scenery was too abrupt to be natural.
Why not take me to your place? he remembered Erik asking, with genuine concern.
The thought had only briefly crossed his mind before Victor dismissed it entirely.
There were too many people he preferred to avoid in the building he rented, to say nothing of the members of the pack.
Bringing Erik there was the last thing he wanted. Better to stay at a hotel.
Their few belongings were thrown on the floor—Victor’s backpack, still as he had prepared it for the airport, and a couple of shopping bags from the duty-free; Erik had stopped to buy a change of clothes.
He looked around the suite he could not remember booking, taking in every detail.
It was a vast room, sparsely furnished: two chairs, a writing desk, bedside tables on either side of the king-sized bed, a wardrobe.
A mirror at the desk, mirrors on the doors of the wardrobe.
Victor caught their reflections in the glass, how much he stood out in such a room, and how uneasy it made him.
The colours around him were warm and bright, the wooden surface of the furniture gleamed, and the scent of honey and wax filled his nostrils with each breath.
The lamps of both sides of the bed were turned on, the curtains drawn; he did not know what time it was and did not dare check his watch.
It must have been night, shadows danced in the corners, making the room appear more cosy than lavish.
The air conditioning hummed, warming the space, adding to the comfort.
We are in Tarnovo, a voice said inside his head, and Victor did not know if it was his own. You drove us here, from the airport in Sofia.
Or did Erik drive? The thought of driving across the country and not having any recollection of the journey, made Victor feel sick.
He had never experienced such gaps in his memory.
Not since that first full moon. Since then, he had done everything in his power to retain his mind, no matter the cost.
Erik had stepped away, rummaging through the bags with his back to him.
Victor pulled the curtains to the side. From up here he could see a sliver of the Tsarevets Castle, it was somewhere on the left, covered in dozens of lights, and the church at the top of the hill, illuminated by the floodlights.
Below, the hillsides were thick with houses; their tiled rooftops appeared as if stacked on top of one another, clustered between the trees.
Some of the old houses had back gardens, little hidden pathways and steps ran up and down the slopes, linking the houses to the main streets.
Erik had made a remark about buying one of these houses and renovating it in the spring.
Victor had dismissed his words, too focused on not stumbling into any familiar faces.
How long have we been here? Victor was too frightened to ask aloud. What have we been doing?
He remembered giving Erik a tour, walking him in and out of churches, the two of them marvelling at the icons and crosses, the museums dedicated to the revolutionary movement, the shops and workshops selling souvenirs and small keepsakes.
His friend soaked in all of it, eager to learn more of the history of this place and its peoples.
He mouthed words and phrases in Bulgarian, repeating what he had heard from curators and passers-by.
In a secluded alcove he had guided Victor and undone the scarf around his neck, raising onto his toes to run his mouth over the pulsing flesh.
Gooseflesh spread all over Victor’s skin before the teeth found purpose.
Erik had been so gentle, like a lover stealing a kiss, and Victor had let him drink and coo under the flow of blood.
We arrived so late. You fed me and I fed you, Erik’s voice sounded so tempting.
Food, yes, Victor had gone down to the reception to arrange room service to send up breakfast. His mind wandered, already picturing the coffee on the breakfast tray, how bitter and scalding it was going to be.
Stefan always complained how Victor drank his coffee like a barbarian, with no taste for the finer things in life. Black coffee, no sugar, no cream.
Coffee.
Stefan.
Victor sat down on the edge of the bed, frowning.
How was he going to broach the subject with the pack?
Was he obliged to bring Erik to Stefan? Erik was the first, if not only, vampire Victor knew, and he felt strangely protective of him.
Leaving the hotel and introducing Erik to the pack meant that he would have to share.
But first he needed to collect himself, gather into one all the scattered fragments of his time with Erik. I barely know where—when—I am, I cannot face Stefan like this.
Erik was sitting on the other end of the bed, combing his hair with a comb, the sort you find in the pockets of old suits.
He probably had nicked it from someone at the airport or the gas station.
Erik’s hair was long, it felt almost to his elbows in heavy dark-brown waves, covering his back.
Victor could not look away, watching entranced.
Scars crossed Erik’s shoulder blades and back.
Some were light and clean-cut, others dark, suggesting wounds once deep and bloody.
Faint scratches were visible on his waist and upper thighs, as if something had grabbed him and dragged his body around.
The scars were old, yet they would never heal or fade.
They held not only a shadow of pain but a reminder that the man carrying them had once been human.
I am a vampire, Victor, or have you forgotten?
Time had not been allowed to heal these wounds; their current state suggested their bearer had not died a peaceful death.
Erik lived in a body that appeared young and near-perfect at first glance, but it remained irrevocably damaged. An unchangeable carcass.
Victor scratched at his upper arm, over the now-healed bite marks.
The memory of another’s mouth and teeth sinking into his skin made the hairs along his forearms and neck stand on end, and he had to remind himself to breathe more slowly.
The sensation the memory carried with it was eerie.
Victor remembered the sight of the sharp fangs coated in his blood, his own teeth biting into his lower lip, sucking on it.
The wolf inside him was howling, eager to be let loose.
Victor wanted the raw beating flesh, pulsing with blood.
He wanted to reach out and twist Erik’s face upwards, bare the throat, the soft tanned skin, the veins pulsing with life—stolen, taken, given.
His hands clenched into fists and he dug his nails into the soft meat of his palms. Once Victor had rested, had talked to the pack, he would go out and hunt.
The wildlife around the hills was too small and the meat stringy but he was eager to sink his jaws and claws into something with a heart, rip it and feast. Only after wolfing down his prey would he be able to stay still and ground himself in the present, in Erik’s presence.
Let’s get you to bed, Tobias, Erik had said, the stolen officer’s uniform he wore was wet.
Victor’s memories of the night they had met were a blur of pain and broken fragments.
He found himself pushed back to the Berlin of his past, when the war had reached its zenith.
He recalled a tall figure trying to help him; the water of a shower cold, always cold, and a hand pressing his face against the cracked tiles of the bathroom wall, under the running showerhead.
Blood ran down his legs mixing with the filth of his body.
Is this my blood or Erik’s, Victor wondered as a hand prised his mouth open and his teeth bit at the fingers; his throat burned; he choked.
And then Erik had disappeared with the same force he had thrust himself into Victor’s life.
Until he returned.
Here.
Now.
In a hotel in Tarnovo, seventy years later. A hotel Victor could not remember choosing, let alone how he got there, yet knew exactly where it was in relation to the pack and the coffee shop.
“Come to bed, Victor,” Erik invited him, patting at the pillow.
Victor sighed and finally started to undress. The covers were warm and smelled of wildflowers, the scent of the soap on Erik’s body lingered faintly in the air. It was crisp and salty, and made Victor’s mouth water from a hunger that kept resurfacing.
Sleep found and left him too quickly for comfort.
He woke up with a start, disoriented by the unfamiliar room and the body beside him.
His dreams were long vistas of dunes and sandstorms; he trudged through them drenched in sweat.
Victor was not used to waking next to someone.
His affairs were brief, and he was meticulous in making sure his partners never spent the night.
On one hand, it was that he kept odd hours and would get up in the middle of the night to go to work.
On the other, he did not trust himself to sleep next to a human.
He had night terrors aplenty, and moon cycles to worry about.
Erik lay on his side, the blanket kicked away, his long hair spilled across his face and the pillow. A book was crushed under his hand, its pages bent.