Chapter Eight #8
Back then, Krum and the wolf cult were one of Stefan’s many concerns.
He did not pause to think about skin-walkers or other creatures.
He was tackling the early stages of lycanthropy while being a university student, trying to woo his future wife, and keeping his small pack together in Tarnovo.
He ruled as pack leader, undisturbed and unbothered for years.
Fewer than a dozen lycans answered to his beck and call, Krum and his goons had not resurfaced, and that had been enough for Stefan.
But Irena had been wrong. Watching the thing move around his shop, Stefan no longer thought it would have been better to be kidnapped by vampires. He was also grateful Irena was not here tonight, closing shop with Vasili.
A vampire.
Victor had brought a vampire to Stefan’s door.
It had been days since the vampire’s visit.
The creature had introduced itself, offering barely an explanation for why it was here and what it wanted.
Its masters had sent it to the East, the thing said, to scout and search for possible places of residence.
A master in the West, a mistress in the South, a Coven anticipating his return—the thing gave vague answers in a honeyed voice as it loomed over Stefan, studying him with its dead eyes.
The thing was lying, Stefan could smell it on its body.
Whenever it told a lie, a ghostly hand would reach out and caress Stefan’s face; hands tried to lift his head, palms pressed against his chest, fingers played with his hair.
You can trust me, it said without words, and the phantom touch crawled over Stefan’s body, gentle and coaxing, nudging him forward, closer, until Stefan had to grab the counter to keep himself in place. A smile tugged at the thing’s lips.
He told Irena immediately, expected she would storm out into the night, hunt down the vampire, drag it by the hair and banish it from the city. The vixen, however, did no such thing. She listened to Stefan’s description of the encounter, agreeing to send wolves to follow and keep an eye on it.
“And Victor?” Irena asked. “What’s the connection? Are they friends? Lovers?”
“Apart from us, I do not think Victor has any friends,” Stefan huffed, the bitter tang of betrayal stuck at the roof of his mouth.
“So…?”
“Sasho used to say how Victor never brought the same girl over twice.”
“Sasho needs to mind his own business,” Irena said sharply. “But even his nosy arse would have caught a vampire or a man making a house call, and made it everyone’s problem. So Victor’s been keeping the vampire abroad, long distance. The vampire got tired or bored. Now here he is.”
“That is too simple an explanation,” Stefan scratched his neck. He could still feel those hands on him. If the vampire wanted to, could it read his mind now? The thought made his skin crawl.
“You are the pack leader, ask Victor. And if the vampire is giving you trouble—banish him. He has not fed on anyone here yet, has he?”
Stefan looked up, barked a laugh.
“He’d better not have.”
“I’ll come to the café to see the thing. Call me the next time he shows up.”
The weekend was approaching and the vampire still had not shown.
It was not avoiding Stefan and the pack, that much he knew.
He had sent Pavel and Irena’s girlfriend, Elisaveta, to track and report on its movements.
They were the youngest shifters in the pack which made them a little too eager to prove themselves, devoted to whatever task Stefan gave them, even if it meant spending their time stalking after foreigners.
Stefan knew the vampire was staying at a hotel, with Victor, and spent its nights going about town, sightseeing and shopping.
It left shops followed by Victor laden with bags and boxes.
The two resembled tourists or a couple out to do their chores. Both scenarios confused Stefan.
Work was slow at the Bean tonight, allowing Stefan to retreat upstairs and do some thinking.
He tossed his apron on a nearby chair and sat on the sofa, pulling out his mobile.
Where was he supposed to start? He frowned at the bright screen, the tip of his thumb browsing page after page.
His one eye scanned the words, trying to keep up with the internet’s speed.
Unfortunately, online forums offered little help when it came to actual vampires.
They were flooded with trivia from pop culture to detailed descriptions of blood-drinkers that had little to do with Emerick Gabrielli, Marquis.
Nothing applied to him. He was not afraid of crosses or churches, he had practically walked into every church and cemetery in Tarnovo.
Vampires in films slept in coffins or graves, yet this one was staying in a hotel.
Bed… how does a vampire look in a bed? When and how did it feed?
Stefan chewed on his lip, and undid the top buttons of his shirt. The vampire sites were nothing more than fiction and ravings.
A gentle knock on the door snapped him to attention.
He had not turned on the light when he had come in his office, and now he realised he was sitting in the dark.
Voices carried from the corridor, mixed with the chatter from downstairs.
The door cracked open and Vasili’s tall figure appeared, carrying a tray.
A shadow loomed behind him, waiting at a polite distance.
“The vampire’s here,” Vasili announced.
“Show him in.” Stefan threw his phone on the cushion next to him and turned just in time to be blinded by the burst of light from the lamp above. “And call Irena.”
Vasili nodded and placed the tray on a nearby drawer. For a moment Stefan thought his friend had brought up refreshments for the vampire, until he noticed that it was a glass pot of fresh coffee. Before leaving, Vasili poured and served him a cup.
The shadow stepped in and closed the door behind it.
“You are always here, at this place.” The vampire circled the room, glancing around. “This… shop? Isn’t the leader of a coven supposed to be among his kind, out there?”
The vampire jerked its head towards the window.
Stefan hummed and looked down at the cup in his hand.
The liquid was warm and inviting, the smell alone made him eager to taste it.
He drank black coffee only when he tested new blends or tried different brewing techniques.
He consumed an absurd amount of coffee every day, sometimes foregoing milk or cream entirely.
If he were not a lycan, it would have probably killed him a long time ago, his heart tearing a beating hole through his chest.
“This is not a coven,” Stefan said, sipping from the cup.
He tried to picture how a vampire coven would look like, and how different were the creatures of the night from the children of the moon.
In some of the things he read online, they were described as nests under graveyards or abandoned houses.
The blood-drinkers dug the ground and buried themselves in the earth, while others slept in coffins.
Did they do this to be reminded of their mortality or were they no longer able to act human?
Coffins sound too tight. Their breaths would stick to their faces in moist puffs—the thought made Stefan huff, and the moment it crossed his mind, the vampire’s eyes briefly fixed on him, before continuing to study the room.
Stefan’s eyebrows came together when his guest stepped closer.
It was wearing a different suit tonight, a black three-piece, the waistcoat peeked under the blazer, and a metal clip pinned the black tie in place.
The thing looked like it was pretending to be a vampire: purposefully dressed all in black, so still and stoic, nothing of its bravado from the previous visit.
No naked skin peeked from beneath the shirt.
Even its shoes were made of black leather.
“How does that taste?” The vampire’s question startled Stefan. He looked at the cup in his hand before answering.
“The coffee? It depends. There are different types. Some blends are bitter, others sweet. I like mine a little sweet.”
“Coffee,” the vampire repeated the word, smiling, as if he had learned something new and peculiar. “I remember tasting it on a human’s mouth. Bitter, yes.”
On a human’s mouth…
Stefan tried to prevent himself from looking at the vampire’s mouth.
The full lips, the playful tongue. The fangs.
They were too long and too sharp for that mouth.
Stefan’s tongue circled along the inside of his own jaw.
His canines were slightly pointed but would not pierce immediately if he bit down.
Some parts of him still carried traces of the animal he shifted into, from having stayed in that form for too long.
His sharp teeth, his pupil like a cat’s, unnoticeable at first glance, as the eye patch drew all the attention.
He made to drink down the remainder of his coffee when the vampire appeared before him.
With one hand it took the cup, while its other hand grabbed Stefan’s chin and tilted it head up towards the light.
Its thumb scraped against the fabric of the eye patch and Stefan’s gaze grew cold, his whole body stiff with anticipation.
The vampire held his head in place, its fingers tracing over Stefan’s features.
“What made these?” it asked, pointing at the scars visible around Stefan’s collar and rolled-up sleeves.
“The one who made me,” the words poured from Stefan, his pulse quickened, suddenly eager to oblige; to answer every question truthfully. A ghostly hand played with the strands of his hair, tugging playfully.
“And your face?”