Chapter Eight #9
Stefan nodded. He had not thought about Krum in years.
Now the image of his lycan begetter was pulled from his mind like a thread, unravelling everything he wanted to forget out from underneath the sands of forgetfulness.
The fingers on his face were warm and soft, nothing like the phantom digits.
He had to restrain himself from slapping the vampire’s hands away.
His nails dug into the cushions of the couch, the material felt strangely like gravel…
or sand. If he spread his legs, only a little, the vampire could step closer.
The vampire opened his palm and the cup fell—only to stop, suspended in mid-air. It floated to the drawer and placed itself on the tray next to the pot. Stefan barely acknowledged it. The fingers were now tracing his jaw, examining the scars that tore across his lips.
Let me in, Stefan, the vampire breathed inside his mind, and Stefan held back a growl. He pressed his back harder against the sofa and saw his legs open and spread, the cloth of his trousers stretching over his thighs and knees.
Pleased by his obedience, the vampire let go and crossed his arms.
“I saw your pups following me. They are not hard to spot in a crowd of humans.”
“Speak for yourself,” Stefan sneered, keeping his legs wide apart.
The only thing he dared do was brush at the particles that had gotten between his fingers.
Someone had spilled something grainy all over the sofa, and he could not get rid of it.
“You’re walking around without a coat in the winter. And you move eerie.”
“Eerie how?”
“Why are you here?” Stefan ignored the question.
“I have already told you,” the vampire sighed, and rubbed at his temples. It was the most human thing he had done in Stefan’s presence. “Is that really what you want to ask me?”
Not about coffins? the annoying voice peeped in Stefan’s head. Aren’t you curious to see what a good, tight fit you would make in one?
Stefan clenched his jaw. The voice sounded strangely like his own, yet it was not. It morphed and dripped down his ears. When he remained silent, the vampire clicked its tongue, and said:
“My master is interested in this territory. I am here to assess whether it is suitable for his plans and needs. He does tend to plan on the grander side of things,” and here the vampire smiled fondly.
“What about the house you’ve bought? Is that also for your master?”
“I need a place of residence. Hotels are not suited to my kind.”
“Oh, please. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that you are applying for a golden passport.” Stefan made a dismissive gesture. “There is a far better chance you came here to settle with Victor, than being on an errand from a coven.”
The vampire’s expression was puzzling. As if Stefan had already found the truth but was unable to see it for what it was.
“Bulgaria’s a borderland between the New World and the Old. The Continent and the Orient. What you see as ruins surrounding you, I see as a stronghold.”
“Spare me. You know nothing of us.”
“You are right, I do not. I want to correct that.”
“What for? Your master?”
“For myself.”
Stefan wanted to laugh at the words. They hung heavy in the empty space between them, holding—finally—a glimmer of truth, and yet they seemed devoid of meaning. Something spoken as a reassurance, a false promise, a name whispered in the dark, a hand pulling at his wrist so he would not look away.
“Whatever you are planning…” he started to say, his own words tasted sandy in his mouth.
“But where are my manners,” the vampire laughed softly. “I never asked—what is the proper way to address the pack leader? Do I bow? Or do you want me on my hands and knees?”
The thing’s attempt at a joke fell flat, and Stefan shook the ghostly web of fingers off his body, straightening in his seat.
“Is that what vampires do, crawl around each other? Are you here to grovel?”
As he said this, the thing—no, Emerick—began to move, slowly, as though struggling to command his limbs.
He twitched and clawed at his suit. He took off the coat and let it fall on the floor, dropping after it on all fours.
The waistcoat accentuated Emerick’s waist as he crept towards Stefan, his back arched like a predator stalking its prey.
The invisible hands descended on Stefan once more, forced his legs wider; his feet drew lines in the sand that had pooled around the sofa.
The sight made him blink confused—why was there sand in his office—but the question never fully formed as unseen fingers grabbed the back of his neck, pressing against his shoulders and throat.
Emerick stopped between Stefan’s legs and looked up, all teeth and unblinking dead eyes.
“Where is your hospitality, Stefan?” He cooed, body oozing closer, trapping Stefan between him and the sofa.
Everywhere he touched, Stefan felt like sandpaper scraping against his skin.
Emerick’s tongue darted between his canines, the wet pink tip slid across the lower lip.
He ran his palms up Stefan’s thighs, nails scraping at the fabric of the trousers. “Will you not offer me a bite?”
“I—”, Stefan was just about to answer when…
A sharp knock at the door shattered the scene and Stefan jolted upright on the sofa, wide awake, heart pounding; his hands were desperately trying to push the empty air, but the vampire was no longer there…
there was nobody else in the room. The creature—and the piles of sand—had evaporated.
Somehow, the cup was back in his hand; it slipped and smashed on the floor.
Only then did he realise he must have nodded off.
He patted at his clothes, struggling to breathe.
He coughed, and it hurt; his throat was dry, and the bitter aftertaste of coffee made it worse.
Without waiting to be invited, Irena stepped into the office and flicked on the lights. Stefan covered his face, hiding from the sudden brightness.
“Vasili said you are here. Sleeping apparently.”
When he could finally see and breathe, Stefan blinked at her in drowsy confusion.
Besides the two of them, there was no one else in the room.
The pot Vasili had brought earlier was empty, and a notepad with sketches lay discarded beside it.
Stefan squinted at his own penmanship, having no memory of the crypt he had outlined.
Irena murmured an insult and bent down to pick the broken pieces of glass from the floor.
She was wearing a pair of bleached jeans and a white pullover with grey and blue detailing.
She must have kicked off her shoes in the corridor, not wanting to drag a line of mud and water after her.
A pair of thick wool socks reached up to her calves, giving her a strangely homely look.
Warmth oozed from her in waves; her familiar scent filled the room, grounding Stefan.
A nightmare. He had dozed off while reading about vampires and they had bled into his dreams. It was only a dream; the vampire was never here. Stefan let out a half-suppressed laugh. He looked down and saw how wide his legs were thrown sprawled. He was parched.
“If you are done messing about, I need you,” Irena scolded. She had placed the shards in a napkin and was holding it gingerly in her hand. “The vampire is here.”
Stefan opened his mouth but Irena ignored him, calling over her shoulder:
“You can come in.”
Emerick stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He was dressed in black, in a familiar three-piece suit.
He looked like an eerie replica of Stefan’s dream with the exception of his hair now being short.
The front of his trousers was a little wrinkled, and there was a wicked twinkle in his eyes as they fell on Stefan and his awkward pose on the sofa.
Did you have a bad dream? The colour drained from Stefan’s face when the vampire’s voice reverberated in his head.
“Irena…” he coughed, struggling to clear his throat. “Irena, this is Emerick. The Martinet. Emerick—Irena, my second.”
“It’s Marquis,” Emerick corrected him, but there was no bite to his voice. “I came to discuss the terms of my stay.”
“Are more of you coming here?” Irena asked. She was straight to the point.
“I do not believe so,” Emerick’s pose was leisurely. He looked around the room, familiarising himself with the surroundings. When he noticed the notepad with Stefan’s scribbles, he smiled.
“And your master? Won’t he be making house calls, checking up on you?”
Emerick seemed to think about it for a moment; his eyebrows drew together in a mild frown.
“If he needs to, he can find me.”
That doesn’t answer the question, Stefan noted. Despite his general disorientation, he could not help but be amused by the interrogation. Emerick was too cocky; he would benefit from a lesson in honesty.
“Where will you be staying for the duration of your…” and here Irena mused over the right term, searching her memory for what Stefan had told her. “…your stay?”
“I bought a house in the old city, but you already know that, don’t you?” Emerick grinned, alluding to Stefan’s canine spies. “Victor is staying with me so there will always be one of you to watch over me. Keep me in check. Make sure I behave.”
“Bought a house? Not rented?”
“I do not do well with landlords, and mortal arrangements are fickle. Too much paperwork leaves a trace over the years. Owning property is easier. Safer.”
Irena’s feline eyes trailed down Emerick’s form, noting the wrinkled clothes, the way his hair was in need of combing, the pleased glow in his eyes.
“He’s lying,” Irena said, and it took Stefan a moment to realise she was speaking in Bulgarian. “I’ve checked and there is a vampire marquis, but he’s currently in France. Just where he’s supposed to be.”