Chapter Eight #10
He wanted to ask if Irena knew who the man before them was, since he was not the marquis, but he found that he did not care.
It did not matter to him what honorific Emerick or any other vampire used, whether they lied about it or not.
What mattered was that a vampire was here, in the Bean, in his town.
And there was also the question of Victor; was he part of the charade?
Where did his loyalty lie? Could Stefan trust him… ?
Nothing in Emerick’s expression indicated that he understood what Irena had said. He might have caught a few words, but he watched his hosts in eager anticipation, hands clasped behind his back.
Can he avert mine or Irena’s thoughts, alter what we’re saying? The moment Stefan thought this, Emerick’s gaze shifted towards him, eyebrows raised. He gave out a hmm, suppressing a giggle.
So you are in my head. The hysteria bubbled, and Stefan almost laughed out loud. You are reading my thoughts.
Yours, hers. The wolf outside this door, Emerick cooed in Stefan’s head. The wolf who worked the bar earlier. The student struggling over her homework, leaving last. The children playing in the puddles outside.
“How is it that you know Victor?” Stefan asked. His voice came out louder than he intended. He was trying not to think how similar that coo was to the way dream-Emerick had spoken to him. How at ease he looked, kneeling on the floor. “He never mentioned you.”
Victor never mentioned anyone or anything about his life, yet a vampire acquaintance was an odd thing for a werewolf to omit.
“We are old friends.”
“Friends?” Irena repeated.
“Very old friends. But I will not speak for Victor. Ask him.” Emerick grinned. “Ask him how we met.”
“If you have no more questions for him, he can leave.” Stefan turned to Irena, willing himself to think of nothing. It was like trying to hold his breath while drowning.
“The marquis should, yes. Victor is waiting downstairs.” Irena nodded in agreement, continuing to stare at their strange guest.
Emerick bowed, and slipped into the corridor.
When they were finally alone, Irena looked at Stefan, still sprawled on the couch, his hair ruffled and his shirt creased, the spilled coffee on the ground.
“When were you going to tell me you are pen pals with a vampire? Is everyone in the pack dating vampires now… Should I be concerned? Or find one for myself?!”
Irena did not laugh at his joke. She kicked his feet, urging him to scoot over, and dropped onto the sofa next to him.
“I’d rather you didn’t. Or at least find someone else, not the ‘marquis’. And we’re not pen pals, I called on the landline.”
Vampires have landlines? But of course they do... Caught between his vivid dreams and Irena’s diverse group of acquaintances, Stefan found he could use a drink right now.
“We talk from time to time. Ariadne owes me a favour, so I asked her the moment you told me a vampire had shown up. At first, I thought he was one of theirs—the Greeks—but it doesn’t appear to be the case.”
“We are not going to have another accident like last time, are we?”
He did not want to say Krum’s name. Not in front of Irena. Not in front of anyone. His brief appearance in the dream, even in passing, had been upsetting. That alone should have tipped him off that Emerick’s visit was not real. Why would Stefan tell a stranger how he had got his face cut?
“No, I think we are safe for now. But if you insist on letting this vampire, whoever he is, stay, you should also talk to Victor. Make it clear to him that the vampire is his responsibility. No killings, no turnings.”
“So the vampire marquis is a liar,” Stefan chewed on the words. “What about his vampire master, and his interest in Bulgaria? Was that a lie, too?”
“Ariadne says there is no claim to Bulgaria… yet. At least not from the Coven Master, the All Father. Who is real, so our new friend didn’t lie about everything.”
Irena sighed and bumped her head lightly against his shoulder.
“When is Lei coming back?”
“In two weeks. She is designing a private garden. Those take time.”
“I hope she is not designing a garden for a vampire.”
He knew Irena was not serious, but the idea made him laugh, a little too loud, too excitedly. Where had they sent his wife this time? Was it France or Belgium? Or both? Her business trips were becoming more frequent, and the more he missed her, the more reckless he grew.
He leaned back in the sofa and looked at Irena, who had got up to rummage through the paperwork on the desk. She was mumbling something about the ledger and a heating bill.
She was born a shifter—a lycan, a werefox—descending from a long line of other shifters, foxes roaming the Balkans until, one day, generations later, their great-granddaughter crossed paths with Stefan.
Irena was born into this life; Stefan had been made.
Made into this thing: an obedient little creature, howling at the moon.
Made and sculptured by the cruel hands of a man who created him out of spite, as punishment.
Stefan was no different from a vampire, another human plucked from its mortal confines, its soft flesh turned into a hard cage, a creature of the night.
He called Emerick a thing because Stefan was also a thing: a broken and pieced-together thing. Things were made to be possessed and used, so why not keep Emerick? Why not see how best to put this deceitful bauble to use?