Chapter Nine
THE HOUSE REQUIRED a series of renovations, both to preserve the historical layout and facade, and to modernise its interior.
Victor had no idea how Erik was paying for any of it.
What troubled him more, however, was how easily his friend had acquired the property.
He had employed a succession of lawyers and bankers to negotiate with the real estate agent, yet it was not the negotiations themselves that unnerved Victor.
It was the seller’s behaviour during the transaction, as though he were not only willing, but grateful, to relinquish the house.
Move in immediately? Of course, nothing as simple as that. All copies of keys for gates and locks were handed over without hesitation; papers were signed. Victor found his name on the signature line as co-owner, and he signed reluctantly, still frazzled by the ease of it all.
The two-storey house had a garden—arrangements had to be made for that as well—and a basement Erik paid attention to last. He uttered something about a coffin, and moved on through the building.
The kitchen, once renovated, could accommodate a range of appliances that would be any baker’s dream.
Then there was a dining room, a sitting room, two bathrooms and two—perhaps three—bedrooms, depending on how they chose to arrange the space.
At least a bedroom for each of them, or so Victor thought, until he woke up the next morning with Erik by his side on a bed too small for the two of them.
“Go to your own bed, in your own room.” Victor tugged at the blanket, pulling it higher to shield himself from the cold.
“I do not like sleeping alone.”
Something in the way Erik said it made Victor think he had never slept alone. Such a strange notion, never to have known solitude even in the privacy of sleep.
“How would you even fit a partner in a coffin? Wouldn’t it be too crammed for two?” Victor asked, recalling a book he read once about vampires sleeping in wooden boxes filled with earth.
“I do not sleep in coffins, you know that.”
“What about the coffin in the basement?”
“That one is for emergencies.”
Erik offered no further explanation, as if it made perfect sense to have a casket tucked among the gardening tools and shelves of cleaning products. The coffin remained in a corner, collecting dust, waiting for whatever might constitute a vampire emergency.
“I am not used to sleeping alone,” Erik said at last, the words ebbing into something like an apology. “What if someone comes and tries to burn me in my sleep?”
“No one is breaking in to kill you,” Victor assured him but Erik kept finding his way into Victor’s bed most nights. To the point where Victor was surprised when he woke up alone. He had grown accustomed to the company, to the weight of another body beside him, to the stolen blankets and pillows.
On one such day, Victor came downstairs to find Erik sprawled across the sofa, reading one of Victor’s books.
It was in German. The majority of the books he owned were written in German or in Nordic languages Erik did not know, but enjoyed deciphering all the same.
Moving Victor’s belongings from the flat to the house helped make the place feel like home. A strange home, indeed.
Each day Victor noticed something new around him, of the many curiosities Erik had carved into the structure, this vampire lair.
The bedroom doors had massive cut-glass knobs which cast prisms of colour across the walls when the sunlight hit them.
They reminded him of the sun catcher stickers Leitian had put on the kitchen windows of her own home.
It was a beautiful and strange detail, one which Erik would never see as it was meant to be seen.
There were other design choices that puzzled Victor: windows high as the ceiling, and benches for garden repose, surrounded by flowers that closed their petals at night.
Lamps and reading lights; one area of the cellar’s wall had been set aside, meant for dozens upon dozens of wine bottles.
The inside of the house, although functional and homely, carried the air of a picture Erik might once have seen and was now trying to replicate.
A place Erik had only heard about, but never lived in.
It is as if he is playing with a dollhouse, Victor frowned at the analogy and shook his head, eager to dispel the thought.
He walked over into the sitting area and sat at the edge of the sofa, gently pushing Erik’s legs aside.
He felt exhausted and in need of sleep. Dealings with the pack, the move and waking up before dawn to go to the bakery, were taking their toll.
Victor did not age, but all of a sudden, he felt too old.
“How did the meeting with Stefan go? You never told me,” Victor broke the silence when Erik continued to read.
“I think he is warming up to me.”
“Have you eaten?” Victor asked, not liking the way Erik’s lips twitched in a suppressed smile at the mention of Stefan.
The words came out harsh, like a mutt being tossed a plate of scraps, yet a flush ran up Erik’s neck and cheeks.
“Let me finish this sentence—”
But Victor was already climbing over the sofa and on top of him.
His face wore a mask of grim determination, a man out to do an errand and impatient to be done with it.
Efficiency strained every muscle, every movement of his body.
Erik’s eyes widened, the flush from earlier replaced by shock, and the book slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor.
The light from the floor lamp now fully illuminated his face, and for a whisper of a moment, Victor caught a glimpse of a hazel halo around Erik’s pupils, before it was swallowed by black.
Even his dark hair had a chestnut sheen, with streaks of gold.
Victor wondered how long a vampire would last in the sunlight before it destroyed them.
If artificial light can do this to you, how would you fare outside, under the sun?
“Arm or neck?” Victor’s tone was too emotionless for how fast his heart was beating and the thoughts racing through his head.
“Neck,” Erik muttered, and Victor leaned in, careful not to crush him with the weight of his body.
Erik slipped a hand behind Victor’s neck and yanked him down, forcing him to turn to the side so Erik’s mouth could fit in the crook. Only when his teeth pierced the skin did Victor ease into the embrace.
He took slow sips, the softest of sounds came from him, no louder than a sigh or a moan he did not want to let out. It reminded Victor of how Erik had held him up in the shower, helped him wash and redid the bandages. Back in Berlin when Tobias—
“You keep thinking about showers. It is distracting.” Erik looked at him, his pupils were dilated and darted back and forth.
There was a drunken sheen to him. His mouth and teeth were impossibly red, sticky.
Victor was unable to look away, his own breath grew ragged.
“Do you want to take a bath with me, mein Freund?”
“No. And you’re saying this like it’s a pet name. Call me something else.”
“Do you want a taste, Victor?”
Victor huffed and yanked Erik’s shirt open. He ran his palm across the collarbones and up the throat, closed his fingers like a snare, and tilted Erik’s head back.
“I will not gnaw at your hand like a dog at a bone.”
Erik snorted and Victor felt the movement of the Adam’s apple under his palm.
He wanted to bite at it and watch the blood bubble and rise in Erik’s mouth, ram his claws into the wound and spread skin, muscle and vocal cords, and feed, feed, feed.
Every time Erik drank from him, Victor wanted to beg for a taste in return.
The hunger burned him; his throat was parched as he watched Erik drink and swallow.
Victor had a mind to press his fingers into the vampire’s mouth and push them inside, all the way to the last knuckle and make him gag and suckle, biting until they bled.
Without ceremony he buried his face under Erik’s chin, irritated by the long strands of hair getting in his way before unhinging his jaw and biting down.
He tore at the jugular, teeth sinking deep and hard, feeling the flesh reform and try to heal—only for him to gnaw anew, chewing on the raw meat, swallowing it down with the blood.
A snarl tore out of him, Erik’s body buckled, and Victor shoved him down, pinning his shoulders.
He took another greedy gulp, mouthful after mouthful of salt, an ouroboros of blood, the tissue and muscles moved and grew around his jaw, the blood pumping and hissing.
Erik gurgled, blood spilled in black foam from his mouth, he tried to kick Victor off, his legs scrabbling for purchase and found none.
He tore and ripped Victor’s top, as the artery burst into Victor’s mouth, showering them in red before the nerves stitched themselves back together.
He chewed on bits stuck at the back of his teeth, observing the body under him.
Erik was a mess, dishevelled, clothes crumpled, blood ran down the length of his upper body in rivulets on the sofa and the carpet.
Victor growled at the sight; the blood covered his chin and he licked at his fingers.
The taste of copper and salt was making him heave for breath, his own body suddenly too small, too tight for him.
Erik’s neck stood intact, the only giveaway of their frenzied game was the gore covering them both, dripping on the floor.
“You are a messy eater.” Erik clicked his tongue and Victor preened at the sound, at how wet the organ sounded inside the mouth.
He was salivating, hungry to wolf down more. Meat or blood or something else entirely.
“Something else?” Erik echoed Victor’s thoughts and at that moment he did not care, let all of him be exposed. He was itching to shift. “Do you have to shift? Or do you need to?”