Chapter Nine #3
He sniggered, barely restraining himself as he fed from his new friend, the werewolf.
Silvio would simply have to wait, left to his own devices while Emerick accustomed himself to the new title and the responsibilities it dragged with it.
The Béziers Coven would do alright without him for a few days, he trusted the staff to cope on their own.
Beside him, Victor’s breathing had steadied and he no longer clutched at the sheets. The night terror had passed.
“Have you experienced any cravings over the years? Anything unusual?” Emerick enquired, staring rather too intently at Victor, willing him awake.
Victor had not aged much since 1944. He had lines around his eyes and mouth; wrinkles formed on his forehead when he frowned, and his hands and fingers bore scars, small cuts and burns. Not a grey hair to be seen.
“Cravings?” Victor repeated. His eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. Only the lower lip moved when he talked, like a hollow doll.
“Around the full moon or—?” Emerick did not bother to elaborate.
“I wouldn’t call them cravings.” Victor’s voice was low and dry.
“The first months… I… couldn’t control my body.
I devoured meals without tasting them. I couldn’t control my emotions, they got the better of me, whether I was alone or in company.
I was a danger to myself. I sought jobs that would isolate me, work that was physically taxing, the better to exhaust myself by the time the moon beckoned. ”
“No cravings for blood?”
“I don’t remember…”
“But you are eager for mine, are you not?”
“Yes.”
Ah—there it is, finally: a confession. One drawn out by force, but a confession, nonetheless.
“And have you made others like you, other werewolves?” Emerick used the word deliberately.
For what else would Victor be but a wolf? He certainly was no vampire. A few drops of vampiric blood did not constitute a turning; they did not grant immortality. But they made one hungry for more, and Emerick had indulged Victor every time his friend had asked.
“Others? No. Never.”
Emerick tsked and laid his hand over Victor’s face, closing the eyelids. His palm burned where it touched the clammy skin. The body beside him shivered as he began scrubbing away, upbraiding the threads, their conversation no longer meant to linger like a dream-coated memory. One of many, gone.
Sometimes he wondered what the result would have been…
what if he had drained Victor completely and fed him the Blood, repeated what Silvio had done to him with the dark gift?
Not too much, only a little. A thimbleful.
A taste of eternity to help a fallen soldier cling to life’s atrocities a little longer.
“Erik…” Victor mumbled and shoved Emerick’s hand from his face. He tried to turn around but was caught in the sheets. “What time is it? What are you doing in my bed? Go to your own bed, in your own room.”
“I do not like sleeping alone.” Emerick’s voice shook as he rubbed his palms together, trying to rid himself of the sensation of sand between his fingers.
Victor grumbled in protest but there was no fight left in him. Emerick watched him drift back to sleep, lying close beside him in the dark.
VICTOR, 2017
The pot bubbled, the smell of meat and vegetables wafting through the kitchen.
Victor stirred the broth with the wooden spoon and took a sip from his wine glass.
One of his colleagues had recently been in Portugal on holiday and brought back a bottle of port for everyone at the bakery.
At first, Victor had meant to use it for cooking, he was not especially fond of wine, but when he uncorked the bottle, the aroma was so rich and sweet, he had to take a sip.
He nursed the glass in his palm, swilling the liquid around as he kept an eye on the stove.
He felt, rather than heard, Erik approach.
He was wearing a pair of trousers and a shirt Victor would have sworn was his, but he was in too good a mood to argue.
At least it’s buttoned. Erik’s hair was cut short, a habit he had fallen into every night after he woke.
Sometimes Victor would wake up first and find Erik beside him, his hair long and spilled across the pillows and sheets, like a broken spiderweb.
“I did not know you liked wine.” Erik picked up the bottle and studied the label. He sniffed at it, crinkling his nose.
“I enjoy the occasional glass or two.” Victor shrugged and picked up a knife to chop the remaining vegetables. He had to remind himself not to cook too much, being the only one in the house who actually ate food.
“In that case I will order you a few bottles from Béziers.” When Victor frowned at the name, Erik elaborated.
“I have a vineyard in France. It has been in operation since the eighteenth century. I am sure we will find something to your liking in the cellar. Perhaps not port. What about Grenache-Carignan… or Mourvèdre? Something with backbone.”
“Choose one of your favourites. One of the Marquis’ best vintages.” Victor smiled despite himself. It was the wine, it had put him in a light mood; the heavy sweetness of it travelling in warm waves down his torso with each sip.
“Oh, I haven’t tasted any of it.” Erik left the bottle on the counter and went to look at the concoction in the pot. He lifted the lid and studied the broth curiously. “The last time I had wine was during the Crusade.”
“Cr—” Victor spluttered, raking his brains for dates and places. They had never talked about the vampire aspect of their arrangement. “Which crusade were you in?”
“The Crusade. The first one. I was a crusader until 1098…until I deserted.”
“You’ve never mentioned this before. Who you were before you became a vampire.”
“What is there to say?” Erik drifted closer and leaned against the counter beside Victor.
He tapped at the wine glass just as Victor lifted it to his mouth, making the dark red liquid inside slosh.
Their fingers almost touched and Victor had to restrain himself from jerking his hand away.
The last time they touched Victor ended up shedding both his humanity and restraint in the garden.
His dreams that night were haunting: he kept digging his claws in bodies, tearing them until more wolves spilled out of their bellies.
“You see me as I am now,” Erik went on, “as I had been then, when death found and immortalised me.”
“Were you always this cynical?”
“Oh, so much worse.” Erik grinned, and let Victor refill his glass. He took a whiff of it, before taking a long sip of the sweet alcohol. “Careful, this is strong. If you keep drinking, you will get me drunk.”
“Vampires can’t get drunk.”
“Not in the same way as a human, but alcohol pollutes the blood for everyone.” Erik’s gaze flickered briefly to Victor’s throat. “The wine will be in your blood.”
Victor wanted to say he was not planning on letting Erik feed on him tonight. They did not need to do it every night. In fact, he suspected vampires as old as the First Crusade might not need to drink blood at all.
Ah, you will deny me the pleasure out of spite, Erik’s voice bled into Victor’s mind, its syrupy tone blending deliciously with the taste of the port.
“Or maybe I want to get you intoxicated.” Victor drained the remainder of his drink and reached for the bottle.
Sex with Erik frightened Victor.
It was horrifying.
It was marvellous.
All the tension in Victor’s muscles released.
There were no more restraints; he was able to let go and enjoy the moment, hold a lover pinned beneath him without the risk of breaking them.
His whole body burned, echoing the itch that preceded a shift, and he knew it would be hours before his eyes returned to their usual blue, but right now, he was in complete control. Of himself. And of Erik.
Erik moaned and gasped, tried to roll and turn to face him, but was pushed down into the mattress, his stomach and sheets coated in drops of blood and the seed that had already spilled from him.
Victor could not wait to contribute to the mess with his own.
He had quickly learned that given the chance, Erik would bite him, not playfully, but sinking his fangs deep in Victor’s throat and gulp as much blood as he could between thrusts, marking Victor all over.
If Victor was not careful, if he let that little manoeuvre distract him, he was going to be bled dry.
He had been too impatient to let Erik take the upper hand, no matter how delicious the sight.
It was excruciating to hold himself still and not move as he wished, to take it slow.
Not now, not tonight. Perhaps next time Victor would be a doting lover: a canvas for that wicked mouth and fingers. Let Erik drink his fill as a reward.
He could taste the port on Erik’s mouth, in the blood. Has the alcohol dulled your tongue? Victor thought, having noticed there were no snarky comments, no haughty remarks. Erik’s constant presence in Victor’s head had disappeared.
I like you like this. Shivering, your breath catching every time I pull out and press in again… Erik? Are you listening?
Victor smiled and cooed, lifting Erik’s leg over his shoulders and thrust into him, faster now, rougher, testing the limits of the immortal body. Erik gasped and uttered something in French.
“Oh no, none of that. You have to tell me what you want, Erik. Say it in German.”
Erik wriggled under him, his face flushed with blood and embarrassment.
“…don’t stop,” he rasped in German and Victor chuckled against the back of his neck, kissing it, nuzzling gently before biting down, getting the sweetest sound out of Erik, who tried to thrust against him on his own in a sudden frenzy.
So desperate. So starved for it. How long have you waited for this… coaxing me with your fraudulent riddles?
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m nowhere near finished with you, my little marquis.”