Chapter Nine #6
The two bodies were so tightly intertwined, their legs resembled the tail of a giant serpent.
Jürgen could not tell where one body ended and another began.
He wanted to lose himself within the mass of pulsing, thrusting flesh and limbs, in the warm sticky sweat, to force himself in the narrow confines of the bunk and let himself devour, and be devoured in turn.
The siren’s moans and sobs a mesmerizing choir; the body twitched and arched; the long hair spilled like an oil-slick.
Then there was the rhythmic slap of flesh, raw and wet, pulsing with blood.
The sound drew Jürgen in, beckoning him into the warm room.
He craved their warmth more than anything.
“What an imagination you possess, Mon Capitaine,” Emerick cooed and walked over to the man slouched in the chair. He had fallen asleep on the table, among his charts and maps, wads of cotton pressed into his ears.
Emerick had read about sirens in fairytales, how their songs lured men into the deep.
They were stories seafarers liked to share once back on land.
Stranger and wicked things existed in this world, vampires among them.
So he did not entirely dismiss the possibility of a sea-born hunter lurking somewhere, clawing at the hull of the ship, desperate to get in.
While Jürgen dreamed of his enchanter, Emerick flipped through the captain’s log.
The bulk of its contents was unreadable, written in cipher.
It was full of coordinates and lists, the lunar cycles, positions of stars and bodies of land, lists pertaining to the cargo and crew, various ports of call and sometimes, in the very margins of the page, scribbles Jürgen had left as if his mind had become as unruly as the waves, and the captain had found some kind of solace in committing his thoughts to paper.
At first, Emerick did not notice it, but a name kept resurfacing among the scribbles, its spelling more elaborate than necessary.
Rycko, it said, mimicking the chirping sound when Jürgen pronounced Emerick’s name, a name he heard from Silvio.
He had already caught glimpses of himself in the human’s mind; he occupied nearly as much space there as the sickness still roaming the ship.
But Silvio’s name rarely appeared in the logs.
The Marquis was mentioned in the list of passengers and that was it.
Rycko, Rycko, Rycko—the name clashed in blotches of ink, stricken through and written again.
“Oh, Mon Capitaine...” Emerick clicked his tongue and left the book.
He returned to the man, and prised open Jürgen’s collar.
He meant to take only a sip, a little taste before going back.
The floorboards groaned under the weight of someone’s steps and Emerick looked up at their reflections in the windows, seeing only the ghostly outline of the table, himself, the sleeping man and the dark waves in the distance.
A hand slid to the back of Emerick’s neck, the long fingers closed on him in a familiar possessive grip.
The thing materialised out of the shadows and loomed over him.
It looked as though something was wearing Silvio’s skin, even the eyes burned in a glow Emerick had never known upon his lover’s face, and when the mouth moved, it was Silvio’s voice—the same he had listened to for an eternity—that spoke, heavy with red.
“Careful, Rico,” Silvio whispered. He tugged at the mortal’s shirt, drawing it aside so Emerick could bite at the throat. “Drink in moderation. We do not want to lose our ship’s captain.”
He brushed at Emerick’s hair, tugging at the short tresses before walking around the table.
“He is keeping a tally of the dead.”
“Hmmm.” Silvio flipped through the book, scanning its contents. His brow furrowed as he lingered over the log entries.
Emerick liked the sight of him like that, the master vampire at the crossroads of their everlasting lives. Silvio sucked on his teeth, tongue darting between his lips, before he pushed the log aside and turned towards Emerick.
“Speak to the Captain, convince him to make for shore. I have grown tired of the sea. We can replenish our strength at the harbour, and continue our journey on land.”
“The Captain is still convinced there is a sickness roaming onboard. If he attempts to dock, the harbour-master will demand the ship to be placed under quarantine before we are allowed on shore. We will have to slay the remaining passengers if we mean to make it through those forty days,” Emerick said, voice suddenly heavy and tired.
They had overexerted themselves with the killing, it had delayed the voyage further than anticipated.
He longed to return to their cot, no matter how narrow, how small the cabin, the blankets in desperate need of laundering, and the oil in the lamps all but spent.
The rocking of the ship and the ceaseless sound of the waves soothed him.
They had never been this long away from the mainland, from home.
He cast a sideways glance at the chart under Jürgen’s hand. An island was circled in graphite.
“We are near Antikythera.” He pointed at the map and closed his fingers so that only his thumb and little finger touched the parchment.
“Close enough that if we take one of the boats and row fast enough, we might reach land before sunrise. From there we can find a new ship and set for Crete or Adalia.”
Silvio appeared to mull over the suggestion. He had just begun to speak when the captain stirred.
“My siren…” Jürgen whimpered in his sleep.
Emerick fought back a laugh. It was the misery contained in those two simple words and the face Silvio made upon hearing them. He, too, had witnessed the captain’s dream and found it denigrating.
“Make arrangements for our departure, Rico.”
EMERICK, 1848
My Friend,
By God’s Mercy we have at long last reached Marseille and lie at anchor in her waters until I receive my new orders.
I expect I shall remain in the city for a good while, waiting for the winds to be in our favour, and see to the exchange of the cargo.
The crates your companion, the Marquis, left aboard Der Merkur bore papers and seals from Béziers, and I have sent missive after missive to what I believed to be your home.
I pray this letter finds you, for it will be my last.
I remain your servant,
Jürgen
Emerick turned the paper over. It was dated 25th and the backside was blank save for the remnants of the wax seal.
The return address was vague; the letter had been sent from an inn, Au Petit Nice.
It was addressed to Monsieur Rycko. Years ago, he had seen Jürgen’s handwriting in the log book, but it had been so long, so very long, since he had seen or even thought about the German captain, his ship of the dead, and tales of sea creatures.
He re-read the few lines, only now noticing that there were scribbles in the empty spaces, smudges and lines crossing the writing. Turning the page this way and that, the ink smears slowly took form.
“This is a map!” Emerick exclaimed and cackled. “When did this arrive?”
The footman stammered, mistaking his master’s loud voice for anger.
“This morning, Monsieur.”
He thought of asking if the man had been to Marseille, if he had heard of an inn called Au Petit Nice. But what would it prove?
The Comte got up in search of the Marquis. He found him inspecting the frescoes in the warm room. He was wearing slippers and a loose shirt, next to him the butler, Monsieur Michel, was taking notes, sweating profusely in his full livery.
“Perfect timing. Undress and sit on the bench.” Silvio’s voice echoed in the chamber, the vapours of the thermae slithered around them.
Emerick’s step faltered and he looked from Silvio to Monsieur Michel, pursing his lips to keep from laughing.
“It is for the new fresco. I want Monsieur Michel to see what I have in mind, how I am envisioning it.”
“For which I am sure I can pose dressed just as well.”
“Where would be the fun in that?” The sultriness in Silvio’s voice made the butler blister. When Emerick came nearer Silvio began to pull at the strings of his waistcoat and shirt. “Afterwards we can move to the pool.”
“The three of us?”
Emerick winked at Monsieur Michel who had turned slightly to the side and was pretending to study one of the statues.
“You will need to look at him, Michel, for your notes,” the Marquis said, vexed.
“Let the poor man be,” Emerick tipped Silvio’s chin to face him and worried his lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “You may go, Michel. Leave the renovation of the thermae for a later time.”
He had meant to ask Silvio about the letters, surely there had been others, if anything had been kept or lost among the many correspondences that graced their home.
But then he realised it did not matter. The moment—the opportunity—had passed.
He was a vampire, he had no place at a human’s side, especially one that earned his living braving the seas, gone for years at a time.
“Something amiss?” Silvio asked once Emerick’s hand had stopped moving and remained holding his chin in place. He had ceased trying to undress the Comte.
Emerick shook his head, eyes downcast. He took off his shoes and worked at the buttons of his breeches.
“Not anymore. Come, you promised me a bath.”
EMERICK, 2017
“I did not know vampires could dream.” Jürgen’s voice pierced the veil, rousing Emerick from his slumber. “Did you have a nightmare? You were talking in your sleep.”
He blinked and Jürgen’s weathered face melted into Victor’s.
Emerick blinked again; the sands of the dream fell from his eyelids.
He was in Victor’s room. How had he gotten here—the bed?
Had Victor once more begged to forget, until Emerick obliged, taking away the hours, leaving Victor to think that this was the first time he woke that night, that Emerick had slipped under the sheets as a jest?
Something is different.
Victor lay on his side, caressing Emerick, fingers drawing shapes across his bare collarbones, his heartbeat loud and eyes glowing yellow. A wolf, sated.
He tried to sit up and moaned. He was sore, the insides of his thighs rubbed raw.
Victor’s neck and chest bore a mass of claw marks and bites, his lips swollen.
The memory of sitting in Victor’s lap flashed through his mind—he became aware of how damp the sheets were and the pillows thrown across the floor—Emerick propped on his elbows, rising to catch his reflection in the mirror before he stopped short.
There were no mirrors in this room. Nor was he in a narrow cabin with his Captain.
He was in Bulgaria. In a house bare of possessions, newly purchased and scarcely lived in.
This is Victor, my wolfling.
He placed both palms on Victor’s temples and drew him near.
There was far too much to erase. This was more than a drowsy conversation in the warm darkness of the room.
And how would Emerick explain the devastation of the bed once the memory of their coupling was gone?
How would Victor react to finding the traces of Emerick’s lips and hands, and not recall any of it?
No, Emerick sighed and pressed his forehead to Victor’s.
He had already done it once, erased the first time Victor had kissed him; the sensation of his lips trembling with anticipation, in relief.
How Victor’s stubble tickled, and how sad Emerick had been to see it shaved clean later despite the spicy scent of the aftershave.
He was tired of having a fading collection of first times with the wolfling.
When he first began erasing and rearranging Victor’s mind, it was just for convenience; it was easier to puppeteer and goad him in the right direction.
Emerick had forgotten what it meant to be patient, what it felt like to allow things to happen in ways that did not benefit a vampire, ways that did not yield immediate pleasure.
He had not anticipated how much he would enjoy Victor’s company.
Days had turned into weeks and the weeks into months, and soon Emerick found himself looking forward to the mundanity, the ordinariness, of being around Victor and the pack.
But the longer he stayed here, the harder it became to maintain the lies he had so eagerly planted in the soil of the werewolf’s consciousness.
What if…
What if he allowed Victor to retain all of his memories? What if Emerick stopped pushing Victor through the present in a pursuit of a future he would only have to erase in time?
One mortal lifetime, no more, no less; that was how long he could entertain himself beyond Silvio’s light.
To remain and live—here, now—as a man. No titles, no immortals and no servants.
Only himself and Victor. Maintaining the charade had drained Emerick, the threads were too many.
Victor’s memories encompassed all these people and foreign lands, and Erik…
a mask the Comte had put on at a moment’s notice, without a second thought.
Erik had taken a shape outside the sands of time and lived through Victor, haunted him, unable to fade away.
A companion… not a lover or a servant. Kinship, not servitude or devotion.
It was so tempting—so easy.
He had seduced Victor once, what seemed like ages ago. How would Emerick set about winning him over this time? What would ensnare the wolf, after Emerick had scrubbed clean the recollection of fleeting brushes of fingers, bodies passing in hallways, lips meeting in the dark, mouths full of blood.
“Please,” he whispered, inhaling shakily. He dug his fingers into Victor’s golden hair. “Please do not forget. I don’t want to be the only one who remembers.”
“Mmmm,” Victor huffed, but he could not hold the frown. He smiled fondly. “I told you to speak German if you want something.”
“I—I am saying I do not think I can walk to my room.” Emerick swallowed his guilt and wiggled his toes. He was not lying about this at least, his legs felt weak. “You will have to let me stay here for the night.”
“I suppose I can make an exception,” Victor said and drew Emerick closer.