Chapter Ten #2
The stranger picked at the corner of his sleeve, worrying the fabric.
For a brief moment he appeared absorbed by the sensation of his fingers rubbing the material, as though he expected the colour of the cotton to melt into his skin.
He clicked his tongue, and Silvio caught a glimpse of the sharp teeth behind the wide mouth.
“Such a shame.” The man shook his head in a mimicry of concern; none of it reached his features or softened his voice. “With Ingenuar dead, they will come and undo everything you have built, Silvio.”
“They?”
“The Council. The other Regents. They can strip you of your title and cast you out. But if it is titles that you crave… you can go back to being a Count.” The mouth twisted in a grin, all teeth eager to bite and chew. “The Countess can be persuaded to take you back—if you beg her.”
Beg? Her!
Silvio had done his share of begging, had grown all too familiar with the pattern and stitching of his wife’s skirts while he trailed behind her. He had begged enough. He had waited enough as well.
He had to get out of this room, as far away as possible from the corpse and this foul creature. Once he was back in Béziers, he would take down that mirror and break it, along with every other glass surface he could lay his hands on.
“Or you could stay?” the stranger offered, clasping his hands behind his back.
His whole frame stood frozen a few paces from Silvio; the only indication that he was alive and not a statue were the eyes—the silver gleamed and stirred, threatening to spill from the eye sockets and run down the cheekbones.
“Stay and continue being the Marquis. I can help you retain the position of Regent by giving you something no other vampire here possesses.”
Silvio had to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking. He had risen thus far without anyone’s help, he did not need anyone. I already possess all that I need. Everything that is mine.
“I can give you the Sultana’s face.” the thing said, finally.
Silvio let out a laugh so ugly and loud it must have echoed through the whole mansion.
“That woman!” he raised his voice further, and lifted a hand to cover his mouth.
To push back the hysteria clawing up his throat.
Oh, how this creature amused him! “That woman, if she even exists, can continue to be hidden. I have no need of her or her face! But look at you—haggling with another’s identity when you have not even offered your own! ”
Before he could stop it, a voice pierced his temple with such force that the laughter died on Silvio’s lips. He hissed, fingers scratching at the floor, searching for support.
You know me, Silvio. I am the hunger that you dragged behind you across that godforsaken desert. I am the hunger that made you drain and turn your lover, so that not even Death could have him.
“I am the cowardice that gripped you through all those centuries as you watched your precious Rico scrape floors and bow to your wife because you did not dare leave her. Not because you were weak, oh, no…”
The creature flicked his hand and seized Silvio’s face, the taloned fingers twisting the Marquis’ chin up.
“…because you were frightened that your Mother was telling the truth. Without me you will die, Silvio. Is that not what she threatened you with every time she forced your hand to sign at the altar? And you did not want to stop gorging yourself on that man, not even for a second.”
His grip on Silvio’s face loosened, the claws gently stroked, tipping his chin up, as though to bow and offer a kiss.
“Your Mother… the All Father… they wanted you as their servant, to answer their every beck and call, to partake in their charades. Petty, mundane schemes,” the creature’s voice was calm.
“I will not make such demands of you. Take me as your servant, Silvio. All I need is to be fed, and you have such a fine palate. Let me feed off your scraps. I will be good to you but most importantly…”
The stranger pressed his thumb against Silvio’s lips, forcing them delicately apart. He began pushing the digit between the fangs, careful not to tear the skin and draw blood, before withdrawing it.
“…I will be good to your lover. I will serve him, as I serve you.”
“A servant?” the Marquis asked, but it did not feel like the words had come from his own mouth. He could not tear his eyes away from the pools of silver.
“Yes, one as gluttonous as you.” The creature nodded. One of its feet rested upon the All Father’s torso, his weight enough to crush the ribcage. “Do you know how to bind a demon, Silvio?”
Silvio felt his head move slowly, in the barest of shakes. Taloned hands cradled his face, lifting it like an offering. Fingers raked through his hair, combing it back from his eyes, so he could see better.
“If you possess a demon’s true name, you can command it to do anything. It will become your divine companion and will serve you forever. For this is how demons are made. Take my name… and my blood… and I will act through you.”
His bloodstained hands closed on the robe, not to push but to pull the creature closer. Silvio wanted those fingers back in his mouth so he could bite them, see what shade of life a demon’s blood held.
“Your name. Give me your name,” the Marquis demanded, his grip unyielding.
The demon smiled and cocked its head back, teasing, a breath away from where Silvio wanted it. Too far away from his fangs and hungry mouth. He felt suddenly so thirsty. The last time he had tasted blood was in bed with Emerick; a playful nib, no more than a thimbleful.
“Felivar.” The demon answered and let him go. He tore open its wrist. The blood welled at the wound and dripped down Silvio’s face. It tasted old, heavy, like trying to swallow time itself, a living vein running through continents and millennia.
Swallow all of it, Silvio. Swallow all of me… A voice cooed in his head.
Silvio lapped at it, drinking it in long, greedy gulps.
Afterwards, he moved through the Coven like a sleepwalker, a revenant eager to get to his last missing piece.
Silvio was on his knees among the corpses, clutching a broken arrow. The horseman came closer, his hand lifted in greeting. Silvio crawled to him, tried to rise, but kept stumbling. He dragged himself upright by the reins of the horse.
The rider leaned down, his lips brushed Silvio’s eyelids with the lightness of a moth. Blood gushed from the rider’s mouth and Silvio groaned, parting his lips to receive the kiss, to deepen it.
Behind him the corpses stirred. A hand tugged at him. The stained satin of a woman’s dress brushed against him, and he caught the faint fragrance of roses and beeswax. Sweet as rot.
One of the knights struggled to his feet, swaying on uncertain legs. His neck was torn, the blood sucked dry from his corpse. Arrows jutted from his back and chest. He leaned into Silvio, caressing his hair. The smell of rot and wet earth permeating the air.
“Has it been enough, Sil?” the knight’s corpse asked and Silvio felt the tip of one of the arrows bury into his own back, but he could not tear his mouth away from the rider.
The blood was so sweet, he was drowning in its ecstasy.
The rider wrenched himself free from Silvio, blood dripped from his chin until he smeared it away with the back of his hand.
Silvio gulped, his mouth sticky, gums heavy, and narrowed his eyes at Rico’s corpse behind him—the blackened eyes, hair matted in dirt and filth, the torn tabard.
In front of him the rider continued to bleed from the mouth, like a fountain, staining his mount and the ground beneath.
The corpses began to crawl and clamber one over another, desperate to reach the rider and drink.
Silvio gazed at the corpse that held on to him.
The eyes gave away the illusion; Silvio knew this was not real but another nightmare.
Rico’s eyes had always been hazel, reflecting the sun and warmth of their youth, shining bright with life and mischief.
They were black and cold, unblinking, boring into Silvio with their complete absence of light. Dead.
Silvio shifted his weight, turning his back on the rider and the woman, and stretched out on the sofa.
The fabric of the furniture felt wrong; it made his fingertips tingle.
He could not remember this piece among the many sofas and ottomans in Béziers.
It vaguely resembled Ingenuar’s throne in Berlin.
“You will tell me when it is enough, won’t you?” Emerick lay beside him on the sofa, bathed in sunlight.
It will never be enough, Felivar sighed with Silvio’s mouth, and watched Silvio’s—his—Felivar’s—mine—fingertips crack and crumble as they caressed his lover’s face.
Silvio’s memories were fragile. The only truly vivid part of them was his desire, his passion for another.
Felivar could not pierce the veil and see the mortal Emerick…
that Rico belonged to Silvio, and Silvio alone.
Rico before the Blood. Rico before the Coven.
It was an image of Rico that Silvio guarded like a beast. Whatever mortal memories there were, Felivar could not reach them.
In Silvio’s dreams and recollections, Emerick was always dead.
Silvio’s turning had been a rushed gamble.
There was no telling whether Felivar’s blood would take hold in one already turned.
Silvio was not on the brink of death; centuries upon centuries of immortal blood flowed through him.
But he carried a shard, the tiniest of pricks from a glass that had once been Felivar.
If the shard held and the Blood responded, Felivar could use it to fester and consume Silvio from within, like mould—a parasite.
In time, Felivar would slowly amalgamate with the Marquis, wear Silvio as one might a well-worn suit.