Chapter Eleven #3
There is nothing in this house to my liking. The one she wanted was in Berlin, destroying the facades and the gardens in service of his vision, in a desperate attempt to replicate this place.
“We are leaving. Ready the car,” she ordered, whether to Elay or Jean-étienne—it did not matter, both could do no better than grovel at her feet, and still be found wanting.
When they arrived back in Berlin, Silvio had gathered an interim council, the topic of discussion a continuation of her displeasure and annoyance. He wanted Emerick summoned from Béziers.
“He is not there,” Dulior said, breaking the news to him, having invited herself to the meeting. The Coven Master had been too preoccupied to notice her arrival and banish her. When Silvio glared at her, she added, “I am just coming from the tower. He is not there.”
“You were at my house?” Silvio spat the question, and she savoured the passion, however curdled, in his voice.
The way he recoiled, the very idea of her walking through the halls of Béziers nauseated him.
The light in his eyes had died. Once, their green had welcomed and enchanted her; now it shimmered with poisonous loathing.
“He never went to France,” Jean-étienne added, making it even worse.
“What?”
“Your servants do not know where he is or where he might have gone.”
“You,” Silvio snarled, his face a mask threatening to crumble.
A face Dulior had seen once, in a field of corpses, the wretchedness and terror making him vapid.
That was how she preferred him, grumbling and desperate.
“You, who are so eager to trespass upon my domain, go and find him. Find and bring me my consort!”
“No,” Dulior said calmly. She took Jean-étienne by the hand and guided him away, the long skirts of her dress gliding across the marble floor.
She had chosen to wear an evening dress of dark green velvet, the shade of myrtle, which accentuated the curves of her body, and a pair of high heels so that she may look down undisturbed on the Coven Master and his court of disappointments.
“You want him, you find him. And that tower,” she breathed the words, frowning at the taste of the memory.
“That mausoleum you built for him—you need not worry. I will not set foot in it again. I detested his face in the flesh; I detest it even more now, seeing it in every monument you erected and every portrait you commissioned. I would rather crawl through the catacombs of Paris than be assaulted by the sight of your hysteria.”
Ungrateful, she scolded, her fingers digging into the Count’s sleeve. Ungrateful and sick, like that thing you made. And I, an accomplice to its conception. She wanted to bite her tongue and spit crimson at his feet.
She had gotten what she wanted: she had seen the palace Silvio had built for himself and that man.
What he had become without her. He might have ruined her, left her a widow mourning the loss of a son and a lover, but Silvio had failed to ascend beyond her.
Whatever greatness he had dreamed of achieving, lay scattered around him like shards of glass.
She would gladly walk over them, tearing the velvet at the hem of her dress, if it meant that the fragments would splinter further, until finally they turned to sand.
How delicious it is, how ironic, Dulior thought, leaving the Coven Master to his ravings.
All this time you wanted nothing but Emerick, destroyed everything I gave you so you could be with that man, and now you are alone.
Perhaps there was a usefulness in Emerick’s existence—and now to his absence—though it had arrived centuries too late.
KYRILLOS, 2019
Being in Silvio’s presence was blinding.
Kyrillos’s human eyes tried to focus and take in all of the man before him, and he failed.
It was too much: the lines of the face blurred as though light poured from them, and threatened to overflow the whole room, drowning Kyrillos and everyone in the mansion.
He felt like the violets and lilacs in the greenhouse, consumed by plants that had grown wild with time.
Despite the pain, he still tried to look at his master, devotion and need gnawing at him.
At the same time, any discomfort he might have felt about his own body evaporated the moment Silvio laid eyes on him; there were no imperfections where the vampire’s hands touched him. He made Kyrillos feel as though he was being perceived exactly as he was meant to be.
“Am I…” Kyrillos swallowed hard, his throat tightened; he had to force the words out. It was the second night Silvio had summoned him to his bedchamber and undressed him. Kyrillos needed to know, to hear it spoken out loud. “Am I to your satisfaction, master?”
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Silvio smiled, and Kyrillos could not tear his eyes away from the fangs.
“I want you always by my side, Kyrillos. You will live in these chambers and serve me. You will dress me and bathe me, and at the snap of my fingers you will open yourself to me. You will give me everything. Every drop of blood.”
Silvio’s smile widened, having caught a glimpse of the pledge in Kyrillos’ mind—Yes. Always.
And yet, always felt like such a fragile word, barely enough to ensure Kyrillos’ position within the newly established hierarchy of Silvio’s Coven.
The gifts were subtle at first. Mundane, but extravagant in ways only a vampire could contrive.
Kyrillos received trinkets: watches and rings, cufflinks and tie pins.
The vases in his small office held flowers, arranged daily, freshly cut from the gardens.
Their scent filled the room and clung to Kyrillos’s clothes.
If he happened to oversleep in his master’s chambers, he would wake to find a robe of dark viridian silk waiting for him.
It smelled of violets, an aroma so sweet it made his mouth water.
In the bathroom, an array of perfumes and oils greeted him. “For my pet,” Silvio had whispered the first time this happened. His master had summoned maids and footmen to attend to him, and get Kyrillos ready for his day.
“No!” Kyrillos’s voice was sharp, the panic so loud it made him flinch.
Silvio stared at him, a frown creased his perfect face.
“No,” Kyrillos repeated, forcing himself to remain calm. “I am your butler. I cannot have the staff I govern attending to me. It is not right, it is not…”
Silvio’s features softened, though he still looked displeased. He took a vial and sprinkled some of the oil onto his palm. He rubbed his hands together, spreading the liquid, and then ran his fingers through Kyrillos’s hair, tugging at the curls.
“Grow your hair out,” Silvio whispered, mouth dipping towards Kyrillos’s neck, leaving kisses of adoration, his fingers gripping tight. “If you will have no mortal attend you, then I will serve you. I will get you ready for me.”
Kyrillos recoiled at the words and tried to step away, but Silvio had him trapped against the vanity.
Satisfied with his work on Kyrillos’s hair, he picked another vial and dabbed perfume on Kyrillos’s neck, behind his ears, and on his wrists.
The scent of violets grew stronger and Kyrillos yielded to it, into Silvio’s embrace, letting himself be pampered and arranged however his master fancied.
Will he dress me, too? Kyrillos bit his lip, fighting back a moan. He had dressed Silvio enough times to know the immortal’s preferences and quirks—and had undressed him just as many times.
“You would allow me that, would you?” Silvio asked, amused, piercing Kyrillos’s mind and rummaging inside. “Shall I choose a more fitting wardrobe for my butler?”
“As long as it is modest, and I keep to my station.”
“Your station is at my side, Kyrillos. In my bed.”
And what a glorious station it is, Kyrillos shivered.
Goosebumps crawled up his skin, and his nipples pebbled under his shirt, at the memory of Silvio’s touch, the slow lapping of his tongue, the promise of teeth.
He still bore the imprint on his inner thigh, where his master had fed before moving up, burying his face between Kyrillos’s legs, eating him out as he grovelled and twisted.
“Master… please,” he begged and Silvio chuckled, his laugh going up through Kyrillos’s body.
Tears ran hot down his face, his legs were spread so wide he seemed like Christ, lying crucified beneath his master. A butterfly pinned against a wall. His master had always enjoyed looking at beautiful things.
“Kyrillos.”
He snapped to attention, alone in front of the vanity.
The face looking back at him was flushed, his lower lip swollen where he had bitten it to keep from moaning.
The scent of the perfume had awakened the memory.
The scent he wore now was the same as that of the bedsheets, and as the one that clung to Silvio’s gloves.
Leather, wax, and lilacs. It drowned the violets but not the sickeningly sweet taste that filled Kyrillos’s mouth and made his tongue heavy.
Silvio was standing under the doorframe, one eyebrow arched in silent question. He was dressed to go out, his coat thrown over his arm; all he was missing was his butler to accompany him.
“I called for the car, seeing how you were”—and here his master eyed him up and down—“preoccupied. Shall I leave you, since you prefer to be engulfed in the memory of me, rather than my flesh?”
Kyrillos stuttered an apology, gathered his belongings, and followed Silvio out into the driveway. He sometimes served as Silvio’s chauffeur, after all. If Kyrillos was not available, any of the numerous footmen would do, but Kyrillos wanted to be there. He wanted to watch Silvio feed.