Chapter Twelve #4
Victor was sprawled on the sofa, back against the armrest, a body draped at a strange angle over his lap.
It stirred, and the smell of blood grew stronger.
Emerick’s face was pressed into the crook of Victor’s neck, mouth and chin smeared with blood.
When he lifted his head, his movements were slow, dazed, his pupils blown wide from the bloodlust. He wiped his mouth, and stood up; his body moved like he was a doll on strings.
Beneath him Victor let out a growl—his mouth also stained, wet and red, eyes burning with golden fever.
“Stefan,” Emerick rasped and swallowed; the words he uttered delayed and sticky. “We were not expecting you.”
The blood ran in rivulets down his chin and throat, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.
His short hair was dishevelled, parts of it wet with blood.
An odd thought crossed Stefan’s mind, he felt slightly hysterical at the sight before him.
In all those years he had known Emerick, he had never seen him drink blood.
There had been no killings that could be assigned as the work of a vampire in Tarnovo—or anywhere in Bulgaria.
His vampire guest had kept his promise. He had been good.
All this time he had been feeding on Victor—his groom.
“You’ve got a letter,” Stefan said in a flat voice.
He wanted to ask about the woman, how she had known to find him. Instead, he walked over and handed Emerick the envelope.
Emerick examined the seal and rubbed the parchment, oblivious that he was smearing blood over it. His lips twitched between a smile and a grimace, and he kept licking them, sucking at the blood between his gums.
“Take Victor and go upstairs, Stefan.”
The command was spoken with a calmness that washed over Stefan. He nodded and offered Victor his hand, helping him to his feet.
EMERICK, 2020
The language of the letter surprised him the most. He had not expected it to be German. That had always been the language of the All Father. The summons, the wax seal, the ink and parchment—it all bore the mark of the All Father, a master vampire no more.
The words were vaguely familiar, the phrases peppered with Silvio’s stoicism, devoid of poetic flourish.
His demands were simple, concise. Emerick had spent centuries poring over Count di Flaviari’s ledgers and copying his letters.
On behalf of Marquis Bracci, he had overseen work in the tower and the vineyard, sending brief instructions for his secretary and the staff.
Silvio’s signature was engraved in his mind like a cancer.
He had seen it in blotches of rushed ink on marriage certificates, on commissions to tailors and painters.
The handwriting was both familiar and the work of a stranger.
Emerick felt untethered. He blinked to clear his vision and scanned the words. He read them again, and again, until the fog of pleasure that had descended with the blood finally lifted.
Three years had gone by, not enough to leave a scratch on an immortal’s consciousness, but he and Silvio had never been apart for this long.
Would I know… would I know if something was wrong? If he were—
He could not finish the thought.
“All Mother,” Emerick said by way of greeting, barely glancing her way.
He had wondered if she would show herself, having caught a glimpse of her in Stefan’s mind. She was the last vampire he had expected to come to him. It felt wrong.
“Marquis.”
Scarlett stepped through the open glass door and into the light.
She removed the pins holding her hat in place. At the sight of her Emerick felt the urge to kneel, to give her the respect she was due, yet the letter weighed on him.
“Have you come to fetch me?” He forced his features into a smile.
Could she see how his lip trembled, how his fingers clutched at the parchment?
“I cannot make you do anything, Marquis.” Scarlett’s tone was gentle, almost maternal. Oh, to have had her as a mother instead of being raised in the fires of Dulior’s hateful hearth. “I came to ensure that you receive your master’s summons. It is for you to decide whether you answer it or not.”
“Did Silvio write this?”
He extended the letter towards her, and Scarlett flinched as if he had accused her. Is this Silvio’s rule? His subjects cowering and flinching at the mere suggestion of a misstep, of being caught in a lie? Being found wanting…
“He sealed it before me.” Scarlett had regained her composure. Her eyes swept over the room, taking in the home Emerick had built for himself in this remote land.
Why bring the letter to Stefan? Why not deliver it herself? Emerick’s mind was racing. He did not understand this game of pretence; these were a human’s methods, cloaks and daggers.
“The seal is Ingenuar’s. I have seen it before.” He regretted breaking the wax before taking a better look at the crest. Now it lay crushed, scattered in pieces on the floor.
“Yes, it is Ingenuar’s signet ring.” Scarlett nodded. “It is one of the few things Silvio has not changed in the Coven. Perhaps he is fond of it, of its history?”
She let him see through her mind—see the splendour of the Berlin Coven, now broken and refracted through the prism of Silvio’s tastes and desires.
Gardens, libraries, dancing halls—he had moved through the halls and dismantled them, not in an attempt to mirror their Béziers’ home, but to create something new.
A new altar of worship for his consort. There were fountains and pools of water, full of lilies and vines, potted tropical plants and marble nymphs tipping their pitchers.
The greenhouse was a monolith of glass and leaves, and flowers.
He could feel the moist heat of it. It was divine.
Silvio had not summoned him sooner because he had been preoccupied staking his claim over the Coven, sculpting it to his vision.
Emerick’s thoughts drifted back to the night when Ingenuar’s body was found.
How Silvio had walked into the dark bedroom, silent but eager to climb back in bed and take him.
How, hours later, Emerick had woken from his doze, entangled in the sheets and in the shadow of Silvio’s gaze, the green eyes fixed on him as though trying to commit Emerick’s features to memory.
Fingers traced his brow, cheekbones, the curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw and nose.
“Am I really that beautiful?” Emerick had laughed then, a little hoarse. He was pleasantly exhausted by their rough and clumsy lovemaking. “Haven’t you had centuries to look at me? Aren’t you tired of having me?”
“No.” Silvio smiled, his thumb gently brushing Emerick’s lips. “I have only just begun.”
Emerick suppressed a laugh, but his face burned hot despite himself, and he nuzzled closer.
“Rest and sleep, and when you wake up—I shall be here, as I always am.”
“Mine,” Silvio whispered, voice full of reverence, eyes drinking in all of Emerick.
There was an unspoken question in that single, fragile word.
“Yours,” Emerick vowed, letting sleep take him.
The persistent and desperate rapping at the door woke him for the second time. A servant rushed in, breathless and trembling, to rouse the Marquis, and deliver the news that Ingenuar was dead.
When Silvio had returned from his audience with the All Father his clothes were covered in blood.
Emerick had seen the blotches on the sleeves and on the front of the polo—the once sepia colour now darkened to black, the garment discarded on the floor.
He had been too tired to ask, and then the thought escaped him entirely, once Silvio’s hot mouth was on his throat.
Silvio had not killed Ingenuar. Emerick could not explain it, but he knew his lover had not. Whatever Silvio had done that night in the Coven during the brief interval they were separated, it was not to kill the All Father. It had been something much worse, and Emerick dreaded finding out what.
He shook off the memory and refocused on the letter and its archaic German words hurled across the page.
“I need time to prepare,” he said slowly. “And I will not be travelling alone.”
All the while Scarlett had remained in the dim light, unmoving like a statue, her lilac eyes following him. How beautiful she seemed to him at that moment, how monstrous in her still elegance.
“Of course, Marquis,” she said and held her hat with both hands. “I will make the necessary arrangements in the Coven to welcome you and any servant you choose to bring.”
Emerick wanted to correct her, but there was no time, or need, to explain how he had entangled himself with the lycans. He did not have servants here. He was no Marquis, no vampire noble.
“Do not keep your master waiting. He has waited long enough, and is eager to have you back at court.”