Embrace
A world of elegance and grace, silk and lace, where the members of high society prove their wealth and status by the possession of exotic blood drinking Pets...
Upon his return from school, Aubrey is gifted with a Pet, a human-like creature that must drink human blood to survive -- but once a Pet tastes the blood of his Owner, no other blood will suffice. Though he has no taste for Pets, Aubrey accepts the dictates of his fathe and society, and gives his new Pet, Ruthven, his blood. But the beautiful Ruthven acts like no Pet he has ever encountered, and Aubrey finds himseld draw to the mysteriuos blood drinker despite himself, and soon finds himself tangled in a web of secrets and lies, all of which seem tied to a tragedy from his past...
Aubrey squealed happily as mama gave him another bilberry, popping it into his mouth and chewing enthusiastically, thanking her with a smile, displaying lips and teeth that had been stained blue from the berry juice.
Mama smiled back, pretty and delicate, smelling like flowers and cake. Next to her, Mina hummed one of her lullabies.
He held out his hand for another berry. "Please, mama?"
"One more," Mama said, holding up one finger to make certain he understood.
Aubrey nodded, and with another thanks, pushed the last berry into his mouth, clapping his hands in glee.
Berries eaten, he picked up the flowers they had bought for sissy. She was sick again, and had not been able to go with him and mama and Mina, so they had bought her flowers. "What called?" he asked.
"Lobelia," Mina said.
"Bee-yah," Aubrey repeated dutifully. "Smell pretty."
"Yes, they do," Mama replied, smiling and reaching out to touch the flowers lightly, then moving to brush back a floppy curl from Aubrey's forehead. "Sissy will like them very much."
Aubrey nodded, and looked again at the basket of pretty purple flowers. He couldn't wait to show her, and then they could help Mama and Mina put them in the garden. He liked playing in the garden, digging holes and pulling up bad flowers.
The carriage bounced and jerked and rumbled beneath them, making him knock back and forth between Mina and Mama, but Aubrey didn't mind. Soon they would be home and he could give the flowers to Sissy and show Daddy what else they got in town and then they could have dinner and maybe Daddy would let him have more wine like a Big Person.
He almost fell over when the carriage abruptly stopped, but Mina caught him and held him tight.
Strange voices came from outside the carriage, and he thought he heard them say Mama's name, but it didn't sound like Daddy's voice, and he and Mina were the only ones that called Mama by her name.
"Stay here, sweetheart," Mama said, and kissed his brow.
"Don't go, Mama," Aubrey said, letting go of the flowers to grip Mama's skirts, cause she only called him that when Something Bad was going to happen. "Stay."
"Shh, sweetheart. Mama and Mina are just going to talk to some friends, all right? She'll be right back." With that, she pushed open the carriage door and vanished outside, Mina following right behind her.
Aubrey stayed inside, drawing up his legs and holding them against his chest.
He let go to cover his ears as a lot of shouting and screaming and other scary sounds started up, tears rolling down his cheeks cause this was Bad and he wanted Daddy cause Daddy always made scary stuff not be scary anymore.
Then the sounds stopped, and then he heard a lot of noises that he knew belonged to horses.
He waited for Mama and Mina to come back.
When a long, long time passed and they didn't come, he slowly pushed the door open and cried "Mama!" like he always did when a monster snuck under his bed and he needed her to scare it away. She always came in her nightdress and holding a candle and got down and yelled at the monsters.
Only she didn't come this time.
Sniffling, wiping at his yucky nose, Brey bent down and slowly climbed down from the carriage. Without help, it was hard, cause the carriage was high, high off the ground and the steps were for Big People, not him.
He slipped and fell, landing in the dirt of the path. Scrambling to his feet, he looked around anxiously for Mama, but it was getting dark and was hard to see and-
Oh, there she was. Sleeping? Why was mommy sleeping? Mina was sleeping too…
He ran over to them, and dropped down next to Mama, putting his hands on her to shake her awake like he sometimes had to do in the morning when she didn't get up right away.
Only his hands came away wet, and he wondered if Mama had spilled something. It was dark, but he kinda thought it looked like something red. Frowning, he went back to shaking Mama, but she never woke up.
It was really really dark when he heard more horses coming, and when he turned he saw lanterns swinging in the dark - then Daddy's voice broke through, and suddenly the dark and Mama and Mina sleeping wasn't as scary.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
"Brey!" Daddy's voice growled in the dark, and he almost thought for a moment that Daddy sounded scared, but that was impossible because Daddy wasn't scared of anything.
Then Daddy was picking him up, and Aubrey hugged him tight. "Daddy, Mama is sleeping and won't wake up."
"I know, Brey," Daddy said, and his voice sounded funny, almost like Daddy was crying, but Daddy didn't cry. "Come on, Brey, let's get you home."
"Mama? Mina?"
But Daddy didn't answer, even when Aubrey kept asking, which made Aubrey start crying again and he wanted Mama and Mina to wake up and to be home in bed or playing in the garden.
He cried and cried, all the way home, until Nurse showed up and took him
and told him to drink from his little cup and Aubrey suddenly felt tired and
only remembered Nurse picking him up again and heading for the stairs.
Aubrey shivered and drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, tugging
the fur-lined hood up just a bit more, wishing home was not still an hour
or so away.
He could, of course, simply use the carriage - but he'd much rather freeze to death, which he was quite nicely proving.
The wind picked up, making him grimace, but after three days of travel, one hour more would not kill him. Not unless the snow resumed falling, but thankfully the sky seemed to clear for that to happen anytime soon.
Sighing softly, he twisted around to examine the carriage behind, which was packed with the majority of his things. The rest would follow by wagon more slowly, mostly a few small pieces of furniture and crates of books, warm-weather clothing and other things he would not need right away. Those things he did require, or simply refused to be without, were packed into the carriage.
Including the dog rose he was bringing his sister, snitched from the school greenhouse. He didn't think she had a dog rose yet, though she very nearly had every rose known to the world and a few unique to the Sangre gardens.
He frowned, thinking of the home he had not seen in five years. His father, Lord Karl Bathory, Earl of Sangre, had not been pleased when his son and heir had decided to depart to follow his studies, rather than remain at home to focus upon the family estate.
His sister had been rather unhappy as well, though she at least had been understanding and forgiving. Still, he did wonder at his reception. He'd sent word ahead that he was returning, but received not so much as a single note in reply.
It made him nervous, even as it did not surprise him.
Sighing again, he took out his pocket watch and flipped it open, staring at the minute family portrait painted with meticulous care. It was old, a copy of the family portrait which had once hung in the grand salon, now buried away in the attic somewhere per his father's instructions. It was of his parents, himself at age four, and his sister at two.
Not quite two years after the portrait had been painted and hung, his mother and her Pet had been brutally murdered by bandits while returning from a trip to the little village near their family seat. He had, apparently, been with them. Aubrey did not recall it.
His father had often said that his lingering fear of being inside carriages came from that night.
To Aubrey's mind, it was also when his family had ceased to be one. He had vague memories of a much warmer father, though they were fuzzy and, he felt, probably all made up. The servants had told him stories of his parents, how warm and loving they had been, but he had never been able to match the stories to the cold man who spent all his time locked away in his bedroom or study, emerging only to find fault with someone and administer suitable punishment.
He wondered what his reception would be, if there would be any sort of reception at all, or if he would merely see his father over the dinner table as though not a day had passed from the moment of his leaving.
Was Camilla all right? He had written her often, as well as Stregoni, but both had been annoyingly vague on the matter of her condition. Not wanting him to worry, likely, but all it did was make him worry that much more.
He thought again of the dog rose, it's vibrant pink petals, and hoped it was secured well against the biting cold.
The sharp tinkling of jingle bells drew him from his brooding, and he looked up as he came round the bend in the road - and broke into a smile as he saw who was ahead of him.
No matter how many years might pass, there would never be any mistaken the vibrant, chaotic mass of orange-red curls of Stregoni Benefici.
"Hail, stranger," he said cheerfully, shoving back his hood so he was visible. He laughed when Stregoni whipped around, the blue-gray eyes going wide.
"Brey!" Stregoni explained. "Well, I never! No one told me you were due to arrive. That brat Camilla, she probably wanted to surprise me."
Aubrey attempted to smooth down his messy, light brown hair, moss green eyes meeting Stregoni's as they drew even. "No doubt, knowing Milla," Aubrey said with a smile. "So tell me everything, Stregoni. What have I missed? How is my sister? Father? My damned cousin."
Stregoni's face abruptly clouded, pain flashing through his eyes, before he smiled through it and recovered his levity. His fingers reached up to touch the pin nestled in his neck cloth, a beautiful enameled pink rose. It stood out bright against the dark cream stock, a lovely compliment to the deep forest green of his coat and the black winter cloak. "Your sister is doing relatively well, all things considered. I have put her on a new medicine, and I go today to see how it has performed this past week, see what adjustments might be made. Your father is your father," Stregoni said with a shrug. "Your cousin…" He grimaced, and again touched the rose at his throat. "Gille only grows worse with every passing year, I swear."
"I cannot say it surprises me," Aubrey said with a sigh. He had managed mostly to forget about his damned cousin.
Just days after his twelfth birthday, his cousin Gille had come to live with them. Why, no ever said. To this day, Aubrey did not know. So far as he knew, Uncle George was alive and quite healthy, though he had always been an odd recluse who never left his own estate.
Perhaps he was too much of a recluse to tend his own son; Aubrey simply did not know. Nor did he really care, as Gille had always been a brat with a bit of a mean streak, who strove to ensure he made no real sense to anyone.
Of the family, he was the only one who bothered to move about society, travel to the city every other Season or so - and if he wanted to travel, Aubrey's father certainly took no issue. It was only Aubrey's freedom to do as he pleased that Lord Sangre curtailed as best he could.
Scowling, Aubrey switched the direction of his thoughts. "Is there anything about which I should be warned?"
Stregoni winced. "Actually, there is - and it did not make sense to me until I saw, and now I'm afraid it is all too clear."
Aubrey groaned. "What?"
"Gille left two weeks ago on a trip for which he would not give details. Not unusual - but he returned yesterday with a new Pet, and said only it was not for him, but a present for 'someone special'. I should have known he was being an ass, but he sounded so sincere…"
Once again pain flickered across Stregoni's face, and Aubrey wondered at it, but it was gone so quickly he half wondered if he was imagining it. Even if he was not, he sensed Stregoni would not explain it.
Then Stregoni's words actually struck him. "A Pet? " he echoed. "Never say they have purchased a Pet for me."
"I think they have," Stregoni said, voice sympathetic. "Most would consider it a marvelous gift." He paused, then spoke again more hesitantly. "He's quite handsome…"
Aubrey grimaced. "I don't care if he's the most beautiful man on the face of the planet, I do not want a Pet." His mouth tightened at the thought of being saddled with a Pet. Not that he had any right to complain - as Stregoni had said, most would consider a Pet a fine gift indeed. Knowing his father, no expense had been spared in the acquisition, and while there was much fault to find with Gille, his sense of taste was not one of them.
No doubt the Pet was quite up to Aubrey's tastes, though how his father and Gille had known his tastes in such matters, he shuddered to think about.
Still, he had never liked the concept of Pets.
Pets hailed from a small country far to the south, originally. A strange race of human-like creatures that did not need food as did ordinary beasts and men, but blood. Human blood was best of all, though until they were sold they survived on animal blood.
This was because once a Pet fed on the blood of his owner, he ceased being able to drink any other form of blood. His body would no longer digest it properly. Once this new Pet drank Aubrey's blood, he would be required to feed on Aubrey or die of starvation.
Aubrey hated it.
Though they were bred and raised across the world now, the finest Pets still came from the small country of their origin, where they had long ago been subjugated and enslaved by the humans there. Kept as Pets in their native homeland, after the blood dependency quirk was discovered, the popularity of it had slowly spread across the world.
Any nobleman worth anything had a Pet.
His mother had possessed a Pet. His father had one now, a pale-skinned beauty named Elisabeth. Gille had one, a younger man. Handsome, as Aubrey recalled, too severe to be truly beautiful. Brown hair so dark it nearly looked black, with strange eyes the same shade of purple as monkshood. Not an eye color found on any human, which was why it stuck in Aubrey's memory. Francois, was his name. Aubrey had never liked him.
"I suppose it's far too late to turn around and say I'm not returning after all," he said with a sigh.
"Too late," Stregoni agreed cheerfully. "You are the ally which I have sorely needed, and I am not letting you out of my sight again for a very long time. That aside," he continued more seriously, "your sister could use some more company. She swears she gets along quite well with Gille and your father, but I know you would do her far better than any tonic."
Aubrey nodded, putting his anger away to deal with later. He was glad to be home, he was - he just wished that there were not already matters cropping up to sour it. "I still do not want a Pet."
"Well, make the best of it," Stregoni said peaceably. "Unless you can somehow manage to talk him out of it, your father had settled the matter. Perhaps the new Pet will become a friend, that happens more often than anyone cares to admit."
"I suppose," Aubrey said, shrugging the words off. "Tell me about yourself, Stregoni. How is the business? Your mother? Discover anything new? Acquire some new patients?" He winked. "A lover?"
Stregoni looked away, shrugging in his turn. "No lover," he said tersely. "A few new patients, though the kind that want an easy remedy to everything. That Marquis that lives a day or so from here has requested my services for his child a few times now, though I'm afraid he has a breathing problem that is not curable. Still, I try." He smiled as he turned back. "Thanks to your sister, I have access to the best herbs and flowers in the country."
Aubrey returned the smile. "That is Milla; I'm sure it makes her happy to help where she can." He sighed softly. "So nothing has been discovered as to her illness?"
"No, Brey, and I'm sorry for it. She simply seems to have been work with a weak body. I think it is her heart, but cannot say for certain." Stregoni spread his hands in frustration. "I will never stop trying, but…"
"I know, Stregoni," Aubrey said, taking one leather-clad hand in his own. "It wasn't an accusation."
Stregoni squeezed his hand, then let it go. "Come on, we're nearly home, and you can see for yourself that she is as fit as she can possibly be - and probably in her prettiest dress, because her big brother is coming home."
Aubrey smiled, and pulled up the hood of his cloak once more before chasing after Stregoni, who had bolted ahead, laughing as their horses raced down the path.
They stopped before a house that was probably the oldest in the region, and had belonged to the Bathory family had first been granted the Sangre title.
Sangre Manor was beautiful but somber, a house built of dark stone, settled deep into the thick forest that consumed much of the region. The stone was of deepest gray, holding a faint gleam when the sun struck it properly, looking like something out of a penny-dreadful when the moon was bright. Deep blue shutters and a like door, with dark marble steps leading up to it.
Far to the right, near the small pond filled with white and orange fish, was the stone bench half-buried by a weeping willow where he had so often sat as a child.
Further beyond that was the footpath into the forest where had often 'run away' before dark and fear forced him back, to try again another day.
On other side of the house extended part of the greenhouse, an undertaking which was nearly as large as the house itself, boasting a garden that was vibrant no matter the time of year, always warm and friendly, and the only one of its kind in all the country - possibly all the world, though Aubrey did not know for certain.
He knew only that it made his sister happy, that she loved it as much as their mother once had - according to various sources, anyway.
As they drew up to the house, the front door flew open and a whole gaggle of people came spilling out - servants to the last, and with a sharp words from the head butler, they all lined up neatly.
Dismounting, Aubrey moved to address them, but before he could say a word more figures stepped out of the house, and the words caught in his throat with nervousness.
His father had aged five years, but as always he aged with dignity and grace. His hair was mostly gray, now, but much of the light brown exactly like his own still remained. His eyes were light blue, and age had not diminished their sharpness. Unlike Aubrey, he stood tall.
The only person as tall as his father was his cousin Gille, whose mouth was curved in a smirk that Aubrey had not forgotten in his absence. Gille seemed unable to shape his mouth in any other way. Of course, it could be because the smirk rather suited his cool beauty. Gille was everything Aubrey was not - tall where Aubrey was short, fashionably sparse where Aubrey just avoided being stocky, stunning where Aubrey had turned out merely ordinary.
Like Aubrey and his father, Gille had light brown hair. He wore it long, however, and like now it was most often braided, tied with a ribbon. His clothes were the very first of fashion, and like Stregoni his cravat pin took the shape of a flower - a red peony. They were a strange contrast with his jade green eyes, the bold and delicate colors clashing…and yet on Gille, it somehow worked.
"Father," he greeted slowly, hesitating.
"Aubrey, it is good you are home," his father said quietly, voice as level as it ever was, giving nothing away. There was no way to tell if he meant the words, or how he meant them.
Before he could say something, likely something he would regret, a last figure appeared in the doorway. She was the spitting image of their father, but with all the feminine touches. Only the fact she was weak and sickly kept Camilla Bathory from being a true beauty of society. She would be a diamond of the first water, if only she were healthy.
He moved quickly up the steps to embrace her, kiss her cheek. "Milla, it is good to see you again."
"Brey, you're home," Camilla said, kissing his cheeks, squeezing him tightly. "It's so good to see you again."
He hugged her again, and held fast as he turned to greet the servants and accept their expression of excitement and pleasure at his return. Finally he faced his father and Gille again.
"Cousin," Gille said, still smirking. "I see you brought the good doctor with you." His eyes slid briefly to Stregoni, standing silent nearby, then slid back to Aubrey. "We have a gift for you."
"So I heard," Aubrey said. "I do not want him."
"One does not refuse gifts," his father replied, face and tone implacable, but somehow Aubrey knew the matter was over before it had begun. He would accept the Pet, and that was that.
Stifling an urge to mount his horse and ride off back to school, he allowed Camilla to lead him into the house.
Inside, it had scarcely changed at all. The paintings, the marble floor and costly rugs, the crystal hanging from the ceiling…little things were gone, replaced by others, but the overall affect was as though he had not been gone more than an afternoon.
Nearby stood two men and a woman.
The woman was his father's Pet, the pale and beautiful Elisabeth. Aubrey had rarely spoken to her growing up, though she was always kind when they did cross paths. She rarely left the suite of rooms that belonged to his father, and usually did so only at his father's bidding.
On her left stood Francois, as beautiful and creepy as Aubrey remembered. He did not spare that Pet a glance, though he felt the cold chill of purple eyes upon him.
His full attention, however, was quickly stolen by the one Pet he did not recognize - his Pet.
Beside him, Camilla murmured something, but Aubrey did not catch the words.
The Pet was beautiful, there was no denying that. He did not have Gille's cold, dark beauty though…no, he was all warm tones and colors. Tall, but next to Aubrey everyone was tall really. Still - he would not come up past the Pet's shoulder.
His hair was the color of beeswax, cropped extremely short and seemingly fine, delicate whisps of it clinging to his cheeks and forehead. The skin was smooth and flawless, and ever so faintly sunkissed, lending a further impression of warmth.
By stark contrast, his eyes were so dark Aubrey could not tell their color. He was also dressed head to foot in black. Severe, but he wore it well. The oddest thing about his appearance was that he wore no neck cloth. Instead, a startling amount of skin was bare, the worst of it covered up only by what Aubrey realized was a collar - a popular affectation inflicted upon Pets.
Perhaps in jest, affixed to the black leather collar as a cravat pin. Flowers must be in fashion, for like Stregoni and Gille, the Pet's pin was in the shape of a flower - a vibrant, beautiful forget-me-not.
The Pet stepped forward, and sketched a deep, elegant bow, not quite rising as he lifted his head to look at Aubrey.
Event his close, he could not tell the color of the Pet's eyes. They looked almost black, except he could see the pupil's quite clearly.
Aubrey realized he wasn't breathing. Shaking himself, he stepped forward.
"Master," the Pet murmured.
"What is your name?" Aubrey asked. If he was going to have a Pet, then he may as well accept it with dignity. He had learned the hard and painful way that making a scene only hurt himself.
The Pet smiled faintly. "Ruthven, Master."
"Ruthven," Aubrey repeated. "You must already know I am Aubrey."
"Yes, Master."
Aubrey nodded, and extended his right arm, wrist up. "Welcome, then."
"I thank you, Master," Ruthven murmured, and for a moment something hot and bright flared in his dark eyes. It made Aubrey shiver, though he could not put a name to what it was he had seen.
Then his wrist was taken up in one gloved hand, the black satin warm against his frozen skin. He shivered again as he caught a hint of the long, sharp fangs, and bit back a cry of pain as they sank into his skin.
It was the strangest sensation, and not one to which he would ever grow accustomed. Only humans, he thought, would decide it was fashionable to have their blood sucked.
As easy that, he was responsible for the life of another. If he died, so too would Ruthven. He stood immobile as Ruthven finally rose to his full height, licking blood from his lips. What was he supposed to say or do now?
"Thank you, father," he said stiffly after the silence stretched on.
"Gille picked him out," Sangre replied, coming up to stand beside Aubrey, eyes on Ruthven. "He is lovely. Suitable?" He asked the question, but it was clearly rhetorical.
Aubrey nodded in reply anyway. He looked at Gille, but did not offer any thanks. From the expression on Gille's face, he had not expected any.
A bell rang, and Sangre held an arm out to Elisabeth. "Come, dinner is ready. We will eat as a proper family for the first time in too long."
It was a rebuke, as well as a tacit order that Aubrey would not be permitted to leave home again.
"Home, sweet home," Aubrey muttered to himself, then gave Camilla his arm and followed his father to the dining room.
Love Lies Bleeding
(chapter two)
Stregoni had always been an insomniac, a trait he had acquired from his mother.
So many nights they had sat up together, grateful at least not to be alone
in their sleeplessness, both envying those who could sleep effortlessly through
the night - including his father, who slept like the dead.
He hated it, not least of all because he always did incredibly stupid things when left alone in the dark of night.
Like wander the halls, hoping and dreading that someone else might be awake.
<i>Do you want me?</i>
He balled his hands into fists, and tried to convince himself he should go back to his room and resume work annotating his Pharmacopoeia. But brandy settled warm in his belly, buzzing in his head, and he could not stand still.
The halls were empty as he wandered them, his every step a thundering echo on marble tile, mercifully muffled whenever he trod over rug.
Go back to bed, idiot, he tried to tell himself. He didn't know why he'd bothered, it had been a lost cause from the moment he'd left his own home to stay at the Sangre estate for a few days.
As he reached the east wing, music filtered toward him. Piano, the music a slow, heartbreaking piece. A thousand times he'd wanted to ask why it was always sad music, why nothing happy ever came out of that piano, but it was one in a thousand questions he never managed to voice.
Because like the ones he did dare voice, it would only met with some cold, cruel reply.
He was always cruel, had been from the first, but Stregoni had never been able to walk away, and stay away.
<i>Why do you always act so cool, doctor? Do you think you're deceiving me? Your eyes are blue fire, when you look at me. Do you want me?
Like the proverbial moth to the flame, Stregoni wandered down the hall the music room. Their eyes had met for only a moment over dinner, but it had been enough to let him know that they both would be drunk tonight.
He pushed the door open, and tried one last time to remind himself of all the reasons this was a bad idea. It had never worked before, not since that first night, and it would not work this time.
All manner of potions and tonics and syrups cluttered the shelves of his apothecary in town. He knew the recipes for more medicines than he could count - and nearly all of them could also be considered deadly poisons.
None of them was as potent or addictive or potentially fatal as what drew him time and again to the cruel embrace of the beautiful man playing a mournful song on the piano.
Gille was the very definition of breathtaking, especially now when there was no one around to look down upon or impress, no social engagements pending, no visitors looming. No, he was dressed only in black breeches and a white shirt he had not bothered to lace, his long hair loose around his shoulders, hiding the elegant lines of his face and the bewitching gold-flecked pale green eyes.
Stregoni hovered in the doorway, part of him knowing he should flee, the rest of him too addicted to even think of it.
The music room was a somber place, the floor all black marble tile, the paneling a deep, rich red. Silver candelabra were scattered about, though only the one nearest the piano was actually lit.
Just behind Gille was a massive portrait of two men. It looked as though someone had simply painted Aubrey twice, but it was in fact Karl and George Bathory, the respective fathers of Aubrey and Gille. Twin brothers, and Stregoni recalled his father saying they had once been quite close. Though George Bathory lived only a few miles away, in a nearby estate, Stregoni had never met him. The man had become a recluse since the death of his wife in childbirth.
So much of a recluse, in fact, that Gille had come to live with his uncle. Beyond that, Stregoni knew nothing about the situation. No one knew anything, except Gille and Lord Sangre.
All Stregoni knew was that Gille could be and often was cold and cruel, and that he never got kinder than merely condescending.
Except sometimes…
He shook his head and looked again at the portrait. Gille had much in common with the twins, much in common with Aubrey, but there was a beauty to his features that they lacked, and that had likely come from his mother.
The two men were only in their mid-twenties at the time of the portrait. Handsome, severe, hinting at the over strict Lord of the manor Lord Sangre would eventually become - though, at that, Stregoni could not tell which was which.
One was seated, hands clasped over one knee, as though he were listening attentively to an unseen speaker. The second twin stood over the seat, slightly bent, as if to whisper to his brother when the speaker turned away for a moment. The chair was black velvet, matching their dark clothes, cuffs and throats displaying lace that was almost garishly white by contrast. To the right of the chair was a marble planter, from which tumbled the long, deep red blossoms of the flower Stregoni knew was called love-lies-bleeding.
He was stirred from his musings by the sudden absence of music, and dropped his gaze to see that Gille had turned to look at him.
The green eyes drew him like an opium addict to laudanum.
"The midnight hour strikes, and the doctor appears. Some would say that makes you a witch, doctor," Gille said, mouth curving in that too familiar smirk. Stregoni ached to wipe it from his face. Permanently. He wanted to see something tender, something…
Shoving the pointless, dangerous thoughts aside, he drew just close enough that he could reach out and touch if he wanted. Instead, he waited.
Gille reached out to pick up the glass of wine perched on the edge of the piano. Deep, blood red, and probably dry - Gille had always favored dry wines. His fingers were long, elegant, the nails meticulously manicured. He took a deep sip, eyes never leaving Stregoni's, the fine gold-flecked jade color only dulled a bit by the undoubtedly potent wine.
The sound of the glass clinking as Gille set it down again seemed shockingly loud in the ringing silence.
Brandy burned deep in his gut, but Gille burned hotter still throughout his entire body.
A wicked addiction he would do best to rid himself of, but he was as hopeless as the addicts he tried to help every week.
Gille touched him first, and Stregoni counted it a small, cheap victory. He was no better dressed than Gille, wearing only the bare minimum required to preserve modesty until he reached the music room.
He shivered faintly as his shirt was pushed off his shoulders, the laces teasing briefly across his nipples before Gille's mouth and tongue trailed with agonizing slowness across his stomach. Reaching out, he shoved his hands beneath Gille's shirt, digging his nails into the soft skin beneath, feeling hard muscle. A spoiled brat Gille might be, but he was too vain and proud to allow his body to spoil.
Lowering his head, he breathed in the scents that clung to Gille, remnants of his soap - cypress and marigold, and a hint of cologne which remained elusive. He moaned softly as Gille's mouth moved higher, leaving a trail of tingling heat, making him gasp sharply and tighten his hold until he earned a noise in return.
Gille abruptly stood up, arms bands around Stregoni's waist. Standing at his full height, he was at least a head taller than Stregoni. He nipped at Gille's collar bone, but before he could get a better taste of the fine skin, his head was tilted up and his mouth plundered.
He tasted like his dark, dry wine, a hint of clove. Something darker still and so rich, something that was all Gille. If he could distill it, whatever it was about Gille that drugged him so, he could addict the world to it.
His mouth was explored, devoured, taken until not a breath remained in his body, and he was left dizzy and gasping. Only then did he realize they had moved across the room to the black velvet chaise lounge.
Gille grabbed his shirt and removed it entirely, then removed his own, before those graceful fingers moved greedily to his breeches. Stregoni gasped as the cool air struck him, but almost immediately the chill was banished by Gille's fevered touch.
An addict he might be, but he was not so consumed by this wicked drug he would stand stupefied. Recovering himself some small measure, he shoved hard, sending Gille tumbling down on the chaise. Straddling him, Stregoni attacked Gille's pants, getting them open despite the delicious distraction of being yanked down to be intoxicated by another of those devastating kisses.
The kisses hurt more than anything, because at times they seemed to say things he knew Gille would never say. These nights were dirty secrets, and he still did not know why they had succumbed to that first, long ago urge one blizzard-shrouded night.
Touch after agonizing touch, gasps and moans and muffled cries, hot, sweat-slick skin, all melted into a haze of lust and need, until the fingers buried deep inside him finally slid away and he was guided down on Gille's cock, shaking hard as he adjusted to the fullness, wishing he did not miss it, need it. Hating himself for it, but unable to deny it.
Hands braced on Gille's chest, pale green eyes searing him with the wine-soaked lust that filled them, Stregoni began to move - there was nothing slow or hesitant, they were both too drugged on the moment for that. He buried his shout in Gille's mouth only just in time.
Their panting filled the music room as the fever slowly cooled, and Stregoni dreaded the return of his senses.
It came all too soon, as Gille slid from his body and the fire in his eyes cooled, then finally died.
He did not wait for the snide comments, the cruel remarks, but slid away and picked up his discarded clothes, cheeks burning with shame as he dressed.
Gille said nothing, but he could feel the cold eyes upon him, knew the cutting words hovered on the precipice, that they would tip from the sharp tongue with the next breath.
Though he knew he was no whore, at the end of these damned interludes, he felt it.
Still Gille said nothing. That was strange enough that the pace of Stregoni's heart began to increase, a flush of hope causing his steps to slow as he reached the door, and he braced a hand on the frame to turn around and see if just maybe…
"Good night, Carrot."
Cold. Dismissive. As though Gille were bored again, now that the amusement had come and gone. And that damned name. Carrot. Stregoni knew his hair was ugly, ridiculous, not the more vibrant red-gold that his mother possessed. Gille always knew where and how to hit for maximum pain with minimal effort.
He continued walking, though his steps were still slow. As he reached the end of the hallway, the sounds of slow, sad music reached his ears.
Stregoni pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, and told himself it was the late hour, and the candlelight, which made them sting and water.
Aubrey had about had enough of foul tempers.
Well, Millie he could not blame. She was tired, and her illness had taken a turn, so she was permitted to be a bit off. Father was as sours as he always was when the weather was foul. Aubrey had not expected cheerful conversation from that corner, at any rate.
Gille was ever nastier than Aubrey could ever remember him being.
Even Stregoni, upon whom he'd been counting for happy companionship, was in a foul mood.
He could not escape outside, the weather was a breath away from being a proper blizzard. Feeling very much sour himself, now, Aubrey trolled the house looking for something to either soothe his ill-temper, or something on which he could vent it.
When his hunt proved in vain, he retreated at last to the small room he had taken over as his private study and office.
He startled upon entering, as he realized someone else was in the room.
Since returning home a week ago, Aubrey had done his best to avoid Ruthven for all but the necessary feedings. Of course, Ruthven slept in his bed. Much to his regret, Aubrey had seen no way out of that particular problem.
Elisabeth and Francois both slept with their respective owners. It would be humiliating in the extreme for Ruthven if Aubrey were to make him sleep above stairs in the servant quarters like he was common help. Neither could he simply give Ruthven a room of his own - his father would put his foot right down on such an outlandish notion.
Currently, Ruthven was ensconced in the window seat, the main reason Aubrey had stolen this room away to be his own. It was wide and long, and gave a beautiful view of the west side of the house, the lush lawn and the forest beyond it.
At the edge of that forest were the faded remains of a path which Aubrey knew led straight to the house of his Uncle - Gille's father - but he had never visited his Uncle, except perhaps when he was too small to recall.
There were other paths, even more faded than the one made by brothers who had once been close, but he'd never been inclined to explore. Something about the forest nagged at him, prickled the same way being locked in a carriage bothered him.
Thoughts of the forest, however, were distant.
Ruthven had made himself quite comfortable, propped on pillows that also served to separate him from the cold glass. He was wrapped in a blanket, and had a book set in his lap. Some heavy tome that looked familiar, but which he could not at the moment place. There was very little light coming from the window, all of it blocked by piles upon piles of snow, the wind whipping up even more flakes and tossing them about.
All the reading light came instead from the various lamps Ruthven had lit, one pulled near the window that he could better see to read there. It made his beeswax hair a rich gold, warmed the sun-kissed skin.
He turned the pages with his left hand, the faintest of smiles curving his pale pink lips. Aubrey noted this only because in his right hand, Ruthven held a teacup - one from the winter set, pale green porcelain decorated with mistletoe.
"Pets drink tea?"
Ruthven looked up, then smiled and closed his book, setting his teacup aside. "It doesn't help us, but it doesn't hurt, either. I like tea."
Aubrey frowned. He did not know much about Pets, because he hated the whole idea and so avoided the matter…but he was fairly certain the breeding grounds and the Pet houses did not feed the Pets anything but blood. "Where did you drink tea?"
"Here and there," Ruthven said, head dipping, eyelids falling so long lashes just brushed his cheeks. Then he brought his gaze up to directly meet Aubrey's. "Mostly during interviews. It is rude not to drink, is it not?"
Drat it, he still could not tell the color of Ruthven's eyes. Why did it bother him so much?
Something else suddenly occurred to him. "You can read."
Ruthven's mouth quirked. "Yes, master."
Aubrey scowled. "My name is Aubrey."
"Yes, master," Ruthven said again, doing that thing with his lashes. A demure move, submissive. Yet something prickled along Aubrey's skin that said submissive and Ruthven did not belong in the same breath.
He was a Pet, though. A blood drinker bound to Aubrey for the rest of his life. If there was any life more submissive than that, Aubrey did not want to know about it.
Why was he even thinking about such things?
"How is it you are able to read? That is expressly forbidden to Pets."
Ruthven smiled. "I was…I guess you could say, my upbringing was a bit more loose than it should have been. The woman who raised me in the nursery, until I was sent off for lessons, indulged me overmuch." He dipped his head and looked up through his lashes, the very pictures of subservient and eager to oblige. "If it bothers my master, then of course I shall cease at once."
Aubrey frowned.
It was one of the top rules of Pets - they were taught all the basics of moving in polite society, but nothing that might encourage them to be dissatisfied with their lot. Keeping Pets that drank blood was much like playing with fire, even if controlling them was long ago turned into a fine art.
They were not allowed to read or write. Before being sold, Pets were rendered unable to breed. They did not converse with Pets outside their own household unless given permission and strictly supervised, and even within the household the Pets did not spend overmuch time together. Scores of rules existed, for the good of everyone involved, or so the supporters said.
"What are you reading?" he asked finally. If he was going to be saddled with a Pet, why not one who broke a few rules? At least Ruthven seemed to be in a good mood.
Ruthven lifted the book so he could see the cover.
"What do you think of it?" Aubrey asked, almost smacking himself for not recognizing it. A philosophical volume; not one of his favorites, but a compelling one. He stepped closer despite himself, already eager for the chance at conversation and debate.
This close to Ruthven, however, he noticed what Ruthven was wearing - deep blue breeches, and a simple white shirt. Nothing else, save for a collar around his throat.
Aubrey scowled. "Why do you wear those collars? Where did you get them?"
He had noticed Ruthven wearing them, but only distantly, far more interested in avoiding him altogether. This was the first time he'd paid real notice since the night Ruthven had become his Pet. That collar had been supple black leather.
This one was deep blue velvet, with a small burst of wisteria stitched on the left side.
Ruthven reached up to touch it. "I like them, master."
"You really do not need to call me that," Aubrey said irritably. "My name is Aubrey - Brey, if you like."
"I like 'master'," Ruthven replied, and leaned forward, until he was close enough Aubrey could smell the tea he was drinking, a hint of flowers and velvet and cologne that smelled of peach blossom and apple. "Unless, of course, my master finds it displeasing that I regard him so."
"Do as you wish," Aubrey said hastily, taking a step back, retreating to his desk.
He thought he heard Ruthven laugh, but dismissed it. "Is there more of that tea?"
"I will ring for it," Ruthven replied, and shoved back the blankets in which he'd wrapped himself.
Aubrey saw he had no shoes, only stockings.
Shaking his head, he pulled out his own book, one he had been reading before all the moving and settling had interfered.
"As to the book, master," Ruthven said, returning to his nest of blankets. It looked cozy, but Aubrey turned from that thought immediately. "I think his reasoning carries serious flaws."
"Oh?" Aubrey said, shutting his book again and leaning back in his seat, crossing his arms across his chest. He'd never argued philosophy with a Pet before; perhaps it would prove interesting.
A couple of hours later, he gave up. "You are remarkably well schooled," he said.
Ruthven shrugged. "I pay attention, master."
"Indeed," Aubrey said. "You are luck you were never caught and killed for being too troublesome to keep."
"Yes, master," Ruthven said, a hint of slyness in his voice.
Aubrey frowned, feeling as though he were missing some joke, hating it. "What other secrets did you keep from your trainers?"
"Only a few," Ruthven said, definitely smirking now. "They are of no interest to you, master." He slid from the window seat and strode to the desk, bracing his hands on it and leaning slightly forward.
The view put his throat, the collar wrapped around it, directly in Aubrey's vision. Ruthven really did have beautiful skin, which the blue velvet only enhanced, though it annoyed him to admit it. "Yes?" he asked, the question coming out snappishly.
Ruthven lowered his long lashes, looking up through them. "It is well past lunch, master."
"Oh," Aubrey said, and saw from the clock on the wall opposite the desk that he was correct. Stifling a sigh, refusing to acknowledge the anxiety that always fluttered in his stomach, he held out his wrist.
It was scarred, now. He really would need to read up on Pets, because he had never really known that they could close up the wounds they opened. It did not completely heal, for there was the scar, but after each…meal…the scar was there.
Aubrey winced as Ruthven bit down, shivering at the odd sensation of his blood being drained away. He wondered if it was a feeling to which he would eventually grow accustomed. Doubtful, he could not even adjust to the idea that Ruthven would be with him the rest of his life.
No one every stayed long with him; eventually, they all had somewhere else to be. One by one his friends had drifted away, and the knowledge that he would invariably have to return to his family had kept Aubrey from chasing after them, from asking that they stay just a little longer.
He wondered where they all were now, and if they would write. Most of them had traveled abroad, to further studies or simply play another year or two before settling into their own responsibilities. Others had scampered off to the city in pursuit of sport or a wife.
Not that he wanted to go to the city, but travelling…well, it hardly mattered.
He shivered again as Ruthven ceased feeding, attempting to pull away but unable as Ruthven kept firm hold of his wrist. His fingers were warm, a few shades darker than his own, completely unmarked, where Aubrey's always seemed perpetually covered in scratches and paper cuts, and smeared with ink stains.
Ruthven lapped at his wrist, tongue wet and warm, and Aubrey tore his eyes away with a silent curse. What was his problem? Was he really so crass and hypocritical to be so affected? Ruthven was beautiful, there was no denying it. Of course he was beautiful, Gille would never picked out a Pet who was less than perfect.
At last Ruthven released his wrist, and Aubrey withdrew it, immediately reaching for quill and ink, penning a request to his book merchant in the city, jotting down the sorts of books he would like, along with the month's bill.
Setting it aside to dry, he looked around his study, noting the empty shelves that would soon be filled, assuming the weather did not prevent the arrival of his crates.
"Is that your mother?" Ruthven asked suddenly, gazing to the wall opposite the shelves, the same wall in which was built the window seat.
Aubrey did not need to look at the portrait, but he did anyway. "Yes," he said, smiling sadly, ignoring the cold knot of fear that always coiled in his gut. He could not remember that night, but some part of him always would. He hated it.
The portrait was actually of two women - his mother, Lucy, and her Pet, Wilhemina. His mother was beautiful - dark blonde hair and gray eyes, petite and delicate, but vibrant even in paint. She wore a pale blue gown, to match the pale green worn by Wilhemina, who was a bolder beauty next to his daintier mother. They sat side by side on a stone bench, surrounded by the garden his mother had so loved. Together, the two women held a bouquet of vivid red chrysanthemums.
They looked happy, proud, so very alive.
Once, the portrait had hung in his father's salon. After his mother's death, he had apparently ordered it destroyed. Aubrey had found it buried away in the attic when he was young, while searching desperately for a place to hide from his infuriating cousin.
The portrait was unsigned, something which had always puzzled him, but Aubrey was grateful simply to have it.
"She is beautiful," Ruthven said. "The other woman was your father's Pet, back then?'
"What?" Aubrey said, frowning in confusion. "No, of course not. Mina belonged to my mother. My father did not acquire a Pet until several years after they died. Why did you think Mina belonged to my father?"
"But-" Ruthven stopped, and shook his head. "A mistake. I should know better than to make assumptions. My apologies, master."
Aubrey stared at him a moment, but at last shrugged it off. "I do not believe my father ever had a Pet, before Elisabeth. But, what little people have told me about him, my father and his brother used to be quite the men about town. He did not settle down until he met my mother."
"I am sorry he lost her then," Ruthven said quietly.
The solemnity of his tone drew Aubrey up short, and he found he was staring again, but Ruthven's eyes were fastened on the portrait.
Finally he just nodded. "I am told he was quite different when she was around. I wish she still were."
Ruthven finally pulled his eyes away from the portrait. "She lives on in her children, in memories, in the way she is still loved and will be always. You look much like your father, but you have her smile and grace."
Aubrey rolled his eyes. "Grace? Perhaps you should consult a dictionary and confirm you know the proper meaning of that word. I assure you, I do not possess grace."
"Yes, master," Ruthven said, but his tone this time was not respectful. Instead, it was as though Ruthven was not trying very hard to hide his amusement. He looked at Aubrey directly, dark eyes holding some deep spark.
It made Aubrey's cheeks hot, that spark, and he jerked his gaze away, eyes falling upon the letter to his book merchant.
Ruthven abruptly snatched it up, and stepped away from the desk.
"Give that back," Aubrey snapped. He stood up and moved around the desk to take it back, furious that Ruthven would just invade his privacy so - even if it was just a list of books he wanted.
He was just reaching out for the letter when Ruthven lowered it and stepped forward, and Aubrey found himself hastily taking a step back - and another, and another, until he collided with the desk, grunting in surprise.
Ruthven set the letter down, hands falling on either side of Aubrey, a playful smile curving his too-pretty mouth. "If you want to know about Pets, master, I am more than happy to answer all your questions."
Aubrey scowled. Ruthven was standing entirely too close, and he did not like the fact his Pet had pinned him so neatly. That feeling prickled along his skin again, the sense that for all he was a Pet, Ruthven was not the submissive type. "What are you?" he demanded. "Are you really a Pet?"
"Of course, master," Ruthven said. He opened his mouth, displaying the unmistakable fangs that marked Pets more clearly than anything.
He still smelled like peach blossom and apple, overlaid with hints of velvet and silk, a touch of sweat and the lingering traces of tea. Aubrey breathed in the tangle of scents, heady and distracting. He tried to glare, but instead found himself captive.
So dark. Ruthven's eyes were so dark, and even when they were a mere breath apart, he could not tell their true color. They looked like night, like the sun had finally set and nothing but shadow remained. Not truly black, but too dark for any one real color to shine through.
They stood that way for a minute or an eternity, he could not tell which. It was only the chiming of his clock, striking the second hour of the afternoon, which finally broke the strange spell. Jerking, Aubrey turned his head away. "Get away from me," he said curtly.
Ruthven promptly pushed off the desk, stepped back, and dipped his head and shoulders in an elegant half bow.
"What in the hell are you?" he asked again.
"Yours," Ruthven replied. "Nothing more or less."
"Ridiculous," Aubrey said. "You drink tea, you read, you act like no Pet I've ever met."
"How would you know, master? With all due respect, you do no like Pets, and avoid them. How, then, do you know the way they behave?"
"You are impertinent," Aubrey replied, moving to sit behind his desk once more, feeling slightly dizzy from the loss of blood, but stubbornly ignoring it.
He did not look up as he heard Ruthven return to the window seat, but continued to sort through the paraphernalia he had unpacked but not sorted and put away.
"Do you really dislike me so, master?" Ruthven asked, some time later.
Aubrey paused in the process of sorting through his book lists. "What?" He frowned at Ruthven, who stared implacably back, face devoid of expression, and from this distance the eyes may as well be pure black.
It was more than a little disconcerting, but Aubrey refused to give in to the foolish emotion. "I neither like nor dislike. I do not know you well enough to make such a decision. I know only that you do not act like any other pet I have ever encountered. Friends of mine, from school, had them. Francois and Elisabeth I have never known to act like you." He shrugged. "I do not care for Pets. It brings me no joy to enslave someone."
Ruthven smiled, then lowered his lashes to look through them in that way that drove Aubrey crazy. "I am your willing slave, master."
"There's no such thing," Aubrey snapped. "No one wants to live such a life."
"If you say so, master."
Aubrey ignored him, and went back to pouring over his lists.
Willing slave. Ridiculous.
They remained that way, Aubrey working, Ruthven silent in the window seat, until Camilla knocked softly upon the door, and peaked her head in to announce that dinner would be ready in an hour and he should go get freshened up.