Ilias spent most of the nights leading up to the Aphrodisiac at the ritual’s chosen site, making certain all of the last minute details were arranged as they should be, returning to the villa only to sleep. During those brief times together before sunrise and just after sunset, he did his best to soothe Myca’s fears, to which he could not be ignorant; the strength of the bond between them was too great. On the night before the Aphrodisiac officially began, Ilias and his servants did not return home at all: all three were sheltering with Lord Ladislav for the day, as they would need to be in place once the rite began. Myca slept poorly that day, never fully falling into true rest, tossing and turning in the comfort of his bed. He rose almost before the sun had fully set, limbs heavy with weariness, thoughts swimming with anxiety. He almost decided not to go, but found upon entering the study and surveying masses of Nikita’s correspondence and the journals containing months of effort, that he had no taste for burying himself in work, either. In the downstairs room that Malachite claimed for his own, he knew the Rock of Constantinople was hard at work. He could nearly feel the self-righteous disapproval radiating through the floor. The Nosferatu had said nothing—he did not need to. His cool condemnation of Ilias was written in his behavior, the manner in which he ignored any attempts by the witch-priest to engage him in civil conversation, the brusqueness that characterized their every necessary interaction. Ilias tolerated it, far better than Myca would have, in his place. He knew that Malachite’s silent condemnation would fall on him, as well, should he choose to go out tonight.
Myca realized that he was making excuses to himself, and quietly went back into his bedchamber to change his clothing and wash his face and hands. Outside, filtering through the window shutters in the next room, he caught the hint of music and voices. The mortals of Sredetz, much like the Cainites, celebrated the coming of spring. Taking down his cloak, he crept down the stairs and out the door. On the muddy streets, a procession was in progress, groups of mortals carrying torches and enclosed candle-lamps, singing and laughing among themselves. Myca waited in his door for the majority of the procession to pass, then followed it down the puddle-strewn road. These people, he knew, were wealthy residents of old Sredetz, returning home from the mortal celebrations that took place beneath the brilliance of the sun, in the fields and forests outside the city. The Cainite Aphrodisiac celebration was taking place within the city itself, among the cluster of bathhouses in the center of the old city and the buildings surrounding it, many of which were the havens of the city’s wealthiest Cainites. The first and largest of those bathhouses, the House of the Eagle, and its surrounding gardens were the center of the Aphrodisiac celebration.
Myca found the path leading to the House of the Eagle well lit with enclosed lamps rather than torches, the doors opened but guarded against entry by the city’s mortal residents. The house’s enormous proprietor ushered him in and gave him immediately to the care of two young women, clad in undecorated white tunics, who guided him into one of the private bath chambers, then obediently left him alone. A white tunic, its design having more in common with the loose drape of a truly Roman garment than any modern article of clothing, was left for him, along with freshly warmed towels. He shed his dalmatic and hose, and slipped into the warm, scented waters of the bath. He took a deep breath to sample the scent of the perfumed water and realized, with a bit of bemusement, that it was linden blossom, then dunked his head beneath the water. He drew in a deep breath of water, letting the sweetness of the perfume permeate his flesh from within as well as without, exhaled, and rose to soak for a long moment. His stomach was still tied in knots of nervousness and near dismay, but the warmth of the water and the silence of the building soothed him somewhat. He rose from the bath more at ease, and toweled himself dry, wrapping in the loose tunic, which hung to his ankles. In the hall, he found one of the servants waiting for him, a young woman whose loose brown hair hung past her waist and voluptuous curves invited caressing hands, who bowed low to him and guided him through the bathhouse’s twisting halls to the rear of the building. Here, rooms had been prepared and a rear porch opened onto the gardens, where musicians were playing and the celebrants were milling about, socializing and celebrating with acts of passion and pleasure.
Soft moans and cries filled the night, a counterpoint to the low murmur of conversation and the music. In secluded corners of the garden the Cainites of Sredetz celebrated the return of spring, sporting among themselves and with mortals provided for their amusement. Myca stepped down off the porch and walked among the garden paths, searching for something to draw his attention and his appetites, something that was not the linden-perfumed arms of his lover. It occurred to him, with a bit of surprise, that the emotions he felt were not wholly nervous any longer, but tinged with jealousy. Somewhere in this garden of delights, Ilias was doing his duty as Sinner and priest, and that duty was to pleasure the new initiates to the ways of desire, to welcome them to the service of their own wants. The idea of anyone else lying in the arms of his lover, enjoying the pleasures of his body and imagination, gnawed at him more than he wished to admit, roused the Beast within him. He walked to control his churning emotions, and to distract the monster in his breast with sights to entertain and entice it.
Those sights were many. In a wide, well-lit expanse of grass, to the music of flute and tambour, half a dozen young women were dancing for the appreciation of a small audience both human and Cainite. Few of the young women wore more than the briefest of diaphanous scarves about their hips and the occasional bit of jewelry or paint to enhance their charms. Their brown skins glistened with perfumed oil and the nipples of their uncovered breasts were daubed with rouge. Their dance was clearly an offering that the audience was meant to accept. In the darkened alcoves at the edges of the open space, Myca caught sight of couples and groups engaged in a more primal dance, the air filled with the tang of sweat and perfume, musk and blood. To his surprise, one of the dancers threw her scarf teasingly around his neck and tried to draw him away with her. Within him, his Beast growled and surged, roused by the sweet scent of her, and he followed into the alcove she chose. Her breasts were firm in his hands, her nipples springing fully erect at the cool brush of his thumbs as he smeared the rouge she wore there. Pressed close against her, he could smell the use she had already been put to, reached down and found her moist yet with the lust of the lover she had just served. A slow caress of his fingers had her whimpering softly and grinding herself against him. Her pupils were hugely enlarged and he tasted something sweet on her tongue when he kissed her, something vaguely familiar, and then the taste of her blood was overwhelming all else, hot and smoky with her own lust, her own pleasure. He drank deeply of her and left her in the alcove when he was done, half-senseless with ecstasy and blood-loss.
She had, in fact, consumed something familiar, the sweet aftertaste lying yet on his own tongue as its effects washed through his body. He felt all of his senses sharpening and refining, growing exquisitely more sensitive. Soon, even the soft fabric of his tunic was too rough to lay directly against his over-sensitive skin. He peeled it off and tossed it over a hewn marble bench where, he noticed with some amusement, a number of other tunics already lay discarded. In the small clearing beyond it, a group of Cainites watched and talked among themselves as their servants had their pleasure of a young woman, bound at the wrists, weeping and begging, her hair shorn at a novice’s length and her pale thighs smeared with her virgin’s blood. Something about the sight struck him and he turned away, simultaneously aroused and revolted, hurrying away with the image of her tear-streaked face hanging before his eyes. It was washed away soon enough—pale arms beckoned him from darkened alcoves, half-familiar voices called his name, here and there he thought he caught sight of a face he recognized. Ilias was not among them, but then, it was unlikely that he would be there. The initiation was a private event, a sensual communion, and Ilias would not likely consent to sharing such a sacred act for the titillation of others. He did
not join any of them, but walked on, aroused within himself but unable to find the thing that would satisfy him, senses burning with the need for sensual release. Eventually, he found an empty alcove of his own, grassy and shrouded in vines and hedges already thick with leaves, and lay back in the grass to let himself enjoy the cool of the evening against his heated flesh.
Overhead, the sky was starry and the moon half full, washing the sky with its silvery radiance, a shaft of cool light falling over him where he lay. Beneath him, the ground was cool and slightly damp with dew. He though he could feel each individual blade of grass where it touched his flesh, his skin was that sensitive. Here, at least, the night was almost wholly quiet, the music and conversation of others muffled by distance and dense foliage. He allowed himself to enjoy it, closing his eyes and breathing deeply of the peace. Gradually, he realized that he was not alone.
Myca opened his eyes, and found Lord Ladislav standing in the entrance to the alcove, watching him silently. For a long moment, Myca said and did nothing, and neither did Ladislav, both simply gazing at one another. In the moonlight, he seemed pale and perfect, the corpse-white skin of his Cappadocian heritage a blessing rather than a curse, the cool light smoothing away the lines around his eyes, around his mouth. He still wore his tunic, Myca noted, and it was pristine, unstained by another’s blood. His dark eyes burned in their shadowed sockets with a hunger that Myca did not need to see in order to perceive.
Slowly, Myca sat up.
Ladislav stripped off his tunic, hung it wordlessly over the arch of the alcove’s entrance, and approached, kneeling at Myca’s side. At some level, Myca was entirely aware that, were he alive yet, his blood would be thundering in his temples and his breath would be echoing in his ears, his manhood an aching hot weight between his thighs. He was that fully aroused now, in the way that only a Cainite could be aroused, his senses sharpened enough to see every detail of his companion’s expression, to feel the naked want vibrating the air between them, to smell the blood beneath their skin and taste the hunger heating it already. He wanted to feel Ladislav’s hands on him, caressing pure sensation untainted by any human drives into his flesh. He wanted to taste of Ladislav’s skin and drive his fangs past its pale surface to draw out a draught of raw passion, desire in its purest form.
No words passed between them. Ladislav tangled his long, pale hands in Myca’s hair, and the kiss bore them both to the ground, tongues entwined, fangs unsheathed, drawing blood already. Pressed belly to belly they struggled, legs tangling and arms twining, Ladislav succeeding in pinning down one of Myca’s wrists. Myca stroked his free hand down Ladislav’s spine and found his skin to be unusually soft, supple with oil, difficult to gain purchase on. He dug in with his nails, raked them down Ladislav’s spine, drew blood. Ladislav broke the kiss with a groan of pleasure, his back arching beneath that hand, inviting him to continue. Myca worked his other arm free and touched every part of Ladislav’s body that he could reach, stoking the desire between them higher. Blood from the furrows he raked down Ladislav’s back flowed over his sides, across Myca’s belly and loins, salty-sweet and coppery in scent. A low sound escaped his companion’s throat and it occurred to Myca that Ladislav might not be wholly accustomed to being touched in the way that Ilias had taught him, the way that made the flesh remember what it was to live and lie in the arms of a lover. Ladislav shuddered beneath his hands, shuddered as though he were being wracked by bliss, and Myca continued his ministrations until, with a cry, his companion caught his wrists and bore him down again. Ladislav’s knee parted his thighs. His hands gripped Myca’s hips, ungently. Then Ladislav was inside him, and Myca could do nothing but moan and beg himself. He threw back his head and cried out, his back arching. Ladislav’s mouth found his throat, and the ecstasy welled up from the places their bodies joined to obliterate all else.
Golden light enveloped and filled him with a pleasure such as he had never known before and feared that he might never know again. They moved together, sensually entwined, bodies refusing to be parted for more than a few seconds. He cried out softly as his lover took him even more deeply, his back arching against the bed of silk in which they lay, the tendons in his neck drawing taut, eyes squeezing closed against tears of perfect joy. Cool lips pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat and a sigh escaped his lips, his lover’s name…
Myca woke suddenly, completely, sitting bolt upright in the darkness of the room he had slept in, head spinning with disorientation, fear and horror clawing at the inside of his chest. For an instant, panic ruled him unalloyed by any saner emotions, and it was all he could do not to fling himself from the bed and batter at the walls, shrieking and wailing. His Beast was fully awake and as fear-ridden as he. It fought against his every attempt to control it until he did as it wished, and clawed his way to the edge of the familiar, comfortable bed, spilling himself to the wooden floor. Splinters gouged his palms and he lashed out unthinkingly. His fist encountered the slender legs of a table and smashed one to kindling, sending its contents to the floor with a crash of breaking glass and pottery. Deliberately, he slammed his open palm down on a thick shard that fell nearly atop his hand. It pierced his skin and dug deeply into the flesh beneath, pain and blood-scent lending him the focus necessary to beat back mindless fear. He sat on the floor, naked and shuddering in near-frenzied reaction, picking pieces of a broken pottery bowl out of his hand and licking away his own blood, strenuously trying to force his mind to function.
His memory was blurred. The previous evening was little more than a hazy mass of dim images and sharply engraved sensations. Slowly, he remembered, remembered Ladislav and the alcove, and how they had slaked their hungers until the stars began to fade before the sunrise. His flesh still burned with the memory of lust and…
The dream.
He remembered the dream. It shocked him, for he rarely remembered the details of his dreams, only the pain and disquiet they left behind. Now… now he recalled it all. It was almost too real to be a dream, the strength of it, the way it lingered now in his mind like a thing of beauty he had feared lost forever. It felt, and it shook him to the core to admit it, like a memory. The golden light in the shape of a glorious man, shining from within as though lit by the sun’s own light, a light that filled every inch of the city that was his dream and graced all whom it touched. The caresses… the caresses and the ecstatic pleasure they brought, a pleasure that was more than the satisfaction of base lust, a rapture that claimed him in his entirety, mind, body, and soul, that made him tremble even now with the intensity of it. The words of love whispered between them, the name of the lover in his dream still shaping his lips.
Michael.
Chapter Eighteen
Myca said nothing to Ilias of his dream, and they spoke little of the night of the Aphrodisiac itself. Ilias kept the secrets entrusted to him well, and, in truth, Myca had no desire to pry. He and Lord Ladislav saw each other regularly, the atmosphere between them no longer charged with unspoken desire but warmed instead by the memory of what they had shared. Myca did not seek Ladislav’s bed again, nor did Ladislav press the issue. Both were content in the knowledge that they could if they wished to, and left it at that. Likewise Ilias, if he sensed the secrecy laying in his lover’s thoughts, did not inquire or pry into its cause. Myca thought that his lover trusted him enough to let him speak in his own time, and he appreciated that more than words could say.
Ilias, in fact, seemed to be productively employing himself ignoring Malachite’s general disapproval of the depraved existence he led, and spent most of the early summer attempting to draw the Rock of Constantinople out and soften his attitude. His charm was, evidently, up to the task. Malachite became much less disagreeable, brusque changing to oddly gruff when dealing with the witch-priest, their conversations taking on a more natural cadence even in Myca’s ears. Ilias induced Malachite to ask to review Nikita’s letters, now that he had finished his perusal of Nikita’s library of heretical literature. Nikita, Malachite rep
orted grudgingly, was quite a prolific writer, literate and intelligent, his commentaries on the fine points of heretical doctrine actually approaching the logical. Myca gave Malachite access to Nikita’s letters and his own notes without argument. Reviewing them would give Malachite something productive to do, which was more than Myca could say for himself. He was nearly at his temper’s end with literary-minded heretics who never said anything of consequence about themselves, and waiting for a letter from Basilio to arrive. For his own part, he distracted himself by entertaining diplomatic overtures from various Bulgar Tzimisce. Most amounted to a hope that the Obertus Order and the Draconian Tzimisce would lend their influence to the effort to oust Bela Rusenko from Sredetz and place a more appropriate ruler on his throne. Myca collected their requests, which he forwarded to Symeon with a letter outlining his progress to date, but otherwise made no promises.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 13 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 15