Chapter Text
The city of Saarbrüchen, the Saarland, Germany
Wednesday, January 15, 1218
The snow had begun falling again, in a thick, almost impenetrable cloud. Ayesha wrapped her own cloak and hood more closely around her, and hurried along the streets, keeping her distance from the one she followed. She hoped he would not be so foolish as to dare the roads outside the town. His tracks were easy enough to follow; no one else was abroad save the city watch at this hour. The watch, and the predators. Like herself.
And Marius.
He moved quickly, but with no clear purpose; he was, she suspected, just moving for the sake of moving. His pace indicated great agitation, and probably no little shock—the fingers on her right hand twitched in silent sympathy.
He passed another tavern, the Cockatrice; he paused, but did not enter. Ayesha ducked into an alley as he glanced back in the direction he had come; she didn't want him to see her. He was Lasombra; he had a lot of pride. Most of which he'd had to all but eat, kneeling there on the guards’ training floor at the Black Stag, at the mercy of Roland's sword. Roland was probably hoping he'd lose control, Frenzy and give him the pleasure of proving Lasombra to be as volatile as his own Brujah blood. Gaston should have been there...
But Gaston had been at Prince Sigurd’s court tonight. And Roland had taken full advantage of the Captain’s absence, and a young Italian's pride, and now it was Marius who was suffering for it.
Out of habit, Ayesha opened the door of the Cockatrice’s common room a crack and glanced into its murky depths herself, preparing to hurry on past and keep Marius in her sight. But instead she let the door close and stood there for a moment, thinking. She had recognized some of the men inside. Roughnecks and bullies, all of them; at least one that Gaston's mortal lieutenant had dismissed from the Count's service just a fortnight or so ago. And at least one whom she suspected (but had not yet proved to her satisfaction) to be secretly Roland's man.
A smile curved the corners of her mouth. Now, there was an idea, that had even a certain degree of poetic justice to it. She closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating; letting her features blur and shift, and her clothes as well, to match her new demeanor... Just a little Ravnos illusion. Mortals usually saw what they expected to see, after all.
A slight and ragged figure slipped inside the tavern, shivering from the chill of the night. A blast of cold air accompanied him, and those closest to the door pulled their own cloaks about them in response. The men who had commandeered the best table near the fire did not pay any attention... but they would, soon enough.
It was the lack of pain that most surprised him. Marius had seen limbs hacked off in battle, in the Levant, and those so deprived, if they were conscious at all, had all been screaming in agony. As he had screamed, as Roland’s sword had come down and severed his wrist. But that had been... how long ago? Hours? He was no longer sure. But there was no longer any significant pain. He could almost feel the fingers on his right hand growing numb in the bitter cold.... he had to touch the half healed-over stump of his wrist to know that what he thought he felt was a lie.
Roland had bested him, again. And this time, his hand, his sword hand, was gone.
He could have returned to the haven he shared with his sire; he could have also gone to make a complaint to Captain Gaston. But he was dreading either of them finding out what had happened, and so he did neither. Both of them had warned him, after all—to not duel with sharpened steel—but he’d disobeyed. It would be crushing to confess he’d ignored their orders because Roland had taunted him.
The numbness that the winter chill brought to his flesh and blood was nothing to the fury that blazed in his heart. The Beast snarled its rage somewhere deep inside of him, and he stopped, leaning against a building, taking deep, slow breaths, focusing on erasing the red haze from his vision. I will not lose control. I will not. I will not break and let him hear of my weakness. I am Lasombra, I am Milanese, I am Della Torre... I will not lose control, I will not allow the Beast to overcome me...
He trembled with the effort, but finally he could blink and see the world in normal colors, the pale and darker greys and black shadows of the night, with bits of warm golden candle flame only rarely visible behind closed shutters. He cradled the stump of his right wrist against his body, and tried to ignore the Hunger now gnawing at his fragile self-control, after the blood he had spent and lost this night. If he thought about his hunger, there would be little keeping him from breaking into some poor mortal's house and sating it on any living flesh he could grab and hold one-handed.
A scream pierced the icy cold. Marius' head snapped around instinctively, and he could feel his lips curling back, baring his fangs. A woman's scream, that; and the light, rapid crunch of approaching feet in the snow. More than one set, in fact—the woman, and her pursuers?
Hunger blazed in him; he could smell blood. Well, footpads were exceedingly rare on a raw winter's night, but he cared little for their reasons. It was after curfew, so they would be fair game, and he had hunger enough for three Cainites. He drew his dagger, left-handed, and moved towards the sounds.
Ayesha ran through the streets, once losing her footing on the slick, icy surface, and skidding hard on her elbow and hip. Thankfully, she was able to hang on to her cloak—she could not afford to replace it—and scramble to her feet again. Her illusion had melted, but at this point that no longer mattered. For what she had stolen, they would pursue her to the ends of the earth. All she really needed, however, was for them to pursue her a few more blocks. Where is he, the ungrateful wretch? Damn it all, which way did he go?
She ducked into a darkened cul-de-sac, and let her feet slip out from under her again, deliberately this time. In the acrobatic slide and shoulder roll that followed, her cap came off, and her hair came free, long and dark and decidedly feminine. As was her figure, who was now backed against the wall at the alley’s end, looking as scared and helpless as she could manage, in the face of the four men who had successfully cornered her.
"Well, look what we've got here," the leader said, grinning and revealing several missing teeth. "I'll take that back—" and he snatched the purse back from her hand. "And for all the trouble you've caused us, I think you owe us a little something, eh?" His hand dropped to his crotch, and he rocked his hips suggestively.
Ayesha's other hand curled around her own little dagger. She prepared another good solid scream, on general principle, and felt her fangs slip down into place. Well, if Marius isn’t going to come to my rescue, I could always just deal with them myself…
And then a shadowy blur with blazing eyes charged around the corner and slammed into the furthest of her attackers. The first was lifted off his feet and hurled face-first into the solid stone of the opposite wall; he collapsed into the snow at the bottom and did not rise again. The second fell with his head hanging at an unnatural angle from his shoulders.
Ayesha's plans changed abruptly from joining the attack to staying the hell out of Marius' way. He was like one of the dervishes she had heard tales of in Damascus. Even with no more weapon than a dagger and his own raw one-handed strength, he made short work of four mortals, heedless of their attempts at attack in return, tossing them aside like so many rag dolls. Save for the last, which he dragged close, pinned against the wall one-handed, and sank his fangs into the man's throat.
Ayesha smelled blood, and felt her own hunger rising in response, but she stayed right where she was. If he had truly Frenzied, the last thing she wanted was to appear to be another target—or as a rival for his rightful prey.
Marius dropped the mortal he had drained; the body slumped to the snow. His mouth, chin, and tunic were smeared with blood, both from this fight and the one earlier that evening. He turned and stared somewhat numbly at the damage he had caused. Of the other three, two were dead, or would be soon enough, and the other survivor was crippled and out of the fight, staring in stark terror at the monster who had taken them down.
Then he saw her, as she slowly rose to her feet, unsure if she should run, prepare to defend herself, or...
"Ayesha?" He voice was hoarse, as he took a slow step or two in her direction, but he had clearly recognized her. "Ayesha, I—"
The one surviving mortal thug made the mistake of taking that as his cue to retreat. Marius sprang after him almost instinctively, grabbing him by his hair and snapping his neck with one sharp tug, before tossing him aside. Then he dropped to his knees in the bloody muck of the snow. "Oh, Gesù Cristo, Ayesha—"
She approached him, a bit slowly at first, and then knelt in the snow in front of him. "My lord? Are you well?" She nearly bit her tongue as soon as the French words left her lips, looking at the way he held his right arm against his chest, the bloody ruin of his sleeve. Marius was obviously not well, not in the least.
He stared bleakly at her. "I've been better," he said finally, and then added, bitterly. "In fact, I can't think of a time when I've been worse."
"If it makes you feel any better," she said softly. "These men were in Roland's service."
He looked around at the carnage, the bloody snow. "No, it's Roland's blood I want, damn his eyes. Not that I've even half a chance for that now, with but one hand."
"Not tonight, no. But there will—"
"No!" His aura flared dangerously crimson, and Ayesha instinctively shrank back. "Don't you understand? He took my hand." He thrust the stump of his wrist at her. "Look! What—what good am I if I cannot hold a sword?"
Understanding struck her, and a twinge of guilt, and old pain. She caught his wrist, held it gently between her hands. "But it's not gone forever. My lord Marius, you will have your hand back again. You will. Believe me," and she reached out her own right hand, flexed the delicate fingers and then dared to touch his blood-stained cheek. "I know. From personal experience."
"You?" His voice was hoarse, little better than a whisper, "you have—I mean, it will, even now—?"
"Yes. You are a Cainite, Marius. If I can recover from such an injury, so can you."
"Grazie a Dio—" he murmured, and suddenly Ayesha felt herself being swept into his arms, into a hard, intense embrace. She almost didn't need the Sight to sense the sudden lifting of the worst of his despair and the burden of his fears—she could feel it in the strength of his arms around her. He rose to his feet, taking her with him, lifting her entirely off the ground before gently setting her back down again.
"My lady...I—I had thought—you cannot know, I—"
"Shhhhh…" Ayesha bade him, almost embarrassed by the intensity of his emotions. She'd known he was passionate, but this display was almost… tempting, in a way she did not expect. "My lord, we cannot stay here. We must make some semblance of order here, and be on our way, before the watch comes and finds us here surrounded by corpses—"
"Order—yes. I see what you mean. The Traditions—"
Together they moved the bodies to the bloodiest part of the snow, and used one of the ruffians' swords to make realistic wounds enough to cover the true reason for their deaths. As a parting touch, Ayesha emptied the purse, with its silvery coins (minus the handful she pocketed, because she did have expenses, after all), into the snow beneath them. "A shame that friends should quarrel so—" she murmured.
"A shame that Roland's men cannot stay out of trouble," he agreed. Then he looked up at the sky. "Dawn comes."
"Come with me," Ayesha offered, holding out her hand. "I have a haven not far from here. Not what you're used to, perhaps, but it is safe from the sun. I could even offer my lord a bath, if he so desires?"
Marius' remaining hand went almost self-consciously to the bloodstained tunic, and he gave her a faint hint of a smile. "That," he said somewhat ruefully, "would indeed be most welcome."
Marius settled into the water, leaning back against the fabric that lined the large, round tub with a soft sigh. Ayesha, stripped down to her shift, took a last kettle of hot water and added it to the tub down near his feet. Then she set the kettle aside, and knelt beside him, dipping a washing cloth in the water, wringing it out, and then rubbing it against the bar of soap.
"This is so heavenly," he murmured. "It’s rare that I can enjoy a private bath like this, instead of going to a bathhouse."
“But my lord, this is a bathhouse,” Ayesha said. “It’s just my bathhouse, not one that caters to our blood.” She laid the soapy cloth against his shoulder, and began to scrub over his back and neck. She could well appreciate, seeing him unclothed, why Countess Thérèse de Vere had so quickly made him a target of her seductive wiles—Marius had been Embraced in the full beauty of lean, hard-muscled youth, and was easily as handsome as any Toreador.
She was going to enjoy this.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again, looking around the room with a dawning comprehension. "You bring… men here, then," he said. “Mortal men?”
"And what if I do? I have to feed somehow, and the rent on this place isn’t cheap," she said, continuing to move the cloth, down the length of his arm and back again. "I daresay the fine ladies in the Prince’s court would not like me preying on their admirers, after all."
"I suppose not." Marius almost winced as she lifted his arm, to run the cloth gently over the stump of his wrist. The flesh and skin had closed over the raw ends of his wrist, but there was no sign of any further healing as yet. "How long does it take? To grow back?" he asked.
"For me, it was but a week, the first time—"
"The first time?" He turned, and gave her an odd look. "What kind of man would even do that to a woman?"
"The first was a merchant in Damascus, who claimed I had stolen something from him. He had no evidence, of course, but I was young. I didn't know how to get away from them then. I was careless, and so I had to pay the price."
She continued to dip the cloth in the bathwater, pushing Marius to sit forward so she could reach the rest of his back. "The second was in Acre— a Franj Crusader who called me a pute voleuse, a thieving whore, and ordered me flogged and my hand cut off as—"
"Oh, God’s blood—" Marius whispered, and added something in his native Lombardic she couldn't follow. "I remember—I mean, I actually witnessed something like that, during my service in the Holy Land. That was you? I knew your face was familiar... I couldn't remember from when or where! My lady, Ayesha.... I—how can you even forgive such a thing?”
"It was not you who ordered it, my lord." Ayesha said, reaching out to touch him, move her hand lightly up the length of his arm as far as she could reach, and back again. "And you see? I am quite whole, despite all he commanded."
"Even so, he should not have done that—" Marius turned to face her, raising his left hand to lightly touch her hair. "Ayesha—”
She held still as he touched her, caught by his eyes. Never look them in the eyes... But there was only gentleness in his hand, his fingers sliding through her hair, caressing her cheek. And in his eyes...
Hunger, yes. But also…Desire.
He moved to the edge of the tub himself so there was nothing but the wooden wall between them, drew her closer, slowly, as if he wasn't sure what she might say or do in return. She knew, if she had offered him the slightest resistance, he would have released her.
But she did not resist. This was, after all, her adventure, the very purpose of almost everything she'd done this night. She closed her eyes and let him draw her into his kiss, sliding her arms around his neck in return.
And then, he pulled her into the tub. With a little shriek (and, it must be said, a bit of a giggle), she permitted that. She could have resisted, she knew he would not have used his full strength against her. But she didn’t want to resist, she had so wanted this, to feel his lips on hers, his arms around her, his hand sliding up into her wet hair.
Knowing he had not done as much for the Countess Thérèse, of course, gave her a particular delight.
He cradled her against his shoulder, their bodies close, legs tangled together under the water, her arms encircling his chest. "Would that I had two hands, cara," he murmured, "to caress you as you deserve. Perhaps, in a week... a week is what you said, right?"
"The first time, it was a week," Ayesha said. Her hand moved idly across his chest, tracing the wet swirls of hair there. "But the second time, it was closer to two months—"
"Two months?" She could hear the horror in his voice, remembered her own hard times during those months, when she had herself despaired of ever being whole again.
And then the obvious answer was suddenly clear. "But I was alone then. Marius, listen to me. When—when it happened to me, the first time, I was still with my Sire. He lectured me about getting caught, told me all the things I should have done, but that's not the important thing. He also gave me his Blood, again. He was much older and more powerful than I was. Perhaps it was his Blood that hastened the healing? But when I was caught in Acre, he was no longer with me, and I knew no one else. Perhaps you need the same, and it would speed your healing as well."
"My Sire's Blood? Oh, no, I can't. I—Not again, I don't dare."
"Not hers, then." She took a totally unnecessary breath. "Mine."
"Yours?" He shifted slightly, so he could look down at her. "Why are you even doing this? To get back at Roland for something... or put me in your debt—"
"You bastard." Ayesha broke free of his arms, scrambled for the far side of the tub. He tried to catch her, but had apparently forgotten he was a hand short, and she was easily able to escape his grasp. “You think I’m just doing this to put you in my debt? That I can’t just… do this to be nice? Or because I happen to like you? Or that I think Roland is an asshole for cutting off your sword hand and letting you believe you’d lost it for all eternity?”
He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, resting his chin on his right forearm. “My sire would probably say it’s a little of all of those,” he said, unapologetically. “Is it?”
“Well… yes. Of course,” she admitted. “But it’s mostly because I really do like you. And Roland is an asshole. And also… I don’t think you’ve let Countess Thérèse take any such liberties yet, and I wanted to be the first. After your sire, of course,” she added, belatedly.
“My sire—” he murmured, scowling suddenly. “She didn’t tell me that Cainites could heal like that. There’s probably a lot she hasn’t told me.”
“It probably didn’t occur to her that you’d need to know. I’ll bet she’s never lost a hand.”
“Probably not…” He extended his left hand to her. “Forgive me, my lady, for doubting your intentions—”
“I’m not really a lady, you know,” she protested, but took his hand anyway, and let him draw her back into his arms.
“You’re my lady,” he said, and kissed her. His right arm was around her shoulders, supporting her; his left hand caressed her cheek. She kissed him back, letting her hands wander all over, from his hair to his bare shoulders, back, and chest while she lay across his lap. His left hand wandered as well, sliding down over her shoulder to cup her right breast, teasing her nipple with the edge of his thumb through the clinging linen of her shift.
Yes. Yes, please…. She shifted her position to sit astride his hips, pulling the shift up to ease his entrance between her legs, and then off over her head. Or at least, she tried to pull it off over her head, but it was soaked through, cumbersome and heavy, and she couldn’t quite manage it alone.
He chuckled. “Would my lady like some assistance?”
“Yes, damn you,” she said, her voice muffled by the fabric of her shift, which was currently half-covering her head. “Help me?”
“Of course.” He used his left hand and right forearm, and between the two of them, the shift was removed and tossed aside, half in and half out of the tub.
He looked at her with frank appreciation. “Sei bellissima, Ayesha,” he murmured.
She smiled. “That much Italian, even I can understand.”
They kissed again, and gradually their kisses and caresses edged into something more intimate and, for Cainites, dangerously close to literal Hunger. Especially when his kisses strayed down to her throat.
Ayesha stopped him then. “If you want—really want—to do this,” she whispered. “I can—I will—drink from you also, if you will permit it? To be fair, so I am not taking advantage of you.”
He had to take a couple of deep calming breaths before he could reply. “So we will each be one step bound to one another,” he said at last. “Is that what you want?”
It had been an impulsive offer, but she suddenly realized how much she actually wanted this. To feel a blood connection to another Cainite, even if he wasn’t Ravnos. He was still, despite his noble blood and High Clan status (and his friendship with Christophe, Prince Sigurd’s childe), a Lasombra neonate in a Ventrue-dominated court. An outsider, like herself.
“Yes,” she said. “So we will be in each other’s debt, and I won’t hold any more power over you than you hold over me. The advantage, of course, is that means you will be able to heal faster."
“A pact of shared blood, then.” Marius smiled at her. “That certainly does sound rather inviting… at the moment.”
She smiled. “I think so too.”
This time, when his lips strayed down to brush her throat, she was ready for his fangs to follow, and his Kiss sent shivers of physical pleasure through her entire body. It was like being mortal again, only better; she remembered her sire drinking from her like this, and causing the same waves of erotic delight. And then she was able to hear him gasp with pleasure as her fangs found his sweet blood, tasting his passion and energy, and taking it into herself.
After that, they suddenly realized the water in the tub was no longer hot, or even tepid; it had in fact, grown rather chilly. Ayesha and Marius left the tub, dried each other off with towels, though it was clear he was already succumbing to the combined soporific effects of his injury, her blood, and the swiftly approaching dawn.
"Here, let me help you—" Ayesha half-guided, half-supported him down the stairs to her bedchamber, and over to the bed. He fell onto it gratefully, and she pulled the sheets and cover down, sliding them out from under him, and tucking them around him. "Shhhhh, now," she murmured, stroking his forehead lightly, playing with the damp curls that draped over his brow. "You're safe here, Marius. You can rest now."
"Hmmm-mmmm." He caught her hand with his, brought her fingers up to his lips and kissed them. "Mario. My name... in Italian, it's Mario. For... friends."
"Mario," she repeated, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Go to sleep, Mario."
He closed his eyes; she held him until he lay still and quiet in her arms.
Mario. Gently she traced the line of his eyebrows, his nose, and lips with the tip of one finger. Thérèse was a fool, she decided. Or perhaps just too used to having men worship her, and found Mario's attentions lacking in some way. Not that she had any better chance—it was clear that his Sire still held his heart. And how could she, a Ravnos, a half-breed Saracen common-woman compete with the beautiful and delicate Lady Alianora dell’Aquila of Milan?
And then she recalled something else. It was true it had taken but a week for her hand to regenerate with her Sire's blood coursing through her veins. It was also true she'd spent most of that week asleep. Marius was going to be her guest for several nights to come, which could prove… awkward. But she had managed before—she'd manage again.
She also knew for a fact that Captain Gaston would not take Roland’s seriously injuring his newest recruit lightly. Roland had no idea how very annoyed Gaston could—and likely would—be over this. She only hoped she could watch when the old Brujah put his junior in his place…
She slid under the covers beside Marius—Mario, she remembered—tucking her arm around his chest and nestling her head against his shoulder, and let herself surrender to the dawn.