Empire of Night.pdf

CHAPTER THREE:

THE HONEYMOONERS

The Black Sea, Odessa, Ukraine

“I do so love it here,” Lola declared, turning her gaze from Sidorio out to the frozen

sea. “I knew you’d choose the perfect spot for our honeymoon.” It was so cold that

the ocean waves were freezing as they hit the shore. It was a rare and magical sight,

made yet more magical by the violet tint of the moonlight and the soft hush of the

waves in the distance, sounding their final sighs before they transmuted from liquid

into ice.

A fresh drift of snow began to cover the table between them. Lola turned to

face her husband, reaching out her hand to him. “How clever you are,” she said.

Sidorio smiled. In his achingly long time roaming this world, he could pretty

much count on the fingers of one hand the times he had been called clever. He shifted

his gaze from his wife’s glowing face to the building behind them. A soft light

emanated from the windows of the all but deserted hotel. In former times, the rococo

building had been a royal palace and it clung onto a certain epic grandeur. The

Lockwood Sidorios were the only guests at the hotel and had secured the suite of

rooms once used by Peter the Great and his wife, the Empress Catherine. “How

fitting,” Lola had said as she had snatched the key from the desk clerk, who doubled

up as the maitre d’.

In the absence of business during the long, harsh winter, the hotel retained

only a skeleton staff. This mattered little to the newly-weds. Their needs were quite

simple.

Now, the maitre d’ made his way towards the unconventional but unerringly

generous couple, sitting at their table at the edge of the snow-covered beach. Tonight,

the woman with the curious heart tattoo was dressed in a full-length sable; the man in

a greatcoat, enhancing his somewhat militaristic air.

“Sir.” The elderly host cleared his throat, then announced, “the musicians have

arrived. Just as you requested.” His message delivered, the elderly host began

trudging back through the snow.

Lola clapped her hands in delight. Gazing lovingly at her husband, she

exclaimed, “Musicians! Bravo!”

“You said you wanted music,” Sidorio’s eyes bored into hers. “Anything my

wife desires, she gets.”

Lola smiled. “Anything?”

He winked. “Try me.”

“A new ship,” she said, not missing a beat. “One like Trofie Wrathe’s. The

Typhon .” She paused, then smiled. “No, not like The Typhon . I want The Typhon

itself.”

Sidiorio looked amused. “Her golden hand wasn’t enough for you?”

Lola pouted momentarily. “Her rancid son stole that back. No matter, it served

its purpose.” She smiled to remember how she had lately employed Trofie’s hand as

the centrepiece of her unorthodox and unforgettable wedding bouquet.

“Fine,” Sidorio said. “So, I’ll get you her ship. What else? Anything I can get

for you this very night?”

“Well,” said Lola, “I am quite thirsty, as it happens. How about you?”

Sidorio nodded, smiling. Then, he whistled to the maitre d’ who was still

forging his way back through the snow to summon the musicians. As Sidorio’s

whistle whipped through the night air, the old man stopped dead in his tracks, turned

and began to plod back, his snowshoes slow and none too steady.

“Bring us a magnum of your finest vintage,” Sidorio barked.

The old man raised a wild eyebrow - the wave of white hair encrusted with

ice. “Our finest is expensive, sir – in a magnum, especially.”

Sidorio shrugged, losing no time in pulling gold from his pockets. “Don’t

bother me with talk of money. You know perfectly well I have enough gold here to

buy this fleapit hotel, if I choose to. Just fetch us the wine.” Noticing Lola watching

him admiringly, he added, “My wife is a connoisseur. She has a very sophisticated

palate.”

“Very good, sir!” The host gave a nod, then turned to embark on his latest epic

journey through the thick falling snow.

Lola slipped off her shoes and let the bare flesh of her soles connect with the

icy ground. It felt utterly delicious. Once more, she shivered with pleasure.

The musicians arrived. They were young and clad in coats, hats, scarves and

fingerless gloves. They climbed onto the old iron bandstand. With minimal fuss, they

took up their instruments and began to play. The music was entrancing, blending the

innocent air of an old folk-song with the insistent rhythm of a tango.

Lola stood up, letting her sable coat slide down from her shoulders into the

well of her chair. She reached out a hand. “Dance with me, husband!”

Sidorio rose to his feet and enfolded her tiny hand in his powerful grip. They

walked across the snow-covered beach, a short distance from the bandstand. The lead

singer - a young woman with wild, dark eyes and lashes reminiscent of thick spider’s

legs - smiled, as the couple began to dance. Their style was unusual but full of flair.

Lola shrieked with delight as Sidorio dipped her low over the ice. She let her

head fall backwards, exposing the fresh scars about her neck, while strands of her

long, raven hair brushed the snow and her eyes gazed wildly up at the full moon.

After their dance, Sidorio led Lola back to their table. In their absence, the

aged host had deposited the magnum of wine and a pair of glasses. Already, the bottle

and glasses were dusted with fresh snowflakes.

“I’ll pour,” Lola said, brushing the dusting of snow from the wine bottle.

Lifting it up to the light, she glanced at the bottle’s yellowed label. Then she upended

it and poured its dark, glutinous contents out onto the moonlit snow.

Sidorio grinned.

The musicians began a new song – the violin and accordion building the

rhythm. The singer slapped her tambourine and stomped her feet with increasing

vigour, utterly caught up in the frenzied world of her song.

Lola extended the empty bottle to her husband, swinging it precariously

between her elegant fingers. “Lola’s thirsty,” she declared, mimicking a young girl’s

voice. Then, reverting to her normal timbre, she smiled prettily and asked, “Won’t

you fetch me a proper drink, dearest?”

Nodding but saying nothing, Sidorio seized the empty bottle and set off

through the snow. Lola glimpsed the fire in his eyes; the deep pits of flame which

revealed that his own appetite was as strong and deep and demanding as her own.

Inside the warmth of the hotel restaurant, the maitre d’ noticed that the music had

stopped. He squinted out through the window but a veil of fresh condensation

impaired his view. He lifted a feeble hand to the glass, wincing as his old flesh made

contact with the freezing pane. Rubbing his fist against it, he cleared a peephole.

Peering out, he saw that the bandstand stood empty. He adjusted his line of

vision and corrected himself. The bandstand was not in fact empty but carpeted with

bodies. The musicians were slumped on it, lifeless. A river of red, illuminated by the

moon, flowed urgently into the virgin snow.

The man - the impossibly tall stranger with the impressively deep pockets –

walked back across the snow. Rocking between the thick thumb and forefinger of his

left hand was the wine bottle. As he strode on, some of the contents of the magnum

spilled over the brim and spattered the ground.

Feeling waves of nausea, the old man frowned. He turned away from the

window and sought comfort in the sight of the pile of gold coins. They gleamed in the

candlelight, as bright as if they had been minted that very evening. He cupped the

coins in his hands and cradled them carefully. This was more money than he had ever

seen in his long life; certainly more money than he would ever see again.

Outside, Sidorio offered the bottle to his wife. Lola reached out her glass and Sidorio

poured a tasting portion of the liquid inside. She had trained him well. Mouthing her

thanks, she swirled the liquid around the glass and lifted it to her nose, the better to

savour its distinctive aroma.

Glancing up, she caught her husband eschewing the other glass and, instead,

lifting the bottle directly to his thick lips. He drank thirstily. She watched him; half-

appalled, half-entranced.

Sidorio, growing conscious of his wife’s glance, drew the bottle away from his

mouth and smiled, guilelessly, at her. His lips were smeared with blood. Like a

naughty lad, caught with a mouthful of chocolate, he extended his tongue to lick up

the traces.

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