**Interlude 18 - I have been bruised by the beauty of the moon

The writhing discomfort the cruel press of his teeth provoked had brightened Fabien's expression significantly. The ghost of a smile returned to haunt the corners of his lips. No doubt he intended to press his mouth to his handiwork. Enclose their throat with his palm and make them ache.

They had fulfilled their purpose too. Heat and colour had returned to his enliven his skin. The hands that begrudgingly, foolishly let them slip away were warm. He released Émile's hair, his only tangible grip on them.

The urchin had been in the process of unbuttoning his shirt, perhaps to offer them a scrap of modesty. It was a kind gesture that he immediately came to regret.

The boy watched them lurch away from him, slippery as an eel. He was immediately taken aback, unable to conceal his surprise at their recklessness.

"Émile!" He shouted, with such unflinching firmness. Like one would call a misbehaving dog to heel.

He did not try to find his feet and stumble after them. He listened to the sounds of their bare soles retreating, with an irritable shake of the head.

"Pas votre coup le plus intelligent." He said through gritted teeth, his voice flush with unmistakable frustration.

His head lolled against the back of the chair, and he heaved a sigh of defeat. The urchin attempted to hoist his body from the seat, but the sudden tug of his torn skin caused him to slump back with a gasp of pain.

He remained there for a while, watching a square patch of light move across the floor. Then, with weary effort, he found his feet and limped from the library.

The boy examined the length of the dark hall, but saw no trace of his fleeing pet. He was greeted by only shadows and silence, as the house seemed to hold its breath in their absence. He continued on to rediscover his room, unchanged since Colombe had gently come to seek his help.

A less experienced occupant of the house might have concluded the night was nothing but a wine-fuelled nightmare. A somnambulistic stroll through the dusty planes of unconsciousness. But for Fabien, the strangeness of his home had wrapped itself around him like vines strangling a sapling.

He limped towards his bed, and sank into the comforting deliciousness of soft sheets and mattress. It did not take long for sleep to claim him.

The air was honeyed with the sun’s warmth by the time Tariq returned home. Stepping into the cool interior of the house was a sweet relief.

The scent was faint but snagged his attention sharp as a fish hook the instant he was inside - the sweet, black musk of the trailing shadow of the wolf. He paused in the doorway and felt Fakhir fall still at his side. She shared a glance that his sightless eyes did not return.

“Bil tawfeeq,” she murmured and he exhaled a breath of wry amusement.

“He does not need it,” he replied dryly. “There is only one death for him now.” She inclined her head to the side in silent agreement.

They parted at the foot of the stairs, her skin cool and fragrant with resinous smoke where he pressed a fond kiss against the side of her jaw. He could hear her murmuring wearily to Lacrima as she returned to her room.

He could hear the floor creaking under the girl’s soft tread above his head. Her steps were slow, though they seemed burdened more by fatigue and grief than injury. The wolf had gone to ground - he could sense the rapid flutter of their heart in their chest as they sheltered in the dark, could feel the gossamer pain that shrouded their movements like a spider’s web. They were certainly no threat to anyone now.

He turned his hollow gaze to the scent of his boy and ascended the stairs with steps that did not make a sound.

The door to the room where Fabien lay sleeping was cracked and he could not help but pause at the sliver. The air was warm with his drowsing breath and the vampire could taste the coppery tang of dried blood and the sharp edge of terrified sweat. For a moment he was struck by a sharp pang, the impulse to join him in that plush bed, curl his body around the delicious living heat of him, the urge to stroke his hair and caress his wounds and breathe in the scent of the back of his neck slicing through him like the flashing blade of a knife.

A thin shiver traced up his spine. He resisted, turning aside to his cool, dark room and the shadows that eagerly greeted him.