Chapter 5: Love Lies Bleeding, Part 1

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, 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 certain people might be awake, though even after all this time, Stregoni was ashamed of himself for wanting that. For wanting either of them in the slightest.

Do you want me?

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.

He should go back to bed. But he'd known what he was going to do from the moment he'd accepted Sangre's offer to stay the night.

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 from 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 be 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.

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 to the music room. Their eyes had met for only a moment over dinner, but it had been enough to let him know they would all 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. The equally beautiful man sprawled nearby, watching the pianist like there was nothing else he'd rather do.

Gilles 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. Now, he was dressed only in black breeches and a white shirt he had not bothered to button, his long hair loose around his shoulders, hiding the elegant lines of his face and the bewitching, gold-flecked, pale green eyes.

Nearby, François lounged on a padded bench, wearing even less clothing than Gilles, a beautiful tattoo of tuberoses, dark geraniums, and yellow acacia spread across his chest. He was just as enthralling. Just as addictive. Just as devastating to Stregoni's mind and heart.

Stregoni hovered in the doorway, knowing he should flee but far too enthralled to act with sense.

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 François was a massive portrait of two men. It looked as though someone had simply painted Aubrey twice, but it was in fact Jonathan and George Bathory, the respective fathers of Aubrey and Carmilla, and Gilles. Twins, and Stregoni recalled his father saying they had once been quite close. Though George Bathory lived only a few miles away, Stregoni had never met him. He had become a recluse since the death of his wife in childbirth.

So much of a recluse, in fact, that Gilles had come to live with his uncle. Beyond that, Stregoni knew nothing about the situation. No one knew anything, except Gilles and Lord Sangre.

All Stregoni knew was that Gilles could be, and often was, cold and cruel, and he never got kinder than merely condescending.

Except sometimes...

He shook his head and looked again at the portrait. Gilles 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 had been in their mid-twenties at the time of the portrait. Handsome, severe, hinting at the over strict lord of the manor that Sangre would eventually become - though, at that, Stregoni could not tell who was who.

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 purple velvet, lush against 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 called love-lies-bleeding.

Stregoni was stirred from his musings by the sudden absence of music, and dropped his gaze to see that Gilles and François were watching him.

The green eyes drew him like an opium addict to laudanum, the purple eyes a challenge he couldn't refuse.

"The midnight hour strikes, and the doctor appears. Some would say that makes you a witch, doctor," Gilles 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.

Gilles reached out to pick up the glass of wine perched on the edge of the piano. Deep, blood red, and probably dry - Gilles 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 Gilles set it down again was shockingly loud in the ringing silence.