The garden is as Napoleon remembers: well-maintained, brimming with sweet flowers and fragrant fruit trees that blossom within days of each other. Come tomorrow the poppies would bloom, as they always chased the margarites, hazy following sweet. Napoleon swallows this fact down, but he spent too many springs here for the knowledge to simply go away. He knows it like he knows Monday follows Sunday. It has always been this way.
The gazebo is stark white in the moonlight, and the shadows play tricks. If Napoleon stares too long he sees figures in the gazebo, a familiar trio. The fangs on his neck, unfamiliar, but Decroix is here, holding his hand, a comfort as much as a vice. 'You know not to flinch, dear,' voice a familiar mimicry of concern thrown over amusement like thin gauze, like a garment meant to tantalize more than cover. 'Be still,' Decroix's fingers are bruisingly tight, gripping as if he may run at any moment, as if he wanted to run. As if he had anywhere else to go.
(It is a good life, he told himself, a mantra so familiar it lost meaning. His muscles were never so well defined, stomach never so full, not concave but dipping outward into soft belly, hair sparse but soft and dark, trailing beneath rich linen lounge clothes. Traveling the world was something he knew of only through conversation with wealthy clientele, but together he and Decroix bounce from Paris, to London, then Rome, now a villa by the sea. He goes where Decroix takes him.)
(He still tires easily, face immaculate but for sunken eyes outlined deep blue, neck aches, body aches, sluggish, shakes in the night. But this is a good life. Richer. He wants for nothing.)
'Maybe I want the hurt,' he says mildly, barely a slur to be found. Still, it was even more of a lie then than it is now; he's never enjoyed pain. But he has a sense of professional pride, and flinching because he's with a stranger is entry-level. Decroix must know it's a lie, he knows how Napoleon despises unnecessary discomfort, in that Napoleon only gladly takes what he cannot avoid. Still, the bruising grip eases to an ache, and his other hand finds the nape of Napoleon's neck, petting his hair to the rhythm of his stuttering heart. It's just tender enough that his eyes slide shut, the buzz beneath his skin growing more insistent until it's as though he's admiring the garden from above, detached from his body.
He used to find the gardens overwhelming, too sweet, sweet like Moscato gone to his head. He realizes now the gardens weren't meant for him; the air carries subtleties he couldn't have caught. High notes of geranium are bellied by jasmine, brought into sharp focus by the bed of mint growing just below the second story balcony. A breeze carries salt up the cliffs. He can pluck each scent from the air, possessing a keenness of sense he lacked the last time he meandered through the garden. Divorced from context it is the sort of place Napoleon would love to linger, someone pretty on his side, an heiress seeking relief from ennui, a new money boy seeking excitement, and guide them through the gardens the way Moretti once guided him, hand flush and cold on his back. Napoleon wonders if this is why Moretti and Decroix loved taking him here, walking under moonlight. Having him in the gazebo, tumbling in the grass. But even a bad con knows meaning exists only by virtue of context.
He keeps low to the bushes, nose to the air, cataloguing, anything to stop his mind from wandering. Stakeouts are worst when alone. Waiting on standby worse still, with nothing but your head and its rapidly spiralling construction of scenario and memory to keep you company. Illya's gun is a comfort against his ankle, something solid to focus on.
Sea air, salt, hint of petrichor; storm clouds just beyond the horizon. It seems appropriate. Rotting fish, pomegranate overripe on the bow. Wet earth, scavengers feasting on pruned leaves. Blood on the air, Illya's blood, a scent tied wholly with fight the way a whiff of forgotten perfume can call to mind memories of your first love. A scent only once tied to sacrifice, a bruised-tender thing he never allows himself to dwell on, but now he lets the memory grip him and propel him into motion.
The interior is not how he remembers, but changed to suit the times. He enters through the kitchen door, rubber soles making no sound. The kitchen table is metal now, but he sees the wooden one where Moretti had him just for laughs, where Napoleon turned clenched fist into open caress. He passes quickly to the staircase, suppressing the urge to eye new additions to art lining the wall. Here Decroix pushed him against the banister, wood digging into spine. Here Napoleon pitched growl of resentment into moan, frighteningly genuine. Here he learned lying is all about the truth-telling.
The haze of blood is stronger on the second floor, just beyond the office door. He could walk this place in his sleep. Here he sat quietly while Decroix spoke of politics, uttered names so old and out of place that Napoleon had no choice but to listen closer, ears hungry for gossip, each name a flickering match that lights this still unfamiliar people. Every society has its rules, human or no, and only when you know them can you bend them to your will. Even the living dead are a live series of buttons, easy to manipulate when you know which ones to push.
He pushes the door open, almost falling into the easy rhythm of a heist, except Illya is missing at his side and that throws him. He's grown so accustomed to having a partner, something to rely on, he doesn't know if it's a weakness or a strength. The villa's exterior speaks of a modern man but this is as Napoleon remembered; the study changed little, but for the art lining the wall. Even then they are all Renaissance, of course. He remembers the chaise lounge Moretti and Illya are occupying, its deep brown leather difficult to stain. The sight stirs nothing in him but dull disgust, like viewing the photograph of a victim wedged between pages of a police report, like pieces of a memo on collateral damage. No one stirs when he enters, body angled to make a small target of himself, as if that would matter.
Even expecting it, the smell of blood hits him like a truck, almost forcing a stumble. Illya's blood, adrenaline, a smell chanting danger danger danger , stomach-dropping and familiar. He breathes through his mouth, ignoring how each breath weighs on his tongue and sticks to his throat. Illya's eyes flicker open, sensing a change in the room. He scans, wheels turning for method of escape even now; dependable Illya. Perhaps he could have even done this on his own after all, but that isn't a chance Napoleon is willing to take, not a chance he gave Illya the option of taking.
He presses close to the walls, following shadow but Illya's gaze still finds him, confusion plain in a moment of impressive lucidity; not coherent enough to wear a mask, relief follows confusion, the sort of expression Napoleon imagines he must have wore when he saw Illya appear behind Rudi. What a terrible thing to be on this end of that stare. What a terrible thing to know you put it there.
They're approaching a full minute now. No risk of death, if Moretti is taking his time. The thought provides little comfort. Pros and cons. Cost-benefit. This plan is safer than direct confrontation. Worth putting Illya through this, and Illya would agree if their positions were reversed, surely. He puts a finger to his lips and Illya's eyes slip shut again, shoulders lined with relief. Napoleon lifts his pant leg and retrieves Illya's gun. It fits awkwardly in his hands, clearly customized for a larger hand, an extension of Illya.
Napoleon's steps make no sound, predatory. There is nothing human about the tilt of his head or narrowed focus of his gaze. Moretti raises a hand to crane Illya's head further, to dig deeper, and Napoleon could not have anticipated the way seeing Illya's neck pushed at such an angle would make his stomach lurch.
"Hello, Moretti," desperate to get him away from Illya, Napoleon falls on his silver tongue. Gives himself away, loses the element of surprised he tried so hard to cultivate with Illya as bait, but confronted by the image of Illya with neck splayed, he could not keep the words in. Gun drops from his hands as they form into fists, shaking, and Napoleon wonders if this is how Illya feels at the start of an episode, so full of rage that it has to get out .
Moretti rears his head, fangs tearing from Illya's neck, wrenching flesh apart from muscle. Their eyes meet, confusion-recognition-anger, "Napoleon." And that is all he gets out before Napoleon's fist connects, knuckles splitting open on fang. It only seems appropriate. Moretti stumbles, blood smearing down his front, dull black copper of vampire viscera blending with Illya's blood, a brighter shade of red. It's a first hit he wouldn't have got in otherwise. Moretti is as close to drunk as vampire can be, hazy on Illya's blood. Even Napoleon is buzzed with it, but he is accustomed to working beside the siren of blood on the air. He tunes it out, feels no desire, and where he might feel bloodlust edging in the corners of his mind there is only a single word, a mantra of Illya Illya Illya Illya. Guilt sets in instead of lust, but Napoleon reminds himself again that this was the only way. Moretti drunk on blood, not thinking clearly. Napoleon did not elude hunters and government alike for so long because he made a habit of overestimating his ability.
The opening of Moretti's shock is waning. Napoleon shuts off the active part of his brain with a snarl, animal sound, and slams himself into Moretti's middle. Dangerous move, no strategy, but he and Moretti both are beyond strategy. Fangs may be a quicker route but Napoleon needs this, the ache in his knucks that thrums with his breath. Fingers curl around Moretti's throat of their own accord, not meant to kill but for the pleasure of crushing. Moretti, struggling for the human need to breathe; he cannot suffocate the way Illya could, but his eyes roll back all the same, hands scrambling. Napoleon cannot feel his face, or the rest of his body, he moves as if puppeting his body from outside. But he knows he must be grinning.
"Do you remember this?" The flesh starts to give, caves, muscle folding on itself, and Napoleon has the distant thought that he is glad his back faces Illya. Moretti's only response is to mouth his name, Napoleon .
Knee connects with stomach, forcing his hand to loosen and vaulting him back. Napoleon lands with his back digging into marble banister, ocean breeze on his face and Napoleon realizes they're on the balcony overlooking fine trimmed hedges and mint. Moretti is there , forearm to his chest, holding him upright, banister cool from night air and digging into his back.
"Of course I remember," it comes out as a smiling wheeze. Damaged voicebox. Even the satisfaction from this is dull, superseded by panic, by the omnipresent smell of Illya , Illya bleeding out. Going on three minutes now. Wound should start scabbing soon, but vampire bites coagulate slowly.
Napoleon kicks out a leg, unbalancing them both. They tumble, air rushing in his ears and cushioning his back, they fall and Napoleon does not even steel himself for the ground, only snarls and says, "I wanted to kill you cleanly," his own voice a rasp, lips pulled back in snarl and yet the register is somehow still human , "But this will have to do." Even as they land, Napoleon digs his teeth into anything he can find. Moretti's drunkenness is waning, Napoleon's edge disappearing faster than he needs.
They tumble, dry earth growing muddy and wet with blood. Napoleon's own blood makes a map of his fist, red lines dripping as if writing directions on his skin. His teeth fall on Moretti and Moretti falls on him, Napoleon's teeth digging into neck, Moretti only able to reach shoulder, cutting through thick dark wool and struggling for purchase. Napoleon registers this in the abstract only, because there is blood in his mouth and all senses filters through it as if through murky water. He half-expects a shudder, some form of reaction beyond dull recognition of pain. Fear, lust, revulsion, want. Moretti is at his shoulder, on top of him, pinning him, and his body should- he should- feel something. He knows Moretti, or maybe only knew him, but it is not a stranger. He feels only the throb, far away and sickly warm, sharp and dull all at once.
The next few moments happen in reverse. The pain in his shoulder shifts into violent focus, not two needles of ache but single point of searing . He cries out, teeth tearing from flesh, blood down his chin. A body, heavy on top of him, blanketing without struggle. It's in the ensuing moments of calm, grass cool at his back, that the echoing shot finally processes. A gunshot, its echo bouncing off rocky cliff and marble pillar even now, a drumbeat heralding violence, heralding an end.
He rolls Moretti off him, ignoring how the dead weight feels wrong in the way it does not resist the push of his palm. Like Napoleon's never handled a dead body before. (Never the dead body of a man whose favorite wines he could name even now, a piece of knowledge stored in the same place he stores the mechanics of a safe. Pragmatic yet dear.)
Legs shaking, he stands, eyes scanning the trajectory of the bullet even as he knows it could have only come from Illya. Illya, who he last saw bleeding and sedated. Illya, who now half-lay on the banister they tumbled over, gun held loosely. It slips from his fingers, falls somewhere in the grass. Napoleon doesn't know where, doesn't watch it fall because he is too caught on Illya. Napoleon stumbles to just beneath the balcony, steels himself. He jumps, grabs the marble and ignores how the sudden halt of momentum wrenches his remaining good shoulder. There's a bullet lodged in the other one. He realizes this as if noticing the wound on another man.
"Illya," his voice shakes. Napoleon doesn't know why. Doesn't particularly care at the moment. Illya's neck is down to a trickle, but he's lost a lot of blood, and Napoleon cannot tell where blood loss ends and venom's apathy begins. "You with us, Peril?" He forces his voice light and almost hits the mark.
Two taps on the marble. Napoleon almost jumps. They're loud in the sudden quiet, but comforting. Napoleon takes Illya under the arm and half-drags, half-carries him back to the couch. "Nice shot." I think you saved my life.
Illya's eyes slide shut but he grunts in response. Napoleon does not bother wiping his mouth of blood as he turns to the face the bookshelves, unsure of what he's looking for. He'll know when he sees it. He's shaking, can't stop the shaking, he forces it into the shape of adrenaline, pretends he's feeling the rush of a job completed and not- anything other than that. Napoleon doesn't fool himself, but the lie is enough to let him focus.
He pulls open drawers, scarcely glances at the official-looking transcripts. What he's looking for wouldn't be neatly catalogued. Perhaps he should check the bookshelf, look for letters, journals, a signet ring, anything. Anything that spoke of Decroix. What did he care where his maker was, except that Moretti lay dead in the grass and Napoleon felt none of the satisfaction he wanted.
On the bookshelf, Napoleon's fingers brush old leather, custom bound. Handwritten pages lacking the uniformity of business correspondence. It's enough; he can't stay any longer than this. Illya is bleeding. Napoleon swallows and tucks the ledger into waistband.
"Okay," he rounds the desk and returns to Illya's side, dropping to a knee for leverage, arm coming up under Illya's, "It's time we take our leave."