Empire of the Vampire

by Jay Kristoff

  “I turned to Mama then. And when I saw the resignation on her face, I understood at last. These men were here at her behest. This Greyhand was the help I’d asked her for—the help she herself couldn’t give. There were tears in her eyes. The agony of a lioness who’d do anything to protect her cub, knowing there was nothing now left to do.

  “‘No!’ Celene spat. ‘You will not take my brother!’

  “‘Celene, hush now,’ Mama whispered.

  “‘They will not take him!’ she cried. ‘Get behind me, Gabe!’

  “I stepped between the frère and my baby sister as she raised her fists, hugging her tight as she glowered at the riders behind me. I knew she’d have scratched Greyhand’s eyes out of his skull if given half a chance. But meeting the fellow’s cold stare, I could see the truth of it.

  “‘These are men of God, sister,’ I told her. ‘This is his will.’

  “‘You can’t go!’ Celene snapped. ‘It isn’t fair!’

  “‘Perhaps not. But who am I to gainsay the Almighty?’

  “I was terrified, I’ll not lie. I’d no wish to leave ma famille, or my little world. But the villagers were still gathered about us, looking at me with fearful, furious eyes. My teeth were dull as they’d once been, but the red rush of Ilsa’s blood yet lingered in my mouth. And it seemed for a moment that everything stood poised on the edge of a knife. You feel those moments in your soul. These men were offering me salvation. A path to a life I never imagined. And still, I knew there’d come a terrible cost for it. And Mama knew it too.

  “But what choice did I have? I couldn’t stay, not after what I’d done. I didn’t know what I was becoming, I didn’t have any answers, but perhaps these men did. And as I’d asked my sister, who was I to challenge the will of heaven? To defy he who made me? And so, drawing a deep breath, I reached out and took what Greyhand offered.”

  Gabriel looked skyward and sighed.

  “And that was it. Lamb to slaughter.”

  “They took you then and there?” Jean-François asked.

  “They gave me a moment with ma famille. Papa had little to say, but I saw the sword in his hand, and I knew that when my life was on the line, he’d done what little he could to save it. I was afeared at what might happen to Celene without me to look after her, but there was naught I could do. Still, I warned Papa. I fucking warned him.

  “‘Mind your daughter. She’s the only child you have left.’

  “Mama wept as I kissed her good-bye, and I was weeping too, holding Celene in my arms. Mama told me to beware the beast. The beast and all his hungers. All my world was coming to pieces, but what could I do? I was being swept up in a river, yet even then, I was old enough to know; there’s a difference between those who swim with the flood and those who drown fighting it. And its name is Wisdom.

  “‘Don’t go, Gabe,’ Celene pleaded. ‘Don’t leave me alone.’

  “‘I’ll return,’ I promised, kissing her brow. ‘Look after Mama for me, Hellion.’

  “The young fellow who rode behind Greyhand pried Celene off me, offering no words of comfort as he pushed me up onto the back of his pony. Then he wrapped that whimpering monster back up in silver chains and burlap, slung it over Greyhand’s mount. The frère looked about the gathering with pale, bloody eyes.

  “‘We captured this monster three days west of here. And there shall be more of them before there are less. Dark days come, and nights yet darker. Set candles at your windows. Invite no stranger into your homes. Ever keep the fires burning in your hearths and the love of God burning in your hearts. We will triumph. For we are silver.’

  “‘We are silver,’ the young fellow echoed.

  “Little Celene was weeping, and I held out my hand in farewell. I called to Mama that I loved her, but she was just staring at the sky, tears freezing on her cheeks. As we rode out of Lorson, I can’t remember ever feeling so lost, and I watched ma famille through the falling snow until they grew too distant to see, and the gloom swallowed them whole.”

  “A fifteen-year-old boy,” Jean-François sighed, stroking the feathers at his throat.

  “Oui,” Gabriel nodded.

  “And you name us monsters.”

  Gabriel’s eyes found the vampire’s, and his voice became steel.

  “Oui.”

  V

  FIRE IN THE NIGHT

  JEAN-FRANÇOIS SMILED FAINTLY. “So, from Lorson to San Michon?”

  Gabriel nodded. “It took us a few weeks, riding along the Hollyroad. The weather was freezing, and the coat they’d given me did nothing to keep the chill from my belly. I was still reeling with it all. The memory of what I’d done to Ilsa. The dark heaven of her blood in my mouth. The sight of that monster that Greyhand had dragged from his sack, still slung behind him on his saddle. I knew not what to make of any of this.”

  “Did Frère Greyhand tell you what was in store?”

  “He told me one-fifth of three-eighths of fuck all. And at first, I was afraid to ask. There was such a fire in Greyhand, it seemed he might scorch you if you stood too close. He was all skin and bone, sharp cheeks and chin, hair like dirty straw. He chewed his food like he hated it, spent almost every moment of rest at prayer, pausing occasionally to whip his back with his belt. When I tried to speak to him, he’d just glare ’til I fell silent.

  “The only affection he showed was to that falcon he rode with. He called it Archer, and he doted on that fucking bird like a father on a son. But the strangest part of him was revealed the first morning he washed in front of me.

  “As he removed his tunic to bathe in our bucket, I saw Greyhand was covered in tattoos. I’d seen inkwork before—fae spirals on Ossway folk and the like—but the frère’s tattoos were something new.”

  Gabriel ran his fingers over the inkwork atop his own hands.

  “The ink was like this. Dark, but metallic. Silver in the pigment. Greyhand had a portrait of the Mothermaid covering his entire back. A spiral of saintsrose and swords and angels ran down his arms, and he wore seven wolves for the Seven Martyrs across his chest. The young apprentice who rode with him had less inkwork, but he still wore a beautiful weave of roses and serpents on his chest. Naél, the Angel of Bliss, covered his left forearm, Sarai, the Angel of Plagues, filled his bicep, her beautiful moth wings spread wide. And both of them had the sevenstar inked in their left hands.”

  Gabriel turned his hand over, showed the vampire his palm. There, among the calluses and scars, sat a seven-pointed star inside a perfect circle.

  “I am curious,” Jean-François mused, “why your order profaned your bodies so.”

  “Silversaints called it the aegis. There’s no sense wearing armor when fighting monsters that can crush platemail with their fists. Armor makes a man slow. Noisy. But if your faith in the Almighty was strong enough, the aegis made you untouchable. No matter what monster of the night you stalk—duskdancer, faekin, coldblood—none can abide the touch of silver. And God hates your kind in particular, vampire. You fear even the sight of holy icons. You cower before the sevenstar. The wheel. The Mothermaid and Martyrs.”

  The vampire gestured to Gabriel’s palm. “Then why do I not cower, de León?”

  “Because God hates me more than he hates you.”

  Jean-François smiled. “I presume you have more?”

  “Much more.”

  “… May I see?”

  Gabriel met the thing’s eyes. Silence passed between them, three breaths deep. The vampire ran his tongue over his lips, bright red, wet.

  The silversaint shrugged. “As you like it.”

  Gabriel stood, the chair creaking beneath him as he rose. Reaching up slow, he sloughed off his greatcoat, unlaced his tunic and dragged it over his head, leaving his torso bare. A small sigh, gentle as a whisper, slipped over the vampire’s lips.

  The silversaint was sinew and muscle, lanternlight shadows etched deep on the furrows and troughs of his body. A bevy of scars decorated his skin—from bladework and claws and Redeemer kne
w what else. But moreover, Gabriel de León was covered in inkwork, neck to navel to knuckles. The artistry would’ve been breathtaking if the historian had breath to take. Eloise, the Angel of Retribution, ran down the silversaint’s right arm, sword and shield ready. Chiara, the blind Angel of Mercy, and Eirene, the Angel of Hope, were on his left. A roaring lion covered his chest, sevenstars in its eyes, and a circle of swords stretched across the taut muscles of his belly. Doves and sunbeams, the Redeemer and Mothermaid—all decorated his arms and body. A dark current ran thick in the air.

  “Beautiful,” Jean-François whispered.

  “My artist was one of a kind,” Gabriel replied.

  The silversaint dragged his tunic back on and sat once more.

  “Merci, de León.” Jean-François continued to sketch him, apparently from memory. “You were speaking of Greyhand. What he told you before you arrived.”

  “As I said, as little as he could at first. And so, I was left to wonder in silence. How badly had I hurt Ilsa? How was it I’d grown strong enough to throw grown men about like toys? I’d thought the alderman’s dagger had sliced me to the bone, but now, the wound seemed not so bad. How in the Almighty’s name was any of this possible? I had answers for none of it.” Gabriel shrugged again. “But finally, it all came to a head. Our motley little band was bedding down one eve in the Nordlund wilds, in the shadow of dying pines just off the Hollyroad. We’d been traveling nine days.

  “The young rider who accompanied Greyhand was an initiate of the Order named Aaron de Coste. An apprentice, if you like. He was a princely looking lad; thick blond hair and bright blue eyes and a face girls swooned for. He was older than me. Eighteen, I guessed. ‘Coste’ was the name of a barony in western Nordlund, and I supposed he might be related to them somehow, but he told me nothing of himself. The only time he ever spoke to me at all was to order me about. He referred to Greyhand as ‘Master,’ but he called me ‘Peasant,’ spitting the word as if it tasted like shit.

  “Whenever we were forced to stop in the open, Greyhand would hang that corpse he’d captured from a nearby tree branch. I’d no idea why he didn’t just kill the thing at the time. De Coste would order me to gather wood, then light a fire as high and hot as he could. The apprentice or his master would sleep while the other kept watch, often smoking a pipeful of an odd, blood-red powder as they stood vigil. When they smoked, I saw that their eyes would change hue, the whites flooding so bloodshot they turned red. I asked de Coste for a taste one night, and the boy just scoffed.

  “‘Soon enough, Peasant.’

  “Anyway, de Coste was sharpening his sword that eve. Beautiful weapon, it was. Silver and steel, with the Death Angel Mahné at wing on the crossguard. Archer sat on a branch above, bright falcon’s eyes shining in the dark. Greyhand’s captive corpse had been dangling inside its burlap bag for hours, unmoving. But one of the logs in the fire burst with a crack, and de Coste slipped, sliced his finger nice and deep. And all of a sudden, that thing on the branch above started moaning and bucking like a landed fish.

  “Greyhand was at prayer, as usual, his back red raw from self-flagellation. He opened his eyes and snarled, ‘Shut up, leech.’ But the corpse only thrashed the more.

  “‘Feeeee,’ it begged. ‘Feeeeemmmeee.’

  “I looked at the blood dripping from de Coste’s finger, my stomach curdling even as the scent of it sent a small thrill along my skin. And Greyhand spat the darkest curse I’d heard in my young life, climbed off his knees, and drew his beautiful silvered sword.

  “Then he stomped around the fire, tugged the burlap loose, and laid a beating on that thing like I’d never witnessed in all my years. It screamed as he struck it with the pommel, the silver hissing where it touched its wasted skin. Greyhand kept swinging, and the monster’s cries turned to whimpers, and still he beat it, bones crunching, flesh pulping, until, as God is my witness, the thing started blubbing like a child.

  “‘Stop!’ I cried.

  “Greyhand turned on me, eyes like fire. Fucking brave or fucking stupid, you can decide, but monster or no, this seemed a kind of torture to me. And I looked to that awful thing sobbing on its branch and declared, ‘It’s had enough, Frère, for pity’s sake.’”

  Gabriel sighed, elbows on his knees.

  “God Almighty. I thought I’d seen rage in my papa before. But I’d seen nothing so terrifying as the look that crossed Greyhand’s face then.

  “‘Pity?’ he spat.

  “He stalked toward me, and I recognized the look in his eyes—the same that Papa wore when he was about to raise his fists. I tried to push Greyhand off, but God, he was strong, hauling me to my feet and backhanding me across the face. My lip split, black stars bursting behind my eyes. I felt Greyhand dragging me toward that thing hanging from its tree, holding me out by the scruff. And like a flame doused by water, the weeping died and the corpse came alive again. Madness burned in its eyes. Hunger like I’d never seen. I roared in horror, but Greyhand edged me closer as the monster clawed toward my bleeding lip.

  “‘You pity this abomination?’

  “‘Please, Frère! Stop it!’

  “Greyhand slapped me again, harder than my papa ever had, sending me sprawling. I looked up from the frozen mud to de Coste for aid, but the apprentice didn’t move a muscle. Greyhand towered over me, flame and fury in his eyes.

  “‘Rid your heart of pity, boy. Light a fire in your chest and burn it out at the root! Our enemy knows not love, nor remorse, nor bonds of fellowship! They know only hunger!’ He pointed to that thing, still keening for my blood. ‘Were this abomination permitted to, it would rip you privates to chin and glut itself like a hog at trough. And tomorrow night, perhaps the next, you might rise, just as soulless as the thing that slew you! Seeking only to slake your thirst on the heartsblood of fools who speak the name of pity!’

  “His shout rang over the crackling fire, the hammer of my pulse. Looking into that living corpse’s eyes as it pawed toward my bloody mouth, I felt myself filled with that same loathing, that same hatred as the day my sister came home.

  “‘What are they?’ I heard myself whisper.

  “Greyhand’s gaze burned like the bonfire. ‘We call them the wretched, Little Lion.’

  “‘But what are they?’

  “He stared at me, and much as I wished to, I refused to look away. A quiet stole over him then. Regret softened the cruel lines of his face. He offered his hand, and knowing no better, I took it. And Greyhand brought me over to the fire’s edge and sat me down, staring into the crackling blaze while de Coste watched on in silence.

  “‘What do you know of coldbloods, boy?’ Greyhand finally asked.

  “‘They feast on living blood. They’re ageless. Soulless.’

  “‘Oui. And how is one made?’

  “‘All those slain by them become them.’

  “Greyhand looked at me then. ‘Thank God and Redeemer that’s not true, boy. Were it so, we’d already be lost.’

  “Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire. I could feel a weight in the air. A rush of adrenaline. These were the first real answers Greyhand had offered in nine days, and now that he was speaking, I didn’t want him to stop. ‘Please, Frère. What are they?’

  “Greyhand ran his hand over his pointed chin, stared deep into the flames. I put his age at only thirty, but from the lines of care about his eyes and mouth, he seemed a much older man. I still feared him—feared his fists as I’d feared my papa’s—but I wondered what it was that had made him so. If once, he’d been a boy just like me.

  “‘Listen close now,’ he said. ‘And listen well. Coldbloods do give their curse to those they slay. But not always. They cannot choose who their affliction is passed on to. And there seems no rhyme or reason as to which of their victims will turn and which will simply stay dead. It could be the victim rises only a few heartbeats after death. But more often, days or even weeks pass. And in the meantime, their corpse will go the way of all flesh. When it rises,
a coldblood’s victim will be locked forever in the state in which it turned. Beautiful and whole. Or otherwise.’ He glanced to the hanging monster. ‘Times past, if a victim turned many days after dying, the sun would quickly end them. The brain rots with the body, you see. And knowing no better, mindless coldbloods would simply perish with their first dawn. But now…’

  “‘Daysdeath,’ I whispered.

  “‘Oui. The sun no longer harms them. So they live on. Wandering. And killing. And in the seven years since the daystar failed us, multiplying.’

  “‘How many are there?’ I murmured, licking at my split lip.

  “‘In the west of Talhost, past the Godsend Mountains? Thousands.’

  “‘Seven Martyrs…’

  “‘It’s worse than you know, Little Lion. The oldest and most dangerous, the beautiful ones who call themselves highbloods? It used to be they lived in secret. But four months ago, a highblood lord led an army of wretched against the walls of Vellene. He stalked the streets like the angel of death, pale and fey and impervious to any blade. He slew His Imperial Majesty’s own cousin, and claimed the keep for his own. He encroaches farther through Talhost even now, and with every massacre his dark brood commits, more Dead join their number. A few rise as highbloods, forever young and deathless. Yet more become wretched, hideous and rotten. But all those slain are bound to his will. Rumor has it he is the most ancient coldblood that walks this earth. His name is Fabién Voss. But he has declared himself the Forever King.’

  “My stomach turned at the thought. I tried to picture entire legions of coldbloods, laying siege to human cities. Creatures old as centuries stalking the day with earthly feet.

  “‘And how…’

  “I shook my head, my throat dry. I remembered the honey of Ilsa’s blood cascading over my tongue. The bliss as my teeth slipped through the smooth skin of her thigh. My canines were no longer sharp like they’d been, but still, I could feel them, and that thirst, lying in wait beneath my surface. Wondering if, when, it might rise again.