Empire of the Vampire

by Jay Kristoff

  “‘Yannick … he killed someone?’ I whispered. ‘He drank…’

  “‘No. But the thirst has become too much for him to bear. He feels it, spreading like a poison. He hears it when he closes his eyes at night.’ My master shook his head, voice hushed. ‘We call it the sangirè, Little Lion. The red thirst. A whisper at first, dulcet and sweet. But it grows to an endless scream. And unless you silence it, you will succumb to it, becoming naught but a ravenous beast. Worse than the lowest wretched.’

  “Greyhand nodded to Frère Yannick, his voice thick with sorrow and pride.

  “‘Better to end this life than lose your immortal soul. In the finale, that is the choice before every paleblood alive. Live as a monster, or die as a man.’

  “I could still hear the choir in the Cathedral. I watched Frère Yannick slip his greatcoat off, remove his tunic. His body was covered in beautiful silver ink: icons of the Martyrs and Mothermaid, the Angels of Death and Pain and Hope. That ink told the story of a life spent in service to God. Outside, he seemed hale and strong, but one look in his eyes told me all was not so within. And I remembered my night with Ilsa, then. The chorus of her veins flooding into my mouth. The beat of my raging heart growing stronger as hers weakened with every swallow. The thirst that had driven me to such depths.

  “What would it become as I grew older?

  “What would I become?

  “‘We beg you bear witness, Almighty Father,’ Abbot Khalid called. ‘As your begotten son suffered for our sins, so too shall our brother suffer for his.’

  “‘Véris,’ came the reply around me.

  “Yannick turned to face us, placed his hands upon the wheel. My mouth ran sour as I saw Prioress Charlotte approach with a leather whip adorned with silver spurs. But the prioress only pressed the whip to Frère Yannick’s shoulders—seven ritual touches for the seven nights the Redeemer suffered. A candle was kissed to the brother’s skin, to mimic the flames that burned God’s begotten son. And then, Abbot Khalid lowered his head, drawing a silvered knife. The choir was near the end of their hymn.

  “‘Blessed Mothermaid…’ I breathed.

  “‘From suffering comes salvation,’ Khalid intoned. ‘In service to God, we find the path to his throne. In blood and silver this ’saint has lived, and so now dies.’

  “‘Into your arms, Lord!’ Yannick cried. ‘I commend my unworthy soul!’

  “I flinched as the blade flashed in the abbot’s hands, slicing the frère from ear to ear. A great rush of blood spilled from the wound, and Yannick closed his sleep-starved eyes. The final notes of the Memoria Di rang out over the congregation. I couldn’t find air to breathe. And with a gentle shove, like a father guiding his son to sleep, Khalid sent Yannick tumbling off the balcony, down toward the waters five hundred feet below.

  “About me, the gathering made the sign of the wheel. Cold horror had settled in my belly. Among the novices, I saw Sisternovice Astrid, watching me again with those dark eyes. Abbot Khalid looked about as the bells tolled. And he nodded, as if content.

  “‘Véris,’ he said.

  “‘Véris,’ the others echoed.

  “I looked down to the new tattoo in my palm. Throbbing with pain. Burning like fire.

  “‘Véris,’ I whispered.”

  IX

  SWEETEST AND DARKEST

  “THERE WAS NO sleep for me that night. I bedded down in the Barracks, listening to the old oaken rafters creak overhead. True silversaints had individual cells on the floors above, but we initiates slept in a communal room. There were more cots than needed—enough for fifty at least. But as we returned from mass, only a dozen or so came with me.

  “I lay down, my head reeling. In the space of a day, I’d been gifted the finest possessions I’d ever owned, been inducted into a holy order, promised my life to God. But I’d also seen a member of that same order ritually murdered before he succumbed to the madness within him, and learned that eventually, the same fate awaited me.

  “Not if. When.

  “‘The first day is one of the strangest.’

  “I looked to the initiate in the cot beside mine. He was the boy who’d squeezed Frère Yannick’s hand before he approached the altar—the dead brother’s apprentice. He was a big lad, sandy-haired, and his formal accent told me he was Elidaeni born. His blue eyes glittered as he glanced at me sidelong. I could see them bloodshot from tears.

  “‘Quite a day,’ I agreed.

  “‘I wish I could promise it gets easier. But I’ve no liar’s tongue.’

  “‘I’ll not fault you for it,’ I nodded. ‘My name is Gabriel de León.’

  “‘Theo Petit,’ the boy said, shaking my hand.

  “‘My condolences for your master. I’ll pray for his soul.’

  “His eyes flashed then, voice growing hard. ‘Save it for yourself, boy. Pray you live long enough to face the same choice as he. And show the same courage in the making of it.’

  “Theo blew out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. I lay there in the gloom, staring up into the black. Tossing and turning until de Coste eventually growled from the bed opposite mine.

  “‘Go to sleep, Peasant. You’ll have need of it amorrow.’

  “I’d no idea how true Aaron’s words would prove. Next morn, I was roused by the Cathedral bells, and felt I’d hardly slept at all. I was half-eager, half-terrified, wondering what was to come. The tattoo on my hand was aching, bloody, and after a somber dawnmass, Frère Greyhand gifted me a jar of sweet-smelling salve.

  “‘Angelgrace,’ he explained. ‘The silver in your ink means it will heal slower than a regular wound. The ’grace will help until your blood does its work. Now, follow me. And leave that sword here. It’s not your todger, you can take your hand off it occasionally.’

  “I did as my master bid, following him into the morning air. I remember it was so cold that day, my bollocks felt like they’d crawled up inside my body. The dim morning light across the monastery was frail, beautiful, and making our way along the rope bridge toward the Gauntlet’s silhouette, I could feel butterflies warring in my belly. Archer cut through the chill air around us, calling to Greyhand as he soared overhead.

  “‘Master … where do we go?’ I asked.

  “‘Your first trial.’

  “‘And what should I expect from this trial?’

  “‘What you should always expect from this life, Little Lion. Blood.’ Greyhand looked to the river winding through the pillars below and sighed. A fey mood was on him, but whether it was thoughts of the Red Rite last night or other troubles, I knew not. ‘A part of me envies you this day, boy. The first taste is ever the sweetest. And the darkest.’

  “I’d no idea what he meant, but Greyhand seemed in no mood for questions. As we strode through the great double doors of the Gauntlet, I saw that San Michon’s proving ground was fashioned like a vast arena; circular, open to the sky. Its flagstones were granite, but a great sevenstar was wrought in pale limestone on its surface. Training mannequins and strange apparatus skirted the edge, and banners with unfamiliar crests adorned the walls.

  “In the center of the star, a group awaited, their dim shadows reaching out toward me. The foremost was Abbot Khalid, standing with arms folded, his greatcoat billowing in the wind. A beautiful silversteel sword was slung at his back—double-handed and deadly, taller than I was. The big man nodded as we approached, and Greyhand and I bowed low.

  “‘Fairdawning, Initiate de León. Frère Greyhand.’

  “‘Godmorrow, Abbot,’ we replied.

  “Khalid motioned to the people about him. ‘These are the luminaries of the Silver Order, de León. Come to bear witness to your Trial of the Blood. Good Prioress Charlotte, head of the Silver Sorority and Mistress of the Aegis, you already know.’

  “I bowed to the dour woman, eyes downturned. She was clad head to foot in her black sister’s habit, and her skin looked waxen in the thin dawn light, those four scars cutting angry pink lines across her face. I idly won
dered how she’d earned them as she gave me a thin, bloodless smile. ‘Fairdawning, Initiate. Mothermaid bless.’

  “Khalid nodded to an elderly man in a black robe beside him. ‘This is Archivist Adamo, master of the Great Library and keeper of the history of the Ordo Argent.’

  “The fellow blinked at me, looking slightly befuddled behind his thick spectacles. His skin was wrinkled like waterlogged paper, his hair, white as the snows of my youth. His back was bent with age, and I could see no silver ink atop his liver-spotted hands.

  “‘Argyle á Sadhbh,’ Khalid said, motioning to a towering fellow among the group. ‘Seraph to the Brothers of the Hearth and Forgemaster of San Michon.’

  “The huge man met my eyes, nodding greeting. He was Ossway born for sure—flaming red stubble covered his scalp, and his jaw was heavy as a granite brick. But his left eye was milky white, the left side of his face was marred by a deep burn, and strangest of all, his left hand was metal, not flesh—some clever simulacrum forged of iron, strapped to his forearm with a leather bracer. His biceps were thick as a man’s thighs, his fair skin pocked by spark scars from his forge. He was a smith, through and through.

  “‘Initiate,’ he grunted. ‘May God grant ye strength this day.’

  “‘This is Sœur Aoife,’ Khalid said. ‘Adept of the Silver Sorority.’

  “The abbot motioned to a young sister beside Charlotte, watching me with curious blue eyes. She was slender, pretty, a hint of auburn curls at the edge of her coif. She held a thin box of polished oak, and her fingernails were chewed to the roots.

  “‘Godmorrow, Initiate.’ She bowed. ‘Mothermaid bless you.’

  “‘The good sister will be assisting in today’s trial. And as for your trial master,’ here Khalid shared his cutthroat’s smile with Greyhand, ‘I shall allow him to introduce himself.’

  “I glanced to the brother in question, standing beside the abbot like a sharp black shadow. His dark grey moustache was so long it could’ve been tied in a bow atop his shaved skull, and his eyes looked like piss holes in his head. He seemed older than Khalid and Greyhand—past forty, I guessed. He was slight of build, his greatcoat collar laced high and tight about his throat. Save for a long cane of polished ashwood, he was unarmed.

  “‘My name is Talon de Montfort, Seraph of the Hunt,’ the thin man declared in a sharp Elidaeni accent. ‘You will learn to hate me worse than the whore who spat you from her belly, and the devil who squirted you into it.’

  “I glanced at my master, then at Khalid, taken aback. This Talon was Seraph of the Hunt, the second-highest ’saint in the Order. But still, no bastard alive speaks that way about my mama. ‘My mother was n—’

  “Swakk! came the sound of Talon’s cane across my legs.

  “‘Ow!’

  “‘During this trial, you will speak when spoken to. Am I understood?’

  “‘O-oui,’ I managed, massaging my whipped thigh.

  “Swakk!

  “‘Oui what, you pig-buggering little shitwizard?’

  “‘O-oui, Seraph Talon,’ I gasped.

  “‘Splendid.’ The thin man glanced to Greyhand, the other luminaries. ‘You may take your places in the rings, godly Brothers and Sisters. The weather is chill, but this shall not take overlong. By hour’s end, the Trial shall be concluded or the funeral underway.’

  “I blanched a little at that. But my master only patted my shoulder.

  “‘No fear. Heed the hymn, Little Lion.’

  “Greyhand turned, and with Abbot Khalid and the prioress beside him, he marched up to the bleachers. Argyle assisted Archivist Adamo, the old man taking the smith’s iron hand and shuffling slowly from the star. Cold winds whispered between Talon and me, tossing my hair into my eyes. Sister Aoife stood beside the seraph, that wooden box in her hands. The thin man looked at me like an owl summing up a particularly juicy mouse, and I watched that switch in his hand as if it were a viper set to strike.

  “‘What do you know of the coldblood who sired you, boy?’ Talon asked.

  “The question caught me off guard, mostly because I had no good answer. I thought of my mother then, a pang of resentment in my chest. All those years she spent warning me of the hungers within, and never once did she warn me of what I truly was. I supposed she was ashamed by the sin of it all. But she could have told me something …

  “‘Nothing, Seraph.’

  “Swakk!

  “‘Ow!’

  “‘Speak up, you ill-bred twatwaffler!’

  “I glanced to the stony faces in the gallery, spoke louder. ‘Nothing, Seraph!’

  “He nodded. ‘Now, I need ask this question like the world needed your mother to shit you into it, but are you at all versed in the divine mysteries of chymistrie?’

  “My heart quickened at that. Chymistrie was a dark craft, spoken of in hushed tones about my village. My mama once told me it was something between alchemy, witchery, and lunacy. But to be on the safe side, I shook my head.

  “Talon sighed. ‘Then let me enlighten your so-called mind, you spunk-brained fuckweasel. The foes you will face on the Hunt are the deadliest creatures under God’s own heaven. Coldbloods. Faekin. Restless. Duskdancers. Fallen. But the Almighty has not left you bereft of tools in the endless night. And we shall teach you how to craft them all. Black ignis powder that explodes with all heaven’s fury at a single spark. Silver caustic to burn the flesh of your foes like acid. Kingshield. Angelgrace. Ghostbreath. Griefthorn…’ From within his greatcoat, Talon produced a phial of dark scarlet dust. ‘And last, his greatest gift of all.’

  “My mouth ran dry. It was the same powder I’d seen Greyhand and de Coste smoke along the Hollyroad, their eyes flooding blood-red as they breathed it down.

  “‘What is that, Seraph?’

  “‘This, you lackwitted piss-puddle, is sanctus. A chymical distillation of the essence in our enemies’ veins. Through it, we alleviate the dark thirst inherited from the monsters who sired us. And unlock the gifts God granted us to help send them back to hell.’

  “‘You mean that’s…’

  “He nodded. ‘Vampire blood.’

  “‘Fuck me,’ I breathed.

  “‘The Testaments name sodomy a deadly sin, so I’d rather not.’ Talon offered a brief smile. ‘But you’re very pretty, de León, and I appreciate the offer.’

  “I chuckled, thinking he was making a jest.

  “Swakk!

  “‘Ow!’

  “‘Sanctus is the holy sacrament of San Michon. A paleblood’s greatest weapon against the endless night, and our damned natures. Today, you begin to wield it, and your gifts. And our first step, my cherry pauperstain, is to determine which of the four bloodlines your father’s deathless cock belonged to. But before we begin…’ He twirled his cane between his fingertips and scowled. ‘You must give me permission to do so.’

  “I swallowed, massaging my leg. ‘Permission, Seraph?’

  “‘It is forbidden for palebloods to use their gifts upon each other without consent, under punishment of the lash. We are brothers in arms, in purpose and in blood, and we must trust one another above all else, de León. So. Do you consent?’

  “I looked to Sister Aoife, uncertain. ‘What happens if I don’t?’

  “Swakk!

  “‘Ow!’

  “‘Do. You. Consent?’

  “‘I consent!’

  “Talon nodded, narrowed his gaze. I felt the strangest sensation then. Like fingertips brushing soft along my scalp. Like a whisper slipping through my eyes. I winced as if looking into the sun, my head swimming. ‘What … w-what are you doing?’

  “‘All vampires have common abilities, which palebloods inherit. But each bloodline also has unique talents.’ Talon pointed to one of the unfamiliar crests on the wall—a white raven wearing a golden crown. ‘The Ironhearts. The kith of Blood Voss. They have flesh akin to steel. It can turn aside silver. The eldest among them can even withstand the fury of the flame. But far more sobering is their ability
to read the minds of weaker men.’

  “I realized that was the sensation I felt—the seraph was in my fucking head. I could feel him now, like a shadow inside my skull. But just as swift as it began, the feeling ended.

  “‘You must learn to better guard your thoughts, my dribble-chinned gibbercuck,’ Talon warned. ‘Or Voss’s kin will pluck them right out of your shit-witted head.’

  “I blinked hard, realizing Talon’s father must have been one of these Ironhearts, and that his son had claimed their gifts as his own. I wondered again about my own father, then. Who was he? What boons had his accursed blood bestowed upon me? I was unnerved Talon could simply force his way into my mind if he chose, but at the same time, a part of me felt a thrill that such a gift might also be mine.

  “The seraph pointed to another banner, embroidered with two black wolves and two ornate red circles—the twin moons, Lánis and Lánae.

  “‘Blood Chastain. The Shepherds. These coldbloods exert their will over denizens of the animal world. See through their eyes. Control them like puppets. The eldest can even assume the forms of the darker creatures of earth and sky. Bats. Cats. Wolves. Trust no beast when you hunt a Chastain, boy. For the eyes of the night are theirs to command.’

  “The seraph nodded to a third banner; a heart-shaped shield set with a beautiful weave of roses and snakes. ‘Blood Ilon. The Whispers. A line more dangerous than a sackful of syphilitic serpents. All vampires can bend the weak-hearted to their will. But the Ilon can manipulate all manner of emotion. Heighten rage. Provoke fear. Inflame passion. And the hunter who cannot trust his own heart can trust nothing.’

  “Talon whipped his switch at the final banner; a blue field adorned with a white bear and a broken shield. ‘Blood Dyvok. The Untamed. Possessed of a strength even the other foul bastards of the night would shit their unholy pantaloons over. These creatures can tear apart full-grown men with their bare hands. Their ancients can smash down castle walls with their fists, and make the earth quake beneath their boots. Even other coldbloods look like helpless children beside them.’