by Jay Kristoff
“He took two flasks of hellspark from our saddlebags, upending them over the stairs into the necropolis. When he was done, both stairwells were soaked with the oily red liquid and reeked of sulfur so thick my eyes watered.
“‘De Coste, you guard the duskdoors. De León, the dawn. If you hear the sound of my horn, the kith have evaded me. Light the hellspark to cut off their escape.’
“‘By the Blood, Master,’ we both answered.
“‘God walks with us this day, boys. Stand your ground and fear no darkness.’
“Greyhand stripped off his greatcoat and tunic, leaving his tattooed torso and arms bare. He was pure muscle, wiry and iron-hard, his aegis etched in beautiful lines of silver. Slinging on his bandolier and flail, he tipped his tricorn, then stepped into the gloom.”
Jean-François tapped his quill on the page, bringing Gabriel’s tale to a halt.
“… Honestly?” the silversaint glowered. “You’re interrupting me now?”
“A brief clarification. But an important one.” The historian raised one tapered brow. “Are you truly saying warriors of the Ordo Argent stripped half-naked to fight?”
Gabriel nodded. “Being silverclad, we called it. Modesty is of little use to a corpse. And armor is of even less use when your opponent can crush steel with its fists.”
“But what about thralls? Surely they used blades and other weapons mundane?”
“We weren’t worried about lackeys, coldblood. We were worried about their masters. The people who die in battle? They mostly die once the battle is done. It’s not the swordblow or arrow that kills you. It’s the bleeding you do afterward. We were palebloods. We healed. So while an angry, well-trained thrall with a nice sharp broadsword was a threat, it paled in comparison to the threat of having your heart shown to you by the unholy bastard who just ripped it out of your chest with its bare fucking hands.
“It’s not as if the aegis made us impervious either. But it served as a conduit by which God’s power could be felt on the battlefield. The light of the aegis burns the eyes of the unholy. Its touch scorches their flesh. It’s like an armor of blinding faith, making us harder to focus on, punishing to hit. It was an edge, and against faekin, duskdancers, coldbloods, we needed every one we could get.” Gabriel leaned back in his chair. “Now, can I get on with my story? Or would you like to fucking tell it?”
Jean-François waved his quill. “As you like it.”
“Right. So Greyhand descended into the necropolis. De Coste and I exchanged a red glance, but there was little for us to say. Aaron remained at the duskdoors while I trudged downhill to cover the other entrance. And there, I settled to wait.
“Paleblood senses are sharp at the best of times, but with a dose of sanctus in us, the whole world comes alive. I could hear the town above: wagons on the cobbles and the choir practicing in the cathedral and the calls of a hungry babe. I watched Archer circling endlessly in the grim skies overhead. The hellspark on the stairs was pungent, but I couldn’t smell myself under the ghostbreath. Lionclaw hung heavy in the scabbard at my hip. I read the inscription above the necropolis door, over and over. Words from the Book of the Redeemer.
“KNOW ONLY JOY IN THY HEART, BLESSED CHILD. FOR ON THIS DAY, LIFE IS THINE.
“Ten minutes passed without a sound. Then twenty. I stepped farther into the entrance, head tilted, but all I could hear was a faint drip somewhere within.
“‘He’s been gone an age,’ I called.
“De Coste looked up from the small, tight circle he’d been pacing. ‘Breathe easy, Peasant. Greyhand is a cautious hunter. The dead can’t kill the Dead.’
“I nodded, but my unease was growing. I felt useless standing there on guard. I was a ball of nerves and restless energy, a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, that infamous Nordlund fire hot in my veins. And then came a faint sound up the crypt stairs.
“‘Did you hear that?’
“‘… Hear what?’
“I stepped back beneath the arch, squinting down the stair. ‘A cry?’
“‘It was the wind. Unknot your gizzards, you quivering peon.’
“‘I heard a cry just now. What if Greyhand is in need?’
“‘Greyhand was stalking the dark before your worthless father slipped his dead cock into your peasant mother. Now shut up, frailblood. Hold your ground.’
“I clenched my teeth, straining to hear. I swore I’d caught wind of something in the depths. Definitely a cry, faint, but … perhaps pained? My pulse was thumping in my ears, the bloodhymn raging in my head. If Greyhand had fallen foul of the things within these tombs, and we just stood here doing nothing …
“And then I heard it for certain. A distant call. A man in pain.
“‘Did you hear that?’
“De Coste’s eyes were narrowed. ‘I think…’
“‘Greyhand’s in trouble,’ I said, unslinging my flail. ‘We have to help him, de Coste.’
“‘No, what we have to do is exactly what he told us to do. Hold your damned ground, Peasant. In Greyhand’s absence, I am senior member of this company.’
“‘Hell with that,’ I said, checking my wheellock again. ‘You want to wait up here with your thumb in your cackhole? God bless you. But I’ll not stand idle.’
“‘De León, wait! Greyhand told us to stay here!’
“I felt the press of his will on mine then, the blood of Ilon at work in my mind. But the hymn sang louder, the sanctus and my own pigheadedness drowning out Aaron’s command. And with flail in fist, heart in throat, I strode into the house of Skyefall’s dead.”
Jean-François sighed. “Foolish.”
“Oui. But remember, I’d not even turned sixteen. I’d worked my arse to the bone in the monastery. But the displays of de Coste’s and Greyhand’s gifts had me of a mood. No matter how much I pretended it didn’t bother me, being a frailblood made me feel less than my fellows. I was desperate to prove my worth, and this could be my chance.
“I wasn’t a complete shitwit—I lit the hellspark as I departed. It ignited with a dull roar, and I flinched back from the raging heat. I heard de Coste yell again, but paid no heed. And with shoulders squared, I bounded into the tombs in search of my master.
“A long corridor stretched into darkness, but my paleblood eyes saw clear as day. The walls were lined with stone doors, carved with names of the corpses beyond. Poorer folk had no tombs at all, bones piled atop one another in dusty niches. The slabs under my feet were also graves, and it struck me as eerie to be walking on dead bodies. But I was no coward to be frightened by old bones or the thought of death. The only thing that scared me back then was the thought of dying without ever having done something worthwhile.
“I found myself at a crossroads leading deeper into the necropolis. Rats scurried past my heels, the scent of old death filled the air. I listened but heard nothing, cursing beneath my breath. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the stone halls below this town seemed far older than the town itself.
“‘Master Greyhand?’ I called.
“No reply, save the whispering wind. And so, praying to God, I strode on through a warren of twists and turns, past piles of nameless skulls. Statues of beautiful angels loomed at each corner, guarding those who slept eternal in the tombs beyond.
“And then, in the dark ahead, I heard a cry.
“With a gasp, I was off, boots pounding the grave slabs, fist curled around my flail. I could see dim light ahead now, a silver-cold glow on the walls. I heard another shout of pain, a loud voice I finally recognized as my master’s.
“‘Come on, you accursed dogs!’
“‘Greyhand!’ I roared.
“I rounded the corner, skidding to a halt at the sight before my wondering eyes. A large crypt lay before me, ringed by a dozen sarcophagi. The floor was slabbed by gravestones, and a statue of Mahné, Angel of Death, loomed over the scene with his great sickles in hand. Beneath him stood Greyhand, his flail singing as it cut the air, locked in combat with two
fleeting shadows.
“Goosebumps prickled on my skin—not at the freezing cold, but at the sight of the tattoos on my master’s flesh. The Mothermaid and Redeemer, the angels of the host, the seven wolves, throat to wrist to waist. That holy magik, wrought by the hands of Silver Sisters. The armor of the silversaint. The aegis.
“And it was glowing.
“Greyhand was a white star burning in the dark, a circle of illumination spanning fifteen feet about him. I felt my left hand growing hot, as if too close to flame, and taking off my glove, I saw the sevenstar on my palm burning with that same terrible light.
“Two coldbloods wove through the dark, wearing the clothes they were buried in. A brunette woman in an elegant black dress, and a tall gent in a long frockcoat armed with a fine swordcane. Each was a pale beauty, skin like ivory, eyes like jet, and my belly rolled at the sight of them. I’d seen wretched before, oui—those monstrosities born of rot and the coldblood curse. But these two were locked forever in a dark perfection. The first highblooded vampires I’d ever laid eyes on.
“The man’s speed was unholy, his eyes black lanterns. He stood before the woman as if to protect her, all his dark strength brought to bear. But Great Redeemer, Greyhand was magnificent. I thought I’d felt the presence of God as I faced the Trial of Blood, but now I felt it true, bathing me in the light of heaven’s shoreline.
“‘Leave us alone!’ the woman pleaded.
“‘Stay away from her!’ the man shouted. ‘Stay away, or by God, I’ll kill you!’
“‘God?’ Greyhand spat. ‘You profane his name with your black tongue, leech.’
“Greyhand flung a silverbomb, and I flinched as it exploded in a ball of flame and white light. The coldbloods scattered and Greyhand lashed out with his flail, wrapping it around the man’s legs. Bound in silver, his limbs became as useless as lead, and he collapsed to the stone. The woman cried out, ‘Eduard!’ and flashed into the light, Greyhand’s sword crashing down on her outstretched arm. She screamed, clutching the shattered bone as she drew back her hand, and I knew it true, then—these vampires were the blood of Voss. Any other fledgling would have been holding nothing but a smoking stump after a blow like that.
“‘Master!’ I shouted.
“‘De León? I told you to stand your—’
“A third fledgling came out of the dark behind Greyhand—a street waif in rags, rotten fingers curled into claws. My master gasped as the girl flung herself upon his back, but the silver on his skin scorched the leech like flame, and she tumbled back, mouth wide in agony.
“Greyhand turned toward the wretched child, burning with blessed light. He flung a phial of holy water, the glass shattering against the little girl’s skin. She shrieked, stumbling farther backward as my master drove his blade through her chest.
“‘Lisette! ’ the woman screamed.
“The fallen man had unwrapped Greyhand’s flail from his legs, his hands now blackened and smoking. He turned to the woman in desperation. ‘Vivienne, run!’
“‘No, Eduard, we—’
“‘RUN!’
“The coldblood turned to me, dead eyes glinting as he came on like a pistol shot. But I raised my left hand, rewarded with a hiss of agony as the light from my sevenstar pierced those cold, dead eyes. Months of training kicked in, and I drew a silverbomb from my bandolier, hurled it into the monster’s chest. A silver flash and a black scream split the air.
“Greyhand tore his sword from the waif’s chest and with four mighty blows, hacked her head clean off her shoulders. But untended, the woman took her chance. She had no form, no training, but still, she struck with terrifying force, smashing me into one of the sarcophagi and shattering it like glass. I felt something inside me snap, collapsing in a tumble of broken stone and old bones. And with none left in her way, she dashed down the corridor I’d entered by, just a flash of silk and dark hair.
“‘Seven Martyrs, stop her!’
“Greyhand drew his wheellock pistol and took a knee. Aiming carefully, he struck the spring and fired a burst of silvershot at the fleeing coldblood. He hit her leg but missed the bone, and she staggered on. Clutching my ribs, I fired off a crooked shot as Greyhand blew a long note on his horn. But even if he wanted to seal off the entrance, Aaron couldn’t now—I’d already lit the hellspark to cover my back. I just prayed God it was still burning.
“My master turned, the fallen male crawling backward as the frère came on. The vampire’s pale flesh was blacked from my silverbomb, his funeral finery a smoking mess.
“‘No,’ he pleaded. ‘No, God, we did not ask—’
“Greyhand struck at the thing’s throat. Though the force would have been enough to cleave steel, the vampire’s skin didn’t split, cracking like stone under a hammer instead. Another phial of holy water smashed against his face, and the coldblood howled as Greyhand struck again, finally opening up his neck. A part of me felt a whisper of pity for this thing, wed to the same thirst as murdered him. But I could see bloodstains on his cuffs, his scorched lapel—this monster hadn’t been idle in the nights since he Became.
“The Dead feel as beasts, look as men, die as devils.
“With one final effort, the vampire threw itself at my master. Heedless. Hateful. Greyhand stepped aside, spun and followed through, and with one final, terrible blow, the vampire’s head was loosed from his neck, the body collapsing in ruin.
“My master dashed off in pursuit of the woman as I hauled myself out of the smashed sarcophagus. Limping and bloodied, I couldn’t keep up the chase, but I knew where it led. Reaching the exit, I saw the stairs were black and smoking, but the fire had died. And cursing myself for a fucking fool, I dragged my sorry arse into the dark daylight.
“Greyhand was on his knees beside de Coste. My fellow initiate was sprawled on the cobbles, lips split, nose broken, thick blond hair soaked with blood. He threw a look of pure murder at me as I climbed the stairs. Master Greyhand rose to his feet, and I saw his fangs had grown long with his rage. ‘You simpleminded, bullheaded lackwit.’
“He flashed toward me, hand to my throat, slamming me back into the cliff face.
“‘I told you to stand your ground!’
“‘I th-thought I heard—’
“‘You thought? You thought you’d be a damned hero is what you thought! Your disobedience has cost us our quarry, and mayhaps another innocent life! Think on that!’
“‘I’m s-sorry, Master! P-Please…’
“He choked me a moment longer, then let me slither down the wall. De Coste rose to his feet, nose dripping blood. He shot me another glare of hatred.
“‘Did you find the de Blanchet boy, Master?’
“Greyhand took a moment to find his calm, spitting on the cobbles.
“‘No. His tomb was empty. But he definitely stalks these streets. Along with the unholy daughter this fool allowed to escape.’ Greyhand rubbed his pointed chin, scowling. ‘There was a dusting of grit in the boy’s tomb, a smell like blasting powder. He may be alternating between nests. De Coste, you and I will search the mines before the sun fails.’
“‘… What about me, Master?’
“Greyhand turned on me, glowering. ‘Until you learn to act like a hunter, I’ll treat you like a damned hound. You will return to the alderman’s estate and stand guard by Mme de Blanchet’s bed until we return.’
“He placed his bloody silversteel sword on my shoulder, gentle as first rains.
“‘And if ever I give an order to you that is not followed direct again, I vow by Almighty God and all Seven Martyrs, I will end you, boy. I will put you in your grave before I allow your impatience and glory-seeking to put an innocent in theirs.’
“I hung my head, tongue thick with shame. ‘Understood, Master.’
“Greyhand lowered his sword, offered me his hand.
“‘Now get up. You have bodies to burn.’”
V
A BEAUTIFUL VIEW
“‘TEA, INITIATE?’
“P�
�re Lafitte’s voice broke me from my reverie, and I glanced up from the fireplace. The sight of a little girl’s burning corpse was etched in my head. The stink was on my clothes, the horror fresh, and all had put me in mind of my sister again. Amélie’s death felt a lifetime ago now, and I’d thought the boy who’d watched her burn was just a ghost. And yet, I’d proved myself a boy again that day. Headstrong and foolish.
“‘No,’ I replied. ‘Merci, Father.’
“De Blanchet’s manservant nodded, placed the tray he carried on the mantel, and left the room. The pot was silver, the cups of finest porcelain. The tea’s scent was sweet, sharp, only half remembered from around my mama’s table in my childhood.
“The sun had fallen outside, and my comrades still hadn’t returned. Wounded as she was, I knew the highblood who’d escaped us would be more dangerous in the dead of night. My fellows at deeper risk. For the hundredth time, I cursed my own stupidity.
“‘What troubles, my son?’ Lafitte asked, sitting opposite me.
“My seat was near Madame de Blanchet’s bed, Lionclaw within easy reach. The lounge was red leather and plush velvet, large enough to lose myself in. I turned my eyes to the dame ensconced in her mountain of pillows. Her breath was shallow and rapid, her skin pale as paper. The alderman was at work in his study down the hall.
“‘Nothing worthy of note, Father,’ I sighed.
“‘You look exhausted.’
“I shook my head, knowing the bloodshot red of my eyes was only a residue from the sacrament. ‘I’ll not sleep this night.’
“‘I have heard only rumor of your holy order,’ Lafitte remarked. ‘My papa met one of your number once. He said the man slew a witch who plagued his village as a boy. Tracked her down and nailed her soul into her body with a length of cold iron before setting her alight. I’d thought it stuff and nonsense, truth told.’
“‘I’ve met no witches, Father. But I have seen evil. And it walks now among us, doubt it not.’ I swallowed. ‘There will be dark nights ahead.’
