by Jay Kristoff
“‘The folk you found in the catacombs. They were … changed?’
“I nodded. ‘I’ve fought the Dead before, but … not like that. The woman seemed … afraid. The man told her to run. It was like they remembered what they’d been.’
“‘I knew them both,’ Lafitte said, dabbing his sweating lip with his kerchief. ‘Parishioners of mine. Eduard Farrow and Vivienne La Cour.’ His fingertips hovered over the silver wheel about his neck. ‘They were to be married in spring.’
“‘And the little girl? Her name was Lisette.’
“Lafitte shrugged. ‘There are many strays in a town this size, Initiate de León. Many who come and go, and more yet who would not be missed. A tragedy.’
“‘It’s God’s will,’ I declared. ‘All on earth below and heaven above is the work of his hand.’
“‘Véris,’ the priest smiled. ‘But come, if we are to stand vigil ’til dawn, you should drink something. A tea this fine is a rarity these nights. It would be sin to waste it.’
“I took the cup Lafitte offered, staring into the flames. I remembered my mama, brewing tea in her big black kettle in the years before daysdeath. My sisters and I sitting at table, Amélie scoffing while Celene and I squabbled over a game of knucklebones. I missed my baby sister, felt guilty about not answering her letters. I wondered if I should write to my mother and ask her the truth about my father. A part of me didn’t want to know. The rest of me desperately needed to.
“‘Santé, Initiate,’ Lafitte said, raising his cup.
“‘Santé, mon Père,’ I replied.
“I swallowed the draught with a wince. Bitter and too hot. Lafitte put his cup aside, watching me. He was quite handsome, truth told—Nordish stock, dark of hair and eye. A rich man’s son most like, to have been posted by the Pontifex to a town this wealthy at his age.
“‘How long have you served the Ordo Argent, Initiate de León?’
“I glanced to Madame de Blanchet as she moaned in her sleep. ‘Seven months.’
“‘Are there many brethren of your holy order?’
“‘A few dozen,’ I replied, rising from my chair. ‘Though it’s hard to tell sometimes. The Hunt keeps us often from home. It’s rare that we’re all at San Michon at once.’
“‘Why so few of you? If dark nights come as you say, could you not recruit more?’
“I checked Madame de Blanchet’s temperature, and she groaned as my sevenstar touched her skin. ‘The birth of a paleblood is no common thing, Father. We are like the coldbloods we hunt. Our making is happenstance. A curse, and one not to be encouraged.’
“He frowned. ‘Coldbloods are made by other coldbloods, are they not?’
“‘Oui. But not all the folklore is true. Their affliction is capricious, Father. Only passing to their victims by chance. Some stay dead. Others rise as mindless monsters.’
“‘Chance, you say?’ Lafitte frowned. ‘Curious.’
“I rubbed my sweating brow, sloughed off my greatcoat. ‘That’s the shame of all this. The vampire who started this mess may not have even known Claude de Blanchet turned.’
“‘Mme Luncóit did not strike me as a careless woman.’
“I blinked. ‘I thought you said you didn’t know Mme Luncóit?’
“‘Only by reputation. The folk she dealt with in Skyefall regarded her highly. Even the alderman seemed under her spell.’
“‘What other folk did she deal with?’ I asked, wiping sweat from my lip.
“But Lafitte made no reply. His head was tilted as if he were listening, his tea untouched. My head was throbbing. My eyes stinging and blurred.
“‘Seven Martyrs, it’s sweltering in here…’
“The priest smiled at me. ‘Open the window. It’s a beautiful view.’
“I nodded, trudging over to the glass bay doors. Eyes still stinging, I took hold of the drapes, dragged them apart. And there, gleaming moon-pale in the dark outside, was the face of little Claude de Blanchet.
“‘Sweet Redeemer!’
“Ten years old. Coal-black hair and grave-white skin. He was dressed in noble’s finery, black velvet and gold buttons, a silken cravat at his throat. But his eyes were the darkest part of him, heavy-lidded and gleaming like wet jewels. And he fixed them on the priest, and pressed his hand to the glass.
“‘Beautiful, isn’t he?’
“I turned and saw Father Lafitte, now holding my sheathed sword. The priest’s eyes were filled with a thrall’s rapture, gazing at that pale shadow beyond the glass.
“‘Let me in,’ it whispered.
“‘Lafitte, no!’ I shouted.
“‘Come in, Master,’ the priest breathed.
“The doors slammed apart, the glass cracking in the frame. I barely had time to turn before Claude de Blanchet was on me, slamming me back into the wall. The plaster split, the ribs I’d cracked earlier in the day bursting into new flame. I saw Lafitte walking to the balcony, but I was too busy fighting the boy off to do anything but roar protest as he tossed my sword out the window. As if roused by the thing’s unholy presence, Madame de Blanchet was now sitting up in bed. She’d loosed her nightshift, arms outstretched.
“‘My boy,’ she breathed, tears in her eyes. ‘My sweet baby boy.’
“That sweet baby boy slammed me back into the wall, his fingernails iron hard and sharp. The whole room was blurring, a bitter tang on my tongue, and I understood at last that Lafitte had slipped some toxin into the tea, dimming the bloodhymn in my head. As the vampire fixed me in his black gaze, I realized I was in the deepest shite of my life.
“‘Kneel,’ Claude commanded.
“The word hit me like a pistol shot, wrapped in satin. The desire to please this thing was as real as the air I breathed. I knew if I simply relented, everything would be all right. Everything would be wonderful. But in some dim corner of my mind, I could feel Greyhand’s blade skewering me against that tree, the fire of his words burning away the dark.
“Listen not to a word these bastards hiss, lest you find yourself their meal.
“I reached for the teapot on the mantel. Bright and gleaming silver. I felt my fury rising, my canines growing sharp. And as the vampire spoke again, ‘Kneel!’ my fingers found purchase, and spitting, ‘Fuck you!’ I smashed the pot right into his ruby lips.
“Claude wailed in pain, staggering. The pot crumpled like paper, but it gave me a moment to breathe as the bedroom door burst open. The alderman stood on the threshold, pale with shock. He took in the chaos—wife screaming, Father Lafitte drawing a knife from his sleeve as I smashed the monster in the face again. But de Blanchet’s eyes were fixed on the thing I brawled with, the dark remnant of the boy he’d buried months ago.
“‘My son?’
“I lunged for my bandolier of holy water and silverbombs, but the priest leaped upon my shoulders, stabbing me with his little blade again and again. Lafitte’s strength was impressive, his knife puncturing my chest a dozen times. But I was no fucking thrall like him. I was a paleblood, an initiate of the Ordo Argent, trained at the feet of a master of the Hunt. Smashing his jaw with my elbow, I heard bone splinter, a scream from the treacherous prick’s broken mouth. I speared myself backward, felt Lafitte’s ribs crumble as we collided with the wall hard enough to shatter the bricks.
“But by then, little Claude was upright again, delivering a blow to my bollocks so thunderous, it actually made me vomit. I doubled up in agony, and he slung me down into the floorboards. Sitting on my chest, the vampire lunged toward my throat.
“A burning piece of timber crashed over the boy’s head, splintering in a shower of sparks. Claude screamed in agony, his hair smoldering. Rising off me, he turned to his father, standing at the fireplace with a shattered log in hand.
“‘Papa,’ the vampire hissed.
“‘No son of mine,’ de Blanchet whispered, tears in his eyes.
“He struck the boy again, the thing shrieking as the fire blacked its skin. A scream rang out in the room then, and Ma
dame de Blanchet snatched up Lafitte’s fallen dagger, launched herself at her husband’s back. The blade punched through the alderman’s flesh, the man gasping as he and his wife collapsed onto the blood-slicked floor.
“‘Claudette! S-stop…’
“Vomit in my mouth, blood streaming down my chest, I lunged for my bandolier again. I heard hissing breath, felt strong hands sling me across the room, demolishing Madame de Blanchet’s magnificent bed. I raised my left hand as Claude landed atop me, the unholy little fuck shrieking as the silver in my palm flared bright. But still he struck me like a hammer, driving the breath from my punctured lungs. With one clawed hand, he grabbed my arm, forcing the light of my tattoo from his eyes. With his other, he reached for my throat. And desperate, gasping and bleeding, I seized hold of his wrist.
“My strength versus his. His will against mine. He loomed above me, cherubic face scorched and spattered red. I remembered those two highbloods in the crypts, the semblance of their old lives still clinging to their corpses. But this fucking monster atop me, glutted on months of murder, this, this was what they really were.
“‘Hushhhhhh now…’
“I was thirteen years old again. Lying in the mud the day Amélie came home. And there, just as before, with death breathing cold upon my throat, I felt heat flood up my arm. Something stirred once more inside me, tenebrous and old. And with a shriek of agony, Claude de Blanchet reared back, clutching the hand that clutched his.
“His flesh was blackening in my grip, as though it burned without flame. The boything tried to pull away, and beneath my clenched fingers, I saw his porcelain skin bubbling and splitting, red vapor rising from the cracks as if the very blood boiled in his dead veins. His voice was a child’s again, bloody tears in black eyes.
“‘Let go!’ he squealed. ‘Mama, make him stop!’
“His hand was a charred ruin now, scalding blood spilling down my forearm like hot wax. Still, I held on, horrified, amazed. I heard boots up the stairs. Greyhand’s shout. Little Claude gasped as my master’s flail wrapped about his throat and chest. And bound at last by silver, the little bastard tumbled to the floor. Madame de Blanchet flew off her husband and toward me, but de Coste wrestled her to the ground.
“‘I’ll kill you! You hurt my baby, bastard, I’LL KILL YOU!’
“The woman was drenched in blood, her husband dead by her own hand, and she had no thought but for the leech lying helpless beside me. Claude de Blanchet stared up at me, soulless eyes brimming with malice. I pictured the bite wounds upon his mother’s breast and between her legs, trying not to imagine the shape of his nightly visitations. And I wondered if I’d ever walked so close to hell as this.
“Greyhand placed his hands under my arms, eased me to my feet. My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stand, head spinning from Lafitte’s poison. My master surveyed the carnage: the crushed priest, the moaning highblood, the murdered alderman and his screaming wife. I was drenched in sticky red, stab wounds in my chest, ribs broken. My hair hung about my eyes in a matted, bloody curtain, mind racing with the thought that I’d somehow boiled that vampire’s blood just by touching him.
“‘What did I do?’ I whispered, looking at the boy’s black flesh. ‘How did I do it?’
“‘I’ve no idea.’
“Greyhand patted my shoulder, gave me a grudging nod.
“‘But fine work, Little Lion.’”
VI
THE SCARLET FOUNDRY
“WE ARRIVED BACK at San Michon two weeks later, those mighty stone pillars rising from the sunset mists before us. In truth, I knew not how to feel. I’d both failed and flown on my first Hunt. My impatience had bested me, put innocent lives at risk. I’d killed a man with my own hands, and it’s no small thing to be the one who takes a life from this earth. You make the world less by it, and if you’re careless, make yourself less besides.
“But instead of regret, I felt only vindication. That I’d defended God’s faithful from the evil that beset them. That I’d done right. And more and most, I’d defeated a highblood single-handed. I admit I was feeling more than a touch full of myself on that—sitting tall in Justice’s saddle with a smile that never quite left my lips.
“Claude de Blanchet and Vivienne La Cour were both trussed up in silver chains on Greyhand’s horse. The boy’s arm had yet to fully heal from the wounds I’d inflicted on him, and Greyhand had to silence his wails with a gag. But the questions of exactly what I’d done, and more important, how I’d done it, were still unanswered.
“Despite my insubordination, Greyhand paid me a grudging respect—I could tell he was impressed at the prowess I’d shown in taking the boy down. But de Coste’s eyes were full of loathing when he looked at me. My disobedience had seen him get his skull broken by a fledgling, and I’d gone on to thrash its maker unarmed and alone. Aaron had been overshadowed, and I knew he’d have a bone to pick once out of Greyhand’s sight.
“We pulled our horses to a halt outside the stable gates, and I walked inside to fetch the grooms as Aaron and Greyhand unloaded our captive coldbloods. I called out to Kaspar, my eyes adjusting to the dim light of the chymical globes. And in the shadows, I saw two figures, starting as if surprised. The first was Kaveh, Kaspar’s mute brother. And the second, her face paling a little at the sight of me, was Seraph Talon’s assistant, Sister Aoife.
“‘Fairdawning, Initiate,’ she stammered, bowing low.
“‘Godmorrow, good Sister.’ I nodded slowly. ‘Kaveh.’
“The lad lowered his eyes, mute as always.
“‘You are returned from the Hunt?’ Aoife asked. ‘I am told all went well? Archer arrived last week with news of the cargo you carry.’
“I looked Aoife over, head tilted. It was uncommon strange to find a sister of the Silver Sorority unchaperoned in the company of a stableboy. Kaveh was still refusing to meet my eyes. But in the end, I supposed it no concern of mine.
“‘Oui,’ I nodded to the sister. ‘Two highblood fledglings, both of the Blood Voss.’
“‘Wonderful,’ Aoife smiled, straightening her habit. ‘I shall accompany you.’
“The good sister followed me outside, and Kaveh hurried to bring our horses in from the cold. Aaron and Greyhand bowed in greeting to Aoife, and together we ascended San Michon’s dizzying heights, with me hauling the de Blanchet boy and Aaron carrying La Cour. I watched the sister sidelong as the platform rose, but Aoife’s face was stone. Archer wheeled above us, singing to the wind in joy at his master’s return. Greyhand lifted his arm, and as the falcon alighted at his wrist, his lips twisted the closest to a smile they ever got.
“I thought we might report to Abbot Khalid or fill our bellies, but Aoife led us straight to the Armory. As ever, the windows were lit by forgefire, the chimneys belched black smoke—all save one, spitting that thin wisp of scarlet. Awaiting us on the steps was Seraph Talon himself, his greatcoat’s collar laced painfully tight, his ashwood switch in hand.
“‘Fairdawn, Frère Greyhand,’ Talon said in his cool highborn tone. ‘De Coste.’
“‘Godmorrow, Seraph,’ they answered.
“The Seraph of the Hunt looked directly at me, stroking his long, dark moustache like a six-year-old strokes a favored kitten. ‘Fairdawn, my little shitblood.’
“‘Godmorrow, Seraph,’ I sighed.
“Talon gave a small toss of his head, and we four followed him into the Armory. The warmth of the forges was a blessed change from the road, the chymical globes glittering like stars in the gables overhead. The walls were lined with silversteel, and there among the racks, I saw Baptiste Sa-Ismael, the young blackthumb who’d forged my sword. His dark skin was damp with sweat, muscles glinting as he wheeled a barrow of raw coke for the forges. He stopped when he saw us, wiped his brow.
“‘Fairdawn, Seraph,’ he said in his warm baritone. ‘Sister Aoife.’
“Talon nodded, and Aoife bowed. ‘Godmorrow, Sa-Ismael.’
“The smithy gifted the rest of us an impeccabl
e grin. ‘And a fairdawn to you all, brothers. Returned in triumph, I see?’ He looked to the sword at my waist. ‘How did Lionclaw fare on her maiden voyage, de León? Slay me something monstrous?’
“‘She was piffed out a window by a bent priest, brother. So, I fear not.’
“Baptiste glanced toward Aoife and grinned. ‘Well, it sounds like you gave her an adventure, at least. Ladies do enjoy that sort of thing.’ He slapped my shoulder with one warm hand. ‘Have no fear, Little Lion. God will grant your chance to do his will.’
“Bloody hell, I liked Baptiste. And I wasn’t alone. De Coste lost all trace of his usual arrogance when in the blackthumb’s company. Even Greyhand looked close to dropping his customary scowl around the young smith. Baptiste had a smile that felt made just for you, a rich laugh, a good soul. But he glanced to Talon as the seraph cleared his throat.
“‘I see you’ve business to attend, brothers. I’ll not keep you from God’s holy work. We can share your tales in the refectory tonight over a glass.’
“‘Or a bottle,’ Aaron countered.
“The smithy laughed, dark eyes flashing. ‘By the Blood. Tonight, mes amis.’
“We nodded farewells, and followed Seraph Talon and Sister Aoife to an area of the Armory I’d not visited before. Massive silver-clad doors barred the way, opened with a silver key around Talon’s throat, and beyond, a large room of dark stone awaited us. The taste of old blood laced the air. Tall ceilings lit with chymical globes arched overhead, the walls covered with anatomical illustrations of coldbloods, faekin, and other monstrosities. But the room was dominated by a large apparatus, the likes of which I’d never imagined.
“It seemed a kind of forge, dreamed in an unquiet mind. A serpentine nest of pipes surrounded a row of large stone slabs. Channels were carved into the stones in the shape of the sevenstar, and on half a dozen, I could see the emaciated forms of vampires, bound in silver. Many were wretched, but at least one was highblooded—a pretty monsieur with long hair of Ossway red. Their flesh was lifeless grey, withered like old fruit. Silver tubes had been stabbed into their chests, and I could hear the drip, drip, drip of blood into glass jars.
