by Jay Kristoff
“I bowed at the bones. ‘Good seeing you again, madame. You haven’t aged a night.’
“‘Whereas you,’ Souris tutted, ‘have seen far better days.’
“‘I’m hoping you can r-remedy that.’
“‘Hoping not praying?’
“‘Not my business anymore.’
“‘So we hear.’ Blind eyes flickered to Dior. ‘What is your business these days?’
“‘All due respect, madame. But none of yours.’
“‘Fair play.’ Lighting a bone pipe, she breathed a plume of thin yellow smoke into my eyes. ‘Your desire? We’re fresh out of pretty nuns with bad taste in men, I’m afraid.’
“I spoke the word as if it were chocolat melting on my tongue. ‘Blood.’
“‘Plenty of that for free right outside. Presuming you’re willing to dodge the soldiery and risk a tickling from the Inquisition.’
“Dior tore her eyes from the curios about us. ‘There’s Inquisition in this city?’
“‘Arrived six nights back.’ The old woman tilted her head. ‘That troubles you, girl?’
“‘I’m not a girl.’
“Souris chuckled at the skeleton. ‘You hear that, Minou? She’s not a girl.’
“‘Our concern,’ I hissed, ‘is commerce. And the blood I need is of a darker sort.’
“‘Mmm.’ Madame Souris rose and wandered along her shelves. Taking down a timeworn, dust-covered book entitled A Complete and Unabridged Historie of Elidaeni Floristry, she opened it to reveal a dozen phials of desiccated blood inside a carven hollow.
“‘All from foulbloods, I’m afraid,’ Souris declared. ‘Slow trade these nights. The Dyvok have made a sow’s ear out west, and the Voss a terrible ruckus eastways.’
“‘They’ll serve,’ I whispered, wiping the sweat from my cheeks. ‘I’ll need a chymist’s foundry, too. Mortar and pestle. Hollyroot. Some redsalts and—’
“The old woman raised her hand and nodded. ‘Blood for blood?’
“‘Blood for blood,’ I replied, dragging up my sleeve.
“Souris fished about beneath the countertop, produced phials and a glass tube tipped with a silvered blade. Then she turned to Dior, staring with blind eyes.
“‘One should do it, ma chérie.’
“Dior frowned at that. ‘… What?’
“‘That’s the question isn’t it, Mlle Notagirl. What.’ The old woman leaned closer, smoke drifting from wrinkled lips. ‘I’ve walked the halls of the king in yellow. Tasted delights in the arms of bleakborn princes and danced naked ’neath black stars with brides of the Neverafter. And not once in all my years have I smelled the like of you. So what are you?’
“‘Not for t-trade is what she is,’ I growled.
“Souris tilted her head, watching the empty air just above my left shoulder. ‘That’s the price, Lion Noir. I’ve no need of what’s in you. I’ve plenty of paleblood a’ready.’
“I clenched my teeth. ‘That’s the only blood on offer, madame.’
“Souris sniffed, packed the foundry and phials and herbs below the counter. ‘Pity.’
“‘Hold now.’ Dior glanced at me, back at Souris. ‘He needs those.’
“The old woman held up a needle-tipped phial between ink-stained fingers. ‘Everyone needs something, Mlle Notagirl. And every need comes with a price.’
“Dior rolled up her leather sleeve. ‘Then I’ll—’
“‘No,’ I growled. ‘Not like this. N-not for me.’
“‘As you like it.’ Souris smiled like the cat who stole the cream, sold the cow, and fucked the maid. ‘They’ll be waiting here when you change your mind. I’ll even wrap them up for you, Chevalier.’
“Dior had sense enough not to dance a fuss before the old woman, and after a small bow, we were limping out of the Price. But as soon as we were back in the dingy streets, the girl clutched my wrist and hissed, ‘Are you mad? You need that blood!’
“‘N-not that badly.’
“‘You can barely stand! How bad does it need to get?’
“‘Listen to me, girl.’ I grabbed her arm, fury in my eyes. ‘I know Souris well enough to buy from her, but that doesn’t mean I trust her. Forget gibbets and pyres, forget peasant superstition. There’s a whole world beneath the one most folk see around them, and there’s true witchery in it. Coldbloods aren’t the fucking half of it. Duskdancers. Faekin. Fallen. Leave aside the Forever King, Chloe’s prophecy, all the rest. What do you think would happen if that world knew what you could do?’ I shook my head, wincing. ‘The cure to any ill, any wound, just the stroke of a knife away? God, the things they’d do to own you…’
“‘But you need it!’
“I gritted my teeth, coughing. ‘I’ll figure s-something out.’
“The hour was late, and the ache in me was blinding as we trudged back out into the crush of the Redwatch streets. We found a dockside dosshouse—a nowhere fancy affair called Mandy’s Kiss, its walls crusted with dead hollanfel vines and runs of shadespine. I paid the publican twice the owing, told him we weren’t to be disturbed, and with a knowing glance to the ‘boy’ at my side, he winked as we trudged upstairs. Locking the door behind us, I fell on the bed, curling into a very small, very miserable ball.
“Dior plucked the curtains, muttering. ‘This place smells like someone died in it.’
“‘Someone probably d-did.’
“‘What are you going to do now?’
“‘Repeat p-performance?’
“‘Fucksakes, hero, you’re—’
“‘I’m thinking!’ I snarled.
“‘Well, think quicker! Because you’ve the look a man half dead and all dying!’
“I growled between clenched fangs, threw her my purse. ‘If you’ve a need to make yourself useful, go find me something to drink instead of pissing in my fucking ear.’
“‘How about I piss in a cup and save you the coin, you surly prick?’
“‘Great Redeemer, girl—’
“My halfhearted moan was silenced as the door slammed. Thirsting, miserable, I curled up tighter and tried to think past the crushing pain in my skull, the cold lice in my skin. I was in no shape to threaten violence, and Souris wasn’t a dame to be gently fucked anyway—a man who brought quarrel to her door had better be carrying more than a broken sword. I could offer a greater sum, but the old bitch had those blind eyes fixed on Dior now. A tie of service might suffice, but I’d no wish to bind myself to the likes of her, and besides, I’d business to the east. Business bleak and all kinds of bloody. Business that had dragged me far from home and hearth already, and still, not even begun …
“As if to remind me, I heard scratching at the window. Sharp fingernails drifting across cold glass. My stomach did a burning roll, and lifting my head, I expected to find dark eyes staring back at me, reminding me of that debt due. But there was only the wind, blowing a dry hollanfel vine across the pane.
“I closed my eyes. Cursed it all. This beast I was and must soon become. The door opened, and something cool and heavy cracked me across the cheek. Gasping, I squinted at what had hit me, saw a bottle of paint-thinner that might’ve passed for vodka. Dior stood on the threshold, glowering.
“‘Anything else, Majesty? No? Good.’
“She made to close the door again as I croaked, ‘Where you going?’
“‘It stinks in here,’ she spat. ‘And there’s a pretty maid downstairs with a pouch of cigarelles who seems a damn sight more pleasant company than you. So when you’ve done your thinking and pulled a civil tongue into your head, come find me. ’Til then?’
“She slammed the door harder, making me wince. And like a beggar, like a dog, I cracked the wax on that bottle and downed the lot of it without pause. It was nothing close to what I needed, nowhere near the thing I craved. But it served enough to drown me, push me down into soft black arms, where the pain might not find me. The fear in me was rising, one thought beyond all others—the thought of what I’d do when I broke. Dark rising aro
und me, cold stone, wet and sticky, the color of my lady’s lips the last time I kissed her.
“And though there was naught but dark outside the window, still I heard her voice, echoing in the black behind my eyes.
“‘Remember why you left us.’
“Remember why you left us.”
V
CLEVER AS CATS
“‘HERO.’
“The voice broke through the sweats, the brittle rime of sleep.
“‘Hero!’
“I opened my eyes, gasping, sitting up in bed and regretting it dearly. Blinking, bleary-eyed, I dragged the hair from my fevered brow and stared. Dior stood at the foot of my bed, ashen locks tossed back from twinkling eyes. She dumped an armful on the mattress at my feet; a packet wrapped in dull burlap tied with string. And I stared in gobsmacked bewilderment as she stripped the bow and showed me what lay within.
“Mortar. Pestle. Foundry. Hollyroot. Redsalts. A dozen more herbs and chymicals. And at the last, like a cluster of jewels in a stolen crown, a dozen phials of dark, dried blood.
“‘The old lady wrapped it,’ Dior smiled. ‘Just like she said.’
“‘Tell me you did not give those dusty bitches your blood.’
“Dior planted her boot on the bed, fished inside, and twirled a thin leather wallet between her fingers. I recalled us sniping at each other outside that pub in Winfael.
“You’ve got a key, smartarse?
“To every lock in the empire, dumbarse.
“‘You stole these?’ I hissed.
“Dior grinned, proud as a lord and twice as crooked.
“‘Did they fucking see you?’
“She shook her head. ‘Clever as three cats, me.’
“‘Cheeky bitch…’
“‘Flatterer.’
“It was a fool who filched from the likes of Souris and the Night Market, but God’s truth, I could worry about the spill later. Instead, I lurched from the bed like the Redeemer risen, snatched up the mortar and pestle, and set to work.
“Breaking the wax seal on the first phial, my hands were shaking so hard I almost spilled my prize. The blood looked to be the poorest kind, but the scent still flooded my tongue. I mixed the hollyroot, redsalt, queensong, the recipe as familiar as my own name, almost disbelieving that after days of thirst, sweet relief would soon be mine. Spreading the thick red paste onto the foundry’s heating plate, I set it by the hearth and started pacing.
“Ten minutes.
“Ten minutes and I’d be home.
“Dior had flopped down on the mattress, spread-eagled, eyes closed. I looked at her sidelong, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘I don’t even want to ask how you did it,’ I sighed. ‘It’d take a wagonload of foxes with diplomas in cunning from Augustin University to get inside the Night Market without invitation.’
“Dior murmured, eyes still closed. ‘Careful, hero. That sounded a little like praise.’
“‘It was.’
“She opened her eyes at last, levered herself up onto one elbow. ‘Sweet Mothermaid. You really are sick, aren’t you?’
“It was shameful how good I felt. How just the promise of a fix had me light as clouds. I stalked back and forth before the hearth, toying with the flintbox in my britches, watching the flames, the foundry, the sanctus desiccating within.
“But still, there was a doubt looming now, just beyond the window. I looked toward the empty glass, still half-expecting to see her there. The shadow that had followed me all the way from Sūdhaem, drawing closer and closer with every step.
“Remember why you left us.
“‘I’ve been thinking…’
“‘Me too,’ Dior murmured.
“I crouched against the wall, arms wrapped tight around my stomach as a new wave of flaming agony swept through me.
“Just a few minutes more …
“‘Mesdames b-before messieurs.’
“‘As you like it.’ Dior sat up in the bed, chewing on a broken nail. ‘Now … please bear in mind, you’re still the surliest prick I ever met. You’re a drunk. And an addict. You act a fucking bastard, and yet you somehow seem proud of it. By my reckoning, the people who hate other people usually just hate themselves. But still … you stood by me when you’d no reason to. After what happened at San Guillaume, you could have left me behind, but you kept your word to Sister Chloe. Went beyond it, even. I’d be dead if not for you.’
“I held up one shaking hand. ‘You don’t have t—’
“‘No, no, let me finish. You might act a fucking bastard, but I’ve been a bitch to you too. I didn’t treat you fair. Growing up the way I did … Let’s just say the men Mama brought home didn’t leave me with the finest opinion of them. But you’re an honorable one. Every bit the hero people say. So,’ she breathed as if exhaling poison, ‘I’m sorry.’
“‘It’s aright, girl.’
“‘You know, I have a name. And you never use it. Nor I yours, for that matter.’
“She clomped across the room in her beggar’s boots, extended her hand.
“‘Apologies, Gabriel de León.’
“‘Accepted, Dior Lachance. And returned.’
“She smiled, crooked and pretty. Turning on her heel, Dior walked to the window as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She looked to the dim dawn outside, down at the beaten leather she was draped in. ‘You know, this coat of yours is possessed of a certain air of dangerousness and all, but I should get my own before we set out. The whole tall, dark, and tattooed look works well for you, but you must be freezing your bollocks off in just that tunic. And it’s bound to be cold as a snowman’s jollies up north.’
“‘Dior…’
“‘Apologies.’ She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘I know I talk a lot sometimes. You said you’ve been thinking too?’
“I chewed my lip, fangs brushing thirsty skin. ‘After we rest up, w-we should head to the keep. Talk to the capitaine.’
“‘About the road to San Michon?’
“‘About finding some soldiers to escort you there.’
“‘… You mean to come with us?’
“‘I mean there’s bound to be a few of the officers I served with in the Ossway campaigns still hanging around in a fort this big. I can put in a good word. Get you some well-hard bastards to watch your back. A solid horse, some—’
“‘Wait…’ She stared hard, all her world falling still. ‘You’re leaving me?’
“‘Not alone,’ I insisted. ‘These are good men. Veterans. They’ll see you through t—’
“‘You’re leaving me.’
“I clenched my teeth, hung my head. This wasn’t why I came here. Babysitting this girl wasn’t why I’d left home. I had a famille. A debt, dark as night and red as murder. No matter the blood in Dior’s veins, this task wasn’t mine. I was no believer. No zealot. Prophecies were for fools and fanatics, and after all God had done to me, I was the last bastard alive he’d be choosing to safeguard his own flesh and blood.
“I had a daughter of my own to think about.
“But still, the look in Dior’s eyes struck me to the heart. So wounded that I had to turn away. A tear spilled down her cheek—the first I’d ever seen her cry, even with all the blood and pain we’d lived through. And her lip curled, and she looked down to those knife scars carved across her palms, and she sighed.
“‘I fucking knew it—’
“The door smashed off its hinges, crashing along the floor. I rose to my feet as a dozen soldiers burst into the room, dressed in scarlet, cudgels in hand. Ashdrinker was leaning against the wall, and I lunged for her, desperate. But the thirst was still red and raw within me, my muscles weak as four of the bastards crashed atop me.
“‘Get off me!’ Dior screamed. ‘Let go!’
“I heard a crunch, a deep-throated squeal that told me someone’s crotch had met Dior’s boot. I thrashed, feeling a jaw pop as my elbow crashed into it. But the cudgels fell like rain, and above the sound of my pulping flesh,
I heard slow footsteps coming along the boards toward me. They stopped just before my face, and I squinted through the bloody haze: tall-heeled, knee-high, wrapped in strips of spiked hide. My eyes roamed the leather-clad legs beyond, up to their owners.
“Their hair was black, cut in pointed fringes, eyes hidden by tricorns with short, triangular veils. Ornate black gauntlets covered their right hands, fingertips sharp like claws. And my belly ran cold as I saw that their blood-red tabards were marked with the flower and flail of Naél, the Angel of Bliss.
“The first inquisitor stalked into the room, lifted Ashdrinker from the floorboards where she’d fallen. ‘You’ve done the Almighty’s work this day,’ the woman declared.
“‘Merci, godly daughters,’ said the second, glancing over her shoulder.
“I heard Dior curse as I saw two refugee lasses in the doorway, staring with eyes of old sky blue. The eldest nodded, made the sign of the wheel. ‘Véris, Sisters.’
“‘You treacherous fucking sows!’ Dior roared. ‘I saved your papa’s life!’
“The first inquisitor slapped Dior. The girl’s head whipsawed on her shoulders, blood spattering. ‘Silence, witch. You’ve led us a merry dance. But now the song is done.’
“I sighed, looking up at the other. She was staring at me, finger toying with the ragged boulette hole in her tabard. ‘Had a f-feeling I’d see you bitches again.’
“‘Bitches?’
“The woman smiled, lifting her foot.
“‘Oh, the hymns we shall sing, heretic.’
“And her boot came down like thunder.”
VI
CHURCH BUSINESS
“ICE-COLD WATER CRASHED into my face, and black flared into burning white.
“Sputtering, spitting, I tossed sodden hair from my eyes. I was in a dark room, freezing—underground, from the sound. Iron hooks were fixed in the rafters. The walls were red stone, and through the heavy door, I could hear women singing hymns above.
“This was no prison cell, I realized. I was beneath the San Cleyland Priory mostlike, in what looked to be their old meat cellar.
