Empire of the Vampire

by Jay Kristoff

  “And I was the meat.

  “I’d been stripped naked, wrists manacled, dangling from one of those iron hooks so only the tips of my toes touched the flagstones. My head was throbbing, my thirst a living, breathing thing. The inquisitor who’d danced on my skull stood before me, clad in black leathers and her blood-red tabard. She still wore her tricorn, features mostly hidden by her veil, but I could see red lips, curled and cruel.

  “Her sister was nowhere to be seen, but a brick mansion of a man stood at a butcher’s bench along the wall. Beside a bundle wrapped in burlap, I saw an impressive collection of real and makeshift torture implements. A ten-tail whip, a bonesaw, a hammer, thumb screws. A poker was thrust into a brazier of burning coals, the iron red-hot.

  “‘All the makings of a jolly weeksend,’ I hissed.

  “The inquisitor tilted her head. ‘You can last longer than that, surely.’

  “‘My wife b-been telling stories about me again?’

  “‘Your whore, you mean?’

  “My face darkened at that, my soft smile vanishing.

  “‘Oh, oui,’ she said. ‘We know who you are. What you are.’

  “‘If that were true, you’d be speaking more polite about my wife.’

  “‘I am Sœur Talya d’Naél.’ She raised her right hand, scraping one iron claw along my whiskers. ‘It will be a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

  “‘Where’s D-Dior?’

  “The inquisitor ignored my question, eyes shining behind her veil. ‘You … shot me.’

  “‘Not well enough, apparently.’

  “‘It hurt. A very great deal.’ She dug the claw in, lifting my chin and staring into my eyes. ‘Merci, Monsieur de León.’

  “‘That’s Chevalier de León to you. I s-suppose that’s why you’ve got me stashed under a nunnery, instead of taking m-me up to the keep? The local capitaine might not appreciate you baby-killing bitches torturing a Sword of the Realm.’

  “‘You are no Sword,’ Talya scoffed. ‘You are an apostate. Disgraced and excommunicated. This is Church business. To be conducted upon Church grounds.’

  “‘Like the business you conducted in San Guillaume?’

  “Talya smiled, dark and bleak. ‘We supposed your priest might seek succor there. A drowning man will clutch even at straws. But straw burns, halfbreed. Just like heretics.’

  “I swallowed hard, my stomach full of broken glass. This close, I could see the vein thumping along Talya’s neck, smell her blood under her perfume of leather and misery. Her razored claw drifted down my collarbone, tracing the lines of the lion inked on my chest.

  “‘Beautiful,’ she breathed.

  “And with a small smile, she pushed one sharp claw right through my nipple.

  “I gasped in pain, bucking against my manacles. The inquisitor’s claw dug through muscle, scraping bone, blood spilling down my belly. She leaned in close, whispering in my ear. ‘I owe you pain, heretic. I owe you bli—’

  “She gasped as I smashed my brow into her nose. I felt a satisfying crunch, heard a gargling squeal as my headbutt sent her stumbling backward. Her thug stepped forward, ready to dismantle me, but Talya held up her hand to stave him off. She pressed her palm to the blood gushing over her lips, face twisted in fury.

  “‘You … b-broke my nose…’

  “‘Come closer, bitch. I’ll kiss it better.’

  “‘Faithless bastard.’

  “I thrashed, wild at the scent of her blood. It filled the cell, my lungs, my head, fangs gleaming as I bucked against my restraints. ‘Where’s Dior?’

  “Talya’s lips twisted in a bleeding smile. ‘My sister Valya is taking her confession.’

  “‘You’re torturing her? She’s an innocent child!’

  “‘Innocent?’ Talya spat blood, the scent near driving me mad. ‘Dior Lachance is a heretic. She is a witch. And she is a murderer.’

  “‘The fuck are you babbling about? She didn’t kill anyone.’

  “The inquisitor sneered. ‘Dior Lachance murdered a priest, halfbreed. A bishop who ran an orphanage, no less. Ritually slaughtered him, mutilated the corpse, and painted the walls of his home with his blood. And were it not for the confession of her conspirators, she may still be conducting her deviant rites on the streets of Lashaame to this very day.’

  “‘Bullshit.’

  “The inquisitor produced a sheaf of parchment, covered in black script.

  “‘You will name Lachance a witch,’ Talya said. ‘A practitioner of profane blood rites, sent to sow discord among the Almighty’s faithful. You will name the ones who assisted her in escaping justice in Lashaame—namely, Sœur Chloe Sauvage of the Order of San Michon and Père Rafa Sa-Araki of the Order of San Guillaume—as slaves to Lachance’s dark will. You will confess your involvement in the girl’s coven, and beg God’s absolution for your heresy.’

  “My eyes narrowed, fangs bared. ‘The fuck I will.’

  “‘How I prayed you would say that.’

  “Talya smiled, nodded to the thug by the torture implements.

  “‘Philippe?’

  “The thug dragged the burlap aside, and my stomach churned as I recognized everything Dior had stolen from Madame Souris. Beside my foundry, my ingredients, I saw glass phials brimming with chocolat-red powder. The thug lifted one between forefinger and thumb, smiling as he loosed the stopper.

  “‘We took the liberty of bottling it for you,’ Talya purred.

  “The man waved the open phial in front of me, and the scent of the sanctus within—God, it struck me like a spear to the chest. I actually moaned, gasping as the thirst roared through me, fangs long and pointed, heart hammering, so close, so close.

  “Talya picked up the ten-tail whip, and my jaw clenched as I saw that the thongs were spurred with metal. The leather creaked as she coiled it in her fist, walking slowly behind me, heels clicking stone. My skin prickled as I felt that clawed gauntlet on my skin again, tracing the inkwork on my naked back. Angel’s wings across my shoulders, the Mothermaid and infant Redeemer below, carved a lifetime ago by hands that loved me.

  “Crack!

  “I gasped as iron and leather bit into my skin.

  “‘Do you confess?’

  “‘Could you aim a little higher, S-sister?’

  “Crack!

  “‘Nono … a t-touch to the left.’

  “Crack!

  “‘… th-that’s it.’

  “CRACK!

  “CRACK!

  “CRACK!

  “Iron doesn’t hurt palebloods the way silver will, but by that stage, I was starving, weak, ready to break. Instead of stitching closed, my wounds bled like a butchered hog’s. I thrashed at my chains until my flesh tore, blood spilling down my arms, the back of my legs, pooling on the stone beneath me. And always, the scent of that sanctus filled my lungs.

  “I’d felt hunger like this only once before in my whole life. No mere human can imagine the agony. No smokefiend or bottlebride or poppyhound can even begin to understand.”

  Jean-François pursed his lips, spoke soft. “I understand.”

  “I knew this was bullshit. I knew Dior well enough to know she was no cold-blooded killer. If someone had handed her to the Inquisition, it was a betrayal, not a confession. And I remembered her words in the cave, then. What she’d said about everybody leaving her.

  “I’d done the same, I realized. Too wrapped up in my own dark. I’d been ready to turn my back on that girl, like everyone else had. And I realized I’d forgotten the most important lesson. A lesson learned through trials of ice and fire. A lesson that should’ve been carved into my bones with blood and silver.”

  “What lesson?” Jean-François asked.

  The Last Silversaint took a swallow from his bottle. It was a long while before he spoke again.

  “I found myself in darkness. Drenched in bloodscent. I felt my daughter’s hand in mine. Her fingers, soft against my calluses, the echoes of her laughter ringing in my head. I saw A
strid’s face floating in the black before me. Lashes fluttering upon her cheeks as if she were waking from a dream. Red lips. Two little words.

  “Do it.

  “I can’t.

  “You must.

  “Come in.

  “COME IN.

  “‘Who’s there?’

  “I blinked hard, drenched in blood and the perfume of want. The pain had stopped, the rhythmic crack of the lash across the tattered meat of my back had stilled. I looked up through curtains of sweat-drenched hair, saw the thug before me, scowling. I could feel Talya behind me, and I swear under the stink of gore and leather and sweat, I could smell desire; the sadistic bitch was wet as spring rain.

  “But she’d stopped now. Her voice soft.

  “‘Who’s there?’ she asked again.

  “A reply came from beyond the door, and I realized someone was knocking. The voice was muffled, shy—a young sister from the priory, I guessed.

  “‘Pardon, Inquisitor. But your holy sister sends urgent word.’

  “The pair looked at each other, Philippe stalking to the meat cellar door as Talya twisted the ten-tail in her hand, wringing a thick soup of blood from the leather onto the stone at her feet. The thug opened the door, scowling. ‘This had best be im—’

  “The fellow gasped as four and a half foot of jagged metal was jammed into his belly. The strike was nothing poetic, but the sword still cleaved his mail like a razor through silk. He clutched his gut, the blade slipping free as he fell backward, blood and bowel spilling from the rend. And through my starving haze, my heart surged as a figure came through the door, bright blue eyes wild with rage.

  “Dior lifted Ashdrinker in her hands, pointed the blade at the inquisitor.

  “‘Your sister said to tell you the witch is loose.’”

  VII

  BLEEDING BUT UNBROKEN

  “HERE’S A TRUTH about sword fighting, coldblood: Even if you’re bad at it, when the person you’re fighting doesn’t have one? You’re still going to be pretty good.

  “One glance at her form told me Dior Lachance had never swung a longblade before in her life. Her grip was for shit. Her stance was woeful. And as I’ve said, it’s only in storybooks some little bastard picks up a sword and wields it like he was born to it. Still, that blade was forged in an age long past by the hands of legends, and broken though she was, Ash remembered something of what she’d been. I could tell by the way she glanced at her, Dior was listening to Ashdrinker in her head. Stepping forward with blade raised.

  “Talya shouted a prayer to Naél, lashed out with her whip. Dior flinched as the thongs snapped the air, inches from her throat. I cried warning as the girl struck, almost collecting me on the backswing. But undaunted, Dior stepped up, carving the air with broad blows, and Talya’s whip was sent spinning from her grip. The inquisitor backed away, snatching up a hammer from the bench and roaring to her brethren for help.

  “Dior brought Ash down in a clumsy overhand swing, and the inquisitor darted aside, slammed the hammer into the side of the girl’s skull. Dior staggered, gasping, swinging Ashdrinker in a backhand arc that forced Talya away. To her credit, the inquisitor was no slouch, and alone, even armed only with a hammer, she might’ve proved Dior’s match. But in dodging Dior’s strike, she’d brought herself close to me.

  “I dragged myself up on my chains, bleeding, gasping, scissoring my legs around the woman’s throat. She roared again for her men, slamming her hammer into my leg, my belly, struggling to break free. And Dior took her chance, lunging with Ash and spitting Talya like a Firstmas hog. The blade sheared through that blood-red tabard and into the blood-red meat beyond. The woman wobbled, slipped from between my legs and down to the floor in a puddle of blood—hers and mine.

  “The scent of the murder, the sheer, maddening flood of it, overcame me. I gritted my teeth, vision flooded, fangs aching in my gums. Dior looked about, snatched up my pipe from the table. No care taken for measure, she upended a sanctus phial over the bowl, and I whimpered at the sight of the powder spilling on the floor. She stuffed the pipe into my mouth, striking my flintbox.

  “‘Quick. Breathe.’

  “I needed no urging, almost weeping as that smoke hit my lungs. My eyes rolled back in my head as it crashed into me and over me, deep as the darkest river, falling upward into a burning sky. I cursed it even as I loved it, days of agony vanishing in a heartbeat as I dragged down another lungful.

  “I heard Dior twisting Talya’s key, felt my restraints come free at last, slithering to my knees in a pool of red. Head bowed. Just trying to breathe.

  “‘M-merci, madamois—’

  “I flinched as my britches crashed into my head, my boots skittering along the stone.

  “‘Get dressed,’ Dior spat. ‘Can’t have lil’ Gabriel flapping about while we’re running for our lives through a nunnery.’

  “‘… lil’ Gabriel?’

  “‘Fuckssakes, just get dressed!’

  “I hauled on my britches, my boots. Wincing as I pulled my tunic over my bloodied back, I watched Dior from the corner of my eye. She was gathering up the foundry, the sanctus phials, tying off the burlap with shaking hands. She’d stolen some nun’s nightshirt from the look, but it was soaked with her blood, and I could see her eyes were bright with pain—our captors had been no kinder to her than me.

  “‘How’d you get loose?’ I murmured.

  “‘Good thing about shoes as shitty as these.’ She patted her beggar’s boots and the slim leather wallet stashed within. ‘Most folk don’t want to go poking around inside them.’

  “‘Clever bitch,’ I whispered.

  “The priory bells started ringing. Not the tolling for mass or the song of the dawn, but an alarm, frantic, echoing in the cellar around us. Dior looked up, cursing.

  “‘They know I’m loose.’

  “‘Those bells will have the whole city garrison down on us.’

  “Dior tossed me Ashdrinker, snatched up the burlap bundle, and we ran from the cell, red footprints behind us. Bolting down the corridor, we passed another member of the inquisitor cohort, dead from a single swordblow to his back. I glanced at Dior, but she avoided my gaze. Pounding up a stairwell with Ashdrinker in my hand.

  “Judge her not, Gabriel. The girl d-did what needed to be done, be done.

  “‘I know.’

  “She has fire, this one. Fury. She r-reminds me of thee in younger days.

  “‘… I know.’

  “Cresting the stairs, we found ourselves on the priory’s ground floor. I could see flickering torchlight ahead; the inquisitorial troops already searching the courtyard. And the bells were bringing more soldiers as I feared—already I could hear them distant, heavy boots tromping up through the streets of Redwatch below.

  “‘Not the grandest idea to try fighting our way out of this,’ I murmured.

  “Dior nodded to the shadows. ‘This way.’

  “I limped up another stairwell behind her, my minced back still raw and bleeding. Cresting the first-floor balcony, we ducked low and ran along it, avoiding the crowded courtyard below. At the end of the landing, Dior led me through a small doorway and back down a thin flight of stairs, and we found ourselves in the priory kitchens. Someone was still ringing those bastard bells, and I knew we didn’t have much time before we were overrun.

  “Dior snatched up a burlap sack by the door, stuffed with spudloaves and dried goods. I realized she’d been here already, raiding the stores. Wounded, bloodied, beaten as she was, she’d still had her wits about her. But I also realized she must have been fixing to leave me behind—that she’d got almost as far as the gates before coming back for me.

  “God’s truth, I wondered why she’d done it.

  “Somewhere distant, I heard a scream echoing in the dark. Boiling with rage. ‘Methinks Inquisitor Valya just discovered her sister,’ I murmured.

  “‘Sick bitches,’ Dior spat. ‘Wish I’d got them both…’

  “We slipped out the kit
chen’s rear, along the priory’s walls. I saw torchlight on stone, heard an inquisitor screaming that we must be found, found! The first wave of soldiers was arriving—young scraps all, sunflower-yellow tabards, brand-new swords. If they cornered us after we’d murdered inquisitorial troops, they’d be in no mood for talk.

  “We passed a laden clothesline, and running to the fluttering cloth, Dior tossed a bundle at my head. Rough homespun and lace. Black and white. Though the habit was a squeeze, the veil covered my scruffy beard at least. And clad as sisters of the San Cleyland Sorority, we crept along the walls to a stairwell, then up to the battlements above.

  “Peering over the edge, I saw a forty-foot drop to the cobbles below. Handing Ashdrinker and our bags to Dior, I patted my minced shoulders.

  “‘Climb aboard.’

  “The girl met my eyes, wondering a handful of heartbeats before finally clambering onto my back. With her arms around my neck and the sacrament in my veins, I wormed my fingers into the brickwork and scaled downward. I could feel Dior’s heartbeat hammering against my back. Smell our blood, red and fresh in the air.

  “‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured. ‘That they hurt you.’

  “She made no reply, simply holding tight until we reached the ground.

  “Snow began falling as we stole through the Redwatch streets, quiet and quick. The cityfort about us was waking, those damn bells echoing down thoroughfares and off redbrick walls. More troopers charged past, up toward the priory, but swathed head to foot in our stolen vestments, we were paid little heed. Making our way through the wending dark, we’d soon reached the grubby sprawl of the Redwatch docks.

  “‘We can steal a boat,’ Dior whispered. ‘Make for the north shore.’

  “‘Wait,’ I told her, looking at the stores about us. ‘Hold here a moment.’

  “I left her in the dark, slipping up to a fancy shopfront and twisting the door handle until I felt the lock pop clean. Inside, I grabbed a swift armload: furs, cloaks, blankets, bundling them under my arm and tossing a handful of royales onto the countertop as I left.

  “Stepping back outside, I saw Dior had already boarded a small rowboat, pushing herself out into the Volta. I caught a few strange looks as I bolted down the pier after the girl, nun’s habit streaming behind me as I took the leap and landed in the boat with a thump.