by Jay Kristoff
“‘Let her go!’
“‘Gabriel,’ Chloe whispered.
“‘Gabe?’ Dior frowned. ‘What are—’
“‘Dior, they mean to murder you!’
“‘Almighty’s name, bring him down!’ Greyhand bellowed.
“Four ’saints charged me, and I silently thanked the Angel Fortuna that the rest of the monastery’s complement must have been abroad at the Hunt—I’d no knowing if I could have taken more of them. But that ancien strength burned in my veins alongside my fury at these bastards—brothers I’d once fought and bled beside, who’d now tried to murder me. They came not one at a time like in the theater plays, no, all together, tooth and nail, but the aisle wasn’t wide enough for more than two at a stretch. The headstrong youngblood came first, de Séverin beside him, that Dyvok strength in his swordarm. But it wasn’t just in taverne tales and soothsinger songs that I was named the greatest swordsman of the Ordo Argent—I’d earned that part of my legend, sure and true. And hungry and strong and swift as they were, I left both those silvered ’saints in puddles of their own blood and shite, sprayed across the Cathedral’s blackstone floor. Finch came next—little Finch with his mismatched eyes locked on my own. The Voss blood in him had grown thick over the years, and I felt his mind pushing into mine, looking to see my strikes before I made them and counter with his own. But for all his faults and all his weaknesses, old Seraph Talon had trained me well. I called up a wall of noise inside my head, left a tiny crack for Finch to peer through—enough to see the feint I conjured to throw his way. But I feinted not at all, striking true instead, and the counter he’d readied was left unsaid as my swords plunged into his belly and chest.
“Finch snarled in desperation, spitting blood, drawing that damned silver carving fork from his coat and thrusting it at my throat. But I grabbed his wrist, hearing bone splinter, stabbing back. And with the fork buried to the hilt under his chin, I left him split and bleeding on the Cathedral tiles.
“A cry echoed on black granite—the screech of a snow hawk—and lines of fire were ripped down my scalp as Winter swooped from the gables. The silverbomb I lifted to hurl slipped from my fingers as a barrage of wheellock shots rang out from the choir loft; the assembled sisters unloading at my back with a dozen blasts of silver. My bomb exploded beside me, ripping my flesh and blinding me in a cloud of silver caustic, and through it charged my old master, his eye alight with fury, silversteel in his hand.
“He’d taught me from a cub, this man. Singing me the hymn of the blade in the Gauntlet, day after day, until my fingers bled and my lungs burned and my hands grew hard as iron. And we crashed against each other now, like waves on a storm-tossed sea. I recalled the kindness and the cruelty he’d shown me. That he’d been more a father to me than any man alive. And in truth, a part of me still loved him like one, despite it all.
“We danced back and forth among the pews, the stone ringing with the song of our swords. The sisters above risked a few shots, but most were afraid of hitting the abbot now. And though he was one-handed, I had a half a dozen silver slugs in my back, and the old bastard was proving my match. I risked a glance to Dior, saw that she was struggling with her bonds now. Chloe still stood with arms raised, still reading aloud in Old Talhostic from the tome, rushing through the final words of the Rite.
“‘Chloe, don’t you dare!’
“‘Sister Chloe, let me go!’ Dior shouted.
“‘I’m sorry,’ Chloe whispered, drawing a gleaming silversteel knife from her habit. ‘But all this was ordained, Dior.’
“‘No, don’t, let me go!’
“‘It’s for the good, love,’ she whispered. ‘It’s God’s will. All on earth below and heaven above is the work of his hand.’
“‘CHLOE!’
“Winter swept down from on high as I roared, slicing my brow open with her talons. Gasping, blood in my eyes, I felt another lucky shot from the loft strike me behind my knee. As I stumbled, Greyhand took his chance, spitting me in the chest and driving me back into one of the mighty stone pillars.
“‘I warned you about being a hero, Gabriel,’ he growled, twisting the blade. ‘Heroes die unpleasant deaths, far from home and hearth.’
“I grabbed his hand in one bloody fist, keeping it locked on the hilt. Drooling blood, I dragged myself forward on his sword until the crossguard was pressed against my belly, and with my other hand, I seized his throat.
“‘Who the fuck told you I was a hero?’
“The old man’s eye grew wide, his mouth opened in a scream as the flesh of his throat began to blacken. Frantic, he tried to get his hand free of my grip, but I held on, grim, hateful. He’d chosen to grant me a silversaint’s death, this man, this mentor, this father mine; supposing that after all the blood and love between us, at least he owed me that.
“But I owed him no such thing. Not a man’s death but a monster’s; a monster who’d cut my throat and given me to the waters, a monster who’d stand watch while a bride of the Almighty butchered a sixteen-year-old girl in God’s own house. And the blood boiled in his veins, and steam rose crimson and roiling from his eye, and the flesh of his throat turned to ashes in my fist. Ruined, smoking, he crumpled to the ground—the Abbot of the Ordo Argent, dead by my hand.
“‘Au revoir, Father,’ I whispered.
“I dragged his blade free from my belly as Winter swooped out of the rafters again, screeching in rage at the death of her master. A dull thwack rang out as I swung, limping forward now in a cloud of tumbling feathers. Shots rang out from the loft, and I hurled a handful of silverbombs, sisters scattering whole or in pieces among the blinding concussions. And still I stalked toward the altar, blood-red eyes locked on Chloe now, the sister standing above Dior with silversteel knife raised, as her voice faltered, as she stared at me with wide green eyes and spoke with bloodless lips.
“‘Gabriel, all this was meant t—hrrrrk!’
“I drove the sword into her chest, pinning her to the podium and the tome laid upon it. Chloe grasped the blade, palms sliced bloody, a look of utter disbelief upon her face—as if even here, even now, she expected God to intervene.
“Always a believer was little Chloe Sauvage.
“‘N-no…’ she gasped. ‘All the w-work of his hand is in ac-ccord with his p-plan…’
“I leaned in close, whispered through bared fangs. ‘Fuck his plan.’
“She tried to speak, a line of crimson spilling down her chin as she slumped back on the tome and sighed her last. Turning, I tore off the straps binding Dior to the altar, and she surged up into my arms. I held as tight as I dared, trembling, almost weeping with relief.
“‘Are you aright?’
“‘I’m aright,’ she breathed, looking in wide-eyed horror at Chloe’s body. ‘She … was going to kill me. Why would she do that?’ She shook her head, tears in her eyes. ‘Why?’
“‘It’s not your fault, love. The ritual demands the Grail’s lifeblood to end daysdeath.’
“I turned with a snarl, spitting through bloody teeth.
“‘This fucking book…’
“I kicked the podium over, sent it crashing to the floor. Chloe’s body tumbled, the ancient tome’s spine cracked, splitting and splaying the old pages across the bloody stone. I snatched up a burning candle from the altar, set to drop it into the book’s ruins.
“Dior grabbed my wrist, looking into my eyes.
“‘… Would it work?’ she whispered.
“‘I don’t care,’ I replied.
“And I let the candle fall.
“The flames spread, the vellum burned, the ritual upon it turned to char and ashes. We stood side by side, Dior and I, watching the smoke rise into the stained-glass light. And I felt not one drop of regret. I’d find another way to end the endless night, to bring the Forever King to his knees. Or I’d fall trying. Because some prices are simply too steep to pay.
“I looked at this girl beside me. My hill to die on. My shoulder to cry on. I’d no clue wh
at I believed, save only that I believed in her.
“‘What do we do now?’ Dior asked softly.
“I stared up at the Redeemer and sighed.
“‘I suppose you should come meet my sister.’”
XXVIII
TOMORROW AND TOMORROW
GABRIEL UPENDED THE empty bottle of Monét over his open mouth. The light of the weakling dawn was creeping through the window like a thief now, refracting in blood-red droplets, falling slow onto his tongue.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
That skull-pale moth was still flitting about the lantern’s light, beating upon the glass. With a speed belied by the four bottles he’d downed, Gabriel snatched it from the air and squeezed. Opening his fist, he let the broken body fall to the stone, ruined wings dusting the sevenstar on his hand.
He felt as if he’d been in this room all his life.
The Marquis Jean-François of the Blood Chastain dipped his quill into his ink bottle, scribing the last few words the silversaint had spoken. The pages were filled with his story now, word by word, line by line. Gabriel thought it strange, and in truth, a kind of wonderful; that all he was and would ever be could be distilled into a few elegant lines on a page. The summation of his youth and his glory, his love and his loss, his life and his tears, captured like an errant moth and bound as if by magik into so small and plain a thing.
The simple wonder of books.
Jean-François finished his writing, scowled at the window, as if offended by the daystar’s interruption. Blowing breathless breath upon the ink to dry it, the vampire placed the tome upon the table, steepled pale fingers at ruby lips, and smiled.
“A fine night’s work, Silversaint. My pale Empress shall be well pleased.”
Gabriel dropped the empty bottle to the floor, wiped his lips on the back of his hand. “You honestly can’t imagine the relief I’ll feel at meeting her approval, vampire.”
“There is still much ground to cover. Your truck with the Liathe and your ties to the Faithless. The battle of Augustin and the treachery in Charbourg. The death of the Forever King and the loss of the Grail. But…” Again, Jean-François cast hateful eyes to the dawn rising through the thin window. “Time has caught us for now, I fear.”
“I told you, vampire.” Gabriel smiled, his tongue thick with wine. “Everything ends.”
“For tonight, perhaps.” The historian nodded, smoothing the tall feathers at his collar. “But we have tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.”
Jean-François reached into his frockcoat, produced a wooden case carved with the Blood Chastain coat of arms. Twin wolves. Twin moons. With a monogrammed kerchief, he fastidiously cleaned the quill’s golden nib, packed it away, and secreted the case within his coat once more. Reaching forth to gather up his tome, he rose to leave.
“Before you go…”
The vampire looked into the Last Silversaint’s eyes. “Oui, Chevalier?”
Gabriel breathed deep, shame burning his cheeks.
“… Could I have another smoke?”
The monster looked at the killer with narrowed eyes. So still, he seemed carved of marble. Gabriel clenched his wine-stained teeth, the want in his skin, the need on its way.
“Please,” he whispered.
Jean-François inclined his head. And though he never seemed to move at all, he now held one hand outstretched. And there, on the snow-white plane of his upturned palm, lay a glass phial of reddish-brown dust.
“You have earned it, I suppose.”
Gabriel nodded, wretched and thirsting. Reaching slow toward the phial. “You know, you never answered my question, Chastain.”
“And what question was that, de León?”
“When your dark mother and pale mistress set you this task … did you think she was locking me in here with you, or you in here with me?”
Gabriel’s fist closed about the vampire’s wrist, silver-swift. And with a speed belied by the four bottles he’d downed, he seized hold of Jean-François’s throat. The vampire’s eyes widened, and he opened his lips to shout, but that shout became a scream as the marble of his flesh began to blacken, and the blood within his veins to boil.
Gabriel rammed the vampire back into the wall, the brick crushed to powder. The chronicler bucked, roaring and trying to break loose. The table had upturned, the historie spilled, the glass lantern crashing to the floor. Gabriel bared his fangs, teardrop scars twisting on his cheek, inhaling deeply of the red smoke rising from the vampire’s skin.
“I told you I’d make you fucking scream, leech,” he spat.
A roar of fury rang out as the cell door was flung wide, and Meline flew into the room. She held a gleaming dagger in hand, eyes burning with the ardor of a mother for her child, a lover for her beloved, a thrall for her master, plunging her blade through Gabriel’s greatcoat and into his back once, twice, three times. The silversaint turned and slapped the woman hard enough to send her sailing across the room, slamming Jean-François into the wall again. But as pain lanced through his chest, bubbling now into his mouth, salty red, he realized the blade she’d stabbed him with was no mere shank of pig iron.
“S-silversteel,” he gasped.
Jean-François burst apart in his hands, the vampire’s body collapsing into a tumbling, jumbling mass. As Gabriel staggered backward, pink froth at his lips, he realized he was holding only the vampire’s feathered mantle and frockcoat; dark velvet embroidered with golden curlicues. A horde of rats was swarming about his feet now, spilling from the legs of the historian’s britches, the sleeves of his fine coat, rushing in a flood from the cell. Meline had rolled to her feet, clutching the historie to her bosom as she dashed from the room and slammed the door, a few rats chittering and squealing as they squeezed below the jamb. And wheezing, drooling blood, Gabriel found himself alone in the cell once more.
The Last Silversaint limped to the fallen table, took up the bone pipe, the glittering sanctus phial. Loading the bowl with a healthy serving of the sacrament, Gabriel sat cross-legged among the upturned furniture and broken bottles, long hair draped about his face, leaning toward the puddle of burning lantern oil. His belly thrilled as it began: that sublime alchemy, that dark chymistrie, the powdered blood bubbling now, color melting to scent, the aroma of hollyroot and copper filling the cell. And Gabriel pressed his lips to that pipe with more passion than he’d ever kissed a lover, and oh sweet God in heaven, breathed it down.
The hatch across the barred window in the door slammed aside. Glancing up, Gabriel saw a pair of chocolat-brown eyes, bloodshot with pain and rage and stained by bloody tears.
He raised his pipe and gifted Jean-François a grim smile.
“Can’t blame a man for trying.”
The historian narrowed his eyes and hissed.
Gabriel breathed a plume of bloody smoke into the air.
“Until tomorrow, vampire.”
DAWN
IT WAS THE twenty-seventh year of daysdeath in the realm of the Forever King, and his murderer was still waiting to die.
The killer stood watch at a thin window, hands stained with new blood and ashes pale as starlight. The floor was scattered with broken glass, splintered furniture, the stone under his feet marked by soot and spilled ink. The door was ironclad, heavy, still locked like a secret. The killer watched the sun rise from its unearned rest, and pressing a thin bone pipe to his lips, he remembered how good hell tastes.
The château below him was sleeping now. Monsters slinking back to beds of cold earth and slipping off the façade that they were anything close to human. The air outside was pale with flurries of falling snow, with the chill of winter unending. Thrall soldiers clad in dark steel still patrolled the battlements below, and the killer’s lip still curled as he watched them. But in truth, he knew who was truly the slave.
He looked down at his hands. Hands that had slain things monstrous. Hands that had saved an empire. Hands that had allowed the last hope for his species to slip an
d shatter like glass upon the stone.
The sky above was dark as sin.
The horizon, red as his lady’s lips the last time he kissed her.
He ran one thumb across his fingers, the letters inked below his knuckles.
“Patience,” he whispered.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks and bloody kisses to the following:
Peter, Lily, Joe, Sarah, Jeff, Paul, Tom, Young, Jennifer, Lisa, Andy, George, Tracey, Rafal, Lena, and all at St. Martin’s Press, Natasha, Jack, Vicky, Micaela, Claire, Sarah, Jaime, Fleur, Isabel, Alice, Fionnuala, Robyn, and all at Harper Voyager UK, Michael, Thomas, and all at HarperCollins Australia, the amazing Marco, Sam, and all my foreign publishers, Bonnieeee, Jason, Kerby, Virginia, Orrsome, Cat, Lindsay, Ursula, Piéra, Fiona, Josh, Tracey, Samantha, Steven, Toves, Catriona, Tiffany, Clarissa, Sara, Minh, Morgana, Ash, Laure, Anne, Stephen, Ray, Robin, China, William, George, Pat, Anne, Nic, Cary, Neil, Amie, Anthony, Joe, Laini, Mark, Steve, Stewart, Tim, Chris, Stefan, Chris, Brad, Marc, Beej, Rafe, Weez, Paris, Jim, Eli, Tom, Joel, Astrid, Ludovico, Bill, George, Mark, Randy, Elliot, CJ, Mitch, Pete (RIP), Tom (RIP), Dan, Sam, Marcus, Chris, Winston, Matt, Robb, Oli, Robert, Maynard, Ronnie, Corey, Chris (RIP), Anthony, Dez, Chino, Jonathan, Ian, Briton, Trent, Phil, Sam, Tony, Kath, Kylie, Nicole, Kurt, Ross, Jack, Max, Poppy, Leila, and Indy, my readers for the love, my enemies for the fuel, the baristas of Melbourne, Sydney, Paris, Lyon, London, Birmingham, Manchester, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Roma, Milano, Venezia, and most importantly Praha.
