Empire of the Vampire

by Jay Kristoff

  “‘I told ye.’ Saoirse glanced around the group. ‘Phoebe could smell them miles away. We’ve had coldbloods on our trail since Lashaame.’

  “‘This wasn’t just a coldblood,’ I replied. ‘This was Danton Voss.’

  “‘… Who?’

  “‘Sweet Mothermaid, you lackwits have no fucking idea what you’re doing, do you?’

  “‘Mind yer tongue, Silversaint,’ the lass spat.

  “‘Danton Voss is the youngest heir of Fabién. A direct descendant of the most powerful vampire that walks this earth. If the Forever King wants someone found, Danton is the child he sends, and he’s not failed his father yet.’ I glowered at Chloe as I began stitching her bleeding arm. ‘You want to tell me what you did to make the Forever King set his most faithful bloodhound on your tail?’

  “‘Seven Martyrs.’ Chloe made the sign of the wheel. ‘The Beast of Vellene.’

  “‘I saw him off,’ I said, still scarcely believing it. ‘But only because he came to those walls during the day and found me instead of you. Why would a creature as old as Danton risk himself like that, Chloe? Is it this Grail nonsense you were spitting last night?’

  “The group looked at Chloe, aghast.

  “‘Ye told him?’ Saoirse hissed.

  “‘Not everything.’ Chloe glanced about the company, wincing as I stitched. ‘But Gabe was the man who put me on this path to begin with. Years ago. And God brought him to us for a reason. He’s the greatest swordsman of the Silver Order who ever lived.’

  “‘Fat lot of good swordsmen o’ the Silver Order have done ye so far, Sister.’

  “‘We need him, Saoirse.’

  “‘Why?’

  “‘Because the Beast will be back. And next time, he’ll come at night.’

  “‘What does Voss want with this boy?’ I demanded. ‘It’s sure as shit got naught to do with children’s tales.’

  “‘The Grail is no children’s tale, Silversaint,’ Père Rafa said, cleaning the muck from his spectacles. ‘From holy cup comes holy light; the faithful hand sets world aright. And in the Seven Martyrs’ sight, mere man shall end this endless night.’

  “I glanced at Chloe. ‘We’re spouting shitty poetry now?’

  “‘’Tis no mere poem,’ the priest said.

  “‘It’s a prophecy, Gabe,’ Chloe said. ‘The Forever King. The Endless Legion. Daysdeath. The Grail can put an end to all of it.’

  “‘This isn’t one of your library books, Chloe. I thought you’d have outgrown that shite by now. One of you mad fucks best start talking straight-wise.’

  “‘The cup of the Redeemer’s blood can end this darkness,’ the priest insisted.

  “‘Bullshit,’ I spat. ‘The cup has been lost for centuries! And even if you had it, there’s ten thousand Dead amassing north of Augustin. Nordlund’s gone. North of the Dílaenn, the bloodlords have torn the empire to ribbons! How is a fucking cup supposed to fix that?’

  “‘Because it holds the Redeemer’s blood. God’s own son, who died upon the whe—’

  “‘Spare me, god-botherer.’

  “‘Gabriel, ask yourself this,’ Chloe said. ‘If the Grail is such nonsense, if the prophecy such rot, why has the Forever King got his son chasing us?’

  “‘I don’t fucking know! What’s the Grail to do with any of you?’

  “‘He knows where it is.’

  “I looked to the slayer, who was watching me like a hawk watches a hare. Her strawberry-blonde braids hung about her eyes as she stared me down, her gaze finally flickering to Dior as the snow danced in the air outside.

  “‘The bairn,’ she said. ‘He knows where it is.’

  “I looked at the lad. Dior cast an accusing glare at the slayer, then at Chloe.

  “‘You know where the Grail is?’ I demanded.

  “The boy shrugged, blowing a plume of thin grey smoke from his lips.

  “‘The silver chalice of San Michon,’ I scoffed. ‘The cup the Crusaders carried before them as they fought the Wars of the Faith, and forged the five kingdoms into one empire.’

  “The boy crushed his traproot cigarelle underheel. ‘So the Testaments say.’

  “‘He’s full of shit,’ I spat, glowering at Chloe.

  “‘No, Gabe.’ Chloe winced as I wrapped her wound. ‘He knows where the Grail is. And the Forever King knows he knows. Why else would the Beast of Vellene be hunting us?’

  “I stared at the boy, thoughts at war in my head. This seemed the darkest shade of lunacy. The kind of rot that pulpit-riders feed children when they’re scared of the night. There was no magik spell, no holy prophecy that would bring an end to this darkness. This was our here and our now and our forever.

  “But apparently Fabién Voss believed. And if the Forever King was desperate enough to send his own children to hunt this boy …

  “Chloe stood with a grimace, flexing her bandaged arm, whispering thanks. And taking my hand gently, she drew me away so the others might not hear.

  “‘This is a fool’s errand, Chloe Sauvage.’

  “‘Then call me a fool, Gabriel de León.’

  “‘I’ll call you that and more. Where do you plan to lead this pageant of fuckarsery?’

  “‘San Michon.’

  “‘San Michon? Have you taken leave of your senses? You’re taking these fucking children into the Nordlund? You’re never going to reach the monastery before wintersdeep sets in. Danton is going to find you, and when he does—’

  “‘I need you, Gabriel. I told you, it’s not by accident we met again. For us to find each other after all these years, in the midst of all this dark … you have to see the hand of the Almighty at work here, you—’

  “‘Fucksakes, give it a rest, Chloe. You’ve been bleating the same tune since Astrid dragged you into that Library seventeen years ago.’

  “Her scowl darkened. ‘I wish to God she was here, then. Azzie could always make your pigheaded, dim-witted, pretty-boy arse see sense.’

  “I chuckled at the insults, despite myself. Scratching ruefully at my chin. ‘Making her husband see sense is the lot of every bride, it seems.’

  “Chloe’s eyes widened. ‘You’re … married?’

  “I lifted my hand to show the silver troth ring on my finger. ‘Eleven years.’

  “‘Oh, Gabriel,’ she whispered. ‘… Children?’

  “I nodded, eyes shining. ‘A daughter.’

  “‘Sweet Redeemer.’ Chloe’s blood-slicked hands slipped into my own. ‘Oh, merciful God in heaven, I’m so happy for you both, Gabe.’

  “I could see pure joy in her smile then. The kind of joy only the truest of friends feel, to learn their friends have found joy also. Her eyes brimmed with tears. And I remembered what a good heart she had, Chloe Sauvage. Better than mine ever was.

  “And then her smile slowly died. Her shoulders slumped, and she looked over her little band, bloodied and alone in the dark. I could see the road ahead in her eyes. The wartorn wastes of the Ossway. The barren hell of Nordlund beyond. The growing sea of darkness in which humanity’s light guttered like a candle, soon to be extinguished entirely.

  “Chloe hung her head. ‘I can’t ask you to risk all that.’

  “She released her grip, my tattooed hands falling away from her own.

  “‘Tell Azzie hullo for me. Tell her … tell her I’m happy for her.’ Chloe sniffed and swallowed thickly, damp curls tumbling about freckled cheeks. ‘Adieu, mon ami.’

  “And she turned to walk away.

  “‘… Chloe.’

  “She looked back at me, eyebrow raised. I opened my mouth to speak, not knowing yet what I’d say. And it seemed for a moment that everything stood poised on the edge of a knife. Those moments happen only once or twice in a lifetime. I could see two paths, either side of the blade. One where I helped this old friend of mine. And one where I left her to die.

  “‘… I can ride with you awhile. See you to the Volta, at least.’

  “‘I can’t ask you to do t
hat, Gabe.’

  “‘You didn’t ask. Which is why I’m offering.’ I glanced around the ragged company, eyes settling on Dior. ‘Who am I to stand in the way of divine providence?’

  “‘But Astrid … Your daughter…’

  “‘They’ll understand. I’ll be back with them soon enough.’

  “I saw my words sink in, Chloe’s chest caving, all the weight she’d been carrying lifted from her shoulders. A sob slipped over her lips, smothered at once by a fierce grin. She threw her arms around my shoulders, so short she had to take a running leap. I tried not to laugh as she squeezed me tight, smooshed her lips to my cheek.

  “‘You’re a good man, Gabriel de León.’

  “‘I’m a bastard, is what I am. Now stop kissing me. You’re a nun for fucksakes.’

  “Chloe released her embrace. But still, she gave my hand one last squeeze, and all the light and life was shining once more in her eyes, just like when we were young. She looked up at the ceiling of that broken tower, tears spilling down her cheeks. And she put her hand to the sevenstar around her throat and whispered, ‘Almighty God be praised.’

  “I could see her joy, the relief of faith rewarded, and that faith itself, undimmed by toil or time. And for the briefest moment, I envied her more than anyone I’d ever met.

  “‘What’s her name?’

  “‘Eh?’

  “‘Your daughter,’ Chloe urged. ‘What’s her name?’

  “I breathed deep, running my thumb over my knuckles.

  “‘Patience.’”

  XII

  TWO GLASSES

  “NO,” THE VAMPIRE said.

  Gabriel glanced up. “No?”

  “No, de León, this will not do.”

  “Will it not?” Gabriel replied, eyebrow rising.

  “It will not.” Jean-François waved his quill as if vexed. “When last you mentioned her, this Rennier girl was but a novice sister in the monastery that trained you, and now I learn she became your wife? The mother of your child? It is my Empress’s will to know the whole of your tale.”

  Gabriel reached into his battered britches, fished about under the monster’s stare. Finally, he retrieved a tarnished royale from his pocket. “Here.”

  “What is that for?” Jean-François demanded.

  “I want you to take this coin to market, and buy me a fuck to give.”

  “This is not the way stories are told, Silversaint.”

  “I know. But I’m hoping the suspense will kill you.”

  “You will take us back. Back to the walls of San Michon.”

  “Will I?”

  The coldblood held up the phial of sanctus between forefinger and thumb.

  “You will.”

  Gabriel stared for a long and silent moment. His jaw twitched, and he gripped the armrests of his chair so hard the wood creaked. It seemed for a second he might rise, might lash out, might let loose the terrible hatred that roiled deep and dark behind his eyes. But Marquis Jean-François of the Blood Chastain was unperturbed.

  Gabriel stared hard into the vampire’s eyes. Gaze drifting to the phial between those tapered fingertips. The bloodhymn was still sharp in him, but that didn’t mean his thirst was sated. One pipe wasn’t enough.

  It had never been enough, had it?

  Truth was, he didn’t know if he was ready to go back. Unwilling to dredge up the ghosts of the past. They were hungry too. Locked inside in his head, the door rusted shut from long disuse. If he were to pry it open …

  “If I’m going back to San Michon,” he finally declared, “I’ll need a drink.”

  Jean-François snapped his fingers. The door opened at once, that thrall woman waiting on the threshold. Her gaze was downturned, thin red braids draped across her eyes.

  “Your will, Master?”

  “Wine,” the vampire commanded. “The Monét, I think. Bring two glasses.”

  The woman met the Dead boy’s eyes, a sudden flush rising in her cheeks. She dropped into a low curtsey, long black skirts whispering as she hurried away. Gabriel listened to her retreating down a stone stairwell, glanced toward the now-unlocked door. Faint sounds of life drifted up from the château beneath—tromping feet, a snatch of laughter, a thin, warbling scream. Gabriel counted ten steps from his chair to the door. A bead of sweat trickled between his shoulderblades.

  He saw Jean-François was illustrating the company of the Grail, now. Père Rafa in his robes, the wheel about his neck, the priest’s warnings echoing in Gabriel’s head. He saw Saoirse with her slayerbraids and hunter’s stare, the she-lion Phoebe beside her like a red shadow. Bellamy with his rake’s cap and easy smile, and at the front, little Chloe Sauvage, with her silversteel sword and freckled cheeks and all the hope in the world shining in her liar’s eyes.

  The vampire glanced up. “Ah, splendid…”

  The thrall stood at the doorway, holding a golden platter. Two crystal goblets sat upon it, alongside a bottle of fine Monét from the Elidaeni vineyards. A vintage like that was rare as silver these nights. An emperor’s fortune in dusty green glass.

  The thrall placed the two goblets on the table, poured a generous helping into Gabriel’s. The wine was red as heartsblood, its perfume a dizzying change from moldy straw and rusted iron. The second glass stood empty.

  Wordlessly, Jean-François held out his hand. The silversaint watched, mouth running dry as the woman sank to her knees beside the monster’s chair. Her cheeks were flushed, bosom heaving as she placed her hand in his. Again, Gabriel was struck by the notion that she looked old enough to be the vampire’s mother, and his stomach might have soured at the lie of it all were it not for the thought and thrill of what was to come.

  The vampire looked to Gabriel as he raised the woman’s wrist to his lips.

  “Pardon,” he whispered.

  The monster bit down. The woman moaned softly as ivory daggers slid through her pale skin and into the supple flesh beyond. For a moment, it seemed all she could do just to breathe, fallen into the spell of those eyes, those lips, those teeth.

  The Kiss, they called it—these monsters who wore the skins of men. A pleasure darker than any sin of the flesh, more honeyed than any drug. Gabriel could see the woman was lost now, adrift on a blood-red sea. And awful as it was, a part of him remembered that desire, pounding hot at his temples, down between his legs. He could feel his teeth growing sharp, a needle-bright stab of pain as he pressed his tongue against one canine.

  Under her lace choker, he spied the old bite scars at the woman’s neck. His blood stirring as he wondered where else she might hide the marks of their hungers. The woman’s head sank back, long tresses flowing down her bare shoulders as she pressed her free hand to her breast, lashes fluttering. Jean-François’s eyes were still fixed on Gabriel, narrowing slightly as a tight gasp of pleasure escaped his lips.

  But then the monster broke his unholy kiss, a thin, ruby string of blood stretching and snapping as he pulled the woman’s hand away. Eyes still locked with the silversaint’s, the vampire held the thrall’s open wrist above the empty glass and the blood spilled, thick, warm, crimson into the crystal. The scent of it filled the room, making Gabriel’s breath come quicker, his mouth now dry as tombs. Wanting. Needing.

  The vampire sliced the tip of his own thumb on his fangs, pressed it to the woman’s lips. Her eyes flashed open and she gasped, suckling like a starving babe, one hand pressed between her legs as she drank. When the goblet was full, drip, drip, drip, the vampire lifted the woman’s wounded wrist. And like a forgetful host, he offered it to Gabriel.

  “We could share her? If it please you?”

  The woman’s eyes flickered to his, chest heaving and fingers strumming as she drank. And Gabriel remembered then—the taste of it, the warmth of it, a dark and perfect joy no smoke could ever match. The thirst reared up inside him, a thrill pulsing from his aching crotch all the way to his tingling fingertips.

  And it was all he could do then to hiss through clenched and knife-sharp
teeth.

  “No. Merci.”

  Jean-François smiled, licked the woman’s bleeding wrist with a bright red tongue. Easing his thumb from her mouth, the monster spoke, thick and heavy as iron.

  “Leave us now, love.”

  “… Your will, Master,” she whispered, breathless.

  The woman rose on trembling legs, steadying herself against the monster’s chair. With the wound at her wrist already closing, she sank into a shaking curtsey, and with a final wanton glance to Gabriel, slipped from the room.

  The door locked softly behind her.

  Jean-François lifted the blood-filled glass. Gabriel watched, fascinated, as the vampire held it against the lanternlight, twisting it this way and that. So red it was almost black. The monster’s lips curled in a smile, eyes still on the silversaint’s.

  “Santé,” Jean-François said, wishing him health.

  “Morté,” Gabriel replied, toasting his death.

  The pair drank, the vampire taking one slow mouthful, Gabriel downing his entire glass in a single draught. Jean-François sighed, sucking the plump swell of his lower lip and biting gently. Gabriel reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.

  “So,” Jean-François murmured, smoothing his waistcoat. “You were a fifteen-year-old boy, de León. A frailblooded Nordling brat, dragged from the squalid mud of Lorson to the impregnable walls of San Michon. They made a lion of you. They made a legend. A foe even the Forever King learned to fear. How?”

  Gabriel lifted the goblet to his lips, downed it with a long gulp. A trickle of wine spilled down his chin, and as he wiped it away, he looked at the wreath of skulls tattooed atop his right hand. Those eight letters etched across his fingers.

  P A T I E N C E.

  “They didn’t make a lion of me, coldblood,” he answered. “Like my mama said, the lion was always in my blood.”

  He closed his hand slowly, and sighed.

  “They just helped me turn it loose.”

  BOOK THREE

  BLOOD AND SILVER

  A curiosity were they, and uncommon; brothers of peerage ill-gotten and bastard birth, the get of carpenters’ wives and farmers’ daughters, warriors of whom no songs should ever rightly have been sung. How strange it seemed to me, that in the darkest of our hours, so much weight rested upon shoulders so thin, and so few.