Empire of the Vampire

by Jay Kristoff

  “Do tell, vampire.”

  The historian laughed uproariously, slapping his knee and stomping his feet. “You never suspected? But your dear Chloe told you that falling star had marked the Grail’s birth! That’s why he wouldn’t take off his shirt to dry it. That’s why Saoirse referred to him by a feminine endearment like ‘flower.’ He wasn’t a fourteen-year-old boy, she was a sixteen-year-old girl! Oh, de León, you are priceless. How much the fool did you feel?”

  The silversaint reached for the wine, muttering, “No need to rub it in, prick.”

  Jean-François chuckled, and returned to his tome.

  “I stumbled back, greatcoat in hand, rocked onto my heels. I looked Dior over, eyes roaming the shoulders, the waist, the jaw. I’d thought her just a lad, androgyne perhaps, pretty, oui, but the way she spat, swore, smoked, swaggered … Great Redeemer, the little bitch had me fooled. And then those blue eyes fluttered open, widening as Dior realized that fancy coat and silken shirt were gone. Pale hands flashed up to cover her chest—some feeble attempt at modesty we both knew was doomed to fail.

  “The girl looked up into my eyes, horror, indignity, fear.

  “‘Fuck,’ she said.

  “‘My,’ I replied.

  “‘Face,’ we chorused.”

  XVII

  REMEMBRANCE

  JEAN-FRANÇOIS WAS STILL chuckling, the vampire shaking his head as he wrote in his accursed book. The cell about them was chill, silent, save for the gentle scratching upon the page. Dipping his quill again, the historian frowned, realizing his ink bottle was almost empty.

  “Meline?” he called. “My dove?”

  The door opened immediately. The thrall with her long chains of auburn hair stood at the threshold; a puppet summoned by invisible strings. She was a beautiful woman, Gabriel realized, wrapped in black corsetry and lace. The blood she’d suckled from Jean-François’s thumb had healed her entirely now; only the faintest scar marked the place where he’d bitten her wrist. But still, Gabriel could smell it—faint traces of rust and autumn’s fading. He pictured the woman on her knees before him, kohl-rimmed eyes gazing up at him as she brushed those auburn locks back from the pale promise of her neck. His blood thrummed southward at the thought, leaving him hard and aching in his leathers.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “More ink, my dove,” Jean-François said. “And something to drink for our guest?”

  Gabriel emptied his glass and nodded. “Another bottle.”

  “Wine?” Dark eyes drifted to the bulge below the silversaint’s belt. “Or something stronger?”

  Gabriel’s eyes flashed. “Another bottle.”

  Jean-François glanced to the thrall, and Meline dropped into a smooth curtsey, feet whispering as she retreated down the stairs. Gabriel counted the number of steps again, listening to the faint song in the château below—laughter, still echoes, faint screaming. The night was past its deeping now, and he could feel the distant promise of dawn on the horizon. He wondered if they’d let him sleep.

  He wondered if he’d dream.

  “The hope of the empire entire,” Jean-François mused. “The last scion of the line of Esan. The cup that held the blood of the Redeemer himself. A sixteen-year-old girl.”

  Gabriel poured the last few drops of Monét into his glass. “Plot twist.”

  “And Danton had no hint of this revelation either, I take it? I imagine his pursuit would have been rather more single-minded had he known the truth of things. Despite his age, the Beast of Vellene ever favored the pretty demoiselles.”

  “Chloe knew.” Gabriel shrugged. “Saoirse, too. But Sœur Sauvage kept the girl’s secret buried deep enough that Danton didn’t pluck it from her thoughts the night he chose to visit them. He never bothered to rummage around in Saoirse’s head. And Dior’s mind was always a closed room to the Dead.”

  “And so, Danton toyed with you instead.” Jean-François tutted. “Allowing your little famille vendetta to distract him from simply plucking his prize, and instead watching it slip, literally and metaphorically, through his bloody fingers.”

  “I wouldn’t describe the vendetta between me and the Voss as little, Chastain. The bloodfeud between me and Fabién’s brood had been brewing half my life.”

  “And so.” Jean-François steepled slender fingers at ruby lips, watching the man opposite with hunter’s eyes. “We return. Back to the beginning. And San Michon.”

  Gabriel sighed, looking at the empty glass in his hand. Wondering if he were numb enough. Cold enough. He could feel them both; the endings to the tales he’d begun, like old scars on tattooed skin. He wondered which would tear wider, bleed harder, and for a brief, moonstouched moment, he considered the glass in his hand, the blade he might fashion of it; not enough for a vampire’s skin, surely, but enough for his own.

  Not across the stream, but up the river. The shard digging deep, letting that accursed blood flow. But such thoughts were folly, and he knew it—knew it from bitter experience and long, lonely nights, watching the wounds close over before his tear-stung eyes, the curse in his veins not allowing him to die. To sleep.

  To sleep and never dream.

  Meline returned, footsteps soft on the stairs. She stepped through the door she’d left unlocked, golden tray poised on one manicured hand. The damask of her skirts rustled like falling leaves as she swept into the room, and Gabriel could feel the warmth of her body, hear the music of her pulse as she placed a fresh bottle of Monét upon the table between him and the historian. She sank to her knees then, head bowed, hands upturned like a priestess before the marbled statue of a god of old. And Jean-François plucked the fresh bottle of ink from her open palms.

  “Merci, my dove.”

  “Do you desire anything else, Master?”

  The vampire reached out, running one long, sharp fingernail ever so gently down the woman’s cheek. Her breath caught in her breast as he hooked his claw beneath her chin, lifting her face so she could meet his eyes.

  “Oh, my darling,” he whispered. “Always.”

  Her lips parted, a trembling sigh slipped from her mouth. But the vampire withdrew his hand the way God withdraws a blessing. “Leave us now.”

  “I am your servant, Master.”

  The thrall rose on shaking legs, curtseyed, and retreated from the room. The pair were left alone again, killer and monster, an ocean unsaid between them. The vampire watched Gabriel refill his glass, the wine dark as blood yet holding none of its promise, brought brimming to the edge. Leathered wings cut through the night skies beyond the window. The twin moons hung in the heavens, dipped crimson.

  “We must return there eventually, de León,” Jean-François said. “Back to the seven pillars and the Scarlet Foundry and the walls of the Gauntlet. To wise Master Greyhand and cruel Seraph Talon, to treacherous young Aaron de Coste and your final Hunt together. You had been sent out onto the frozen roads of the Nordlund, Silversaint. A Voss of ancient blood had been behind the malady in Skyefall. An Ironheart of immeasurable power was already east of the Godsend Mountains, when the Forever King himself was still massing his Endless Legion in Talhost. There is a secret buried within your vaults here, de León. A secret soaked in darkest blood and whispered with holy tongues. And I would like to unearth it before you are too befuddled with wine to remember.”

  “But that’s the problem, vampire. Hard as I try. Much as I wish.”

  Gabriel looked to the bleak night outside. Hands curling to fists, ears ringing with the song of silver trumpets, tongue tingling with the taste of fruit forbidden.

  “I remember everything.”

  BOOK FIVE

  THE ROAD TO HELL

  And the hea’ens grew red as heartsblood, and the tempest cracked the skye, and the rain was like to the tears of all the winged host fallen. Those priests of gods false and covenants broken, numbering all the fingers ’pon hell’s burning hand, did stand in bleak amazement. And the Redeemer raised his eyes to his Almighty Father’s throne, and h
is heart did stain the bones of the earth, and with voice akin to thunder he cried:

  “By this blood, shall they have life eternal.”

  —The Book of Laments 7:12

  I

  TRUTH BEYOND TRUTH

  “‘YOUR SISTER’S NAME is … Celene. But that is not what you call her.’

  “Seraph Talon sat across the fire from me, dark eyes on mine. The cave about us was small, warm, the blaze reflected in Master Greyhand’s stare as he looked on. My brow was knitted as I met Talon’s gaze, my head filled with as much noise as I could conjure.

  “‘Black hair,’ the thin man declared, stroking his moustache. ‘Black eyes. A troublemaker. An instigator. Hence, you call her … Hellion.’

  “‘Shit,’ I whispered.

  “I broke our staring contest, sighing as I massaged my temples. My head was aching, my heart low. Despite my best efforts, the seraph had once again plucked the images and truths out of my head after only a minute or so.

  “‘You’re improving, my spud-witted little shit-bucket,’ Talon declared. ‘But not enough. If I can still pierce your defenses, an elder Voss will shatter them in a bloody blinking. Work at it.’

  “‘I have been working at it, Seraph. Every day since we left San Michon.’

  “‘Day and night, then,’ Greyhand growled. ‘When we find our prey, you must be ready.’

  “I kept my face stone, but inside, I scoffed. When we found our prey?

  “Great Redeemer, we’d been on this Hunt for months.

  “Seraph Talon, Aaron, Greyhand, and me. A stranger company I’d never known. After setting out from San Michon, we’d headed northwest to the Godsend Mountains, following a month-old trail through a vista of chill black peaks and dying trees. Winter hadn’t truly bitten when we set out, but now, the snows fell heavy, the roads, lonely and bleak.

  “As we traveled, Frère Greyhand had used gifts of the Blood Chastain to track our quarry, murmuring to wise old owls and conferring with sly foxes as we bedded down. Many of the beasts had no clue about our prey; others whispered of different monsters, dark shapes rising in the southern weald and faekin stalking the moors with knives of gleaming bone. Still, a precious few had spoken of a woman—darkthing, deadthing—riding lonely roads in the company of other shadows. Heading north. Always north.

  “And like good hounds, we’d followed.

  “We’d visited the bustling town of Almwud and found a tale akin to Skyefall—the daughter of the alderman murdered, a bevy of highborn gentry fallen to a wasting sickness. The nest we’d burned out was small—a single fledgling who knew nothing of what it was. In the crossroad hamlet of Benhomme and the silver mining town of Tolbrook, we heard similar tales. And slowly, we’d begun to paint a portrait of the thing we stalked. This pale huntress who filled children’s graves wherever she walked.

  “This Marianne Luncóit.

  “Raven Child.

  “She was beautiful—all mentioned that, and ever first. A grace so perilous that men and women alike couldn’t help but adore her. She hunted among high society, all flattery and silken finery, striking like a spider at their sons and daughters as she departed.

  “A half dozen kept her company. The first, another coldblood who masqueraded as her son—a dark-haired, gilded youth named Adrien. Five other men attended the pair as servants. In Tolbrook, Luncóit had informed the alderman she was surveying a claim in the hills above the town, just as she’d done in Skyefall. In the high-walled keep of Ciirfort, the charming madame and her handsome son had been treated to a tour of the garrison by an enraptured capitaine, whose daughter was later found murdered in her bed. We had no real certainty as to why this vampire was stalking towns along the Godsend, but she was doing so with intent. And we were always a few steps behind.

  “The rivers were crusted with ice now, wintersdeep approaching on cold feet. We were camped beneath a snow-capped peak named for Eloise, the Angel of Retribution. A little farther north loomed the mountain named for Raphael, Angel of Wisdom. And in the valley between lay the next stop in our months-long search—the richest silver mining town in the province, and as fate would have it, high seat of Aaron’s stepfather.

  “The Barony of Coste.

  “We were on bitter terms, Aaron and me. I was still sure the bastard had tried to have me killed back in San Michon, and got poor Sister Aoife murdered in the process. I was ill at ease with the idea that we were journeying to his former home, that I’d be laying my head down among his people. For his part, Aaron treated me as shitty as he always had. Watching me across the fire at night with silent menace. But as we’d traveled closer to his birthplace, I’d expected our lordling’s mood to brighten at least a little. He’d always spoken of his mother fondly, and I thought he’d be joyous at the thought of reunion.

  “And yet, the nearer we drew to Coste, the darker his mood became.

  “That night before we arrived, we were camped in a cave on Raphael’s eastern flank. Our sosyas were clustered at the entrance, snow clinging to their shaggy coats. Talon had been schooling Aaron and me in matters of mental defense along the road, and while I didn’t like the seraph in my head, I knew vampires of the Blood Voss could read the thoughts of lesser men. Better Talon in my mind strengthening it than one of them pillaging it.

  “Our lesson done for the night, the seraph held his hands to our fire. ‘Great Redeemer, it grows cold enough to freeze the blood in a man’s veins.’

  “I rubbed my aching brow, glanced northward. ‘And the rivers in their beds.’

  “Aaron met my eyes, nodding also. We may have been at odds like fire and ice, but in one dread, we were of accord. ‘The Forever King will march from Talhost soon.’

  “‘Probably,’ Greyhand grunted. ‘Yet not a certainty. Patience is a quality that ancient vampires have in abundance. Fabién Voss will march when he is ready.’

  “‘We should be doing more,’ Aaron scowled. ‘Not just chasing ghosts and shadows.’

  “‘An elder Voss is not east of the Godsend at trivial purpose, de Coste,’ Talon growled. ‘In thwarting Luncóit, we thwart whatever part she plays in Fabién’s design.’

  “We settled into silence, staring at the flames. I understood we needed to be as patient as our quarry, but like de Coste, I felt we’d been stalking Marianne Luncóit forever. The threat of the Forever King’s legion hung over the Nordlund like a headsman’s axe now. The Emperor’s armies were split between the cityforts of Avinbourg in the north and Charinfel in the south, and we still didn’t know where the blow would fall.

  “‘Blessed Mothermaid,’ I growled. ‘It’s cold as a bog hag’s tit in here.’

  “Seraph Talon’s eyes glittered under the black arcs of his brows. Smoothing his long moustache, the little man rummaged in his saddlebag, produced a silver flask. Taking a deep swig, he offered it to me. I could smell the vodka from where I sat.

  “‘Merci, no, Seraph.’

  “‘Come now, frailblood.’ The little man waved the flask in my face. ‘Kindness spurned is ire earned, so sayeth the Lord. And the Testaments name drink no sin.’

  “‘It’s not the sin of it, Seraph. I’ve just no wish to follow in my stepfather’s footsteps. He was a devil on the drink.’

  “‘Hmmf.’ Aaron reached for the flask in Talon’s hand. ‘Mine also.’

  “I blinked at that, studying de Coste across the flames as he took a long, slow pull. Our lordling had only ever spoken of his mother, never the fellow who raised him.

  “‘My stepfather was a soldier,’ Greyhand declared. ‘Loved a drink. I remember he got right slovenly one eve, lost his key. So when he finally dribbled home, he dragged himself through the window, crawled into bed with what he thought was my mama. It turned out to be the magistrate’s house, and the dame in question, his wife.’

  “Chuckles rolled around our fire. Even Greyhand managed a whisper of a smile.

  “‘The magistrate was not pleased.’

  “‘Ah, but what about his wife, Master?�
� I asked.

  “Greyhand fixed me across the fire, deadpan. ‘You’d have to ask her, cub.’

  “I laughed again, spitting onto my whetstone as I sharpened Lionclaw. ‘When I was little, Mama got so fed up with my stepfather’s drinking, she hid his clothes so he couldn’t hit the taverne. He put on her church dress and went anyway. Just marched down the street in her prièdi best, proud as a lord. I remember it was white. Had blue flowers on it.’

  “‘Sounds fetching,’ Greyhand nodded.

  “‘He did have fine ankles,’ I admitted grudgingly.

  “Seraph Talon took another long swig, then handed his flask back to Aaron. ‘Do you remember that Hunt down in Beaufort, Greyhand?’

  “‘With old Yannick? How could I forget?’

  “My ears perked up at that. I’d known Frère Yannick only as a broken man, put out of his misery in the Red Rite that first night I’d arrived in San Michon. But I always loved hearing the stories of old silversaints. Tales of horror and glory and blood.

  “‘You two hunted together?’ I asked, looking between the men.

  “‘I was not always a Seraph of the Order, shitblood,’ Talon growled. ‘I earned my aegis when you were still a tadpole paddling about in your godless father’s janglesack.’

  “‘It was many years ago, Little Lion,’ Greyhand said. ‘I was only newly sworn. A duskdancer had been stalking the Beaufort docks for months. Old Abbot Dulean sent the three of us down there to put a righteous end to it.’

  “Talon nodded. ‘The more a duskdancer takes the shape of his beast, the more the beast leaves its mark on him. This bastard was an old one. Wolfborn and hideous. Even when he wore the skin of a man, he had a wolf’s eyes. Wolf’s tail. Wolf’s feet. So he’d developed a taste for streetwalkers, luring them into the shadows with the promise of coin and then gutting them like lambs. We decided to use bait to lure him out. So we drew straws, and old Yannick found himself in a wig and backless dress, smothered in whore’s perfume and parading up and down the fucking jetty like ha-royale strumpet.’