Empire of the Vampire

by Jay Kristoff

  “Greyhand shook his head. ‘Finest legs I’ve ever seen on a man.’

  “‘They worked too. Not even that bastard duskdancer could resist. Mark me now, frailblood. A good hunter uses the appetites of his prey against them. Want is a weakness.’

  “Greyhand sighed as he stared into the fire. ‘I miss that mouthy old dog. It was Yannick who named me Greyhand.’

  “‘He was a good hunter,’ Talon nodded. ‘And a good friend.’

  “‘Oui.’ My master shook his head, and I saw sorrow in his pale green eyes. ‘But Yannick made the right choice. I pray Almighty God and all Seven Martyrs grant me the same courage when the thirst calls and my time comes.’

  “I could still remember the horror I’d felt at old Yannick’s ending; ritually murdered by the abbot and thrown to the waters of the Mère before the sangirè—the red thirst—could consume him. It was a silversaint’s death. A man’s death. But looking at the sevenstar in my palm, I found myself pondering that same paleblood curse in my veins. No matter how much sanctus we smoked to stave it off, I knew the sangirè would eventually drive all of us to madness. And before that, each of us would have to make Yannick’s choice.

  “‘Better to die a man than live a monster,’ I murmured.

  “Talon nodded, grim. ‘Véris.’

  “‘Véris,’ Greyhand said, stirring the fire.

  “Truth beyond truth.

  “We sat with the sound of crackling logs, Greyhand and Talon now staring wordless into the flames. The silence stretched on, Aaron drinking deep from the flask, mute and sullen. I finally spoke again to break the uncomfortable quiet.

  “‘Why did old Yannick name you Greyhand, Master?’

  “‘Mmm. A tale not worth the telling, Little Lion.’

  “‘You know, the stonemasons in San Michon have a wager. Whoever learns your real name wins a whole week’s coin without labor.’

  “‘Gambling is ungodly. And last I heard it was only three days’ worth.’

  “‘It seems your legend grows in the telling,’ I smiled.

  “‘Legends always do, Little Lion. And ever in the wrong direction. But a man who sings his own song is deaf to the music of heaven. How shall I hear the word of God, if I am in love with the sound of my own voice?’

  “I could feel Greyhand’s quiet confidence. His unshakable faith. He’d no need for mortal accolade or to strum his own lute—his service to the Almighty was enough, and sweet fucking Redeemer, I envied him that humility. But Talon spoke, eyes on our master.

  “‘I’ll tell the story, then. Yannick shared it with me one eve over a cup of wine.’

  “‘Ah, such impeccable sources,’ Greyhand scoffed. ‘Drunken gossip around the tankards of San Michon.’

  “But Talon spoke regardless, his voice dropping as he leaned into the tale. ‘This was back when Greyhand was still an apprentice, see. Tale has it, he and his master were attacked by five coldbloods, deep in an old ruin near Loch Sídhe. His master Michel was slain in the ambush, and Greyhand retreated. But at dawn, he returned alone, nothing but his sword and faith to guard him. And when he emerged from that pit, the ashes of those five leeches were caked so thick on his fists, you couldn’t see his skin. So.’ Talon nodded to our master. ‘Greyhand.’

  “‘Mmf,’ he scowled.

  “‘I note a marked lack of denials, Master,’ I said.

  “‘What point denial? When the gossips have already made up their minds? When next you tell the tale, Seraph, have me slay a dozen. Makes the number rounder.’

  “‘’Tis a heavy burden, Master,’ I smiled. ‘To be a hero.’

  “‘Hero,’ he scoffed. ‘Mark my words, youngblood. You don’t want to be a hero. Heroes die unpleasant deaths, far from home and hearth.’

  “I looked into the flames. Thinking about what I was. The fate that had befallen old Yannick, and the madness that awaited us all. Greyhand spat into the fire, flames hissing.

  “‘Enough idle chatter. We reach Coste amorrow. What should your fellows know of the town that birthed you, Initiate?’

  “All eyes turned to Aaron as he took another sip, grimacing as he swallowed. Again, the notion that I was stepping into this bastard’s birthden felt like a stone in my belly.

  “‘Coste is the richest town in the province,’ Aaron said. ‘Its fortune made in silver and iron. The Baron is favored at court, friend to Emperor Alexandre. My brother Jean-Luc is capitaine in the Golden Host at Avinbourg. My mother, His Imperial Majesty’s second cousin. And then, there’s me.’

  “‘We’ve gained ground on our quarry this last month,’ Greyhand said. ‘It may be our Raven Child awaits us within the walls of Coste. And the Feast of San Maximille falls in two days. No doubt the town will be indulging?’

  “Aaron sneered. ‘The Baron de Coste is never one to miss a chance to feast.’

  “‘Be of good cheer, then. Our quarry is a bon vivant, lured toward the finer things like a bowerbird to shine. If she lurks in Coste’s shadows, she should have occasion to be drawn into the light. So sleep now. Fear no darkness.’ Greyhand threw a warning glance to me. ‘And dream not of heroism, but of faithful service to the Lord your God.’

  “We settled abed. I listened to the crackling fire and tried not to think about the cold, the serpent sleeping across the flames from me. I knew not what awaited us in Coste, nor whether Aaron would try to finish what he’d started in San Michon, but I could sense our prey was near. I’d let impatience get the best of me during our hunt in Skyefall, and I was determined not to fail again. But despite Greyhand’s warning, still I dreamed of glory.

  “Glory, and a smile framed by a beauty spot, and locks of raven black hair.”

  II

  UNWELCOME GUESTS

  “WE ARRIVED IN Coste the next day, just as the sun was sinking to sleep. The city was a grander affair even than Skyefall; a beautiful sprawl of dark stone and pale roofs carved at the banks of a magnificent waterfall. Winter hadn’t yet turned the falls to ice, but they were almost there—huge sculptures of frozen water hanging over the drop, glittering like diamond. The great city was split in two, three bridges crossing the freezing river. A princely keep sat on a ridge above it all, flying flags of a quartered green field graced with two crossed warhammers—the crest of the famille de Coste. As we rode through the mighty gates, the whole city was ringing with song despite the chill.”

  Jean-François wordlessly tapped his quill, raising one brow.

  Gabriel sighed. “The Feast of Maximille the Martyr is the grandest piss-up in the Elidaeni calendar. Less solemn than Firstmas or Wheelsday—the feasts of the Redeemer’s birth and death—it’s one of the most important festivals of the year. Maximille de Augustin was a warlord who, depending on who you believe, either received his commands direct from the mouth of Almighty God, or was just goat-fuckingly insane. Either way, he raised an army and seized control of Elidaen, Nordlund, and Ossway in the name of the One Faith.

  “He was killed in battle by an arrow to the eye, which you’d think would be the sort of thing Almighty God would warn his Chosen One about. But his sons went on to conquer the Sūdhaem and Talhost, finally uniting the warring kingdoms into a single empire under the banner of the Wheel. They forged the Fivefold Throne, carved out the Augustin dynasty, and named dear old Papa the seventh martyr. Folk have been getting bowel-bustingly shitfaced on the anniversary of his death ever since.

  “Aaron pulled his tricorn low as we rode beyond the walls, collar laced high so none could see his face. Some folk were suspicious at the sight of us, making the sign of the wheel as we passed. Others stared with want in their eyes, sensing the beast beneath our skins. But most were into their cups, and paid little mind. Coste was the biggest city I’d seen in my life. Thirty thousand people called it home, and most were in the streets that night. If a vampire hid among this multitude, it’d take the finest hounds to sniff her out.

  “But I fancied us that and more.

  “Riding through those gates, I was stru
ck by how strange a turn my life had taken. Nine months back, I’d been sleepwalking; a blacksmith’s boy with no clue of the future rushing at him headlong. And now, here it was, swathed in black and etched in silver. I confess I’d never felt so alive. A young lion at hunt, nose to the wind. And though I caught no hint of our quarry yet, if nothing else, I was awake.

  “We took the winding roads up the hill, past overfull tavernes and rollicking bawdy houses. Aaron nodded to the keep above. ‘My stepfather throws a feast for his lords every year on this eve. Those halls shall be crowded with Coste’s finest tonight.’

  “‘So you’re planning to wait outside, then?’ I growled.

  “‘Stay up all night writing that one, did you, Peasant?’

  “I flipped him the Fathers, and de Coste slapped his neck as if swatting a bug. I was fully aware it was foolish to be spitting at each other at a time like this. But I also knew I might find myself alone with Aaron watching my back tonight, and after the attack he’d orchestrated on me in the stables, I’d no trust he wouldn’t put a knife in it.

  “‘Stop your squabbling,’ Greyhand growled. ‘We are at Hunt tonight.’

  “I waved at my greatcoat and sword. ‘If intent is to lie in wait among the sheep until the wolf shows teeth, it seems unwise to dress as shepherds?’

  “Talon nodded. ‘We do stick out like four leather-clad thumbs.’

  “‘I’m certain suitable attire can be acquired from the master of the house.’ Aaron rubbed his jaw and sighed. ‘So I suppose we’d best go speak to him.’

  “Our horses’ shoes rang on the cobbles as we climbed the road upward, and the light had well failed before we reached the keep. The portcullis was raised in welcome, the drawbridge lowered. Torches burned on the walls, lighting chill mists in the bailey. I could see men-at-arms, well-arrayed in steel finery and tabards of the house. The flag of the famille de Coste flew proud on the walls, spit and shine on every surface.

  “An officer of the gens d’armes came out to greet us, clad in heavy mail. Before de Coste had even pulled down his collar, I saw recognition in the man’s eyes. ‘Master Aaron…’

  “‘Well met, Capitaine Daniau. How is your son?’

  “‘Passing fair, my lord, merci.’ The man looked among us, and I could tell from his mix of fear and soft loathing that he knew exactly what we were. ‘What brings you home after so many months, Master Aaron? And in … such company?’

  “‘I have need to speak to my mother.’

  “‘She is preparing for the feast, my lord, I fear she cannot—’

  “‘I fear manners have slipped in my absence, Capitaine.’ The blond lordling sat taller, that familiar mix of arrogance and confidence oozing from his pores. ‘Unless it has become habit in Château de Coste for the manorborn to be questioned by the help?’

  “‘Forgive me, my lord. But your father left word if ever you were to…’

  “The man’s voice failed as Aaron leaned closer, a predator’s gleam in his eyes. ‘Send word to my mother I wish to see her, Capitaine.’

  “The man’s face slackened, his eyes dulled. ‘At once, my lord.’

  “‘See our horses stabled. If you’ve men sitting idle, set them to the watch. Mortal peril comes to your master’s house this night, Daniau. And it wears no silver on its breast.’

  “I watched Aaron slipping into the role of the nobleson as easy as putting on an old coat, reminded of all the things I disliked about him. He spat orders to those men like he was their better, and I’d no doubt he believed it—of them and me. This prick was a snake. No matter if we were on the Hunt—I was damned if I’d give him chance to bite me again.

  “Ten minutes later, we stood in the grand entrance hall of Coste keep, surrounded by fine tapestries and marble statues. A broad staircase led upward, and to our left, I could see a beautiful ballroom, bedecked in finery and buzzing with servants. Long tables were being laid with pale linen, and beyond, a quartet of soothsingers practiced above a dance floor inlaid with bloodwood and gleaming mother-of-pearl.

  “If the wealth of Skyefall had left me queasy, the opulence here was sickening. I couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been to grow up in a place like this—no wonder de Coste acted as if the Mothermaid sucked his cock dry before mornmeal every day.

  “‘My son?’

  “Aaron looked up, and I saw all tension melt from his frame. A stately woman stood on the landing, clad in a beautiful emerald gown, a spectacular powdered wig propped atop her head. She was perhaps forty, powdered pale, her eyes the same bright blue as Aaron’s.

  “‘Mama,’ he whispered.

  “‘Aaron!’ she cried, sweeping down and into his arms. Tears shone in her lashes as she held him tight, twirling him on the spot as if they danced. ‘When did you arrive?’

  “‘Just now. You remember Master Greyhand? These are my comrades, Mama. Seraph Talon de Montfort and Gabriel de León.’

  “The Baronne graced us all with a perfect curtsey. ‘Any comrades of my dearest are welcome within these halls. But praise San Maximille and the Mothermaid, I thought not to see you again so soon, my son. What have I done to deserve such a blessing?’

  “‘What indeed?’ came a low, rasping voice.

  “I turned to the stairwell above, and saw a man watching the reunion with narrowed eyes. The Baron de Coste was arrayed in a green frockcoat of finest cut, silken hose and shirt. He radiated cold authority, and dripped wealth from every gold-trimmed finger. But no amount of leaden paint could mask the burst capillaries scrawled on his cheeks or the strawberry plumpness of his nose.

  “Growing up around a drunkard makes a lad an expert at spotting others, and I marked the Baron for a lush as soon as I laid eyes on him. He wasn’t the kind who’d grown bloated with it, rolling to his cups like a whale through the surf. No, Aaron’s stepfather was the breed whose disease eats him from the inside out. The Baron de Coste was a well-dressed skeleton, glowering at Aaron with undisguised contempt.

  “‘How comes it you visit on this of all nights, bastard?’ He looked over our number with a soft sneer. ‘And what in the name of Almighty God possessed you to bring a bevy of halfbreed swine to my door?’

  “‘Baron de Coste.’ Greyhand bowed. ‘Well met again, seigneur. I apologize for—’

  “‘I have as little use for your apology as I have for your company, halfbreed,’ the Baron said. ‘You were welcome in my halls when last you visited only because you took this mongrel off my hands. Am I to understand you are returning him?’

  “‘We are here at our abbot’s behest, Baron.’ Talon bowed. ‘We have reason to believe you may have an unwelcome guest at your feast this evening.’

  “‘Several, it seems.’

  “‘A vampire,’ Aaron said. ‘One we’ve stalked for months now.’

  “I saw de Coste’s mother tense at that. But the Baron himself seemed unimpressed. ‘Well, it cannot be the one that despoiled your mama, bastard. Your rapist father was sent to his well-deserved hell years ago. The same that awaits you, I expect.’

  “‘A woman,’ Aaron replied, undaunted. ‘An ancien steeped in murder, who has stalked the edge of the Godsend for moons now. Your guests may be in danger.’ He looked to his mama. ‘You may be in danger.’

  “De Coste turned his eyes back to the Baron. His jaw was clenched in defiance, and he stood taller, striking the pose of the proud young lord. But though I was again reminded of all the things I hated about him, I could see the little shit’s pose for what it was now. A façade to hide the fear within. A fear I could sense in him, sure as breathing. Despite all he was, Aaron de Coste was afraid of his stepfather. Afraid, and utterly hateful.

  “The Baron looked us over with paper-cut eyes. His lip curled.

  “‘Well, then. I suppose you’d best come in.’”

  III

  TROUBLE OF A DIFFERENT FLAVOR

  “THE GREAT KEEP of the Baron de Coste was filled to the brim, his peacocks and hens all on parade. Knights in green tabards and l
ordly finery, feathered caps and velvet crushed. Dames and demoiselles with lead-pale faces and cheeks rouged with blood, swathed in yards of old damask and chiffon and crêpe. And then, there was us.

  “The Baron had graciously loaned a change of wardrobe, but he’d outfitted Greyhand, Talon, and me as servants rather than guests. I wore a simple black doublet and tight, pale hose, my hair tied in a long plait. The only weapons I could conceal beneath were my silversteel dagger and two silverbombs.

  “Greyhand was posing as a footman, watching guests as they arrived at the Baron’s door, and Archer soared the skies above, the falcon ever assisting his master. Seraph Talon was dressed as one of the house gens d’armes, patrolling within the keep should Luncóit seek entrance in secret. Aaron was attired as gentry, of course, arm in arm with his mother. And I was right there in the ballroom with him, serving fucking drinks.

  “I watched the pair as they swept around the room, my eyes lingering on the Baronne de Coste. She clearly doted on her son, despite Aaron’s being the offspring of her violation. Watching her, I thought of my own mama. And of my father.

  “Who was she to him? Lover or victim?

  “And in the end, what did that make me?

  “The smoke of rêvre and whitepoppy hung in the air, entwined with the perfume of gilded ladies. Minstrel song mingled with the tune of gold-dipped fingers on crystal, of cruel laughter and cutting jabs. Wine was as rare as spun gold so long after daysdeath, and yet it flowed like water. I felt I swam in a bloody river, surrounded by hungry reptiles.

  “But of Marianne Luncóit, there was no sign.

  “‘Terribly tedious, don’t you think?’

  “I blinked at the smoky voice, turned to find a pretty demoiselle regarding me with bored expression. She wore green silk, her corset pulling her curves into a perfect hourglass. Her long hair was the gold of autumn leaves, her eyes blue as old skies.

  “‘What’s tedious, mademoiselle?’