by Foz Meadows
‘Professor Lukin,’ she said tightly. ‘You'll have to forgive me. I don't know your companions.’
Lukin smiled and blinked. ‘Well! I suppose that ought to be remedied – although, sad to say, I can claim the pleasure of only one introduction. This man,’ and he threw a comradely arm around the shoulders of the stranger beside him, ‘is Mikhail Savarin, my esteemed cousin. You've met before: something about fainting and blood extraction, I think? But of course! I'm forgetting – you're also familiar with some of the work he's done. The portal in and out of the Town Hall, for instance, or the entrance to my laboratory via the Galleries Victoria? You and your companions even entered here through what is, if I may say so, a particularly splendid piece of pipe-work. Then again –’ Lukin's face, previously so open and friendly, hardened, the words becoming as sharp and indestructible as granite, cruel in tone. ‘From what I'd heard, you were somewhat indisposed during the journey. Tell me, little Desdemona, did you enjoy the black man's blood? Did it taste like wine and rubies? Did it taste like joy?’ This last was almost hissed, Lukin's face frighteningly contorted with sick humour. Then, just as abruptly as the change had come, it vanished, leaving behind his semblance of an absent-minded academic. ‘I only ask, of course, out of intellectual curiosity. Mikhail! Say hello to Solace!’
‘Charmed,’ said Mikhail Savarin, in that now-recognised voice, which was so much like, and yet unlike, that of Lukin himself. The professor's vicious transformation left Solace feeling ill. Even Sharpsoft's warning hadn't prepared her for such a brutal contrast. All at once, she realised she was more disgusted by Lukin's façade than his real face. She'd trusted that veneer, and felt violated at seeing how easily it was stripped away. As her throat tightened with betrayal, she hated herself for finding it easier to loathe Mikhail than to meet Lukin's crinkled, friendly-seeming eyes.
‘I'd say the same,’ she managed, finally finding her voice, ‘except I'm really not. And who's your other stooge?’
The third man present had not, as yet, spoken, but as Solace asked her question, he smiled at her. There was something familiar about him, something in the face, perhaps, or eyes, which niggled because she couldn't place it. Where had she seen him before? He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and although looks among the Rare were clearly deceptive – Sanguisidera herself must have been decades, probably centuries older than she appeared – she had no other marker to go by. Without intending to and despite her fear and anger, she found herself studying his face.
Like Sanguisidera, he was pale-skinned and black-eyed; his hair, too, was jet-black and shoulder-length, tied in a neat tail behind his head. He was dressed in charcoal-grey trousers and a long-sleeved, tailored linen shirt, and although somewhat piratical, it didn't seem out of place. He was almost handsome in a sharp and distant way, but as he inclined his head, Solace saw the same flash of madness in his eyes that marked Sanguisidera and her Bloodkin. Glancing down, her anger returned in a wave.
‘My manners are poor,’ demurred Sanguisidera. Her voice was rich and velveteen, persuasive and almost playful. ‘But then, I have never been good at the little niceties which others perform so well. You have only met this man once, Solace – I hear you swapped words while Mikhail Savarin borrowed some of your life's blood – but you have seen him before, less informally. I can only imagine the things he longs to say to you. He's waited for this day, you know, with almost more anticipation than I myself. I believe he told you as much.’
‘And why would that be?’ Solace shot back. The skin at the top of her neck had suddenly begun to tingle like crazy, and when Sanguisidera's perfect lips curled in a smile, she felt her heart drop through her stomach.
‘Why, my dear! Isn't it obvious? This is Grief. Your elder brother.’
Grief which seeks Solace.
Faceless man.
Myriad thoughts clamoured for her attention, all of them denials, but when the stranger smiled again, the words of Jess's singsong prophecy burned her heart, and Solace knew it was true. For the first time since drinking Harper's blood, she felt her vision clear. Grief was familiar because he looked like her – she could see it in his colouring, in the shape of his face and shoulders – and because she knew his silhouette, that ghastly waking nightmare she'd met in the alley and in her dreams; the man who'd laughingly strapped her down and stuck steel in her flesh.
‘How?’ she asked.
Brother.
‘The book, please, Erasmus?’
Sanguisidera held out a hand. Obediently, Lukin bent down and picked up something from the side of the throne. As Solace recognised the object, her stomach clenched. When Mikhail smirked at her reaction, she found it in herself to hate him all the more, furious that she couldn't keep from speaking her thoughts aloud.
‘My mother's book.’
Sanguisidera raised an eyebrow and half looked up, signalling patience. Flicking aside the cover with a delicate, slim-boned finger, she opened at a set page and began to read aloud:
‘“I can only hope that the raid was a consequence of Sanguisidera's madness – of all things to hope! – and not revenge for her discovery of the agent in her midst. I will not even write their name, in case this book should fall into her hands. And so, though I burn to tell more, I will only say this of the most important matter: the heart of our plans has been stolen. Only the grief of Sanguisidera remains”.’
She closed the book carefully, a smile both beautiful and bestial licking along her lips.
‘“The grief of Sanguisidera”,’ Solace echoed numbly. ‘That was their plan. I wasn't the first child Morgause bore. But you found out. And the night she gave birth –’
‘I raided Starveldt. Yes. The lore does say that your brother should have been fed on the blood of his parents, but I wasn't willing to test the theory. No need to have any more of their traitor-blood in my Grief than could be helped. Thankfully, it would seem that the blood of strangers serves just as well. All that mattered was that they were willing to die.’ She chuckled, and the sound was like oil on water. ‘Well, perhaps more able than willing.’
‘And the agent?’ Solace was trembling, too shocked to know what to do or say. She wanted to hurt Sanguisidera, somehow, anyhow, and it was the only weapon she had to hand. But the Bloody Star only laughed and shook her head, smiling.
‘Ah! Such naiveté must run in the family. Their “agent” was never such to begin with. They thought he'd recovered from blood addiction to save them all; a pretty deception. Still, he has kept a part of his oath to them, at least: to protect your family. Grief? Why don't you summon him?’
And before the man – her brother – could so much as open his mouth, Solace already knew what name he would call. A low moan escaped her lips, but no one else heard.
‘Sharpsoft?’ Grief called imperiously. ‘Come!’
There was a pause, followed by a small flash of light. Anger and despair burned in Solace. She wanted to scream, but when she met Sharpsoft's eyes, she saw they were whirling – gently, as they had on the day they'd first spoken.
Don't>
He didn't speak; neither did his lips move. The word hung heavy in her head, and although his gaze was fixed on hers, Solace longed to disobey. Only a stubborn refusal to give Sanguisidera the satisfaction kept her silent. Instead, she spat, hoping her expression could convey enough of her bile.
‘Jess's prophecy,’ she growled. ‘It makes sense, now.’ Without meaning to, she found herself reciting it. ‘“Grief is behind it all, Grief which seeks Solace”. That was you at the end, though, wasn't it – telling us to “trust in the blood”. It was you who spoke through her and cut her adrift. She almost died! Bastard!’
Sharpsoft's voice was calm. ‘Yes. It was me. Am I needed further?’ This last he addressed to Sanguisidera, who narrowed her eyes.
‘That depends. Has Glide been taken care of?’
‘He had served his purpose in fetching the book. I killed him myself.’
Gleeful as a child, Sanguisidera reach
ed out and fondly touched his hand.
‘Good boy. Then no: you are not needed further. Leave us.’
‘As my mistress commands,’ Sharpsoft said. His gaze flicked once more to Solace, so swiftly that no one else noticed. But she didn't care, and gave no sign of acknowledgement, watching with leaden eyes as he executed a short bow and disappeared, leather coat swirling.
‘A handsome helper,’ Sanguisidera remarked absently.
‘What do you want with me?’ Solace whispered.
Her enemy arched an eyebrow. ‘What do I want? But my dear, you've read at least some of your mother's book. You know what I want.’ She laughed again, but this time the beauty was gone: it was a flat sound, dead and crazed. ‘I want what everyone wants. I want the world. And you,’ she added, standing at last, ‘can help me.’
She took Solace by the arm and led her to the edge of the promontory. Below them stretched the vast enormity of the cavern. The Rare blanketed the visible floor like a living carpet, the countless torches glittering like jewels on a necklace. It was ugly in its splendour, and although she longed to, Solace was unable to look away. Closing tight around her forearm, Sanguisidera's fingers were cold to the touch, her grip like iron.
‘Too many of my followers are conspicuous in daylight,’ she said. ‘I can put to use Rare like the friends you've made. They would serve me well.’
‘And then you'd kill them, like you killed Glide?’ She was surprised by how angry that made her. A traitor he might have proven to be, and a murderer besides, but there was no comfort to be taken from his death, only a numb and distant fury that he was beyond all punishment, beyond all redemption. If Sanguisidera noticed her reaction, however, she gave no sign of it, shrugging the accusation aside.
‘Most probably. Or I would have them turned. Our kind is superior, Solace – such an amusing name! Whatever their strengths in sunlight, those wretches chained in my dungeon would last not a second against you, should you so choose it. And your brother would love your company.’
‘You don't need me,’ said Solace flatly.
Serpent-swift, Sanguisidera's free hand shot out, gripping her fiercely by the chin. Her nails were filed to tiny points, and it took all of Solace's willpower not to cry out as the soft skin along and below her jaw was pierced. Blood began to trickle down her throat, and the image of similar red lines slipping from Harper's neck over Laine's fingers flashed vividly through her mind.
‘No,’ hissed Sanguisidera. ‘I don't need you, specifically. What I need is every member of our kind. You, I only want – because you are strong, and because it would please my Grief. Whatever else I could possibly need from you is in your blood, which, thanks to Mikhail Savarin, I already have.’ So saying, she pulled her hand back from Solace's chin, delicately licking a drip from one of her nails. ‘Such sweet blood it is. But you must remember, Solace dear, as your late and eloquent mother so thoughtfully pointed out, that I am, perhaps, just a little mad.’ She forced a laugh, the sound high and grating. ‘So others have always said! And perhaps that means I should phrase my offer in a different way, with the honesty born of madness. Mikhail!’
Swiftly, she turned. A knife appeared in her hand, plucked with lightning speed from somewhere around her waist.
‘My lady,’ said Mikhail reverently, stepping forward.
To her horror and sick fascination, Solace saw that Lukin was holding a bowl below his cousin's arm. Before she could so much as cry out, Mikhail had taken the knife and slashed his forearm. It was a deep cut, and his blood flowed thick and freely into the bowl. Panting, he stood back, letting Lukin hand the libation to Grief, who sipped it as appreciatively as if it were a fine wine.
‘Mage blood,’ he whispered, passing the bowl on to Sanguisidera. ‘Delectable.’
Solace felt herself pale. The blood smelled good, singing to the aftertaste of what she'd already consumed. The realisation disgusted her, but even so, she couldn't shut off her senses.
‘There's no need to blanch so, girl,’ the Bloody Star purred. She drank, careful as a cat, licking a stray drop from her bottom lip before it could fall awry. ‘Your nose works as well as mine, and what's more, your body yearns for it. As well it should! And you are free – free as the birds in the air – to accept or reject my gift. But if you reject it,’ and here her lovely face darkened, ‘I would have only to force it down your throat for you to become what you profess to hate. And then I would lead you to that dungeon from whence you came, back down with your friends, and you would drink of them willingly in rage and laughter, as if they were no more than cattle. As if they were beasts.’ She took another sip. ‘Accept, however, and I may put them to use – I'll probably kill them eventually, of course. I'm not particularly adept at keeping merciful promises, and so I tend not to make any.’
‘That isn't much of an offer,’ Solace managed to say. Her stomach was tying itself in knots, but she was dizzying, swooning at the scent of Mikhail's blood. It was increasingly difficult to think straight, and impossible to keep her eyes from following the bowl of their own accord, as if she were no more than a starving dog.
‘Don't be so ungenerous,’ cooed Sanguisidera. ‘I'm giving you a choice. In one alternative, the deaths of your friends are on your hands – and in the other, they might even live! Or at least, live longer.’
And all of a sudden, the bowl was in Solace's hands, the coppery, spicy, enticing scent of blood too close to her nostrils for comfort.
‘You read the words in the pipe.’ The speaker was Grief, his soft voice echoing as if from a distance. ‘I wrote those words, sister Solace. I painted them in my blood. They call to our kind, invoke us, bind us. They free our true selves. They're all over the city, hidden in places where the night folk roam. And they called you. I know what you truly want. Drink.’
‘Drink,’ echoed Solace, staring into the bowl. Dimly, she was aware of Mikhail shouting something unintelligible – his voice was weak, and it seemed as if she were encased in a kind of bubble. She could no longer feel Sanguisidera's grip on her arm, and looking down, she saw that the blood in her hands was limned with a vivid emerald glow. Light blossomed around her like the petals of an orchid. A piercing scream rattled the distance, but Solace didn't hear, the sound unnaturally muted by – what? Slowly, oblivious to the encircling light, she found she was raising the bowl to her lips.
And then, as violently as if someone had yanked hard on a rope around her waist, she was jerked backwards and up. Pain blossomed in her body. She opened her mouth to yell, but no sound came out – had the earlier scream been hers?
The last thing she saw was the bowl of blood, broken in two as its awful contents soaked into the rock, as wet and reproachful as tears.
Aftermath
For the first time in what felt like years, Solace awoke slowly and in comfort. She was somewhere soft and warm – a proper bed! – and yes, the familiar soft weight tucked against her body was a real doona. Tentatively, half afraid of herself, she probed her memories of what had happened, cringing in shame at her weakness as she recalled lifting the bowl to her lips. Then there had been the light, fierce, green, and pulsating, as Sanguisidera shrieked and screeched in the background.
And then she remembered Glide, and Grief, and Sharpsoft, and felt like weeping.
As she rolled over, she wondered where she was. Opening her eyes would provide an answer easily enough, but it seemed as if the last few mornings had only resulted in the knowledge of some horrible new truth. More likely than not, she realised, heart sinking, her friends were still ransom in Sanguisidera's dungeon, helpless in chains or dead already. And what had become of Jess and Electra? No. Too much uncertainty awaited Solace if she decided to open her eyes, and now that she knew how real her life had become – knew that it was never going to go away, none of it, not even if she wished it to – the risk seemed almost unbearable.
She started to cry.
‘Hey there. Hey. It's all right.’
The voice was familiar and fem
ale. Someone rested a hand on Solace's head.
‘Jess?’ she whispered.
‘That's the one.’
Solace's eyes snapped open. Laughing out loud, she turned around and sat up, all but crushing the seer in a fierce hug, tears forgotten.
‘Ah. Ah! Easy on the ribs there, Breaker of Doors!’
‘Sorry,’ Solace sniffed, but she was smiling. Looking over Jess's shoulder, she realised she didn't recognise where they were.
Catching her glance, Jess nodded towards the doorway. ‘I'll explain in a minute. You're pretty much the last one awake. Come on.’
Cautiously, Solace followed her friend. The doorway led out to a landing and a flight of stairs. In turn, these led down to a proper lounge room in what was, to all intents and purposes, a proper house. Evan and Laine were squeezed into a single giant armchair, while Manx and Electra leaned against their legs. Harper was stretched out on a nearby couch, his neck swathed in bandages, while Paige was sitting on a cushioned dining-room chair, her knees drawn up under her chin.
And in the centre of it all, curled up tight as sole occupant of the largest, most comfortable-looking sofa in the room, was Duchess, the tiny grey cat.
Exchanging a glance with Jess, Solace found herself staring. ‘Explain,’ she said flatly.
‘Okay,’ said Jess. ‘Well.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Remember when the Bloodkin first showed up, and Laine started running downstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Electra and I were lying down with Duchess, half asleep, and she was stretched out over both our legs. We were about to get up and see what was happening, but before we could move, we were – well, we were here.’ She blinked, looking to Electra for confirmation.
The blonde girl nodded.
‘It was bizarre. One minute we'd been at the house, and the next – it was instantaneous. We didn't feel a thing.’