‘“CHLOE!”
‘No sound. No sign. Nothing. If I dived below to look for her, the boy in my arms would drown. And if we stayed in this water, he’d freeze along with it. And so, roaring her name one last time, eyes burning, I held Dior tight and swam north across the Volta, broken arm trailing at my side. Away from those cliffs above, the slaughterhouse of San Guillaume, the poor wretches Danton had butchered. I’d warned them all, Chloe too, but still, I had to push it from my mind. The sight of Saoirse being ripped ear to ear. Bellamy’s eyes wide open, blinded forever. And Rafa. That poor bastard. Dying with Danton’s mouth on his throat and the name of the God that had failed him on his lips.
‘I swam, bloody water behind me, every muscle screaming. My only solace was a familiar weight on my hip; Ashdrinker, slapping my leg as I kicked towards the shoreline. I’d lost them all, but I’d kept my sword at least. And as a sodden cough wracked his frame and a feeble groan spilled over purpling lips, I knew I still had …
‘“Lachance.”
‘He groaned again, near senseless.
‘“Hold onto me, boy.”
‘His eyelids were heavy, and he clung weakly to the arm I’d wrapped around his chest. But though I could tell he was terrified of the water about him, though he knew if I were to let him go, he’d sink like a stone, even with the cold, he didn’t tremble.
‘Whatever else, Dior Lachance was never a coward.
‘We reached the shallows, and I found my footing, slinging the lad over my shoulder. He was still senseless from the fall, ash-white hair hanging lank over his face. I’d ripped every scrap of clothing off him from the waist up to free him from Danton’s clutches, and I knew the little bastard would freeze soon enough. So staggering up the wooded bank, I thumped him against an old rotted tree, and wincing at my still-shattered wrist, I shrugged my greatcoat off my shoulders.
‘And then, I saw it.
‘The one thing that would change everything.
‘Dior was coatless and shirtless. But not entirely naked. Chloe’s bandage was still around his throat, but another bandage was wrapped about his chest, many times over. At first, I thought the boy might have been wounded; the bandage some holdover from an older battle. But then, beneath the wrappings, I saw it. Saw them. Bound uncomfortably tight, but unmistakable.’
Jean-Fran?ois blinked, glancing up from his tome and snapping his fingers.
‘Breasts.’
‘Oui,’ Gabriel nodded.
Jean-Fran?ois smiled all the way to his dark eyes, and clapped as if delighted. ‘Dior is a girl’s name as well as a boy’s, Silversaint.’
‘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-Fran?ois 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-FRAN?OIS 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-Fran?ois’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 southwards at the thought, leaving him hard and aching in his leathers.
‘Master?’ she asked.
‘More ink, my dove,’ Jean-Fran?ois 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-Fran?ois 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 ch?teau 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-Fran?ois 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 favoured the pretty demoiselles.’
‘Chloe knew.’ Gabriel shrugged. ‘Saoirse, too. But S?ur 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-Fran?ois 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-Fran?ois 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.