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-Fran?ois 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-Fran?ois 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.’
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 defences, 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 travelled, 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 travelled 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.