‘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 defence 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 northwards. “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.”
‘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.