‘De León?’
‘Your voice will never feel so tiny as when you’re screaming at God,’ he whispered.
‘… What?’
Gabriel blinked, his eyes coming into focus. He looked up at the historian and slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t want to talk about them any more.’
‘Must we do this again? My Empress demands her tale.’
‘And she’ll have it.’ Gabriel’s grip tightened on his empty glass, knuckles white. ‘But I don’t feel like talking about ma famille right now.’
‘You are a prisoner here. Completely within our power. For all intents and purposes, Chevalier, you are my slave. So apologies,’ the vampire said, leaning forward, ‘but has it somehow been conveyed to you that it makes any difference at all how you feel?’
The wineglass shattered in Gabriel’s hand. A hundred glittering shards splintering in his fist and falling to the stone. The silversaint winced and opened his fingers, looking at the blood dripping, dark and sweet and thick.
Jean-Fran?ois was suddenly standing. Though he barely seemed to move at all, the historian was across the other side of the room, bristling with threat. A black hunger filled his eyes as he watched the red drip, drip, drip.
‘Are you insane?’
Gabriel smiled, held out his wounded hand. ‘Frightened of a little blood, vampire?’
Jean-Fran?ois hissed, pearl-white fangs bared, ‘If I fear anything, de León, it is what I would do to you if I let my hunger have its head.’
‘And what do you think you’d do to me, coldblood?’ Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Before your Empress has the whole of her tale?’
The Last Silversaint rose from his chair and stepped forward, bleeding hand outstretched. Jean-Fran?ois took another step back.
‘Seems we’re all someone’s slave.’
‘Meline!’ Jean-Fran?ois bellowed.
The door flew open in a heartbeat, the thrall woman on the threshold in her long, black gown. Her eyes were wide. One hand beneath her bodice. ‘Master?’
The vampire blinked, the dark shadow that had filled his eyes dimming. He smoothed down his frockcoat and plucked at the ruffled hems of his sleeves.
‘Our guest has cut himself.’
The woman released the weapon she had hidden in her bodice. A dagger, mostlike, though it was difficult for Gabriel to tell. She dropped into a curtsey, made her way to the silversaint’s side, taking his hand. Gentle as she was, Gabriel could still feel the terrible strength in her grip; the power gifted from nightly sups at her master’s wrist. The silversaint’s eyes were still fixed on the vampire’s, his lips curling into a grim smile as he saw that, despite regaining his composure, the creature still refused to move closer.
‘It is deep, Master,’ Meline reported. ‘It will heal in time, but it’s best I—’
‘Swiftly, then.’
The thrall curtseyed once more, rushing from the room.
‘And bring another fucking bottle!’ Gabriel shouted.
The woman fled down the stairs in a flurry of black damask. Again, she left the door unlocked behind. Gabriel listened to her descend, forty stairs, seventy, his senses still sharp as razors. He heard iron keys. A heavy lock. Door slamming.
He turned pale grey eyes back to the historian. Jean-Fran?ois still lurked on the other side of the prison cell. The historie had fallen on the floor, open to a sketch of Dior back in the Perfect Husband, wrapped in her ridiculous frockcoat. The silversaint picked it up, marvelling once again at the vampire’s artistry.
‘It’s a fine likeness.’ He smiled, heart aching. ‘The little bitch would be flattered.’
‘Put that down. You’ll get blood on it.’
Gabriel dropped the book onto the vampire’s chair. ‘Heaven forbid.’
The historian dragged a long golden curl from his eyes and whispered, soft with menace. ‘I shall see you punished for this, de León. I shall have you on your knees.’
‘I’m sure you can taste me already. But you know this is all a waste of time, don’t you?’
‘Time is something my Empress has in abundance.’
Gabriel shook his head, smearing crimson across his chin as he stroked his stubble. ‘If that were so, I’d already be dead, vampire. Your Empress needs the secret of the Grail. But you said it yourself. The cup was broken. The Grail is gone. This is your world, leech. Your here and your now and your forever. And when the monsters you’ve birthed drain every last drop from it, you’ll have none but yourselves to blame.’
Gabriel glanced over his shoulder.
‘That was quick.’
The thrall woman stood on the threshold again. ‘Master?’
Gabriel met Jean-Fran?ois’s eyes again. ‘I don’t want to speak of ma famille any more, vampire. So, you can sit and watch me get quietly shitfaced, or I can stop wasting our time and return to the story I’m actually here to tell.’
A moment passed, long and silent, before the vampire spoke again.
‘… As you like it, Chevalier.’
The silversaint returned to his chair, dripping blood. As he sat with a wince, the thrall knelt beside him. He saw a bowl of steaming water, bandages, smelled the antiseptic perfume of witchhazel and fools’ honey. And beside the bowl …
‘Merci, Mlle Meline,’ he said, reaching for the new bottle of Monét. ‘When they usher me into hell, I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you.’
Jean-Fran?ois returned slowly to his seat, eyes on the silversaint’s bleeding hand as he picked up his historie. The vampire straightened his beautiful coat, took the span of three breaths to regain his composure, then spoke.
‘So. Your gambit at San Guillaume had turned into a massacre, Silversaint. Sister Chloe, Père Rafa, Saoirse, Bellamy, Phoebe – the entire Company of the Grail. All butchered by the Beast of Vellene. The only ones to survive Danton’s wrath were you and Dior.’
Jean-Fran?ois’s lips twisted into the faintest of smiles.
‘And he had turned out to be a she.’
Gabriel winced as Meline fished a long splinter of glass from his palm. He stared at the sevenstar etched there, silver ink glinting in the lantern’s golden light.
‘I don’t suppose I could have another smoke?’
The historian lifted his quill and simply glowered.
Gabriel shrugged. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’
He lifted the Monét to his lips and took a long, slow swallow right from the neck.
‘So. The end. The beginning. The Grail.’
I
FEAR NO DARKNESS
‘“YOU’RE A GIRL.”
‘“I noticed.”
‘“Fuck.”
‘I skimmed my good hand through my sodden hair, my breath hanging pale and heavy between us. Dior looked up at me, drenched bone deep, her lips purpling from the chill. We were crouched on the banks of the River Volta, shoreline crusted with ice like a frosthunter’s beard, a deadwood rising beyond. The night was black as sin, black as the river behind us, black as the heart of the thing that had torn our little company to ribbons.
‘“Fuck.”
‘“You s-said that already. What happened to Saoirse?”