‘She gasped as I smashed my brow into her nose. I felt a satisfying crunch, heard a gargling squeal as my headbutt sent her stumbling backwards. Her thug stepped forward, ready to dismantle me, but Talya held up her hand to stave him off. She pressed her palm to the blood gushing over her lips, face twisted in fury.
‘“You … b-broke my nose …”
‘“Come closer, bitch. I’ll kiss it better.”
‘“Faithless bastard.”
‘I thrashed, wild at the scent of her blood. It filled the cell, my lungs, my head, fangs gleaming as I bucked against my restraints. “Where’s Dior?”
‘Talya’s lips twisted in a bleeding smile. “My sister Valya is taking her confession.”
‘“You’re torturing her? She’s an innocent child!”
‘“Innocent?” Talya spat blood, the scent near driving me mad. “Dior Lachance is a heretic. She is a witch. And she is a murderer.”
‘“The fuck are you babbling about? She didn’t kill anyone.”
‘The inquisitor sneered. “Dior Lachance murdered a priest, halfbreed. A bishop who ran an orphanage, no less. Ritually slaughtered him, mutilated the corpse, and painted the walls of his home with his blood. And were it not for the confession of her conspirators, she may still be conducting her deviant rites on the streets of Lashaame to this very day.”
‘“Bullshit.”
‘The inquisitor produced a sheaf of parchment, covered in black script.
‘“You will name Lachance a witch,” Talya said. “A practitioner of profane blood rites, sent to sow discord among the Almighty’s faithful. You will name the ones who assisted her in escaping justice in Lashaame – namely, S?ur Chloe Sauvage of the Order of San Michon and Père Rafa Sa-Araki of the Order of San Guillaume – as slaves to Lachance’s dark will. You will confess your involvement in the girl’s coven, and beg God’s absolution for your heresy.”
‘My eyes narrowed, fangs bared. “The fuck I will.”
‘“How I prayed you would say that.”
‘Talya smiled, nodded to the thug by the torture implements.
‘“Philippe?”
‘The thug dragged the burlap aside, and my stomach churned as I recognized everything Dior had stolen from Madame Souris. Beside my foundry, my ingredients, I saw glass phials brimming with chocolat-red powder. The thug lifted one between forefinger and thumb, smiling as he loosed the stopper.
‘“We took the liberty of bottling it for you,” Talya purred.
‘The man waved the open phial in front of me, and the scent of the sanctus within – God, it struck me like a spear to the chest. I actually moaned, gasping as the thirst roared through me, fangs long and pointed, heart hammering, so close, so close.
‘Talya picked up the ten-tail whip, and my jaw clenched as I saw that the thongs were spurred with metal. The leather creaked as she coiled it in her fist, walking slowly behind me, heels clicking stone. My skin prickled as I felt that clawed gauntlet on my skin again, tracing the inkwork on my naked back. Angel’s wings across my shoulders, the Mothermaid and infant Redeemer below, carved a lifetime ago by hands that loved me.
‘Crack!
‘I gasped as iron and leather bit into my skin.
‘“Do you confess?”
‘“Could you aim a little higher, Ssister?”
‘Crack!
‘“Nono … a t-touch to the left.”
‘Crack!
‘“… th-that’s it.”
‘CRACK!
‘CRACK!
‘CRACK!
‘Iron doesn’t hurt palebloods the way silver will, but by that stage, I was starving, weak, ready to break. Instead of stitching closed, my wounds bled like a butchered hog’s. I thrashed at my chains until my flesh tore, blood spilling down my arms, the back of my legs, pooling on the stone beneath me. And always, the scent of that sanctus filled my lungs.
‘I’d felt hunger like this only once before in my whole life. No mere human can imagine the agony. No smokefiend or bottlebride or poppyhound can even begin to understand.’
Jean-Fran?ois pursed his lips, spoke soft. ‘I understand.’
‘I knew this was bullshit. I knew Dior well enough to know she was no cold-blooded killer. If someone had handed her to the Inquisition, it was a betrayal, not a confession. And I remembered her words in the cave, then. What she’d said about everybody leaving her.
‘I’d done the same, I realized. Too wrapped up in my own dark. I’d been ready to turn my back on that girl, like everyone else had. And I realized I’d forgotten the most important lesson. A lesson learned through trials of ice and fire. A lesson that should’ve been carved into my bones with blood and silver.’
‘What lesson?’ Jean-Fran?ois asked.
The Last Silversaint took a swallow from his bottle. It was a long while before he spoke again.
‘I found myself in darkness. Drenched in bloodscent. I felt my daughter’s hand in mine. Her fingers, soft against my calluses, the echoes of her laughter ringing in my head. I saw Astrid’s face floating in the black before me. Lashes fluttering upon her cheeks as if she were waking from a dream. Red lips. Two little words.
‘Do it.
‘I can’t.
‘You must.
‘Come in.
‘COME IN.
‘“Who’s there?”
‘I blinked hard, drenched in blood and the perfume of want. The pain had stopped, the rhythmic crack of the lash across the tattered meat of my back had stilled. I looked up through curtains of sweat-drenched hair, saw the thug before me, scowling. I could feel Talya behind me, and I swear under the stink of gore and leather and sweat, I could smell desire; the sadistic bitch was wet as spring rain.
‘But she’d stopped now. Her voice soft.
‘“Who’s there?” she asked again.
‘A reply came from beyond the door, and I realized someone was knocking. The voice was muffled, shy – a young sister from the priory, I guessed.
‘“Pardon, Inquisitor. But your holy sister sends urgent word.”
‘The pair looked at each other, Philippe stalking to the meat cellar door as Talya twisted the ten-tail in her hand, wringing a thick soup of blood from the leather onto the stone at her feet. The thug opened the door, scowling. “This had best be im—”
‘The fellow gasped as four and a half feet of jagged metal was jammed into his belly. The strike was nothing poetic, but the sword still cleaved his mail like a razor through silk. He clutched his gut, the blade slipping free as he fell backwards, blood and bowel spilling from the rend. And through my starving haze, my heart surged as a figure came through the door, bright blue eyes wild with rage.
‘Dior lifted Ashdrinker in her hands, pointed the blade at the inquisitor.
‘“Your sister said to tell you the witch is loose.”’
VII
BLEEDING BUT UNBROKEN
‘HERE’S A TRUTH about sword fighting, coldblood: even if you’re bad at it, when the person you’re fighting doesn’t have one? You’re still going to be pretty good.
‘One glance at her form told me Dior Lachance had never swung a longblade before in her life. Her grip was for shit. Her stance was woeful. And as I’ve said, it’s only in storybooks some little bastard picks up a sword and wields it like he was born to it. Still, that blade was forged in an age long past by the hands of legends, and broken though she was, Ash remembered something of what she’d been. I could tell by the way she glanced at her, Dior was listening to Ashdrinker in her head. Stepping forward with blade raised.