‘“Oh nono, hush now, little flower. It pains thy Uncle Fabién, to see thee cry. Tell me, my sweet, my love, my angel dear, how old art thou?”
‘She looked to me, and I nodded, bloody agony in my chest.
‘“Eleven,” she whispered.
‘“Oh, precious love. Oh, such an age! All childhood’s brightness still cherried in thy cheek, all womanhood’s promise budding ’pon thy horizon. Thy name is Patience, aye?”
‘“Oui …”
‘He looked at her sadly, fingers brushing back her long black hair.
‘“I had a daughter once. Oh, aye, I had a daughter, just as beautiful as thee. And I loved her, Patience. I loved her just as dear as thy brave and noble father loves thee.”
‘Astrid placed the goblet of wine on the table, bright and red as blood. And Voss broke his stare with my daughter, looking instead to my love.
‘“Oh, not for me, dear madame.” His grateful smile vanished, and for a moment, his face was a mask of pure malevolence as his gaze slipped to Astrid’s throat. “For thee.”
‘“Voss …”
‘“She is a beauty, Gabriel.” He was smiling once more, placing a kiss so cold upon Patience’s cheek that I saw her skin pale where his lips touched her. “Both of them, radiant as the sun. Proud art thou? Of this lair, this life thou hast made?”
‘“I am.”
‘“Love them, dost thou? As God loves his angels?”
‘“I do.”
‘“And what wouldst thou give to keep them safe, thy angels, thy loves?”
‘“Anything.”
‘“Thy life? Thy liberty?”
‘“Anything! Everything! Please!” I slammed Ashdrinker on the table. “PLEASE!”
‘“Four. Centuries.”
‘I blinked, my belly grown far beyond chill. “… What?”
‘“That is how long I knew my Laure. My angel. My love. My Wraith in Red. Four. Hundred. Years.” He caressed Patience’s cheek, whisper soft. “Thou hast had the keeping of this flower for but eleven, and already thou wouldst give thy soul for her. Nothing from which thou wouldst shirk, Father, to save thy precious daughter’s life. What then, think ye I would not do to avenge my daughter hers?”
‘That claw rested still upon her throat. And every desperate notion, every bleak fantasy I could conjure ended only in horror. I knew he wanted me to beg, but still, I did. Hoping for some reprieve, and praying, oh mighty fucking God, praying with every part of me, every mote of my wretched soul that he would spare them this.
‘I would have given anything to spare them this.
‘“Voss. Please … Your quarrel is with me.”
‘“Quarrel?” The vampire blinked. “Like clerks over a bill? Nay. No thing so shallow as quarrel twixt thee and I. Call it what it is, Silversaint. Vendetta.”
‘He turned black eyes to the glass of wine, then up to Astrid.
‘“Thou art not drinking, madame.”
‘His gaze drifted to the hand she held quivering behind her back.
‘“What is the knife for?”
‘“You,” Astrid promised. “You.”
‘“Voss,” I whispered. “Listen to me. Damn it, LOOK AT ME—”
‘“Know thee the name of thy sin, Gabriel? Thy soul hath the stain of them all, but know thee thy greatest? Come now, and speak its name. If thou wouldst give thy life for theirs, first I shall take thy confession. I shall be thy priest, and thee, my son. Gabriel de León. The Black Lion. The Saviour of Nordlund. Liberator of Triúrbaile. Redeemer of Tuuve. Sword of the Realm. Silversaint. What sin, sweetest, is thine?”
‘I clenched my teeth, fangs grown long in my gums. Thinking upon my life, the answer that might buy me reprieve, the confession he sought of me. “Pride,” I whispered.
‘“Once perhaps. But no more. Speak again, and true.”
‘I looked to Astrid, my breath trembling. The vows broken between us. I’d never think our love a sin, but still, I spoke, desperate now. “Lust, then …”
‘“Thy sin, verily. But not the worst. Thy God is listening, Gabriel. Thy trumpets sing. Shalt thou die with soul unshriven?”
‘My grip tightened on my blade as I hissed, the things I wanted to do to this bastard and all his wretched kind aflame in my head. “Wrath.”
‘Voss shook his head, as if disappointed.
‘“’Tis Sloth, Gabriel. That was thy sin in the end, and worst among them all. Not Pride. Nor Lust. Nor Wrath. Simple Sloth.” He waved his hand about him, lip curled in disgust. “To slink ye here, to this hovel at earth’s end, like a mongrel to its flea-struck bed? To foil my design, to stand in my way – verily, to take my daughter’s life – all these wrongs might I have forgiven had ye but stayed thy course. Long centuries have I sought an adversary worthy of my ire. And for one bleak and blessed moment, as I heard my daughter scream through the death ye gifted her, my hollow heart sang as it hath not for centuries at the thought … perhaps I had found him. That man who could give me but a second in which I might once more taste life through fear. I hoped. Verily, I prayed.”
‘He shook his head.
‘“And this is what becomes of thee? This pitiable, ordinary life? Nay. Nay, this, I cannot forgive, old friend. To turn thy back with deed undone? To step from stage with song unsung? Magnificent were ye, Gabriel. And now? Thou art a lion, playing at being a lamb. And that is why by God thou art abandoned, and why he hath unleashed me upon thee.”
‘“Voss, please …”
‘“Please,” Astrid whispered. “Don’t.”
‘“So beautiful,” he whispered, running a claw along Patience’s neck. “But already, ye fade, Patience. The sweetness of the fruit is but the prelude to decay. Dying hast thou been, since the day ye were first born.”
‘“Almighty fucking God, Voss, you said you’d let her go!”
‘He looked at me. His eyes black glass, like mirrors in which I saw myself. Wretched. Begging. And he spoke then, the words that would unmake my world.
‘“And unlike thee, I keep my vows.”
‘His hand moved. Just a flicker. And he …’
Gabriel’s voice faltered. Ashes on his tongue.
To speak it would make it real.
To speak it would be to live it again.
‘He …’
Jean-Fran?ois sat with one pale hand pressed to his chest, a sliver of pity in his soulless eyes. The cell they sat in was cold as tombs, the pale light of dawn not long from the horizon. But the dark in that stone room was deep as any the vampire had known, as long and empty and bleak as a lifetime unloved. And he stared at this man, this broken wretch, leaning forward in his chair and covering his face, shoulders shaking in silent sobs. And a single, bloody tear spilled from the vampire’s eyes as he whispered.
‘Almighty God …’
The Last Silversaint drew a shuddering breath.
Looked to the skies above.
‘Where?’
XIX
UNMADE
‘THERE’S A HATE so pure it’s blinding. There’s a rage so complete it’s all-consuming. It takes you, and it breaks you, and the thing you’ve been is forever destroyed. Burned to ashes and then reborn. And that was all I knew as I rose up and drew Ashdrinker from her sheath, the sword an extension of my arm, my arm an extension of my will, my will a summation of that hate, that rage, that desire to unmake. Not kill. Not destroy. To annihilate. Ashdrinker screamed with me as she sliced through the space between us, too red for me to look at. A blow that might’ve cut the earth in two. A strike so perfect it could have split the sky.