‘One of the highbloods seized hold of her – an elderly fellow dressed like a country gent – lifting her up by the collar as if she weighed a feather. Dior cursed, scrabbling at his face, the vampire shrieking as her fingers painted crimson lines across his cheek. And where her blood kissed his flesh, fire bloomed, white-hot and blinding. He staggered back, howling, Ironheart flesh carved with great ashen rents by the merest touch of her blood.
‘A silverbomb burst among the wretched, blasting a few to pieces. Another exploded, another, sailing from my hand and lighting up the night, silver caustic scalding Dead skin and eyes. Danton’s flock scattered as I unleashed another volley, leaping from my sled and roaring, “DIOR!” And the girl cried, “GABRIEL!” and scrambled to her feet. A tall, dead-eyed brute made a grab for her as she dashed towards me through the silversmoke, her fine frockcoat shredding in his fist. A wretched leapt atop her, trying to bring her down. But again, she lashed out with those blood-slicked hands, and again, the vampire fell back, its flesh burned black where her blood had touched it.
‘She made it to my side, crashing into my arms, face slicked red. Ashdrinker sang in the air, scything through the wretched at her back, leaving them in smoking pieces on the ice. I hurled my holy water, my silverbombs, cutting through the rabble that charged me headlong, soulless eyes and open mouths. Dior lashed out with her silversteel dagger as I cut more wretched down into the bloody snow, the pair of us standing back-to-back as the song of the blade rang in my head: steel as mother, steel as father, steel as friend. I’d been killing these bastards since I was sixteen years old, and near the first of them I’d ever slain was a Prince of Forever – there was no way under heaven I’d fall beneath the teeth of a few dozen mongrels with a full dose of sanctus in me, with my swordarm whole and the fury of a widower, of a father undone burning within. And though I made a red fucking slaughter of those dogs, still, I knew it was no kind of triumph. Danton and his highbloods hung back, watching as I spent the last of my arsenal, backing away onto the ice now with nothing left to throw, no more tricks up my sleeve.
‘And still almost a dozen highbloods to kill.
‘They fanned out about us as we backed away, slowly encircling. I knew a few by name, by bloody reputation. A dark-bearded brute named Maarten the Butcher, who wore mail and carried a great two-hander in hammer fists. Another warrior named Roisin the Red, swift and sharp, her body clad in fur-trimmed leathers and her hair in slayer’s braids. A slender woman with wheat-gold hair and blood-red eyes called Liviana. A boy known only as Fetch, not more than ten when he died, dressed in pale finery spattered with blood.
‘Ironhearts all, each the father or mother of decades of murder, each a nightmare to slay alone, let alone with ten siblings beside them. And at their head, a Prince of Forever, son of their dread liege himself. The butcher of a thousand maids, the bloodhound of the Forever King, the Beast of Vellene, now stalking towards me across the ice as his fellows slowly closed their circle around us.
‘“I warned thee, Silversaint,” he said. “Ye should have stayed buried.”
‘I clenched my fangs. “Papa should have killed me when he had the chance, bastard.”
‘“But he did kill thee, de León. Not the hero who songs were sung for, the chevalier who defeated undying armies, the man who became legend. Not even the boy who slew my sister dear do I see before me.” Danton shook his head, their circle drawing tighter. “A shadow is all that remains of thee. A hollowed cur, a drunkard and a wretch, sodden with spirits and with spirit broken.”
‘Danton raised his blade, the sabre’s edge gleaming.
‘“But ye may still live to see the dawn, de León. Thou hast business with my dread father in the east, do ye not? Debts unpaid?” He circled around us now, behind the wall of his highbloods, his smile ruby red. “Thy Patience? Thy Astrid? Thou didst slumber in thy cellar as my father had his way with thy bride, but still, certain am I thou hast imagined the sweet sufferings he bestowed before planting her in the ground beside thee. And more certain am I, thou doth desire nothing so much as to see my king again.”
‘The leather on Ashdrinker’s hilt creaked as I squeezed it tight.
‘“A chance for vengeance I offer thee,” Danton said. “Put up thy sword and step ye aside. Give the girl over to me, and ye may yet live to see thy vow fulfilled. Ye need not die for her, de León. For in the end, what is Dior Lachance to thee?”
‘I glanced to the girl at my back, bloodied and shaking.
‘Eyes wide and blue, rimmed with tears.
‘“Gabe …” she whispered.
‘And I saw the truth then. The truth of it all. No matter the vengeance I’d sworn, nor the life that had been stolen from me, nor the endless ache inside my chest. Because even in darkest hours, that ache let me know I was still alive. It was as my love had told me, as she’d always said. Hearts only bruise. They never break.
‘And in the end, I knew I’d not take back a breath of it. Not the bliss I knew then, nor the pain I felt now. Not all the forsaken hours I’d spent without them, the ache of my lips without Astrid’s kiss, the emptiness of my arms without Patience’s embrace. In those few moments I had them, and if only then, I was immortal. Because they were immaculate. And they were mine.
‘And no matter the God I’d turned my back on. No matter the father I cursed and the heaven I defied. Because in the end, it matters not what you hold faith in. So long as you hold faith in something.
‘I tore off my glove with my teeth, wrapped my bare hand in Dior’s.
‘“I will never leave you,” I vowed.
‘It began as an ember, just a spark to tinder, finite and small. But like to the summer-bleached grasses of my youth, the spark began to smoulder, and that smoulder became flame, burning down my arm and into the palm of the hand that now held Dior’s. I felt it like fire in the ink Astrid had scribed upon my skin. I felt it like her lips upon mine. And releasing my grip, looking to the sevenstar on my palm, I saw it burning with light – not cold and silver as in days of old, but hot and crimson. Tearing my coat away, the tunic beneath, I saw the lion on my chest ablaze with that same furious light, red as the heat of my stepfather’s forge, as the blood I’d spilled and seen spilled in kind, as all the fires that surely burn in the hate-drenched heart of hell.
‘I raised my hand, ablaze. And I saw them tremble.
‘“Which of you unholy bastards wants to be the first to die?”
‘“Kill him,” Danton hissed. “Kill him and bring me the girl.”
‘The vampires wavered, crimson light reflected in narrowing eyes.
‘“Obey me!” the Beast roared. “You are ten, he is one!”
‘Dior raised her dagger. “You mean two, bastard.”
‘“Count again, girl.”
‘The whisper drifted across the ice. Danton turned, glowering as a now-familiar figure strode out from the tumbling snows. Locks of midnight-blue ran thick to her waist. Her long red frockcoat whipped about her in the howling wind, silken shirt parted from her pale chest. She’d fashioned herself a new mask; white porcelain with a bloody handprint over her mouth, red-rimmed lashes. And beyond, those pale eyes, drained of all light and life.