‘But he staggered as the wound in his chest began to smoulder, and I saw Ashdrinker’s blade doing likesame; as if the gore upon it burned. And I realized at last that the blood on the blade wasn’t his, it was hers – it was hers, her palms sliced open and the blood of the Redeemer Himself smeared upon Ashdrinker’s broken edge.
‘Danton clutched his chest as it burst into flame, and the scream that tore up out of his throat came straight from the bowels of hell. Dior swung again, no master with a sword but still, silver-quick. And Ashdrinker, forged in an age long past by the hands of legends and now blessed by the blood of the Grail herself, split his throat from ear to ear. The Beast staggered back, trying to scream, trying to curse, trying to beg through the ruins of his neck as those flames spread, as his flesh turned to ash, as he stumbled and fell onto the ice. His body convulsed as if the thing inside him – that dread animus that had propelled his corpse through countless years – refused to let go its broken shell. But the fire laid claim his skin. And dread time laid claim his flesh. And by the terror in his final, croaking wail, I like to believe the dread emperor of hell itself laid claim his wretched fucking soul.
‘I dragged myself to my feet, trembling, staring at the bloody waif before me.
‘“Great Redeemer,” I whispered.
‘“Flatterer,” she gasped.
‘The Beast of Vellene was dead.’
XXIII
R?UNION DE FAMILLE
‘A SCREAM TORE the night behind us, the sound of fat boiling in a fire. Dior tossed me Ashdrinker, the hilt still sticky with her blood, and we turned towards the ungodly wail, my eyes widening at the sight before us.
‘“Fuck my face,” I breathed.
‘Liathe still brawled with the highbloods, ten against one. And though besting foes that many and powerful would take a miracle, it seemed to be raining miracles on the Mère that night. In fact, though her black hair was now soaked with blood, her red coat and pale flesh torn by dead claws, Liathe seemed almost to be … winning.
‘Maarten the Butcher was now a smear of ashes inside a suit of smoking chainmail. Roisin the Red had lost an arm, using her other to hold in the contents of her sundered belly. Liviana lay curled in the snow, clutching the smoking ruins of her right hand. And I watched in fascination as Liathe hauled the boy Fetch off the ice, his pale finery now red with blood, squealing like a stuck piglet as her hand closed about his neck. I felt my belly surge as I heard a familiar sound, caught a familiar scent – that of boiling blood.
‘“Sanguimancy,” I whispered.
‘The boy screamed again, little legs kicking, jaw distended in agony. And Ironheart though he was, I saw Liathe’s fingers digging deeper into the blackening flesh of his throat, that marble turning to ashes, blood rising in gouts of red steam from his bleeding eyes.
‘The elderly gent flashed out of the snow, snarling, and Liathe was forced to fling the boy away before she could finish him off. But he hit the ice, wailing and thrashing, red smoke wafting from his ruined throat.
‘“My Prince …” Liviana whispered.
‘The highbloods turned at her voice, looking at the ruins of the Beast at my back. I stalked towards them across the ice, Liathe backing away from the glow of my aegis, hissing in soft rage. The enemy of my enemy was just another enemy, and I’d never stand willingly beside a vampire in battle. But if this unholy bitch happened to kill a few of these leeches for me while I cut the rest to pieces, then as she fucking liked it.
‘The Ironhearts quavered, staring in bleak amazement at the ruins of their lord. Pondering whether to fight on or simply flee into the dark.
‘“The Lord is my shield, unbreakable!”
‘The roar rang across the frozen Mère, a small flare lighting the distant dark. A glow I’d long ago forgotten brightened the night, silver-blue and charging towards us. Goosebumps prickled my skin – not at the freezing cold, but at sight of the Mothermaid and Redeemer, the angels of the host, bears and wolves and roses, throat to wrist to waist. That holy magik, wrought by the hands of Silver Sisters. The armour of the silversaint.
‘Four figures ran down the ice out of the north, the holy light on their skin burning like ghostflame. They carried silversteel blades, and their eyes were fierce and wild.
‘“I’ll be damned …” I breathed.
‘At the sight of the charging silversaints at their back, Liathe and I at their flanks, the Ironhearts took one last look at one another and made their choice. Their dread capitaine was slain. Their advantage lost. And you don’t live forever by being a fool. Like shadows, they fled back into the deeper dark, content to live another night. And though I was loath to let them escape, I still felt some grim satisfaction at the thought of their bearing news to the Forever King – his prize lost, his ambition foiled, his youngest son slain. And I vowed under my breath, blood on my hands and the ashes of a Beast on my skin.
‘“Only the beginning, Fabién …”
‘“Come with usss, child.”
‘I turned, incredulous. Liathe stood in the snow, fingers outstretched, bloody handprint painted across her mouth. Dior exchanged a glance with me and raised her silversteel dagger. I almost laughed.
‘“Surely you’re jesting.”
‘That snow hawk cut through the skies above as the ’saints dashed towards us. Liathe fixed me with pale, lifeless eyes, narrowed against my light. “There is but one place in the entire empire this girl is sssafe, and it is not in the crumbling hallsss of your wretched Ord—”
‘“Bitch,” I sighed, “shut your fucking mouth.”
‘I raised Ashdrinker between us, her blade drenched blood-red.
‘“If you think I’ve dragged my arse halfway across this empire, murdered priests and been tortured by inquisitors, fought off hordes of wretched and fled deepweald horrors, battled Princes of Forever and eaten my weight in fucking spudloaf just to hand this girl over to you now, you’re madder than the sword in my hands, vampire.”
‘The snik and the snak, Ash whispered. And the red, red, red.
‘“You have no clue as to what thisss girl mea—”
‘“This girl has a name,” Dior snapped. “And she’s standing right here.”
‘“Gabriel!” came a distant cry.
‘“They have no comprehensssion of what you are,” Liathe hissed, glancing at the oncoming silversaints. “Come with usss, child, I beg you.” That pale hand reached through the falling snow. “Come with usss or die.”
‘But Dior shook her head, lip curled. “You fuckers murdered Rafa. Saoirse. Bellamy. Sister Chloe. I may not know much about this silversaint game yet, but I learn quick, and I’ve learned this: Dead tongues heeded are Dead tongues tasted.”
‘“Gabriel!” came that cry again. “Dior!”
‘“Foolsss,” Liathe hissed. “Foolssss …”
‘The silver cadre reached us, bathed in divine light. Outnumbered, wounded, and nobody’s fool, Liathe snarled behind her mask, swept her shredded coat about her, and blew apart into that storm of blood-red moths, winging upwards into the tumbling snows.