‘“Au revoir, father,” I whispered.
‘I dragged his blade free from my belly as Winter swooped out of the rafters again, screeching in rage at the death of her master. A dull thwack rang out as I swung, limping forward now in a cloud of tumbling feathers. Shots rang out from the loft, and I hurled a handful of silverbombs, sisters scattering whole or in pieces among the blinding concussions. And still I stalked towards the altar, blood-red eyes locked on Chloe now, the sister standing above Dior with silversteel knife raised, as her voice faltered, as she stared at me with wide green eyes and spoke with bloodless lips.
‘“Gabriel, all this was meant t – hrrrrk!”
‘I drove the sword into her chest, pinning her to the podium and the tome laid upon it. Chloe grasped the blade, palms sliced bloody, a look of utter disbelief upon her face – as if even here, even now, she expected God to intervene.
‘Always a believer was little Chloe Sauvage.
‘“N-no …” she gasped. “All the w-work of his hand is in ac-ccord with his p-plan …”
‘I leaned in close, whispered through bared fangs. “Fuck his plan.”
‘She tried to speak, a line of crimson spilling down her chin as she slumped back on the tome and sighed her last. Turning, I tore off the straps binding Dior to the altar, and she surged up into my arms. I held as tight as I dared, trembling, almost weeping with relief.
‘“Are you aright?”
‘“I’m aright,” she breathed, looking in wide-eyed horror at Chloe’s body. “She … was going to kill me. Why would she do that?” She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “Why?”
‘“It’s not your fault, love. The ritual demands the Grail’s lifeblood to end daysdeath.”
‘I turned with a snarl, spitting through bloody teeth.
‘“This fucking book …”
‘I kicked the podium over, sent it crashing to the floor. Chloe’s body tumbled, the ancient tome’s spine cracked, splitting and splaying the old pages across the bloody stone. I snatched up a burning candle from the altar, set to drop it into the book’s ruins.
‘Dior grabbed my wrist, looking into my eyes.
‘“… Would it work?” she whispered.
‘“I don’t care,” I replied.
‘And I let the candle fall.
‘The flames spread, the vellum burned, the ritual upon it turned to char and ashes. We stood side by side, Dior and I, watching the smoke rise into the stained-glass light. And I felt not one drop of regret. I’d find another way to end the endless night, to bring the Forever King to his knees. Or I’d fall trying. Because some prices are simply too steep to pay.
‘I looked at this girl beside me. My hill to die on. My shoulder to cry on. I’d no clue what I believed, save only that I believed in her.
‘“What do we do now?” Dior asked softly.
‘I stared up at the Redeemer and sighed.
‘“I suppose you should come meet my sister.”’
XXVIII
TOMORROW AND TOMORROW
GABRIEL UPENDED THE empty bottle of Monét over his open mouth. The light of the weakling dawn was creeping through the window like a thief now, refracting in blood-red droplets, falling slow onto his tongue.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
That skull-pale moth was still flitting about the lantern’s light, beating upon the glass. With a speed belied by the four bottles he’d downed, Gabriel snatched it from the air and squeezed. Opening his fist, he let the broken body fall to the stone, ruined wings dusting the sevenstar on his hand.
He felt as if he’d been in this room all his life.
The Marquis Jean-Fran?ois of the Blood Chastain dipped his quill into his ink bottle, scribing the last few words the silversaint had spoken. The pages were filled with his story now, word by word, line by line. Gabriel thought it strange, and in truth, a kind of wonderful; that all he was and would ever be could be distilled into a few elegant lines on a page. The summation of his youth and his glory, his love and his loss, his life and his tears, captured like an errant moth and bound as if by magik into so small and plain a thing.
The simple wonder of books.
Jean-Fran?ois finished his writing, scowled at the window, as if offended by the daystar’s interruption. Blowing breathless breath upon the ink to dry it, the vampire placed the tome upon the table, steepled pale fingers at ruby lips, and smiled.
‘A fine night’s work, Silversaint. My pale Empress shall be well pleased.’
Gabriel dropped the empty bottle to the floor, wiped his lips on the back of his hand. ‘You honestly can’t imagine the relief I’ll feel at meeting her approval, vampire.’
‘There is still much ground to cover. Your truck with the Liathe and your ties to the Faithless. The battle of Augustin and the treachery in Charbourg. The death of the Forever King and the loss of the Grail. But …’ Again, Jean-Fran?ois cast hateful eyes to the dawn rising through the thin window. ‘Time has caught us for now, I fear.’
‘I told you, vampire.’ Gabriel smiled, his tongue thick with wine. ‘Everything ends.’
‘For tonight, perhaps.’ The historian nodded, smoothing the tall feathers at his collar. ‘But we have tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.’
Jean-Fran?ois reached into his frockcoat, produced a wooden case carved with the Blood Chastain coat of arms. Twin wolves. Twin moons. With a monogrammed kerchief, he fastidiously cleaned the quill’s golden nib, packed it away, and secreted the case within his coat once more. Reaching forth to gather up his tome, he rose to leave.
‘Before you go …’
The vampire looked into the Last Silversaint’s eyes. ‘Oui, Chevalier?’
Gabriel breathed deep, shame burning his cheeks.
‘… Could I have another smoke?’
The monster looked at the killer with narrowed eyes. So still, he seemed carved of marble. Gabriel clenched his wine-stained teeth, the want in his skin, the need on its way.
‘Please,’ he whispered.
Jean-Fran?ois inclined his head. And though he never seemed to move at all, he now held one hand outstretched. And there, on the snow-white plane of his upturned palm, lay a glass phial of reddish-brown dust.
‘You have earned it, I suppose.’
Gabriel nodded, wretched and thirsting. Reaching slow towards the phial. ‘You know, you never answered my question, Chastain.’
‘And what question was that, de León?’
‘When your dark mother and pale mistress set you this task … did you think she was locking me in here with you, or you in here with me?’
Gabriel’s fist closed about the vampire’s wrist, silver-swift. And with a speed belied by the four bottles he’d downed, he seized hold of Jean-Fran?ois’s throat. The vampire’s eyes widened, and he opened his lips to shout, but that shout became a scream as the marble of his flesh began to blacken, and the blood within his veins to boil.
Gabriel rammed the vampire back into the wall, the brick crushed to powder. The chronicler bucked, roaring and trying to break loose. The table had upturned, the historie spilled, the glass lantern crashing to the floor. Gabriel bared his fangs, teardrop scars twisting on his cheek, inhaling deeply of the red smoke rising from the vampire’s skin.