‘Skyefall’s fortune had been made in silver. Only eleven months had passed since the Forever King decimated Vellene, and back in those days, it still wasn’t well known just how important that noble metal would be in future nights. Rumour had begun spreading, of course, dribbled from the lips of drunken prophets or screamed by wandering lunatics. But the gentry of Skyefall paid little heed to hearsay about Dead armies massing to the west, or coldbloods stalking freely along the hamlet roads.
‘They were rich. God had clearly blessed them. And that was enough.
‘Skyefall’s streets were cobbled, her cathedral marbled and gilt. The architecture was baroque and gothic – all grand spires and stairways leading who knew where. But as our company plodded through her gates, I felt a shadow on that town. She was built on a granite slope, winding roads and grey buildings looming on all sides. Fog hung heavy in her streets, and her walls were decorated with reliefs of flowers that hadn’t grown since the sunlight failed. In the town square stood a crow-pecked gibbet with a rotting skeleton inside – WITCH, the sign assured us. Streetwalkers with scabbed knees stood at lonely alley mouths, and miners with filthied faces staggered through the streets, sullen and drunk.
‘The air hung chill. Damp. And far too quiet.
‘I knew not what, but something in this place felt wrong.
‘Justice was ever a rock beneath me, his head held high as he steamed and stomped. But as we rode up Skyefall’s twisting streets, the roads grew too narrow and the stairs too treacherous. Eventually, we were forced to leave our mounts behind at a communal stable and continue on foot through the haze, up towards the noble quarter above the town.
‘Greyhand marched in front, de Coste came next, and me last of all, my silver heels ringing on the stones. Local folk watched as we passed by their doors and windows, some with awe, some with fear. And yet …
‘“They all stare at us, Master,” I murmured.
‘“Such is the curse in our veins,” Greyhand replied. “And it shall only deepen as you grow older. Folk are drawn to the dark within us, Little Lion, just as they are drawn to the coldbloods who made us.” He looked at me sidelong. “Surely you noticed it, even as a boy?”
‘I thought of the girls in my village then. Their eyes following as I passed by. Their kisses given so freely. But had they been given to me? Or this thing inside me?
‘“Oui,” I muttered. “Perhaps.”
‘“As we grow older, so too do we sink deeper into our curse and the power it gifts us.” Greyhand nodded to the townsfolk. “Yet always, regular folk will smell something of the predator beneath your skin, de León. Some shall hate you for it. Others adore you. None will ignore you. A wolf cannot long hide among sheep. But Almighty God knows who we truly are. And our service to His Holy Church shall be rewarded in the kingdom of heaven.”
‘I took comfort in that. Buoyed by the notion that, though I was accursed, though I still didn’t truly understand what I was or was becoming, all this was the will of the Almighty above. And through him, I would find salvation.
‘“Véris,” Aaron and I replied, making the sign of the wheel.
‘Our master strode over a long, cobbled bridge and onto an avenue of fine estates. Lanterns on wrought iron posts lit up the fog about us. The houses we passed seemed like strangers’ faces, their windows, sightless eyes.
‘“When we arrive, say nothing,” Greyhand warned. “If there is a coldblood at work in this place, some of these townsfolk may be thralls. Mortal servants of the enemy.”
‘I blinked at that. “You mean people willingly serve these devils?”
‘“Cows,” Aaron growled. “Cows praying for the night they might become butchers.”
‘“But why would folk submit to such devilry?” I wondered. “Coldbloods can’t choose who they turn. It’s not as if immortality can be offered as a reward.”
‘Greyhand scowled. “It might surprise you, de León, what some folk would risk for even a chance to live forever. Coldbloods truck in temptation. Their power is in darkness. Their power is in fear. But most of all, their power is in desire. Drinking the blood of ancien can slow mortal ageing, and undo wounds that would send any man to his grave. But moreover, the act itself is addictive. Drink from the same vampire on three separate nights, and you will be enthralled. Helpless to resist its commands. In every sense, a slave.” He patted the pipe in his pocket. “Hence we smoke a distillation of it, rather than drink it.”
‘We came to a halt outside the walls of a grand estate. Archer circled in sullen skies above, keeping a watchful eye on his master. The frère pulled down his high collar and breathed deep. “This town reeks of sin.”
‘I watched my master from the corner of my eye. Though Greyhand was dour and cruel, still I’d grown to admire him over the last seven months. He beat his back bloody at prayer every night. He read to us from the Testaments for an hour every morn. His devotion was a beacon, his faith a bright comfort. And though I was frailblood, he didn’t judge me for it. He was as like to a father as I’d ever known, and I wanted to make him proud.
‘De Coste rang an iron bell at the gate. Him, I admired far less. I had to admit he worked hard – even with his talk of San Michon not making a difference, Aaron still seemed to believe in what we were doing. And yet, he treated me like common shite. In seven months, he’d not called me by my name once.
‘Hard worker or no, I hated his fucking guts.
‘From the look, the house before us was the grandest in Skyefall. The grounds might once have been bright with greenery, but now, only fungus grew at the feet of withered fruit trees. A magnificent mansion loomed in the estate’s heart, all graven pillars and shuttered windows. Fog hung heavy on the grounds.
‘A short fellow in a fine coat and powdered wig strode through the mist towards us, lantern in hand. He stopped behind the gate, looked us over.
‘“This is the house of Alane de Blanchet, Alderman of Skyefall?” Greyhand asked.
‘“I am his humble servant. Who might you be, monsieur?”
‘Greyhand took out his vellum scroll. The servant’s eyes widened as he saw that blob of blood-red wax, embossed with a unicorn and five crossed swords: the seal of Alexandre III, Benefactor of the Order of San Michon, Emperor of the Realm and Chosen of God Himself.
‘“My name is Frère Greyhand. And I will speak to your master.”
‘Five minutes later, we stood in a grand parlour, holding glasses of chocolat liqueur. The walls were decorated with fine art, and an ornate suit of plate armour stood guard over a grand shelf of books. De Coste looked perfectly at ease. Unimpressed, even. But I’d never seen wealth like this in my life. This man’s ashtrays could have fed ma famille for a year.
‘Greyhand had unlaced his collar, removed his travel-worn tricorn. As ever, I was struck by how cold our master’s features were. I fancied if I touched his face, he’d feel not like flesh, but stone. Still, I watched him like a hawk, soaking in all he did and said. This was the Hunt, I realized. And more than anything, I wanted to be a hunter.