‘“It was the wind. Unknot your gizzards, you quivering peon.”
‘“I heard a cry just now. What if Greyhand is in need?”
‘“Greyhand was stalking the dark before your worthless father slipped his dead cock into your peasant mother. Now shut up, frailblood. Hold your ground.”
‘I clenched my teeth, straining to hear. I swore I’d caught wind of something in the depths. Definitely a cry, faint, but … perhaps pained? My pulse was thumping in my ears, the bloodhymn raging in my head. If Greyhand had fallen foul of the things within these tombs, and we just stood here doing nothing …
‘And then I heard it for certain. A distant call. A man in pain.
‘“Did you hear that?”
‘De Coste’s eyes were narrowed. “I think …”
‘“Greyhand’s in trouble,” I said, unslinging my flail. “We have to help him, de Coste.”
‘“No, what we have to do is exactly what he told us to do. Hold your damned ground, Peasant. In Greyhand’s absence, I am senior member of this company.”
‘“Hell with that,” I said, checking my wheellock again. “You want to wait up here with your thumb in your cackhole? God bless you. But I’ll not stand idle.”
‘“De León, wait! Greyhand told us to stay here!”
‘I felt the press of his will on mine then, the Blood of Ilon at work in my mind. But the hymn sang louder, the sanctus and my own pigheadedness drowning out Aaron’s command. And with flail in fist, heart in throat, I strode into the house of Skyefall’s dead.’
Jean-Fran?ois sighed. ‘Foolish.’
‘Oui. But remember, I’d not even turned sixteen. I’d worked my arse to the bone in the monastery. But the displays of de Coste’s and Greyhand’s gifts had me of a mood. No matter how much I pretended it didn’t bother me, being a frailblood made me feel less than my fellows. I was desperate to prove my worth, and this could be my chance.
‘I wasn’t a complete shitwit – I lit the hellspark as I departed. It ignited with a dull roar, and I flinched back from the raging heat. I heard de Coste yell again, but paid no heed. And with shoulders squared, I bounded into the tombs in search of my master.
‘A long corridor stretched into darkness, but my paleblood eyes saw clear as day. The walls were lined with stone doors, carved with names of the corpses beyond. Poorer folk had no tombs at all, bones piled atop one another in dusty niches. The slabs under my feet were also graves, and it struck me as eerie to be walking on dead bodies. But I was no coward to be frightened by old bones or the thought of death. The only thing that scared me back then was the thought of dying without ever having done something worthwhile.
‘I found myself at a crossroads leading deeper into the necropolis. Rats scurried past my heels, the scent of old death filled the air. I listened but heard nothing, cursing beneath my breath. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the stone halls below this town seemed far older than the town itself.
‘“Master Greyhand?” I called.
‘No reply, save the whispering wind. And so, praying to God, I strode on through a warren of twists and turns, past piles of nameless skulls. Statues of beautiful angels loomed at each corner, guarding those who slept eternal in the tombs beyond.
‘And then, in the dark ahead, I heard a cry.
‘With a gasp, I was off, boots pounding the grave slabs, fist curled around my flail. I could see dim light ahead now, a silver-cold glow on the walls. I heard another shout of pain, a loud voice I finally recognized as my master’s.
‘“Come on, you accursed dogs!”
‘“Greyhand!” I roared.
‘I rounded the corner, skidding to a halt at the sight before my wondering eyes. A large crypt lay before me, ringed by a dozen sarcophagi. The floor was slabbed by gravestones, and a statue of Mahné, Angel of Death, loomed over the scene with his great sickles in hand. Beneath him stood Greyhand, his flail singing as it cut the air, locked in combat with two fleeting shadows.
‘Goosebumps prickled on my skin – not at the freezing cold, but at the sight of the tattoos on my master’s flesh. The Mothermaid and Redeemer, the angels of the host, the seven wolves, throat to wrist to waist. That holy magik, wrought by the hands of Silver Sisters. The armour of the silversaint. The aegis.
‘And it was glowing.
‘Greyhand was a white star burning in the dark, a circle of illumination spanning fifteen feet about him. I felt my left hand growing hot, as if too close to flame, and taking off my glove, I saw the sevenstar on my palm burning with that same terrible light.
‘Two coldbloods wove through the dark, wearing the clothes they were buried in. A brunette woman in an elegant black dress, and a tall gent in a long frockcoat armed with a fine swordcane. Each was a pale beauty, skin like ivory, eyes like jet, and my belly rolled at the sight of them. I’d seen wretched before, oui – those monstrosities born of rot and the coldblood curse. But these two were locked forever in a dark perfection. The first highblooded vampires I’d ever laid eyes on.
‘The man’s speed was unholy, his eyes black lanterns. He stood before the woman as if to protect her, all his dark strength brought to bear. But Great Redeemer, Greyhand was magnificent. I thought I’d felt the presence of God as I faced the Trial of Blood, but now I felt it true, bathing me in the light of heaven’s shoreline.
‘“Leave us alone!” the woman pleaded.
‘“Stay away from her!” the man shouted. “Stay away, or by God, I’ll kill you!”
‘“God?” Greyhand spat. “You profane his name with your black tongue, leech.”
‘Greyhand flung a silverbomb, and I flinched as it exploded in a ball of flame and white light. The coldbloods scattered and Greyhand lashed out with his flail, wrapping it around the man’s legs. Bound in silver, his limbs became as useless as lead, and he collapsed to the stone. The woman cried out, “Eduard!” and flashed into the light, Greyhand’s sword crashing down on her outstretched arm. She screamed, clutching the shattered bone as she drew back her hand, and I knew it true, then – these vampires were the Blood of Voss. Any other fledgling would have been holding nothing but a smoking stump after a blow like that.
‘“Master!” I shouted.
‘“De León? I told you to stand your—”
‘A third fledgling came out of the dark behind Greyhand – a street waif in rags, rotten fingers curled into claws. My master gasped as the girl flung herself upon his back, but the silver on his skin scorched the leech like flame, and she tumbled back, mouth wide in agony.
‘Greyhand turned towards the wretched child, burning with blessed light. He flung a phial of holy water, the glass shattering against the little girl’s skin. She shrieked, stumbling farther backwards as my master drove his blade through her chest.
‘“Lisette!” the woman screamed.
‘The fallen man had unwrapped Greyhand’s flail from his legs, his hands now blackened and smoking. He turned to the woman in desperation. “Vivienne, run!”
‘“No, Eduard, we—”
‘“RUN!”