‘I nodded. “I’ve fought the Dead before, but … not like that. The woman seemed … afraid. The man told her to run. It was like they remembered what they’d been.”
‘“I knew them both,” Lafitte said, dabbing his sweating lip with his kerchief. “Parishioners of mine. Eduard Farrow and Vivienne La Cour.” His fingertips hovered over the silver wheel about his neck. “They were to be married in spring.”
‘“And the little girl? Her name was Lisette.”
‘Lafitte shrugged. “There are many strays in a town this size, Initiate de León. Many who come and go, and more yet who would not be missed. A tragedy.”
‘“It’s God’s will,” I declared. “All on earth below and heaven above is the work of his hand.”
‘“Véris,” the priest smiled. “But come, if we are to stand vigil ’til dawn, you should drink something. A tea this fine is a rarity these nights. It would be sin to waste it.”
‘I took the cup Lafitte offered, staring into the flames. I remembered my mama, brewing tea in her big black kettle in the years before daysdeath. My sisters and I sitting at table, Amélie scoffing while Celene and I squabbled over a game of knucklebones. I missed my baby sister, felt guilty about not answering her letters. I wondered if I should write to my mother and ask her the truth about my father. A part of me didn’t want to know. The rest of me desperately needed to.
‘“Santé, Initiate,” Lafitte said, raising his cup.
‘“Santé, mon Père,” I replied.
‘I swallowed the draught with a wince. Bitter and too hot. Lafitte put his cup aside, watching me. He was quite handsome, truth told – Nordish stock, dark of hair and eye. A rich man’s son most like, to have been posted by the Pontifex to a town this wealthy at his age.
‘“How long have you served the Ordo Argent, Initiate de León?”
‘I glanced to Madame de Blanchet as she moaned in her sleep. “Seven months.”
‘“Are there many brethren of your holy order?”
‘“A few dozen,” I replied, rising from my chair. “Though it’s hard to tell sometimes. The Hunt keeps us often from home. It’s rare that we’re all at San Michon at once.”
‘“Why so few of you? If dark nights come as you say, could you not recruit more?”
‘I checked Madame de Blanchet’s temperature, and she groaned as my sevenstar touched her skin. “The birth of a paleblood is no common thing, Father. We are like the coldbloods we hunt. Our making is happenstance. A curse, and one not to be encouraged.”
‘He frowned. “Coldbloods are made by other coldbloods, are they not?”
‘“Oui. But not all the folklore is true. Their affliction is capricious, Father. Only passing to their victims by chance. Some stay dead. Others rise as mindless monsters.”
‘“Chance, you say?” Lafitte frowned. “Curious.”
‘I rubbed my sweating brow, sloughed off my greatcoat. “That’s the shame of all this. The vampire who started this mess may not have even known Claude de Blanchet turned.”
‘“Mme Luncóit did not strike me as a careless woman.”
‘I blinked. “I thought you said you didn’t know Mme Luncóit?”
‘“Only by reputation. The folk she dealt with in Skyefall regarded her highly. Even the alderman seemed under her spell.”
‘“What other folk did she deal with?” I asked, wiping sweat from my lip.
‘But Lafitte made no reply. His head was tilted as if he were listening, his tea untouched. My head was throbbing. My eyes stinging and blurred.
‘“Seven Martyrs, it’s sweltering in here …”
‘The priest smiled at me. “Open the window. It’s a beautiful view.”
‘I nodded, trudging over to the glass bay doors. Eyes still stinging, I took hold of the drapes, dragged them apart. And there, gleaming moon-pale in the dark outside, was the face of little Claude de Blanchet.
‘“Sweet Redeemer!”
‘Ten years old. Coal-black hair and grave-white skin. He was dressed in noble’s finery, black velvet and gold buttons, a silken cravat at his throat. But his eyes were the darkest part of him, heavy-lidded and gleaming like wet jewels. And he fixed them on the priest, and pressed his hand to the glass.
‘“Beautiful, isn’t he?”
‘I turned and saw Father Lafitte, now holding my sheathed sword. The priest’s eyes were filled with a thrall’s rapture, gazing at that pale shadow beyond the glass.
‘“Let me in,” it whispered.
‘“Lafitte, no!” I shouted.
‘“Come in, Master,” the priest breathed.
‘The doors slammed apart, the glass cracking in the frame. I barely had time to turn before Claude de Blanchet was on me, slamming me back into the wall. The plaster split, the ribs I’d cracked earlier in the day bursting into new flame. I saw Lafitte walking to the balcony, but I was too busy fighting the boy off to do anything but roar protest as he tossed my sword out the window. As if roused by the thing’s unholy presence, Madame de Blanchet was now sitting up in bed. She’d loosed her nightshift, arms outstretched.
‘“My boy,” she breathed, tears in her eyes. “My sweet baby boy.”
‘That sweet baby boy slammed me back into the wall, his fingernails iron-hard and sharp. The whole room was blurring, a bitter tang on my tongue, and I understood at last that Lafitte had slipped some toxin into the tea, dimming the bloodhymn in my head. As the vampire fixed me in his black gaze, I realized I was in the deepest shite of my life.
‘“Kneel,” Claude commanded.
‘The word hit me like a pistol shot, wrapped in satin. The desire to please this thing was as real as the air I breathed. I knew if I simply relented, everything would be all right. Everything would be wonderful. But in some dim corner of my mind, I could feel Greyhand’s blade skewering me against that tree, the fire of his words burning away the dark.
‘Listen not to a word these bastards hiss, lest you find yourself their meal.
‘I reached for the teapot on the mantel. Bright and gleaming silver. I felt my fury rising, my canines growing sharp. And as the vampire spoke again, “Kneel!” my fingers found purchase, and spitting, “Fuck you!” I smashed the pot right into his ruby lips.
‘Claude wailed in pain, staggering. The pot crumpled like paper, but it gave me a moment to breathe as the bedroom door burst open. The alderman stood on the threshold, pale with shock. He took in the chaos – wife screaming, Father Lafitte drawing a knife from his sleeve as I smashed the monster in the face again. But de Blanchet’s eyes were fixed on the thing I brawled with, the dark remnant of the boy he’d buried months ago.
‘“My son?”
‘I lunged for my bandolier of holy water and silverbombs, but the priest leapt upon my shoulders, stabbing me with his little blade again and again. Lafitte’s strength was impressive, his knife puncturing my chest a dozen times. But I was no fucking thrall like him. I was a paleblood, an initiate of the Ordo Argent, trained at the feet of a master of the Hunt. Smashing his jaw with my elbow, I heard bone splinter, a scream from the treacherous prick’s broken mouth. I speared myself backwards, felt Lafitte’s ribs crumble as we collided with the wall hard enough to shatter the bricks.