‘“You knew them.”
‘Glancing up, I saw Dior watching me from the back of Chloe’s horse.
‘“Those bitches. You knew them.”
‘“We’ve met. Briefly.”
‘Bellamy glanced at me sidelong, Père Rafa fixed me with a curious stare. Even Chloe threw me an eyeful on the wrong side of suspicious. “Met how?”
‘“I shot one in the back and stole their horse.”
‘Dior scoffed. Chloe’s jaw dropped. “Gabriel de León, you shot a nun?”
‘“Not to kill. Well … not technically.” I scratched my chin, a little chagrined. “I’m impressed those wretched didn’t murder them, though.”
‘Chloe simply boggled as I shrugged.
‘“Long story.”’
Up in their lonely tower, Jean-Fran?ois cleared his throat, tapped his quill upon the page impatiently. ‘As if to a—’
‘The Inquisition is a sorority of the One Faith,’ Gabriel sighed. ‘Charged with rooting out heresy in the Church. Unlike most holy orders, the sisterhood don’t swear to God or Mothermaid or Martyrs, but to Naél, the Angel of Bliss. Which makes about as much sense as I do after my fourth bottle of wine.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ the vampire asked.
‘Meaning they’re a pack of fucking sadists. They believe bliss can be appreciated only in the absence of pain, and the only prayer they partake in is torture.’ Gabriel lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Gossip bridles. Heretic forks. Breast rippers. Those twisted bitches invented them all. When old Cardinal Brodeur was accused of heresy back in sixty-four, he was given to the gentle keeping of the High Inquisitrix in Augustin’s Tower of Tears. Word is they flayed his skin off, then packed him in salt overnight to stave away the sepsis. Poor bastard confessed after a day. They kept him alive seven more. In the end, they cut off his wedding tackle, fed it to him, then let him bleed out of his misery.’
Jean-Fran?ois raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that true?’
‘Fucked if I know,’ Gabriel shrugged. ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn. Point is, they make terrible dinner guests. Unless you enjoy conversations about not being hugged enough as a child and the best way to kick puppies off bridges without getting blood on your boots.
‘And fair enough, I’d shot one in the back. And those bitches were fond of grudges. They say the best revenge is living well, but there’s still a lot to be said for dancing beneath the blood moons in a cloak made of your enemy’s skin. But noting the nervous glances my new comrades were sharing, I guessed that cohort hadn’t been headed to Dhahaeth to sample the vodka when I stumbled across their bogged wagon and stole Jezebel.
‘We already had the son of Fabién Voss on our tails. But it seemed Chloe’s little band had earned the attentions of the Inquisition too.
‘The shite I was wading in had just got about three feet deeper.’
II
GODTHANKS
‘WE BEDDED DOWN near sunset in a wooded gully, a chill mist strung through the air. A huntsman’s hovel had stood there long ago, but it was only a few broken walls and a firepit now. The trees were long dead, groaning under the weight of fungal flowers, every shade of pale. But at least we were out of the damned wind.
‘I’d been awake thirty hours straight by that point, and Mothermaid only knows how long it’d been since I smoked. My eyes were sandstone in their sockets, my skin ready to fling itself off my bones. As the others flopped down in the shelter of ruined walls and sad, mouldy trees, I started snapping off the lowest branches. Chloe watched, huddled beside Dior in the warmth of a thick dark fur. “What are you doing, Gabe?”
‘“Practising my penmanship.”
‘“Is it wise to light a fire, Silversaint?” Père Rafa asked. “What if—”
‘“Those inquisitors need sleep too, priest. And if the Beast of Vellene finds us, oui, we want a fire. Hot as the belly of hell.” I snapped off another branch. “But our dark prince will hold off a while. He needs to find a bridge across the ?mdir, for starters. And it’ll take a week or so for his arm to grow back, depending how much he feeds.”
‘Bellamy shook his head in wonder. “You cut the arm off an ancien Voss?”
‘“The sun was up. I was lucky. Next time, don’t count on either.”
‘“Nae fear, Father.” Saoirse eased herself down between the roots of a rotten oak and nodded at Rafa. “After we rest a spell, Phoebe and I’ll keep watch.”
‘“We’ll all take turns at watch. You. Boy,” I growled at Dior. “Don’t slack arse-ways when there’s work needs doing. Get that smoke out of your mouth and find something to burn.”
‘Dior scowled, but after a nod from Chloe, he unwrapped himself from the shelter of the sister’s furs. Tucking his cigarelle behind his ear, he turned up his fancy collar against the cold and trudged over to the Ossian lass. “Can I borrow your axe, Saoirse?”
‘The girl parted her braids from her face and blinked. “Afor?”
‘“Our hero wants firewood.”
‘“Ye want to use Kindness to hack at trees? I should take ye o’er my knee.”
‘Dior lifted the edge of his coat, wiggled his narrow arse.
‘“Tease,” Saoirse laughed. “G’wan, off with ye.”
‘“No need to chop anything, boy,” I said. “Just grab kindling. Dry as you can find.”
‘The lad’s smile turned sour, but he obeyed, scouting about the ruins for tinder. Chloe watched him like an eagle to her chick. “Don’t wander too far, Dior.”
‘I roamed the trees, studying the slayer from the corner of my eye. Saoirse’s kit was impressive: heavy boots and britches tooled in a beautiful pattern of clawed hands, same as her shield. But the axe in her lap was the true work of art – double-bladed, engraved with a stunning pattern of everknots. Unless I was mistaken, its haft was pure trothwood. “Kindness, eh?”
‘She watched me with cool eyes, scratching her shelion’s ears. “So I can—”
‘“Kill people with it. Very clever. You know, someone once told me a man who names his blade is a man who dreams others will know his name one day.”
‘“Good thing I’m no’ a man, Silversaint.” Saoirse sniffed, green eyes falling on the broken blade at my hip. “Is that why ye named it Ashdrinker?”
‘“I didn’t give this sword a name, girl. She came with one.”
‘“An’ so did I. So I’ll thank ye to use it an’ leave that ‘girl’ shite right out.”
‘“Ashdrinker.” Bellamy cooed the name as he wandered over from the horses. “I never thought I’d live to see her in the flesh. They still sing songs about you and that sword in Augustin, Chevalier. The Black Lion and his bloody blade.” He tipped his cap back, flashed me a smile most would have described as dashing. “Good God, the stories I’ve heard …”
‘“An’ what have ye heard?” Saoirse asked.
‘“My heart sings to hear you ask!” Bellamy sank by the firepit and took his lute off his back. “But there’s no story sweeter than a song, Mlle Saoirse. So, behold! I heard this one in Ossway, in the court of Laerd Lady á Maergenn. They call it, The Battle of Báih Sì—”