‘“These wretched. Is there a bloodlord leading them?”
‘“Nae. The local ones are just dregs. The Dyvok lords are looking westwards now, pushing to Dún Maergenn. But ye know how it is. Bastards roam in packs with or without something pulling their strings. Dozens of ’em up here. And everyone they kill is just as like to rise rotten as stay dead. Best to head south afore the freeze. We hear it’s better there.”
‘“A little,” I nodded. “Don’t stray too far towards sunset, though. The Chastains have everything west of Sul Adair now.”
‘“Sweet Mothermaid,” he whispered.
‘“Dark days,” I nodded. “And nights darker.”
‘“Still. With the Black Lion ahorse once more, ye’ll set it to rights.” He slapped my shoulder, brightening. “Still remember that day in Triúrbaile, ye know. Greatest o’ my life. Like the hand of God Almighty, ye were. Bare-chested and bloodied, like the legends of old. The whole battlefield bathed silver. Never seen the fuckin’ like.” He shook his head, eyes shining. “I named my youngest for ye after that. Gabrael.”
‘“You honour me, mon ami.” I smiled, hand to heart. “And where is this young lio …”
‘My voice failed as the man hung his head, his daughter peering at me with tear-stung eyes. I knew that tale as well. And with held breath and shaking hand, I patted his shoulder, knowing it made no fucking difference at all.
‘“Safe travels, á Cuinn.”
‘“God go w’ye, Silversaint.”
‘We watched the folk stumble by, their lives on their backs, headed towards a flame that would sputter out all too soon. I looked to Dior, my lip curled, filled with contempt that this little bastard would plant a hope where none could bloom. There was no magik silvershot, no divine prophecy, no holy fucking chalice that would end this darkness. This was our here and our now and our forever. And if it weren’t for the fact he was my bait for Danton, I’d have kicked the little cunt’s teeth out his arsehole then and there.
‘“Still want to head north, mon amie?” I asked Chloe.
‘“One capitaine, Gabe,” she replied, meeting my eyes. “One course.”
‘I nodded, looking to the deepening gloom ahead.
‘“As you like it.”’
V
A HARD THING TO COME BY
‘THE STORM HIT us like a hammer from hell two days later. The wind screamed in from the north, the snow fell like knives, and the tiniest part of me hoped Lachlunn and Aisling á Cuinn had found someplace warm to lay their heads. The rest of me, the most of me, was just busy trying not to freeze to death.’
Gabriel reached forward to top up his wineglass, glancing at Jean-Fran?ois.
‘Can you remember what it’s like to be cold, coldblood?’
The vampire paused, a small frown marring his porcelain brow. ‘I take it this is another attempt at homespun comedy, Silversaint. Perhaps you should cleave to jests about prostitutes. At least there, you appear on familiar ground.’
‘I mean really cold,’ Gabriel said. ‘Not the cold of the grave. The cold that puts you in one. When your hands ache so bad you can’t make a fist. When your troth ring feels like ice on your finger, and it hurts to even breathe. That kind of cold.’
The historian tilted his head, pale fingertips brushing the Chastain emblem at his breast as he spoke the creed of his line: ‘The wolf frets not for the ills of the worm.’
Gabriel took a long swallow of wine. ‘You don’t miss it?’
‘Miss what? The futility of building a life that must one day crumble to dust?’
‘The softness of a pillow after a hard day’s work? The smile in your daughter’s eyes as you step through the door? The joy of a lover in your arms?’
‘A lover who must grow old and wither, while I remain unchanged?’ Jean-Fran?ois smiled, cold and thin. ‘Unless I kill them, of course. Praying God and Angel Fortuna that my love rises whole and beautiful, rather than some rotten abomination? Or simply remains dead by my hand?’ The vampire shook his head. ‘Romance is a mortal’s folly, Silversaint.’
‘Sounds like someone’s talking from experience.’
‘The ache of an empty belly. Or a full bladder. Or a cold fireplace.’ The historian waved one hand, a golden curl tumbling across his eyes. ‘Flesh, Silversaint. All the concerns of weak flesh. There is no mortal pain that can touch me. No sin of the skin that can compare to the blood of some ripe young thing, spilled velvet and lush upon my tongue. The callow thief of time shall never lay claim to my beauty. And when the temple of your body rots for the maggots, de León, when your ribs are their rafters and your belly their ballroom, I shall remain, exactly as I am now. Perpetual. Eternal. And you ask if I miss it?’
Gabriel smiled, lifted his wineglass. ‘Trust me, vampire. Nothing lasts forever.’
‘My patience, certainly.’ Jean-Fran?ois tapped his quill. ‘The storm.’
‘The storm.’ Gabriel sighed, stretched out in his leather chair. ‘Cold as a loveless bed, it was. The winters had been worsening, year by year, no time to thaw between. But I’d spent too long down in Sūdhaem, where spring still lightly lingered. Hunched in my saddle, hands in my armpits, I wasn’t the cosiest of cats. So it was I breathed a white sigh of relief when Chloe called over the howling wind, “Gabe, we can’t stay out in this!”
‘“I know!” I nodded across bleak hills. “I think Winfael is only a few miles nor’east of here! We can cut across country, be there in a few hours!”
‘“Do you know the way?” Bellamy shouted.
‘“We know the way!”
‘Saoirse materialized out of the blinding snows, wolfskin wrapped about her face. Phoebe prowled beside her, the shelion’s brow and whiskers white with frost.
‘“Lead on, fair mademoiselle!” Bellamy shouted. “Whither thou go, I follow th—”
‘“Shut the fuck up, Bouchette!”
‘We reached the town hours later, Saoirse leading us like an arrow into a snowstruck valley. A great loch filled its belly, grey as the skies above. On its shores rested a fishing hamlet, a spiked palisade encircling it like a mother’s arms. But peering through my spyglass, I could see the defences had been smashed in places, several buildings levelled by fire. The town had clearly been attacked – and I’d bet my wedding singer I could guess by what.
‘“Anything moving?” Bellamy shouted.
‘I shook my head, tongue pressed to sharpening teeth.
‘“We can’t stay out here!” Dior cried. “Rafa’s freezing!”
‘The old priest was curled in his saddle, beard and spectacles encrusted with frost. “I shall adm-m-mit I lost all feeling b-b-below my waist several m-miles ago.”
‘I nodded. “Come on!”
‘We worked our way down in the gale, finally reaching the palisade. The defences were solid – heavy lumber reinforced with iron brackets. The gates were still sealed, but the palisade itself had been smashed by colossal impacts, beams snapped at the root like driest kindling. Phoebe loped through the ragged gap first, and I rode after the lioness, drawing Ashdrinker as I peered at the shattered timbers.