‘The priest frowned. “God cannot be said to be on the side of the Dead.”
‘“You’re missing the point, old man. All on earth below and hea’en above is the work of my hand …”
‘“… And all the work of my hand is in accord with my plan.”
‘“You think those refugees we met on the road didn’t pray with everything they had to not lose their homes? You think Lachlunn á Cuinn didn’t pray for his wife and son to stay alive? See, that divine plan shite is what the pulpit-hucksters feed you when things start to go wrong. After they’ve passed around the collection plate, of course. When your crops fail or your cancer spreads or whatever else you’ve begged him for doesn’t come to pass. That’s the solace they’ll offer. It’s God’s will, they’ll tell you. Part of the divine plan.
‘“What they don’t point out is, if he has a plan? There’s no sense praying for anything. If His will be done is the golden rule, then God’s going to do what he wants, regardless of how hard you beg him. And imagine, just for a second, the sense of entitlement it takes to ask him for anything in the first place. The fucking ego you’d need to think that this is somehow all for you. What if you ask for something that’s not his will? You want him to alter the course of the divine plan? For you? See, that’s the grift of it all. That’s the genius. You get what you pray for? Huzzah, God fucking loves you. But your prayers go unanswered?” I snapped my fingers. “Just wasn’t part of the plan.”
‘I tipped a dose of sanctus into my pipe under Chloe’s worried gaze.
‘“I’ve stood in the houses of the holy, priest. I’ve read his scripture cover to cover, I’ve sung praises to his name, and I tell you now and tell you true: one hand holding a sword is worth ten thousand clasped in prayer.”
‘“There be no tree with branches that reach to heaven,” Rafa quoted, “that hath not roots that stretch to hell. And we h—”
‘“Chloe!”
‘The priest fell silent as the slayer burst through the door, eyes wide.
‘“Saoirse?” Chloe rose to her feet. “What is it?”
‘“Phoebe’s back.” The girl clawed the snow from her braids, stomping her feet. “The wretched are ten minutes oot. But there’s nae a dozen.”
‘Dior stood, his face pale. “… There’s more?”
‘The slayer hefted her axe, nodded grim. “Fifty. At least.”
‘“Fifty wretched …” Chloe breathed. “Against seven of us.”
‘Bellamy looked around the room, eyes wide. “My God.”
‘I struck my flintbox and chuckled, meeting the priest’s eyes.
‘“Sure you don’t want to pray for those angels, old man?”’
VII
THE BATTLE OF WINFAEL
‘THE MOST UNSETTLING thing is the quiet.
‘Coldbloods don’t need to breathe. Which means they don’t speak without conscious thought. And if the vampire you’re facing has a brain that rotted to mush before it Became, it isn’t capable of much thought beyond “hungry” and “food”。 There’s degrees to it, of course. A coldblood who lay bloating in a ditch for a day or two might remember enough of itself to vocalize. But a monster who rotted in a shallow grave for a week or more won’t be anything but instinct. So while some wretched might gabble half-words at you, or scream when you hurt them, most are too far gone even to remember how to inhale.
‘So when they come, they come in total silence.
‘That’s what they did, there at Winfael. A bloody-eyed horde, charging through the snows at our thin walls, making no fucking sound at all. But that instinct still resides. That bestial drive at the heart of us all – mate, kill, feed, repeat. And while the mindless ones just crashed against the closest breach and started to tear through, the less rotten ones, the smarter ones, they split up, circling the palisade looking for weak spots. Other ways in to the luscious bags of blood they could smell just beyond the walls.
‘“There’s too many!” Dior shouted.
‘“Just keep that holy water coming!” I roared.
‘The boy hurled another wine bottle, and I heard shattering glass and the sizzle of fatty bacon on a skillet in the mob below. We stood on the highwalk above the gates where the wretched were thickest, the boy throwing bottles, me cutting down any bastard who tried to climb. Saoirse was on the eastern walk, loosing burning arrows into the horrors, Chloe flinging bottles alongside her. Bellamy and Rafa stood atop the west walk, the soothsinger shooting his crossbow, the priest hurling holy water and prayers.
‘Wretched burn like tinder on a hot summer’s day, and the flaming shots were doing goodly work. Problem was, there were far more vampires than we had arrows. The holy water burned dead flesh like hellspark, but even the weakest fledgling would only get softened up by a bottle anywhere but the head. And we were running out of bottles too. It was only a matter of time before— ‘“Gabriel!”
‘Chloe’s cry rang across town, bright with fear, followed by the note of a silver horn.
‘“Fuck my face,” I spat. Twisting the fuse on one of my few remaining silverbombs, I hurled it into the wretched below. They were tight-packed, and the explosion flared like a tiny sun. Limbs flew and bellies burst, silver caustic stinging in my paleblood eyes.
‘“Can you hold them?”
‘“I’ll try!” Dior flung another bottle. “Go help her!”
‘I leapt twenty feet into the snow, charging towards Chloe’s voice. Saoirse and she were atop the highwalk, and I saw a handful of wretched had scaled the walls, flanked them either side. Chloe fought fierce, silversteel in one hand, sevenstar in the other. The sigil burned like white flame, illuminating the tempest around her and the wretched in front of her. At Chloe’s back, Saoirse had abandoned her bow, hewing away with shield and axe. She was a vicious bitch, and though Kindness wasn’t silvered, that axe still somehow cleaved dead flesh like a hot blade in snow. But in defending the highwalk, they’d ignored the breach, and the wretched had broken in, spilling in a silent flood through the palisade.
‘I charged into them, bloodhymn bright and burning, Ashdrinker like a bloody feather in my hand. The blade sang no songs, stole no souls, instead mumbling what sounded like a recipe for mushroom soup, but she sheared through Dead flesh like paper. I saw a flash of russet red, Phoebe blurring out of the darkness, roaring as she crashed atop the corpse of some ill-fated farmer’s lad and ripped his head from his shoulders. A coldblood fell from above – enough left inside it to make it wail as Saoirse took its legs off at the knees and sent it tumbling from the highwalk.
‘“Where’s Dior?” Chloe cried.
‘“Still at the gates!”
‘“You left him alone?”
‘Four tablespoons of butter … Ashdrinker whispered.
‘I cut another wretch into the snow, fangs bared in a snarl. “He’s fine! You need t—”
‘“Silversaint!” came a distant cry. “De León!”