‘“Stop …”
‘Ilsa’s whisper broke through the boundless hymn in my head, that choir of our heartbeats entwined. Hers was fading now, weak and frail as a broken bird’s and mine thrumming stronger than ever. But still, the part of me who loved this girl realized what the rest of me was doing. And at last, I tore my mouth away with a gasp of ragged horror.
‘“Oh, God …”
‘Blood. On the sheets. On her thighs and in my mouth. And as the spell of my kiss wore off, as the dark desire that had gripped her bled away, Ilsa saw what I’d done. The animal part of her took over, and even as I raised my hands to shush her, she opened her blue-blushed lips and screamed. The scream of a girl who understands the monster isn’t under the bed any more. The monster is in it with her.
‘I heard running footsteps. A soft curse. Ilsa screamed again, pure horror in her eyes. And that horror had me too, turning my full belly to water. The horror of a boy who’s hurt the one he loves, of a boy in bed with a daughter as her father’s footsteps come barrelling down the hall, of a boy who has woken from a nightmare to discover the nightmare is him.
‘The door burst open. The alderman stood there in his nightshirt, a dagger in one hand. And he cried, “Good God Almighty!” as I dragged myself from the ruined bed, hands and chin drenched red. Ilsa was still screaming, the alderman roared and swung his blade. I gasped as a line of fire sliced down my back, but I was already gone, moving so swift the world was a blur, out through the window and into the dark.
‘I landed barefoot in the mud, dragging my britches up as I stumbled, my hands sticky and red. I could hear the village waking, Ilsa’s screams ringing across the muddy square, and the tread of watchmen’s boots as little lights flared in the dark.
‘I was lost and alone and running only God knew where. But I realized with awful wonder that the night was alive around me, burning as bright and beautiful as the day once had. My legs were steel, and my heart was thunder, and I felt every inch the lion I was named for. In that moment, I was more alive and afraid than I’d ever been, but my thoughts were clear enough now to question. What was happening to me? What had I done? Had Amélie passed some measure of her curse onto me? Or was I something else entire?
‘It started to snow. I heard church bells ringing. And I dashed onwards, towards the only place I thought I might find safety. Where does the cub run, vampire, when the wolves snap at his heels? Who does the soldier cry out for, when he bleeds his last upon the field?’
‘Mother,’ Jean-Fran?ois replied.
‘Mother,’ Gabriel nodded. ‘She’d tried to tell me something that night I’d struck Papa low. That night the blood first called to me. And so, I burst through our cottage door and called only for her. She rose from bed, and my little sister stared at me, wide-eyed and fearful at the blood on my hands and face. Papa snarled, “Oh, God, what have you done, boy?” and Celene whispered a soft prayer. But Mama enfolded me in her arms and whispered, “No fear, my love. Everything will be aright.”
‘Heavy fists pounded on the door. Angry voices. Mama and Papa exchanged a glance, but Papa moved not a muscle. And with lips pressed thin, my lioness wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and took my bloody hand, leading me back out into the cold.
‘Half the village awaited us. Some held lanterns, burning brands, or icons of the Redeemer. The alderman was among them, and so was Père Louis, the priest clutching a copy of the Testaments like a sword in his hand. He raised the holy book and pointed at me, his voice hoarse with the same righteous fury with which he’d damned my sister.
‘“Abomination!”
‘Mama cried protest, but her voice was lost under the clamour. The farrier grabbed my arm. But the blood I’d stolen pounded hot and red in all my hollow places, and I sent him flying as if he were straw. More men came on, and I lashed out, feeling bones break and flesh split in my hands. But they fell on me in a mob, the priest bellowing.
‘“Bring him down! In the name of God!”
‘“He’s one of them!” someone cried.
‘“Gone like his sister!” another roared.
‘Mama began screaming, and Celene was spitting curses, and somewhere in the tumult, I heard my papa roaring too, crying out that I was only a boy, just a boy. I felt the crowd dragging me bloodied and half senseless to my feet, and I thought of Amélie then, dancing and wailing as she burned. Wondering if the same fate awaited me. I looked into Père Louis’s eyes, this bastard who’d denied my sister her burial, hate upon my tongue.
‘“Faithless fucking coward,” I spat. “I pray you die screaming.”
‘A shot split the air, the crack of a wheellock pistol ringing in my ears. And the mob fell still, all eyes turning to the figures riding slow up the muddy road.
‘Two of them on pale steeds, like angels of death from the pages of the Testaments. A thin fellow rode in the lead, gaunt as a scarecrow. He wore a leather greatcoat, black and heavy. His tricorn was pulled low, collar laced about his mouth and nose. All I could see of his features was a strand of dry, straw-coloured hair and his eyes. His irises were the palest kind of green, but the whites were so bloodshot they were all but red. He had a burlap sack over the back of his stout tundra pony. The shape inside was akin to a man. On his shoulder sat a falcon, sleek grey feathers and glittering gold eyes.
‘The second rider was younger, broader of shoulder, but again, I could see little of his face. He wore the same gear as the first, a longblade sheathed at his waist. His tricorn was pulled low, and he looked about the mob with an ice-blue gaze.
‘The snow was coming heavier, its chill digging into my bare skin. The riders bore small hunter’s lanterns on their saddles, and the light glittered on the flakes falling fat and freezing from the sky, the silver sevenstars embroidered at their breasts.
‘Papa had fetched his old war sword from the wall, and Mama was breathless, her hair come loose from its braid. Celene stood with her fists bunched in knots, my little hellion stepping in to defend her big brother as those ponies clopped slowly up to our house. We all of us could feel the gravity of that moment. I watched these strange men, and I marked how fine their steeds were, how sharp the cut of their greatcoats, how the thread in those stars at their breasts wasn’t thread at all, but actual, real silver. And the one in the lead slipped his wheellock inside his coat and called out over the song of my pulse.
‘“I am Frère Greyhand, Silversaint of San Michon.”
‘He pointed at me.
‘“And I am here for the boy.”’
IV
LAMB TO SLAUGHTER
‘THE WIND HOWLED like a hungry wolf, the snow clinging to my bloody skin. I looked to Père Louis and saw his brow darken. “Monsieur, this boy is a practitioner of witchery and foul blood rites. He is evil. He is damned!”
‘An angry murmur rippled among the assembly. But this man called Greyhand simply reached into his greatcoat and took out a vellum scroll. It was adorned with the imperial seal; a unicorn and five crossed swords in a hardened blob of apple-red wax.
‘“By word of Alexandre III, Emperor of Elidaen and Protector of God’s Holy Church, whom no man under heaven may gainsay, I am empowered to recruit any and every citizen of my choosing unto our righteous cause. And I choose him.”