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-François.

“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-François 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 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-François 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 coziest 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 she-lion’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 defenses had been smashed in places, several buildings leveled 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 defenses 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.

“A vulgar display of p-power, came her voice. Dyvok, most like, most like.

“I nodded. ‘Strong enough to be mediae at least.’

“The damage be n-not recent. Doubtful I think it, that highbloods linger here.

“‘Oui. But other maggots might’ve crawled into the grave they left behind.’

“We sh-should make haste to Triúrbaile, Gabriel. The attack is set for findi morn.

“I looked to the beautiful silvered dame upon the hilt, my voice soft with pity. ‘Ash … the attack on Triúrbaile happened twelve years ago…’

“‘Who the fuck are you talking to?’ Dior demanded.

“‘The Ashdrinker!’ Bellamy shouted over the wind, nodding to my sword. ‘The blade of the Black Lion is enchanted, Dior! Magiks from the Age of Legends! The Ashdrinker speaks to the mind of her wielder. Some tales have it that the blade steals the souls of all she slays, and sings with their voices as she kills. Others say she knows the truth of how every man under heaven shall die, and she speaks those secrets to the man who masters her!’

“I looked to the sword in my hand, eyebrow raised.

“I am fond of thy new j-j-jester. He is most amusing, m-most amusing.

“‘Come on!’ I pointed to a belfry above the rooftops. ‘We can shelter in the church!’

“We trudged between tight-packed buildings, down a snow-clad boulevard. The storm was pummeling, but the houses were silent and still. Winfael seemed more a memory of a town than a town itself, doors a-hang like broken jaws, old bloodstains on dusty glass.

“Truth told, it reminded me a little of my Lorson …

“‘So much for tha’ idea, Silversaint,’ Saoirse growled.

“Looking ahead, I saw the cathedral in the town square—hollowed by flame, broken rafters scraping the sky like an empty rib cage. The belfry tower still stood, but the clapper had long since rusted and fallen free, leaving the bell to swing in the bitter wind.

“Voiceless.

“Pointless.

“Rafa was almost dead ahorse, Chloe and Dior both shivering uncontrollably. There was no respite on holy ground here, but there was shelter at least, just across the square.

“‘Let’s go to the pub!’

“It was a two-story affair, its sign bearing a bearded man with a leather apron swimming in a tankard of ale. THE HAMMERED SMITH was printed in faded letters beneath. The windows were barricaded, door locked tight, but a swift kicking would see it open …

“‘Hold!’ Dior shouted. ‘You smash the door off the hinges, what shelter will it be?’

“I lowered my boot as the boy bustled past. ‘You’ve got a key, smartarse?’

“‘To every lock in the empire, dumbarse.’

“Dior fetched a flat leather case tucked into his boot. Within, I saw iron picks, a torsion hook, a small hammer and wedge, all well-kept and oiled.

“‘Thieves’ picks,’ I growled. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

“‘Not just a fuckugly face, I s’pose?’ the boy muttered.

“I glanced to Chloe, and the sister simply flashed me a wry smile. And though it was freezing, his fingers trembling, the boy had that lock open quicker than a pisshead’s purse when the pub bells ring. With a triumphant grin, Dior pushed the door wide, dropping into a flashy bow as Saoirse gave a small round of applause. And stepping inside, he jumped three feet backward with a frightened yelp. ‘Shit!’

“Grabbing his fancy coat, I hauled the lad from the doorway and stepped inside, Ashdrinker raised. I looked about the commonroom, fangs bared: musty, cold, empty.

“‘What?’ I demanded. ‘What did you see?’

“The boy pointed. ‘Rats.’

“Sure enough, the floor was crawling with them, thin and black and sleek, peering at me with eyes like jet. But they scattered as I stepped inside, swarming through splits in the floorboards, up into the moldy walls. I glowered at the boy over my shoulder.

“‘I fucking hate rats, aright?’ he pouted.

“Shaking my head, I led the company inside while Bellamy took the horses to the stable. Dust coated the furniture, old wine bottles lay on tables or scattered on the floor. The walls were spackled with dark mold, and all smelled of rot and ratshit. But we were out of the wind at least, and with any luck, I’d find something to drink.

“‘I’ll look upstairs,’ I said. ‘Saoirse, stay here with the others.’

“‘A please’d be welcome.’

“I tilted my head at her. ‘What did you say?’

“The young slayer rested her axe on her shoulder. ‘I’m nae some hammerman ye fought wi’ in days of glory. Nor some lackey to be ordered aboot. A please’d be welcome.’

“‘We’re half-near frozen to death. In the corpse of a town that’s obviously been gutted by coldbloods. And you want to pull out our cocks and measure them now?’

“‘Ye’ve been swingin’ yer tadpole aboot every chance ye get already, man. Why should now be any different?’

“I walked across the creaking floorboards until we were chest to chest.

“‘Pretty please. With fucking sugar on it. Stay here with the others.’

“Saoirse scowled. I turned on my silver heel and stomped upstairs, paying a visit with my boots, door to door. Ashdrinker was singing an old nursery rhyme in my head, and I did my best to ignore her as I went from room to room. The bedchambers were small, dusty, all empty save for a handful of rats who looked slightly outraged at my presence. But it seemed we had somewhere to sleep at least—presuming we were allowed to.

“Bellamy came in from outside, slamming the door against the weather just as I returned to the commonroom, sheathing Ash to quiet her disjointed song in my head. The others were in the kitchen—rusty knives on the walls, pots of old cast iron. But there wasn’t a trace of food. Nor liquor, more’s the pity.

“‘Clear upstairs.’ I glanced to Dior, shuddering. ‘Save for all the rats.’

“‘Gabe, stop it,’ Chloe murmured.

“‘Huge bastards, they are.’ I measured a yard with my hands. ‘Well fed too, by the look. I swear God, one of them was wearing a waistcoat of human skin.’

“The boy flipped me the Fathers. ‘Suck my cock, hero.’

“‘We can wait here until the weather breaks,’ Chloe declared. ‘Warm up. Sleep.’

“Rafa was slumped by the hearth, shivering head to toe. The sister knelt beside him, arm around the poor old bastard for warmth. Bellamy scruffed the snow from his still-perfect three-day stubble, stomped his feet to get the feeling back. ‘I’ll get a fire going.’

“I nodded, looking to Saoirse. ‘Where’s that cat of yours?’

“‘Phoebe wanders. She’ll be back when she gets bored.’

“‘Right. I might go for a look-see myself. Rest of you stay here, stay warm. Pretty please.’ I glanced to Chloe. ‘Trouble finds you while I’m gone, belt that horn of yours, Sœur Sauvage.’

“Chloe spared me a small, grateful smile. ‘Walk careful, mon ami.’

“‘I’ll be back. Quick as a bishop up an altar boy.’

“Rafa blinked, shivering. ‘I think p-perhaps your experience with b-bishops differs from mine, Silversaint.’

“I stepped out into the sleet, shoulders hunched as I made a slow circuit of Winfael. I trudged through tight-packed streets, checking houses and cellars, then down to the edge of the freezing loch. A tangle of old nets. Boats abandoned. Water cold as a bog hag’s tit. The houses were stripped, whether by folk who lived here or scavengers after, I’d no ken. But save for the vermin, there wasn’t a soul alive in this whole forsaken place.

“No Dead either, at least.

“I circled back to the main square, silver-heeled boots crunching in new snow. The ghosts in the houses whispered old secrets to the storm. Through the flurry ahead, I caught a hint of blue and silver, disappearing through the doors of the burned church.

“Dior.

“It was freezing, and I was itching for a smoke, but I trusted that fancy little shit as far as I could piss into this wind. And so, I stomped across the square and through the bucktoothed dawndoors of the Winfael Cathedral.

“It was a modest affair—circular, limestone blacked by flame. Its roof had collapsed, snow drifting into its hollow belly. The windows were old stained glass, mostly shattered on the floor. But in the nor’most wall, the glass was intact—a scene depicting Michon leading her army during the Wars of the Faith. The first Martyr was tall, flaxen-haired, fierce as a hundred angels. Dior stood before the window with a puzzled look on his face.

“‘The fuck are you doing?’

“The boy startled as I spoke, spinning on his heel. His silver dagger was out of his coat in a blinking. I had to admit it—the little prick’s hands were as quick as his tongue.

“‘I thought I told you to mind your business, hero.’

“‘And who said that you get to tell me anything at all, boy?’

“‘Your mama,’ he scowled. ‘After I rumped her on your papa’s sheets.’

“I chuckled at that, tipped my tricorn. ‘You’ve got balls, Lachance. I’ll give you that. But my boots are bigger. What are you doing in here?’

“He gestured to the broken pews around the altar. ‘Bellamy needs firewood.’

“‘Mmf.’ I nodded. ‘Fine idea. Worthless made worthwhile.’

“‘You honestly can’t imagine the relief I feel at meeting your approval, hero.’

“Dior stalked among the pews, gathering up the crushed timber. I reached into my greatcoat for my pipe, packed a neat hit of sanctus into the bowl. I’d been working my way through the new batch I’d cooked nice and slow, and that fledgling’s blood was rich as fine wine. I probably didn’t need another smoke yet. But Need and Want are two different masters entire.

“That sharp snap of iron on flint. That sorcerie of heat and vapor slipping like the sweetest blade into my chest, face upturned, snowflakes pressing gentle kisses upon my fluttering lashes, as close to heaven as I’d ever get.

“‘Any opportunity to feed that need, eh?’

“Dior’s voice brought me back to earth. I exhaled a crimson lungful and looked him over with eyes the same shade. Elidaeni haute couture on his back. Cheap Sūdhaemi leather on his feet. Nordlund blood in his veins. Button missing from his right sleeve. Left-handed. Gutter thin. Black beauty spot on his right cheek. Fingers stained grey from his traproot cigarelles. And for the first time, I saw he had scars across his palms—knife wounds carved in his skin, long and deep. Only a couple of months old, by the look.

“‘And what would you know about it, boy?’

“‘I know you suck on that pipe like you were getting paid for it.’ Dior lifted his foot and snapped a shattered pew in half. ‘I know you got a shadow on you, hero.’

“‘You know shit, Lachance. Keep talking it, see what happens.’

“The boy sneered and nodded to himself. ‘And there it is.’

“‘There’s what?’

“‘The first resort of every man like you I ever met.’

“‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking you know me, boy.’

“He shook his head, glanced to my pipe. ‘I’ve known people like you all my life. No matter if it’s the bottle or the needle or the smoke, the same’s true for every one of you. Once that hook’s in your skin, it just drags out the worst in you.’

“‘You’ve never seen the worst in me.’

“‘I’ve seen enough. You treat the people around you like shit.’

“‘I treat the people around me like they deserve. It’s just most people deserve to be treated like shit.’ I fixed him in a bloody stare, watching his eyes. ‘Liars, especially.’

“The boy matched my gaze, unafraid. ‘Everybody lies.’

“‘That they do. But you’re not half as good at it as you think, boy. With your big cock swagger and your beggar’s boots and your fancy coat.’

“‘Not just fancy, hero.’ The boy brushed his midnight-blue lapel. ‘This coat’s magik.’

“‘Magik.’ I scoffed. ‘Bullshit. Just like the rest of you.’

“‘As you like it.’

“I lifted my pipe, staring at the stained-glass likeness of the first Martyr.

“‘The Grail of San Michon, eh? You want to tell me how a gutter-born thief from the arse end of Sūdhaem learns the whereabouts of the most priceless relic of the Holy Church?’

“‘No,’ Dior replied. ‘No, I don’t.’

“I stepped closer, watching his pupils dilate, listening to his heart beating a touch quicker. ‘Danton Voss. Sisters of the Inquisition. Dūnnsair slayers. Soothsingers and holy men. You’ve got a strange crop tangled up in this bullshit of yours, Lachance. And normally, I’d be struggling to find a reason to care. But the silver sister in that taverne back there who believes in you so hard? She’s a friend of mine. And they’re thin enough on the ground these nights for me to feel overprotective about the few I have left.’

“Dior clenched his jaw. ‘Sister Chloe saved my life. I’d never do anything to hurt her.’

“‘Except drag her through hell for the sake of a cup that doesn’t exist?’

“His eyes twinkled then. ‘But there’s the joke, hero. It does exist.’

“‘Is that right?’ I smiled, stepping closer. ‘Why don’t you tell me where it is, then?’

“‘And why would I do that?’

“‘Because if anything happens to my friend because of your bullshit…’ I put my hand on his shoulder, teeth sharp against my tongue, ‘… it won’t go well for you.’

“‘There it is again,’ he whispered. ‘The first resort of every bad man I ever met.’

“‘The world needs bad men, boy. We keep the monsters from the door.’

“‘But that’s the problem, hero. Bad men never realize when the monster is them.’

“‘Gabe? Dior?’

“I turned, found Chloe at the broken doors, wind howling at her back. Her cloak was up over her curls, scarf about her face. But her big green eyes were fixed on me.

“‘Are you two well?’

“‘Just chatting.’ I gave Dior’s shoulder a squeeze. Hurting just enough to let him know it could hurt far worse. ‘Man to man.’

“‘… Dior?’

“The boy shrugged my hand off, and spitting on the ground at my feet, he hefted his armful of broken lumber and stalked out the doors. Chloe watched him go with a mother’s eyes, and I wondered what in God’s name made her cleave to this lad so hard.

“Mayhaps because she’d never have a son herself?

“Could it be that simple?

“‘Phoebe just returned,’ Chloe murmured. ‘Saoirse says we may have problems.’

“‘Well, there’s a pleasant change.’

“I crunched across the broken pews toward the doors, but Chloe grabbed my arm as I tried to pass. I looked down: barely five feet of her, nunnery-raised, small and slight. But I felt the strength in her grip. Saw the fire in her eyes. ‘Can I trust you, Gabe?’

“‘Why wouldn’t you be able to trust me, Chlo?’

“‘You seem … different. What you said to Rafa the other day. About God—’

“‘I said I’d see you to the Volta, and I will. I’m not the one you should be fretting on.’

“‘Dior’s not what you think, Gabriel.’

“‘A grifter? A thief? He’s all that and more. I can smell it in his sweat. Hear it in his heartbeat. He’s a fucking liar, Chlo. And I’m wondering if all those years you spent buried in those books have turned you so blind you can’t see the horizon. If you want to believe in this holy cup nonsense so badly, you’ll swallow anything anyone hands you.’

“‘Trust me,’ she whispered.

“‘Why? What makes you so fucking certain?’

“She pressed her lips thin. ‘You remember when you used to train me in the Library? Always look your enemy in the eye? Never draw your sword unless you mean to use it?’

“‘I remember.’

“‘I took those lessons to heart.’ She pulled off her glove, and I saw her palm was callused, fingers rough where once they’d only been papercut. ‘I’m not that little girl anymore, Gabe. I know what I’m doing. And if I can’t tell you all, then I beg you forgive me. But God above, truth told, it’s best you don’t know all.’ She squeezed my hand in her tiny fist. ‘I need your blade, mon ami. I need your strength. But most of all, I need your faith.’

“I reached down, slowly pulled my hand out of hers.

“‘Faith’s a hard thing to come by these nights, Sister.’

“And head bowed, I walked out into the cold.”