SINGING

There was a song in his head. Somebody was singing to him.

It was a song he’d heard often enough in childhood, and yet it sounded different somehow. His nanny, Miss Grissell, had sung it often, taught him to sing it in turn when he was still so young. She’d said that Remy’s own mother sang it for him while he’d been in her womb, a lullaby she’d brought with her to Aluria from the small island of Tithe where she’d been born.

Miss Grissell had sung it, and then he had sung it, until his father had heard the melody and sent his nanny away as punishment for teaching him. Remy had kept the song locked away in his heart since then, bringing it out only during moonlit hunts, where his father would never hear.

But Miss Grissell wasn’t the one singing. Another woman was, her voice soft and sweet, and Remy could think of nothing but to listen.

He was moving, but he wasn’t thinking about that, either. He was sinking his scythe into something else, possibly someone else, but he wasn’t thinking. He was spinning Breaker again, that constant, comforting motion he’d always done since he’d been abandoned at a cave at the mercy of vampires, and he found easy solace in the motions, even when he wasn’t thinking about anything at all.

He was hitting things. This was good. He was supposed to be hitting things. He was in a fight, and others were trying to hit him in kind. His scythe met some resistance when it sank down on something fleshy, but Remy ignored that. All he wanted was to keep listening to the song, the one thing that had promised him some measure of solace his whole life, though it had not always been good at living up to that promise.

She was singing, and it was beautiful.

Something else was happening—another woman was shouting. Remy didn’t like the noise. All he wanted, all he needed, was to listen to the song forever. This unexpected voice sullied it somehow, and he didn’t like that. He shut his ears out and closed his eyes, straining to hear more of the lullaby, trying to block out everything else.

“Remy!” The voice cried, louder now and more insistent. “Remy, please stop!”

It was a familiar voice, too. He should know it from somewhere. The song wore a lovely voice, but this new one, this was a beloved voice. There was a difference. There would always be a difference.

A great part of him struggled, wanting to forget everything but the melody. Another part of him listened to the shouting.

“Remy!” Xiaodan—it was Xiaodan!—was pleading. He was holding a dagger, and it was aimed between her eyes, a hair’s breadth from plunging into her forehead. Xiaodan wasn’t defending herself. She was simply there, risking injury to wait for him to come to his senses. The sight of her gray eyes, still trusting despite everything else—trusting him to stop, not to attack her—and the song in his head grew sour and ugly, cacophonous now when it had once been sweet at the shock of what he had almost done.

“Come back to me, Remy,” Xiaodan said. “Please, come back to us.”

Remy came back to her. He stared at his suddenly bloody hands. His Breaker was gone, but Xiaodan had a grip on his wrists, so strong that she could have easily broken them if she wanted to.

He lifted his eyes to her terrified gaze, dazed. “Xiaodan?” he asked, like he’d just been woken from a deep sleep.

“You’re back,” Xiaodan said, relief mixed in with the horror still clear in her voice, as was the pain. Memories came swimming back into his head. The fight. Malekh and the hooded figure. Himself, looking into the latter’s face and seeing—

—seeing—

He turned.

Naji was lying on the ground, his eyes open and sightless, looking up at the storm clouds. Malekh was cradling him in his arms, his face a ruin of misery. Remy’s Breaker lay beside the younger vampire, its scythes drenched in blood.

“I didn’t—” Remy stumbled back a step, flashes of remembrance lancing into him like lightning. His Breaker. His attack on Malekh. His intent to kill.

Riones, intercepting, but getting knocked away. Malekh, defending himself but refusing to return the blows, still recovering from his enthrallment. Naji, leaping in front of his wounded brother before Remy could administer the kill. The impact. The sound it had made.

“I didn’t—”

“It wasn’t you,” Xiaodan said urgently. “Remember that, Remy. This was not your doing.”

No. It was his mother’s, who—

His mother.

The hooded figure remained where Remy last remembered it, motionless against the turbulent winds ripping through the plains, the rain. Its face was once more hidden, yet he knew it was watching. The infected that he’d gained hold over were strewn across the ground. When Xiaodan had broken through to him, had they suffered from the backlash? Had Xiaodan killed them, or had he turned on them himself? It was difficult to remember more, beyond the horror of what he’d already done.

His mother. This person wore his mother’s face. Knew his mother’s song.

“Riones,” Xiaodan said. “Watch over him.”

She let go of his hands, replaced by the marquess’s on his arm. His grip wasn’t as strong as Xiaodan’s, but it was enough to keep him steady. “Easy now, Pendergast,” the Reaper said. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

Fourth Court heiress and First Court empress circled each other; gauging, waiting for the opportunity to strike. It was Xiaodan who made the first move, and Remy only saw the attack after the fact, when she was already skidding away, her assault deflected. It was the latter’s turn next, moving at the same invisible speed, but Xiaodan met it head-on. The ground around them rocked, broke apart from the savagery of both attack and defense.

Numbly, Remy watched. The figure was just as evenly matched as Xiaodan in both quickness and strength, which was to Xiaodan’s disadvantage. How long had she been fighting already? Ten minutes? Fifteen? It had felt longer to him, and though strain was beginning to appear on her face, she showed no signs of letting up or acquiescing.

She couldn’t last long in these conditions, and Malekh was in no shape to help.

Xiaodan perhaps realized that; her gray eyes shone in defiance. And then the rest of her started to glow as well.

Remy knew what she intended to do. He wanted to rush forward to her, but Riones wasn’t letting him take another step. The hooded figure must have realized the implications of that shine; its efforts redoubled, distracting Xiaodan enough so she focused on protecting herself from its attacks instead of preparing to release that deadly brightness.

Remy looked down at the dagger by his right boot. Elke had insisted on outfitting him with more; her insistence protected him, though not in the way he’d wanted. He must have removed several and tried to stab people on the field with them during his thrall.

He was still thankfully numb, his mind working frantically to compartmentalize his pain and guilt and shock, shoving it somewhere more distant.

The hand on his arm tightened. “Don’t even think about it, Pendergast.”

“I’m fine,” Remy said. “I don’t want to be, but I am. Xiaodan’s strong, but she’s not going to defeat a First Court vampire with her heart condition. And if she loses, we’re all going to die out here. Stab me if I start berserking again, but let me do what I need to do to help her.”

A pause, and Riones released him.

And then Remy was running straight toward the pair, dagger balanced in each of his hands. He threw the one on his left as hard as he could at the figure.

It turned and caught the knife effortlessly in its fingers.

“Mother!” Remy cried out.

The figure shifted so that it faced him a second time, leaving Xiaodan still panting for breath, winded and close to her breaking point.

“They told me you were dead,” Remy said. “Father said you were dead.”

My poor boy, it said, and he felt the strains of the lullaby once more playing in his head, her crooning voice once more soft and sweet. This time, he shut it out.

“No!” he shouted. “Who are you?”

My poor boy. He could almost believe that the sorrow he heard from within the hood was genuine. He could not bring himself to look closely again, to see if it truly was his mother’s face looking back at him, or if it was an illusion and something else had taken her place. I am alive. I am eternal. Why do you hunt with my murderers?

She raised her finger to point at Malekh. Why have you gone with them? The one who brings the sun and her Ancient lover. Why do you not avenge me?

“I am avenging you,” Remy said desperately. “No—you’re not her. She’s dead. She couldn’t have—”

An arrow came whistling through the air. Just as before, the figure caught it in its hands. Remy turned to stare at the newcomer, who pulled back his own hood.

“Get away from my son, you undead bitch,” Edgar Pendergast said.

His features were grim, stronger than the frail old man Remy had known. Gone were the unfocused eyes glazed over by white film, the frail arms and liver spots, and even the shriveled leg. Now his gaze was sharp. While leaner still than what Remy had remembered of him, his father had regained some of his muscular physique and walked with the step of one who was fifty years younger, crossbow in one hand and leveled at the First Court vampiress. The other wielded an immense shield forged completely of silver. He now walked unaided but still carried his mahogany cane, tucked into a heavy belt.

A hiss rose from behind the hood.

“Yes,” Remy’s father said. “I knew it would attract you, the taste of your own son’s blood. There was no way to take back what Astonbury had already unleashed, so I started seeding the vampires from here to the farthermost regions of Aluria, hoping you would take the bait, Ligaya. I knew you would be curious. That it would bring you out of hiding. You have never been clever. You were an imbecile when you ran away from me, and you’re an imbecile now, with this pretense of a First Court.”

The figure rushed him without another sound, and Valenbonne only barely managed to deflect the blow, bringing the heavy shield in between them before she could do damage. It was for naught; she disappeared to move behind his father, seizing him by the throat. The crossbow dropped from his hand.

“No!” Remy cried out.

I am the Night Empress, the being said, fangs inches away from the old man’s neck, and I will destroy you.

“I don’t think so,” Xiaodan said. She was an incandescent ball of sun, shining so brightly that her face was nearly obscured by the light. Her hands were raised, pointed at the Night Empress. “Eat shit, you scum-sucking cuntrabbit!” she yelled, and fired.

Edgar Pendergast’s hand dipped down and seized his cane. A deft twist sent a sharp blade shooting out of its base, which he thrust at his former wife.

Remy was still running, reaching his father just in time—only for Malekh to have gotten there half a second ahead of him. The noble grabbed at Remy, then at the elder Pendergast, and flung them both down and away from the incoming attack just as the Night Empress released him to face the new threat.

She was too late.

The ensuing blaze enveloped her, consumed her whole, even as Remy crashed down to the ground beside his father, safely out of range. For the briefest moment, he could have sworn he saw the woman disappear just before the light reached her; then there was nothing else but sun.

The whole battlefield lit up from the blinding display, the dark sky brightening as a second sun seemed to rise alongside the moon, turning night into day in an instant. A groan rose up as what remained of the First Court turned and fled from the sight until there was no one left but the sounds of those already dying, the silent dead, and the survivors, Reapers and soldiers alike who, though exhausted and confused, cheered nonetheless at the sight of their enemy retreating.

The light faded. His mother was gone.

Remy scrambled over to where Xiaodan lay prone, Malekh already beside her. The woman’s eyes had fluttered closed, but the faint grin at her lips was on prominent display. “I know I’m not supposed to be so reckless,” she said feebly, “but considering everything else…”

She was going to be all right. Remy’s hopes lifted. But she had severely overtaxed herself again. “Stay still,” he said.

Malekh looked at him, a strange look on his face. It wasn’t an expression Remy had ever seen him wear before, until he remembered.

“I—Zidan,” the words were raw in Remy’s throat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t myself—I didn’t know—”

“I know,” Malekh said. “You didn’t know what you were doing.” He squeezed Xiaodan’s hand, his face changing as he looked down at her with fresh, tender concern. “Attend to her. I have to see after—see after Naji.” There was a brief break in his voice, a catch of the throat, but his face had returned to its careful stoicism. With a heavy heart, Remy watched him return to his fallen brother.

“There was nothing you could have done, and he knows that,” Xiaodan murmured, already on her way to falling asleep, as Remy cut himself shallowly along the side of his arm to bring it up to Xiaodan’s dry, parched lips.

“There’s always something I could have done,” Remy whispered as she took in his blood hungrily, slipping into unconsciousness soon after. He had grown to like the youth and Malekh cared deeply for his brother. Naji had died saving him, and by Remy’s hand.

“I was correct.” The Duke of Valenbonne was watching him, a faint sneer on his face. He wiped his blade, examining the speckles of blood there. “You have become the familiar of not just one vampire, but two.”

Remy said nothing. The shock of seeing his father fighting was only just less than the shock of seeing his mother, alive and yet nothing like he had pictured. “You weren’t surprised it was her,” he said dully.

“I suspected.” The duke retrieved his shield next, frowning at the faint nicks there. “The little whore you call your mother had run off to be with her lover. A vampire from the First Court, as I’ve always said. Why else do you think they found her in a coven’s nest, boy? Your mother betrayed me to become a familiar, and all while pregnant with you.” He looked from Remy to Xiaodan. “And you’ve taken after her, like I thought you would.”

“Only an insouciant would insult his own child after he was instrumental in saving your life,” Malekh said evenly, rising to his feet with Naji in his arms. The boy’s face was bloodied, but he looked peaceful. The sight of him hurt.

The elder Pendergast scoffed. “An observation, nothing more. He is my only son, after all. Whatever her faults, his mother never pretended he was anything but mine, whatever the rumors say.”

His father gazed out over the ruins, at the bodies still smoking from the fires Xiaodan had sent forth, the smell of burnt flesh still permeating the air. “Seems like Elouve has you to thank, Lord Malekh. I have very little love for its citizens myself, at this point, for nearly subjecting my son to the hangman’s noose.”

“Easy to express your disdain when you were safely hidden away at Loxley House with an army to protect you,” Remy snapped, unable to hide his anger any longer.

“You thought I would do nothing? I had my own people stationed at the plaza, bows aimed at your rope and batons ready for dispersal, except it was that redheaded vampire who’d retrieved you first. And when Lord Malekh destroyed the rest of the scaffolding, I thought it more prudent not to reveal my hand yet. Did you seriously believe I would let my own flesh and blood, my only heir, perish? I didn’t train you to be a survivor for this long only to watch you die, my boy.”

“You’ve always had an ulterior motive to explain your concern for my well-being,” Remy said. “You told my mo—the Night—her that you used my blood as a lure to draw her out. You didn’t care that her wrath could have destroyed Aluria, or that I would have been blamed for it.”

“You benefit only from hindsight. I took a gamble. If she or her vampire lover were alive, then they would have recognized your blood. It would have pulled them out of hiding. And I was right. Astonbury had nothing on the First Court, refused to even look for it, knowing how badly I wanted the information. Not even your vampire friends had any inkling of where she’d gone.

“I don’t know how long ago Ligaya came to control the First Court, liar that she always was. Her vampire consort must have been much more powerful than I’d thought. But as long as she remained alive, she would be a constant danger to the kingdom. And now?” Remy’s father stretched out his arms, lifting them toward the capital. “Now they know that the Night Empress is a real threat. Now we can finally mobilize against their Court, using all of Aluria’s resources, as it should have been. And finally—finally—we shall annihilate the First Court.”

“I wanted to avenge my mother,” Remy choked, “not have her die again.”

“Are you blind, boy? The Ligaya I knew died years ago. This wasn’t your mother anymore—only some vengeful kindred bitch that we had to destroy.” Edgar turned back to Malekh. “We have not always been on cordial terms, Lord Malekh. We’ve had our own brief skirmishes in the past, haven’t we? Aluria has proven wanting in its treaty with you. Perhaps you would be more interested in one with me instead.”

“And what do you have to offer?” the noble asked.

“The tide of politics is changing here, even as we speak, and it turns in my favor. It is very likely that I will rise to a position of much higher prominence soon and shall therefore be in a better place to render assistance. For as long as you pledge to fight with us against the First Court, you will have the alliance your betrothed very dearly wishes for.” The Duke of Valenbonne’s eyes gleamed. “In fact, as surety, I would be more than willing to offer my son to you as a… well, hostage would be too harsh a word, so let us say he would be a guest, a ward for as long as our agreement holds. Though I suspect you and the Lady Song would not be against the idea. Neither, I believe, will my son.”

“I will think about it,” Malekh said shortly.

“Not for long, I hope. I shall tell the Reapers to form a guard for you when you return to Elouve, Remington. Once word spreads of what has transpired here, and of your efforts to save the capital—you make me proud, Remington. You make me very proud. You need not be concerned for Reapers like Feiron or Hathorn. I have already seen to their punishment.”

“And who’s going to see to yours?”

His father’s laugh was far too loud and far too offensive in the wake of the destruction still burning about them. “You, too, will be welcomed in Elouve, Lord Malekh—you and your powerful little Sunbringer here.”

Remy didn’t even look at his father when he departed; all his attention was concentrated on the sleeping woman in his arms. He was exhausted beyond measure. He wanted to weep, to lie down and close his eyes beside her and perhaps never need wake up.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, because it was the only thing left he could do.

“So am I, Pendergast.” Malekh didn’t even sound angry. He didn’t lash out at him the way he had back at Chànggē Shuĭ when he had accused him of spying for his father. He only sounded as weary as he was, and somehow that made the guilt that much heavier.

“Alegra,” Malekh added when the other woman materialized beside him, her normally stoic expression tinged now with a look of bewildered sorrow as she beheld the fallen vampire in his arms. “Help Pendergast with Xiaodan. Take them back to Mari’s. I need to…” He looked down at Naji, and a spasm of pain flashed across his face.

Remy swallowed. “Malekh.”

“Leave him be,” Alegra cautioned softly.

For a moment, Malekh remained, looking down at his beloved sibling’s tranquil face, holding him closely in his arms. The next, he was gone.

“He needs some time alone,” the woman said, still uncharacteristically gentle. “What do you intend to do now?”

“I don’t know.” Remy closed his eyes and held Xiaodan tighter. “I don’t bloody know anymore.”