III

HUNTERS AND PREY

“THE TOWN OF Skyefall crouched on a hillside of black stone, wreathed in grey mist. As wealthy as a priest after the collection plate has been passed around, and as strange as the idea that the creator of heaven and earth needs the money in the first place. For a boy who’d grown up in a mud puddle like Lorson, it seemed the grandest metropolis. But riding into its shadow on that cold winter day, I’d no notion of the horrors we’d find there.

“Skyefall’s fortune had been made in silver. Only eleven months had passed since the Forever King decimated Vellene, and back in those days, it still wasn’t well known just how important that noble metal would be in future nights. Rumor had begun spreading, of course, dribbled from the lips of drunken prophets or screamed by wandering lunatics. But the gentry of Skyefall paid little heed to hearsay about Dead armies massing to the west, or coldbloods stalking freely along the hamlet roads.

“They were rich. God had clearly blessed them. And that was enough.

“Skyefall’s streets were cobbled, her cathedral marbled and gilt. The architecture was baroque and gothic—all grand spires and stairways leading who knew where. But as our company plodded through her gates, I felt a shadow on that town. She was built on a granite slope, winding roads and grey buildings looming on all sides. Fog hung heavy in her streets, and her walls were decorated with reliefs of flowers that hadn’t grown since the sunlight failed. In the town square stood a crow-pecked gibbet with a rotting skeleton inside—WITCH, the sign assured us. Streetwalkers with scabbed knees stood at lonely alley mouths, and miners with filthied faces staggered through the streets, sullen and drunk.

“The air hung chill. Damp. And far too quiet.

“I knew not what, but something in this place felt wrong.

“Justice was ever a rock beneath me, his head held high as he steamed and stomped. But as we rode up Skyefall’s twisting streets, the roads grew too narrow and the stairs too treacherous. Eventually, we were forced to leave our mounts behind at a communal stable and continue on foot through the haze, up toward the noble quarter above the town.

“Greyhand marched in front, de Coste came next, and me last of all, my silver heels ringing on the stones. Local folk watched as we passed by their doors and windows, some with awe, some with fear. And yet …

“‘They all stare at us, Master,’ I murmured.

“‘Such is the curse in our veins,’ Greyhand replied. ‘And it shall only deepen as you grow older. Folk are drawn to the dark within us, Little Lion, just as they are drawn to the coldbloods who made us.’ He looked at me sidelong. ‘Surely you noticed it, even as a boy?’

“I thought of the girls in my village then. Their eyes following as I passed by. Their kisses given so freely. But had they been given to me? Or this thing inside me?

“‘Oui,’ I muttered. ‘Perhaps.’

“‘As we grow older, so too do we sink deeper into our curse and the power it gifts us.’ Greyhand nodded to the townsfolk. ‘Yet always, regular folk will smell something of the predator beneath your skin, de León. Some shall hate you for it. Others adore you. None will ignore you. A wolf cannot long hide among sheep. But Almighty God knows who we truly are. And our service to his holy church shall be rewarded in the kingdom of heaven.’

“I took comfort in that. Buoyed by the notion that, though I was accursed, though I still didn’t truly understand what I was or was becoming, all this was the will of the Almighty above. And through him, I would find salvation.

“‘Véris,’ Aaron and I replied, making the sign of the wheel.

“Our master strode over a long, cobbled bridge and onto an avenue of fine estates. Lanterns on wrought iron posts lit up the fog about us. The houses we passed seemed like strangers’ faces, their windows, sightless eyes.

“‘When we arrive, say nothing,’ Greyhand warned. ‘If there is a coldblood at work in this place, some of these townsfolk may be thralls. Mortal servants of the enemy.’

“I blinked at that. ‘You mean people willingly serve these devils?’

“‘Cows,’ Aaron growled. ‘Cows praying for the night they might become butchers.’

“‘But why would folk submit to such devilry?’ I wondered. ‘Coldbloods can’t choose who they turn. It’s not as if immortality can be offered as a reward.’

“Greyhand scowled. ‘It might surprise you, de León, what some folk would risk for even a chance to live forever. Coldbloods truck in temptation. Their power is in darkness. Their power is in fear. But most of all, their power is in desire. Drinking the blood of ancien can slow mortal aging, and undo wounds that would send any man to his grave. But moreover, the act itself is addictive. Drink from the same vampire on three separate nights, and you will be enthralled. Helpless to resist its commands. In every sense, a slave.’ He patted the pipe in his pocket. ‘Hence we smoke a distillation of it, rather than drink it.’

“We came to a halt outside the walls of a grand estate. Archer circled in sullen skies above, keeping a watchful eye on his master. The frère pulled down his high collar and breathed deep. ‘This town reeks of sin.’

“I watched my master from the corner of my eye. Though Greyhand was dour and cruel, still I’d grown to admire him over the last seven months. He beat his back bloody at prayer every night. He read to us from the Testaments for an hour every morn. His devotion was a beacon, his faith a bright comfort. And though I was frailblood, he didn’t judge me for it. He was as like to a father as I’d ever known, and I wanted to make him proud.

“De Coste rang an iron bell at the gate. Him, I admired far less. I had to admit he worked hard—even with his talk of San Michon not making a difference, Aaron still seemed to believe in what we were doing. And yet, he treated me like common shite. In seven months, he’d not called me by my name once.

“Hard worker or no, I hated his fucking guts.

“From the look, the house before us was the grandest in Skyefall. The grounds might once have been bright with greenery, but now, only fungus grew at the feet of withered fruit trees. A magnificent mansion loomed in the estate’s heart, all graven pillars and shuttered windows. Fog hung heavy on the grounds.

“A short fellow in a fine coat and powdered wig strode through the mist toward us, lantern in hand. He stopped behind the gate, looked us over.

“‘This is the house of Alane de Blanchet, Alderman of Skyefall?’ Greyhand asked.

“‘I am his humble servant. Who might you be, monsieur?’

“Greyhand took out his vellum scroll. The servant’s eyes widened as he saw that blob of blood-red wax, embossed with a unicorn and five crossed swords: the seal of Alexandre III, Benefactor of the Order of San Michon, Emperor of the Realm and Chosen of God Himself.

“‘My name is Frère Greyhand. And I will speak to your master.’

“Five minutes later, we stood in a grand parlor, holding glasses of chocolat liqueur. The walls were decorated with fine art, and an ornate suit of plate armor stood guard over a grand shelf of books. De Coste looked perfectly at ease. Unimpressed, even. But I’d never seen wealth like this in my life. This man’s ashtrays could have fed ma famille for a year.

“Greyhand had unlaced his collar, removed his travel-worn tricorn. As ever, I was struck by how cold our master’s features were. I fancied if I touched his face, he’d feel not like flesh, but stone. Still, I watched him like a hawk, soaking in all he did and said. This was the Hunt, I realized. And more than anything, I wanted to be a hunter.

“‘Initiate de Coste,’ he murmured. ‘When the master of the house arrives, I want you ready to use the gifts of your blood. If tempers flare, keep them dampened. If good cheer is required, provide it.’

“‘By the Blood, Master.’

“‘Initiate de León…’ Greyhand glanced at me then. My heart sinking as I realized a frailblood had nothing special to offer here. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

“The parlor door opened, and a portly man entered with sparse ceremony. He was in his early forties, well fed and well heeled, an ornate green alderman’s sash across his chest. But despite the noble fashion of the time, he wore no wig. His hair was disheveled, tied back in a thin, greying tail. He had the eyes of a man who had forgotten what sleep tastes like, his shoulders bent by some hidden weight.

“Behind him came another gent, a little younger. He wore black vestments and a stiff red collar, signifying the cut throat of the Redeemer. Thick dark hair was cut in a short bowl, and the sigil of the wheel hung about his neck. Skyefall’s parish priest, I guessed.

“Our master removed his gloves, offered his hand. ‘M. de Blanchet, I am Frère Greyhand, brother of the Silver Order of San Michon.’

“As the alderman took his grip, Greyhand pressed his tattooed palm atop the man’s hand. Touching him with the silver, I realized. Testing him for corruption.

“‘The pleasure is mine, Frère,’ the alderman said, his voice thin as paper.

“‘These are my apprentices,’ Greyhand nodded. ‘De Coste and de León. We are here by imperial command to investigate rumor of a malady among the godly people of Skyefall.’

“‘Thank the Mothermaid,’ the priest breathed.

“‘It is true, then? This town is afflicted?’

“‘This town is accursed, Frère,’ the alderman spat. ‘A curse that has already plucked the brightest flowers from our garden. And now, threatens all we have left in this world.’

“The priest placed a comforting hand on the alderman’s shoulder. ‘M. de Blanchet’s wife, Claudette, is taken ill with the sickness. And his son…’

“De Blanchet broke, as if his face were splitting at the seams. ‘My dear Claude…’

“‘Have strength, M. de Blanchet,’ the priest counseled.

“‘Have I not shown the strength of titans, Lafitte?’ he snapped, pushing the priest’s hand away. ‘The strength a father must conjure to put his only son in the ground?’

“De Blanchet slumped on a velvet lounge, head low. Greyhand turned on the young priest, cold green eyes flickering to the silver wheel about his neck. ‘Your name is Lafitte?’

“‘Oui, Frère. By grace of God and High Pontifex Benét, I am priest of Skyefall.’

“‘How long has your parish suffered this malady, Father?’

“‘Young Claude passed just before the feast of San Guillaume. Almost two months ago.’ Lafitte made the sign of the wheel. ‘Precious child. He was only ten years old.’

“‘He was first to die?’

“‘But not the last. At least a dozen of the town’s finest have fallen since. And I hear rumor from the poorer quarter. A wasting sickness sweeping the riverside.’ The young priest pressed his lips thin. ‘I hear other whispers also. Of folk gone missing in the night. Of witchery and shadows. I fear this town is accursed, good Frère.’

“‘And now M^me de Blanchet is afflicted?’

“‘As if heaven has not tested me enough,’ the alderman whispered.

“‘Take us to her,’ Greyhand ordered.

“De Blanchet and Père Lafitte led us up a winding stairwell in the estate’s heart, and though I tried to pay heed only to Greyhand, the opulence of that place struck me hard. Famine had cut the Nordlund to ribbons in the years after daysdeath. Whole communities had been destroyed, cities flooded with farmers and vintners and the like—folks whose livelihoods had wilted and rotted when the sun failed. It was only Empress Isabella’s request for her husband to open the imperial granaries that had saved the people in those years before we found our new normal. Through it all, this man had lived like a lord, surrounded by objets d’art and polished mahogany and grand rows of unread books.

“But for all his wealth, it hadn’t been enough to save his son.

“We arrived at double doors, and de Blanchet hesitated. ‘My wife is not … properly attired for company.’

“‘We are servants of God, M. de Blanchet,’ Aaron replied. ‘Have no fear.’

“I heard the inflection in de Coste’s voice, saw a predator’s gleam in his pale blue eyes—the gift of the Blood Ilon. The Ilon were known as the Whispers among kith society, and their ability to influence the emotions of others was unparalleled. Aaron had inherited the same from his vampire father, and as he spoke, de Blanchet’s face slackened. With a murmur of assent, the alderman pushed through the doorway, and with a nod to de Coste, Greyhand followed, with me on his heels.

“A roaring fireplace cast a ruddy glow in the room. Glass doors opened onto a stone balcony, but the curtains were almost closed. Marble mantelpiece. Gold trim. I smelled sweat, sickness, and dried herbs. And resting on a mountain of pillows in a magnificent four-poster bed, was a woman who looked on the verge of death.

“Her skin was waxed paper, thin breast rising and falling swift as a wounded bird’s. Though the boudoir was uncomfortably warm, her nightshift was laced to her chin, blankets piled atop her. She shivered in her sleep.

“Greyhand crossed the room, pressed the sevenstar upon his palm to her sallow brow. The woman moaned loudly, but her eyes remained closed.

“‘How long has she been such?’

“‘Seven nights,’ de Blanchet replied. ‘I have tried every tincture. Every cure. And yet, each day my Claudette worsens, as did our Claude. I fear my wife soon shall follow our son to the grave.’ The alderman looked skyward, his shaking hands in fists. ‘What sin is mine that you would pass this measure unto me?’

“Greyhand lit a posy of dried silverbell and placed it on the mantelpiece, murmuring a prayer and watching it burn. Reaching into his bandolier, he dashed handfuls of metallic powder on the floor around the bed, studying the patterns.

“‘What is that, Frère?’ the priest asked.

“‘Metal shavings. Faekin leave footprints no cold iron will touch. Tell me, M. de Blanchet, have you noticed the shade of your fires tilting toward blue near midnight? Milk souring in the morn perhaps, or cocks crowing as the sun sets?’

“‘… No, Frère.’

“‘An abundance of lowborn beasts about the manor? Black cats, rats, or suchlike?’

“‘Nothing of the sort.’

“Greyhand pursed his lips. I knew he was eliminating possibilities—witchery or the fae or servants of the fallen. ‘You will forgive me, monsieur. But I must examine your wife. I fear this may be uncomfortable to watch. I understand if you wish to wait outside.’

“‘I will do no such thing,’ the alderman replied, standing taller.

“‘As you like it. But I warn you not to interfere with my examination.’

“Aaron sidled up to the alderman, spoke comforting words. Again, I saw that predatory gleam in his eyes, and de Blanchet’s resolve melting. Not for the first time, I found myself envious of my fellow palebloods. The power their fathers had given them. Control over beasts. Mastery of men’s minds. And there I stood, with little to do save stare.

“Greyhand turned to Madame de Blanchet and opened the neck of her nightshift. The alderman tensed, Père Lafitte frowned, but neither spoke protest as Greyhand prodded the woman’s throat. Finding nothing amiss, he inspected her wrists, muttering softly.

“I stood by one of the balcony doors, and as much as I wished to study Greyhand, it seemed improper to gawp at a sleeping woman in her nightwear. I cast my eyes to the floor. And there, between my boots, I spied a tiny, dark spot on the wood.

“‘Master Greyhand…’

“He turned from the bed, saw me pointing.

“‘Blood.’

“Greyhand nodded, slipped his gloves back on. And with no further ceremony, he took hold of the woman’s nightshift, and tore it open.

“Father Lafitte cried protest, and the alderman stepped forward. ‘Now see h—’

“‘I am here by order of Emperor Alexandre himself,’ Greyhand snapped. ‘If the nature of your wife’s affliction is such as I fear, it may be that I can save her life. But not without risk to her modesty. So decide now, monsieur, which you hold more dear!’

“De Coste patted the alderman’s arm. ‘All is well, monsieur.’ And bristling with rage, de Blanchet stood down. It was a testament to Aaron’s craft that the man hadn’t already rebelled—if someone had stripped my wife half-naked in front of me, I’d be breaking their fucking skull open.

“‘Initiate de León, bring that light closer.’

“I did as Greyhand commanded, holding a lantern above Madame de Blanchet. Parting the ruined nightshift, he began inspecting the woman’s sallow, naked body. But as soon as he placed one gloved hand on her breast, the alderman finally broke.

“‘This is an outrage!’

“Aaron seized de Blanchet’s arm. ‘Calm yourself, monsieur.’

“Père Lafitte stepped forward, ‘Please, Frère, I must insist—’

“I turned to the priest, warned him to be still. The alderman shouted for his servants, and the room descended into chaos before Greyhand’s bellow split the air.

“‘HOLD!’

“Our master looked to de Blanchet, his voice dark with loathing.

“‘Come see, monsieur.’

“De Coste released his grip, and straightening his coat with an indignant huff, de Blanchet stalked to his wife’s bedside. Greyhand pointed as I held the lantern high. And there, in the dark flesh of Madame de Blanchet’s right nipple, we saw small, twinned scabs.

“‘There are more between her legs,’ Greyhand said. ‘Hard to spot. But fresh.’

“‘Plague sores?’ the priest whispered.

“‘Bite marks.’

“‘What in the name of Almighty God…’ the alderman breathed.

“‘Did any visitors come to Skyefall around the time your son fell ill?’

“The alderman’s eyes were fixed on those tiny wounds in his wife’s flesh, sheer horror on his face. Greyhand snapped his fingers for attention.

“‘Monsieur? Were there visitors?’

“‘This … th-this is a mining town, Frère. We have visitors constantly…’

“‘Anyone strange that young Claude might have come into contact with? Wanderers, or traveling performers? The kind of folk who come and go with ease?’

“‘Certainly not. I’d never allow my son to mix with suchlike. I … I believe he spent time with the Luncóit boy while his mother conducted her affairs on the outskirts. He was a little older than Claude, but a fine lad of good breeding.’

“‘The Luncóit boy,’ Greyhand repeated.

“‘Adrien,’ the alderman nodded. ‘His mother was come to Skyefall to survey a claim farther down the Godsend. She is from an old prospecting famille in Elidaen. She spent most of her time surveying the land around the town, and thus, Adrien kept Claude’s company while his mother worked. Marianne, her name. A fascinating woman.’

“The young priest folded his arms, his face darkening.

“‘You did not find her so fascinating, Father?’ Greyhand asked.

“‘I … I am being uncharitable,’ Lafitte said. ‘I admit I never met her.’

“‘Not even at holy services?’

“‘She worked, even on prièdi,’ he said, obviously displeased. ‘Though she had time aplenty for soirees and suchlike, she never attended mass.’

“Greyhand looked de Blanchet square in the eye.

“‘Where did you bury your son, monsieur?’”