“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 toward 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!’
“‘Bellamy?’ Saoirse cried.
“‘I’ll go fetch them! Fall back to the inner circle!’ I shouted. ‘Pretty please!’
“One tablespoon of oil …
“‘Get Dior!’ Chloe cried. ‘Gabriel, he’s all that matters!’
“‘Just go, damn you! I’ll get them all!’
“‘Phoebe, go wi’!’ Saoirse split a wretched’s head in half, spun on her heel, and chopped another one’s guts clean through. ‘Go!’
“I dashed off through the dark, wiping blood from my eyes. The lioness dashed ahead, razor-quick. Crossing the thoroughfare and leaping our barricade, I glanced toward the gates saw Dior hurling bottles and shouting triumphant curses. ‘Suck my cock, you fuc—’
“‘Lachance, fall back!’
“‘But they’re not through yet!’
“Two onions, finely d-diced …
“‘Give it a rest, Ash! And get your scrawny arse back behind the barricade before I feed you to the Dead, boy!’
“Heart pounding, I dashed through a twisted alleyway toward the westward breach. Ahead, I saw a ghostly glow, ripe with sounds of murder and the stink of burning flesh. And rounding the corner, I skidded to a halt, hand up to shield my eyes.
“Père Rafa stood like a beacon in the dark, silver wheel in one skinny fist. Long shadows were etched in grey snow, the sigil casting a blinding beam of light into the dark before him. Bellamy stood beside the priest, bleeding from a vicious gash above his eye, longblade in one hand, a flaming torch in the other.
“‘The Lord is my shield, unbreakable!’ Rafa cried. ‘He is the fire that burns away all darkness!’
“Impressive, Ashdrinker whispered.
“‘Nobody asked you,’ I replied, lopping another wretched head into the snow.
“I remember n-nights when ye shone just as—
“‘Shut up, Ash,’ I hissed.
“The blade spoke truth—old Rafa was impressive. Wherever his light struck the wretched, they fell back as if touched by fiercest flame. Problem was, the light shone only where the priest pointed it. Bellamy was doing his best to keep the bastards off the old man’s back, swinging that torch like a club. But the pair were encircled now.
“I dashed into the freezing dark, hacking through the coldbloods and roaring over the storm. ‘Bouchette! Rafa! This way!’
“The pair broke through the gap I’d carved, dashed into the alleyway at my back. I followed, hand up against Rafa’s light as the priest covered our retreat. The wretched scattered, some seeking other paths, others scrambling on our tails. Bellamy helped Rafa over our barricade, the old man gasping and holding his chest. I cut down the wretched on our backs—a maid with cherry curls, a soldier with scarred arms, an elderly man, naked and sagging—no thought for what they’d been but only what they’d become, and my old friend hatred burning bright for the one that had let it all come to this.
“‘Gabriel!’ Chloe cried. ‘Why aren’t you silverclad?’
“I ignored Chloe’s cry, hacking at the bastards in the barricade. Their numbers were thinning, but not yet enough. Fearless, mindless, they crashed against the timbers, clawing and climbing. Dior came running from the gates with a mangled mob on his tail, leaping the barricade like a dancer and rolling to his feet.
“‘Dior, get back to the cathedral!’
“‘I’ll not leave you, Sister Chloe!’
“‘Dior, Godssakes, do as I say!’
“The boy ignored her, stabbing at a coldblood’s eyes with his silver dagger. Chloe and Saoirse stood back-to-back, the sister keeping the wretched off the slayer’s arse as Saoirse sowed mayhem. Phoebe struck beyond our blockade, ripping the Dead to ribbons before slinking back into the dark. The wretched’s numbers were thinning, bodies fallen around my feet. If I squinted hard, I could see light at tunnel’s end.
“But then, as always, came the dark.
“A pack of the cleverest Dead had stolen over the rooftops, dropping into our midst. Dior cried warning, lashing out with his silver knife. But the boy squealed as the monsters leapt upon him, and at his screams, Rafa and Chloe turned their holy light toward him.
“The wretched atop Dior flinched backward, scrabbling, scrambling, but both priest and sister had left their backs unattended. Phoebe and Saoirse held off the flood, but armed only with his torch, Bellamy couldn’t manage. The wretched ripped over the barrier, the soothsinger crying out as Dead weight bore him down, Dead teeth tore his skin. Like dominoes falling, the collapse began, the corpse of a spry teenage boy leaping onto Rafa’s back with a blacktooth grin. The priest roared, old knees and old hands failing him, his wheel glinting silver as it flew from his fingers.
“Rafa screamed ‘God help me!’ as the deadboy ripped out a bloody mouthful from his neck. The wretched flinched back, gurgling as Ashdrinker sent its head spinning into the dark. Bellamy was flailing, blood on his hands and face as he punched and kicked at the corpses piling atop him. I carved through them, Chloe beside me, silversteel sword flashing as she screamed from the Book of Vows.
“‘Turn ye now, oh faithless kings of men! And look upon thy queen!’
“It was foolish. Necks ripped like that, arteries opened like love letters, Rafa and Bellamy were already dead. And in helping them, we’d left Dior—the boy now crying out as a quick-fingered, blood-slicked horror bore him back down into the snow. Another piled atop him as he stabbed and stabbed, and his squeal ripped the night as his arm was wrenched backward, the wretched lunging like raptors and biting deep into his skin.
“‘Dior!’
“I heard a sound then. Like not to a sound, but a movement, as if the earth shook once and then all upon it, human and beast and them between, held their breath. And those wretched atop the boy reeled back as if struck by the fist of God, and bloody eyes wide, I saw it begin—a glow, burning white-hot in those greedy throats. It spread like flame to tinder in dim-remembered summers, and in a heartbeat, each wretched screamed as if it remembered what it was to hurt, and burst into a pillar of white-hot flame.
“The fire seethed, burning them to bones and ash, and above the sound of bursting bellies and crackling bones I heard Ashdrinker’s silvered cry inside my head:
“Fight, ye pretty fool!
“I did as I was bid, hacking at the remaining Dead. Some had sense enough to flee, others stood dumbstruck in the glow of that flame, brought low by me or Phoebe or Saoirse. And in a few heartbeats, the tide had turned, our foes scattered into the storm or spattered red in the soaking snows at our feet.
“‘Dior!’ Chloe skidded to her knees at the boy’s side. ‘Oh God, are you aright?’
“Face splashed with blood, I thrust Ashdrinker into the snow. Dragging the coldblood corpses off the fallen priest, I sank to my knees beside him. Saoirse did likewise with Bellamy, the soothsinger gasping as blood frothed from his torn throat. He was barely more than a boy, the poor fool. Rafa was facedown in a widening puddle, and I rolled the old bastard onto his back, pressed my hand to his sundered throat. The once-gushing river was now only a trickle.
“Soon to be nothing at all.
“His dark eyes were fixed on mine, the perfume of his blood rising over the sanctus rush, and despite the horror of it, setting a dark, delicious hunger in my belly. I cursed then—what I was and what I’d become and what he, in his omniscience, had made me. And looking into the priest’s fading eyes, I shook my head and sighed.
“‘Where’s your God now, old man?’
“‘Get the fuck out of my way!’
“Dior slammed into me, gasping and furious, blood-soaked hair in his eyes.
“‘The bloody hell are you doi—’
“‘Gabriel, stand aside!’ Chloe cried, pulling me back.
“I shrugged off her bloody hand and glowered at the sister, her surcoat and blade spattered with gore. But she had eyes only for the boy. I saw Dior press his hands to the rents in the priest’s throat, his eyes wide and wet with tears.
“‘Seven Martyrs, he’s finished, boy. Let the man die in p—’
“‘Shut the fuck up!’
“Dior’s arm was still bleeding, his neck too, and the boy smeared the blood from his own wounds onto his palm. And as I watched, he pressed that crimson hand to the gaping hole in Rafa’s throat, and my heart fell still. Because I swear by God and Mothermaid and Redeemer too, at his bloody touch, that wound stitched itself closed.
“‘Chloe…’ I whispered.
“Dior scrambled across the snow, Saoirse removing her grip from Bellamy’s throat. The soothsinger’s lips were pink with froth as the boy slicked his palm with his own blood again and pressed it to those awful wounds. And just as with the priest, I stood amazed as the gashes knitted closed before my eyes, not a scar nor scratch in their wake.
“‘Bellamy?’ Dior whispered, desperate. ‘Can you hear me?’
“The young soothsinger still seemed weak, skin sheened with sweat. But his breath came easy and his eyes shone, and he pressed a bloody hand to Dior’s.
“‘M-merci, M-monsieur Lachance.’
“‘Great fucking Redeemer…’ I breathed.
“I looked to Rafa, sitting up in the snow. The old man was shaking, robes drenched red. But still, he was hale and breathing, where a heartbeat ago he’d been almost a corpse.
“‘Y-you asked me … where my God was, Chevalier de León.’
“The priest looked to Dior and managed a bruise-blue smile.
“‘And there he is.’”