“WHEN I WAS a lad, I used to play a game with my sisters, Amélie and Celene. It was named Elements. You close your hand, count one, two, three, then form your hand into a shape. Fist for wood. Fingers upturned for fire. Flat palm for water. Water beat fire. Fire beat wood. Wood beat water. Having fallen a hundred and fifty feet into it, it’s now my official position that water beats just about anything.
“It felt like stone as we hit it. I’ve been punched by ancien of the Blood Dyvok, taken silverbomb explosions to the chest, been inside a chymical still as the mad bastard who ran it blew it sky-high, and I tell you now, I’ve never felt anything like it. If I were an ordinary man, I’d have been dead. Story finished. Song sung. But broken and bleeding as I was, I was still paleblood, and like old Master Greyhand used to assure me as he cut me to ribbons every night at spar, palebloods don’t die easy. The impact was deafening, rocking my brain inside my skull, turning black to blinding white. I lost consciousness, I’m sure of it. But only for a second. The cold snapped me back into my body like a bowstring.
“All was freezing black, above and below. But as I opened my eyes, tumbling in the water, I saw him. Ashen hair adrift around his face, hanging limp as a boned fish. And hurting as I was, still I lunged, slipping my good arm around his waist and kicking desperately, piercing the surface with a ragged, bruised-bone gasp.
“‘Lachance?’ I roared. ‘Lachance!’
“He made no reply, eyes closed, head lolling on his neck. But miraculously, somehow, he was breathing. I looked around, desperate, bellowing over the river’s rush.
“‘CHLOE!’
“No sound. No sign. Nothing. If I dove below to look for her, the boy in my arms would drown. And if we stayed in this water, he’d freeze along with it. And so, roaring her name one last time, eyes burning, I held Dior tight and swam north across the Volta, broken arm trailing at my side. Away from those cliffs above, the slaughterhouse of San Guillaume, the poor wretches Danton had butchered. I’d warned them all, Chloe too, but still, I had to push it from my mind. The sight of Saoirse being ripped ear to ear. Bellamy’s eyes wide open, blinded forever. And Rafa. That poor bastard. Dying with Danton’s mouth on his throat and the name of the God that had failed him on his lips.
“I swam, bloody water behind me, every muscle screaming. My only solace was a familiar weight on my hip; Ashdrinker, slapping my leg as I kicked toward the shoreline. I’d lost them all, but I’d kept my sword at least. And as a sodden cough wracked his frame and a feeble groan spilled over purpling lips, I knew I still had …
“‘Lachance.’
“He groaned again, near senseless.
“‘Hold on to me, boy.’
“His eyelids were heavy, and he clung weakly to the arm I’d wrapped around his chest. But though I could tell he was terrified of the water about him, though he knew if I were to let him go, he’d sink like a stone, even with the cold, he didn’t tremble.
“Whatever else, Dior Lachance was never a coward.
“We reached the shallows, and I found my footing, slinging the lad over my shoulder. He was still senseless from the fall, ash-white hair hanging lank over his face. I’d ripped every scrap of clothing off him from the waist up to free him from Danton’s clutches, and I knew the little bastard would freeze soon enough. So, staggering up the wooded bank, I thumped him against an old rotted tree, and wincing at my still-shattered wrist, I shrugged my greatcoat off my shoulders.
“And then, I saw it.
“The one thing that would change everything.
“Dior was coatless and shirtless. But not entirely naked. Chloe’s bandage was still around his throat, but another bandage was wrapped about his chest, many times over. At first, I thought the boy might have been wounded; the bandage some holdover from an older battle. But then, beneath the wrappings, I saw it. Saw them. Bound uncomfortably tight, but unmistakable.”
Jean-François blinked, glancing up from his tome and snapping his fingers.
“Breasts.”
“Oui,” Gabriel nodded.
Jean-François smiled all the way to his dark eyes, and clapped as if delighted. “Dior is a girl’s name as well as a boy’s, Silversaint.”
“Do tell, vampire.”
The historian laughed uproariously, slapping his knee and stomping his feet. “You never suspected? But your dear Chloe told you that falling star had marked the Grail’s birth! That’s why he wouldn’t take off his shirt to dry it. That’s why Saoirse referred to him by a feminine endearment like ‘flower.’ He wasn’t a fourteen-year-old boy, she was a sixteen-year-old girl! Oh, de León, you are priceless. How much the fool did you feel?”
The silversaint reached for the wine, muttering, “No need to rub it in, prick.”
Jean-François chuckled, and returned to his tome.
“I stumbled back, greatcoat in hand, rocked onto my heels. I looked Dior over, eyes roaming the shoulders, the waist, the jaw. I’d thought her just a lad, androgyne perhaps, pretty, oui, but the way she spat, swore, smoked, swaggered … Great Redeemer, the little bitch had me fooled. And then those blue eyes fluttered open, widening as Dior realized that fancy coat and silken shirt were gone. Pale hands flashed up to cover her chest—some feeble attempt at modesty we both knew was doomed to fail.
“The girl looked up into my eyes, horror, indignity, fear.
“‘Fuck,’ she said.
“‘My,’ I replied.
“‘Face,’ we chorused.”