“ICE-COLD WATER CRASHED into my face, and black flared into burning white.
“Sputtering, spitting, I tossed sodden hair from my eyes. I was in a dark room, freezing—underground, from the sound. Iron hooks were fixed in the rafters. The walls were red stone, and through the heavy door, I could hear women singing hymns above.
“This was no prison cell, I realized. I was beneath the San Cleyland Priory mostlike, in what looked to be their old meat cellar.
“And I was the meat.
“I’d been stripped naked, wrists manacled, dangling from one of those iron hooks so only the tips of my toes touched the flagstones. My head was throbbing, my thirst a living, breathing thing. The inquisitor who’d danced on my skull stood before me, clad in black leathers and her blood-red tabard. She still wore her tricorn, features mostly hidden by her veil, but I could see red lips, curled and cruel.
“Her sister was nowhere to be seen, but a brick mansion of a man stood at a butcher’s bench along the wall. Beside a bundle wrapped in burlap, I saw an impressive collection of real and makeshift torture implements. A ten-tail whip, a bonesaw, a hammer, thumb screws. A poker was thrust into a brazier of burning coals, the iron red-hot.
“‘All the makings of a jolly weeksend,’ I hissed.
“The inquisitor tilted her head. ‘You can last longer than that, surely.’
“‘My wife b-been telling stories about me again?’
“‘Your whore, you mean?’
“My face darkened at that, my soft smile vanishing.
“‘Oh, oui,’ she said. ‘We know who you are. What you are.’
“‘If that were true, you’d be speaking more polite about my wife.’
“‘I am Sœur Talya d’Naél.’ She raised her right hand, scraping one iron claw along my whiskers. ‘It will be a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
“‘Where’s D-Dior?’
“The inquisitor ignored my question, eyes shining behind her veil. ‘You … shot me.’
“‘Not well enough, apparently.’
“‘It hurt. A very great deal.’ She dug the claw in, lifting my chin and staring into my eyes. ‘Merci, Monsieur de León.’
“‘That’s Chevalier de León to you. I s-suppose that’s why you’ve got me stashed under a nunnery, instead of taking m-me up to the keep? The local capitaine might not appreciate you baby-killing bitches torturing a Sword of the Realm.’
“‘You are no Sword,’ Talya scoffed. ‘You are an apostate. Disgraced and excommunicated. This is Church business. To be conducted upon Church grounds.’
“‘Like the business you conducted in San Guillaume?’
“Talya smiled, dark and bleak. ‘We supposed your priest might seek succor there. A drowning man will clutch even at straws. But straw burns, halfbreed. Just like heretics.’
“I swallowed hard, my stomach full of broken glass. This close, I could see the vein thumping along Talya’s neck, smell her blood under her perfume of leather and misery. Her razored claw drifted down my collarbone, tracing the lines of the lion inked on my chest.
“‘Beautiful,’ she breathed.
“And with a small smile, she pushed one sharp claw right through my nipple.
“I gasped in pain, bucking against my manacles. The inquisitor’s claw dug through muscle, scraping bone, blood spilling down my belly. She leaned in close, whispering in my ear. ‘I owe you pain, heretic. I owe you bli—’
“She gasped as I smashed my brow into her nose. I felt a satisfying crunch, heard a gargling squeal as my headbutt sent her stumbling backward. Her thug stepped forward, ready to dismantle me, but Talya held up her hand to stave him off. She pressed her palm to the blood gushing over her lips, face twisted in fury.
“‘You … b-broke my nose…’
“‘Come closer, bitch. I’ll kiss it better.’
“‘Faithless bastard.’
“I thrashed, wild at the scent of her blood. It filled the cell, my lungs, my head, fangs gleaming as I bucked against my restraints. ‘Where’s Dior?’
“Talya’s lips twisted in a bleeding smile. ‘My sister Valya is taking her confession.’
“‘You’re torturing her? She’s an innocent child!’
“‘Innocent?’ Talya spat blood, the scent near driving me mad. ‘Dior Lachance is a heretic. She is a witch. And she is a murderer.’
“‘The fuck are you babbling about? She didn’t kill anyone.’
“The inquisitor sneered. ‘Dior Lachance murdered a priest, halfbreed. A bishop who ran an orphanage, no less. Ritually slaughtered him, mutilated the corpse, and painted the walls of his home with his blood. And were it not for the confession of her conspirators, she may still be conducting her deviant rites on the streets of Lashaame to this very day.’
“‘Bullshit.’
“The inquisitor produced a sheaf of parchment, covered in black script.
“‘You will name Lachance a witch,’ Talya said. ‘A practitioner of profane blood rites, sent to sow discord among the Almighty’s faithful. You will name the ones who assisted her in escaping justice in Lashaame—namely, Sœur Chloe Sauvage of the Order of San Michon and Père Rafa Sa-Araki of the Order of San Guillaume—as slaves to Lachance’s dark will. You will confess your involvement in the girl’s coven, and beg God’s absolution for your heresy.’
“My eyes narrowed, fangs bared. ‘The fuck I will.’
“‘How I prayed you would say that.’
“Talya smiled, nodded to the thug by the torture implements.
“‘Philippe?’
“The thug dragged the burlap aside, and my stomach churned as I recognized everything Dior had stolen from Madame Souris. Beside my foundry, my ingredients, I saw glass phials brimming with chocolat-red powder. The thug lifted one between forefinger and thumb, smiling as he loosed the stopper.
“‘We took the liberty of bottling it for you,’ Talya purred.
“The man waved the open phial in front of me, and the scent of the sanctus within—God, it struck me like a spear to the chest. I actually moaned, gasping as the thirst roared through me, fangs long and pointed, heart hammering, so close, so close.
“Talya picked up the ten-tail whip, and my jaw clenched as I saw that the thongs were spurred with metal. The leather creaked as she coiled it in her fist, walking slowly behind me, heels clicking stone. My skin prickled as I felt that clawed gauntlet on my skin again, tracing the inkwork on my naked back. Angel’s wings across my shoulders, the Mothermaid and infant Redeemer below, carved a lifetime ago by hands that loved me.
“Crack!
“I gasped as iron and leather bit into my skin.
“‘Do you confess?’
“‘Could you aim a little higher, S-sister?’
“Crack!
“‘Nono … a t-touch to the left.’
“Crack!
“‘… th-that’s it.’
“CRACK!
“CRACK!
“CRACK!
“Iron doesn’t hurt palebloods the way silver will, but by that stage, I was starving, weak, ready to break. Instead of stitching closed, my wounds bled like a butchered hog’s. I thrashed at my chains until my flesh tore, blood spilling down my arms, the back of my legs, pooling on the stone beneath me. And always, the scent of that sanctus filled my lungs.
“I’d felt hunger like this only once before in my whole life. No mere human can imagine the agony. No smokefiend or bottlebride or poppyhound can even begin to understand.”
Jean-François pursed his lips, spoke soft. “I understand.”
“I knew this was bullshit. I knew Dior well enough to know she was no cold-blooded killer. If someone had handed her to the Inquisition, it was a betrayal, not a confession. And I remembered her words in the cave, then. What she’d said about everybody leaving her.
“I’d done the same, I realized. Too wrapped up in my own dark. I’d been ready to turn my back on that girl, like everyone else had. And I realized I’d forgotten the most important lesson. A lesson learned through trials of ice and fire. A lesson that should’ve been carved into my bones with blood and silver.”
“What lesson?” Jean-François asked.
The Last Silversaint took a swallow from his bottle. It was a long while before he spoke again.
“I found myself in darkness. Drenched in bloodscent. I felt my daughter’s hand in mine. Her fingers, soft against my calluses, the echoes of her laughter ringing in my head. I saw Astrid’s face floating in the black before me. Lashes fluttering upon her cheeks as if she were waking from a dream. Red lips. Two little words.
“Do it.
“I can’t.
“You must.
“Come in.
“COME IN.
“‘Who’s there?’
“I blinked hard, drenched in blood and the perfume of want. The pain had stopped, the rhythmic crack of the lash across the tattered meat of my back had stilled. I looked up through curtains of sweat-drenched hair, saw the thug before me, scowling. I could feel Talya behind me, and I swear under the stink of gore and leather and sweat, I could smell desire; the sadistic bitch was wet as spring rain.
“But she’d stopped now. Her voice soft.
“‘Who’s there?’ she asked again.
“A reply came from beyond the door, and I realized someone was knocking. The voice was muffled, shy—a young sister from the priory, I guessed.
“‘Pardon, Inquisitor. But your holy sister sends urgent word.’
“The pair looked at each other, Philippe stalking to the meat cellar door as Talya twisted the ten-tail in her hand, wringing a thick soup of blood from the leather onto the stone at her feet. The thug opened the door, scowling. ‘This had best be im—’
“The fellow gasped as four and a half foot of jagged metal was jammed into his belly. The strike was nothing poetic, but the sword still cleaved his mail like a razor through silk. He clutched his gut, the blade slipping free as he fell backward, blood and bowel spilling from the rend. And through my starving haze, my heart surged as a figure came through the door, bright blue eyes wild with rage.
“Dior lifted Ashdrinker in her hands, pointed the blade at the inquisitor.
“‘Your sister said to tell you the witch is loose.’”