XXII

THE LION RIDES

“MY FURY WAS terrible. Not for the bladesmen outside Dior’s door who’d failed to hear her climbing from the window, nor for the kennelmaster who’d lain sleeping as she stole the dogs from their pen. Not for the watchmen who’d turned a blind eye as she led the hounds down the hill, nor for the soldier who’d helped her hook them up to the sled she’d loaded.

“No. My fury was for the fool who’d believed that girl would cower inside a castle while another drop of blood was spilled for her sake.

“We stood on Aveléne’s highwalk now, peering out through the crenellations to the glittering Mère in the frozen valley below.

“‘She rode out at dawn,’ Aaron reported. ‘Into the snow, headed northeast toward the Maidsroad. She can take that all the way to San Michon if—’

“‘No,’ I scowled. ‘She’s riding on the river.’

“Baptiste shook his head. ‘Our scouts report she was trekking—’

“‘She’s switched back. The little bitch is clever as cats. And after getting an eyeful of that map in your hall, she knows the Mère will see her all the way to the monastery.’

“‘How do you know that, brother?’

“I breathed deep, sighed a cloud of rolling frost. ‘I offered her a phial of my blood, way back in Winfael. She refused it. So when I got her that new coat in Redwatch, I slipped the phial into the lining instead.’ Shaking my head, I remembered Master Greyhand’s lessons. ‘Old age and treachery can always overcome youth and skill, Lachance.’

“‘Forgive me, Gabe,’ Baptiste said. ‘But what good is a phial of your blood?’

“‘Because I can feel it.’”

Jean-François stopped writing, glanced up from his chronicle. “Feel it, de León?”

Gabriel nodded. “I’d never had a teacher. Never met anyone who could unlock the secrets of my bloodline. But still, I’d learned a few tiny invocations over the years; scraps and whispers, hidden in the pages of San Michon and unearthed by my love.”

“Sanguimancy,” the historian murmured.

“Oui. And atop the walls of Aveléne, I reached toward the horizon and felt it sure and true; a tiny piece of me inside a prison of glass, headed north along a road of grey ice.

“‘She’s on the river,’ I said. ‘And the Dead are following.’

“‘The watchmen said she’d loaded her sled with supplies,’ Baptiste murmured. ‘But even running heavy, the Dead won’t move faster than a team of dogs on ice in daylight.’

“‘Day won’t last forever,’ Aaron warned.

“‘I have to reach her by nightfall,’ I said, marching down the stairs. ‘That’s when they’ll hit her. I need the rest of your dogs, Aaron. And a sled. Quick as you may.’

“‘I’ll come with you,’ he declared, and again, I marveled at the trust and love my brother bore for me. I smiled at him even as I shook my head.

“‘She has a two-hour head start. I need to run light as I can.’

“‘Gabe, you can’t take Danton and that army alone.’

“I patted Ashdrinker’s hilt. ‘I’m not alone.’

“Baptiste shook his head. ‘Gabe—’

“‘I’ll not waste time arguing, brothers. Mothermaid knows what I did to deserve friends so true as you. But you’ve not dogs enough to follow me, nor horses that can run safe on a half-frozen river. And every minute we waste is another minute Danton draws closer to that girl’s throat. So get me those dogs. Please.’

“The kennelmaster worked swift, stripping a sled back to the bones so I might run lighter. I stood with my brothers on the frozen pier, the Mère stretching away into falling snows, the folk of Aveléne watching from atop their walls. They felt guilty no doubt; that they’d turned a blind eye and let Dior leave alone. But more, they were conscious that the girl had drawn the shadow away from their walls, that she’d thrown herself over the brink to spare them slaughter. And their voices were raised up now, a clamor along the ancient stone and ringing somewhere in the hollow of my chest.

“‘Godspeed, de León!’

“‘Mothermaid bless you!’

“‘The Lion rides!’

“‘THE BLACK LION RIDES!’

“Baptiste threw his arms around me, hugged me fierce. ‘Angel Fortuna ride with you, Little Lion. May God and all his heavenly host watch over you.’

“‘Merci, brother. Look after this prettyboy for me.’

“But Aaron wouldn’t share the smile I shot him. ‘This is foolishness, Gabriel.’

“‘Let’s call it reckless. Such was ever my nature. Now tell me farewell, brother, and bid me Godspeed, and if you’ve a will to pray for her, I’ll not curse you for it.’

“‘For her but not for you?’

“‘He doesn’t listen, Aaron.’ I smiled, sadly. ‘He never has.’

“Aaron slipped a bandolier over my shoulder, loaded to bursting with silverbombs, holy water, sanctus phials. And then he dragged me into an embrace, squeezing tight.

“‘Remember, Gabe,’ he whispered. ‘It matters not what you hold faith in. But you must hold faith in something.’ He kissed my brow, eyes shining. ‘Godspeed. Ride hard.’

“The wind was at my back as I charged out, as if the storm itself spurred me on. The dogs were that dauntless Nordish stock known as lancers, and they ran swift, my sled blades hissing across the ice as we barreled down the frozen curve of the Mère.

“The riverbanks were crags and cliffs at first—the good black basalt of my homeland’s bones—and the fresh powder in front of us was unmarred by track or tread. But a few hours upriver, the cliffs gave way to lowlands and frozen deadwood, and I saw the twin arcs of sled blades and a multitude of dog tracks veer out from the banks onto the ice—Dior’s trail, sure and true. She’d carried her sled over the rocks and onto the river, hoping to hide her passing. But I knew a bloodhound as skilled as Danton wouldn’t be thrown off by so simple a ruse, and soon after, her tracks were lost in the tread of the things that followed her—a great host flooding out from the woods and pursuing her up the Mère. I pictured the highbloods and wretched Danton had brought with him, looked to the meager supplies I carried, the broken blade at my waist. In truth, I didn’t know if it would be enough. But when there’s little you can do, do what little you can.

“A snow hawk cut through the skies above me, mottled white and iron grey, calling upon the frozen air. My lancers ran onward into the blinding snows. The wind had shifted now, a howling northerly cutting like a sword down the Mère’s gut, the falling snow like razor blades. My collar was up about my face, my tricorn pulled low, but my eyes still burned, tears frozen on my cheeks, the chill making my knuckles ache.

“The blackened sun was slinking toward its bed now, a moonsless night waiting in the wings, and still, no sign of my quarry. But as the daystar dipped toward the horizon, long shadows blurring in the muted light, my heart surged as I saw it in the distance; the faint churn of powder thrown up by hundreds of feet. And I realized I’d caught them, caught them both: Danton’s horde running hard on Dior’s heels, the girl fleeing before them as if the devil himself came behind.

“She was bent over her sled, roaring for her dogs to ‘Run! RUN!’ and spurred on by their fear of the Dead, the hounds barreled down the ice like lightning. But as the sunlight failed, the Dead grew stronger, ran faster, drew closer, ever closer to their prize. The wretched ran first, like beasts before their masters’ whips. The highbloods came next, those dread cousins and children Danton had mustered to his aid, Ironhearts all. And at the last came the Beast of Vellene. I could see him now if I squinted. Rage flaring at the memory of him standing outside my home the night his father knocked three times on my door, bearing silent witness to the atrocities within.

“I owed his famille blood. And tonight, tonight, I vowed, I’d begin to repay the sum.

“The pipe was full and at my lips, and I breathed the color of murder into my lungs. All the night came alive, every sense aflame, the smell of dogs and fresh sweat, the sound of thundering footsteps and galloping pulse, the sight of the enemy before me and the blade I bore, now naked and gleaming in my hand. But with sinking heart, I saw the last breath of sunset flee the sky, and my mind rang with the echoes of my childhood in the halls of San Michon; one of the first lessons I ever learned, before my name became legend and my love burned like summer flame and my pride brought it all to an end.

“The Dead run quick.

“They were at Dior’s heels now, claws outstretched. I saw they’d catch her long before I did, and in desperation, I roared her name. She looked back to me through the falling snow, and I thought perhaps I might see fear in her eyes at last. But instead, I saw a gleam, glass-sharp and gutter-born. Not the savior of an empire nor the descendant of a God, but a street rat. A girl who’d grown up in dingy alleys and rotten hovels far from here, who’d survived by wits and guile, thief and trickster and incorrigible liar.

“The flintbox she’d stolen flared, and her fuses began to spark. The silver dagger I’d given her flashed, and her dog team was cut free from their moorings. The breath left her lungs as she leapt free, dragged by the hounds along the ice and away from her sled as it wobbled and flipped behind her, the barrels she’d loaded and lit now spilling across the ice, branded with tiny Xes—the twin scythes of Mahné, Angel of Death.

“‘Black ignis,’ I breathed.

“‘’ Ware!’ Danton roared. ‘’WARE!’

“The powder ignited, deafening blasts rippling across the valley and lighting the dark bright as the day. The closest wretched were engulfed or ripped to pieces by the explosion. But as the concussion struck the ice, reverberating hard enough that I felt it beneath me, at last I realized the genius of what Dior had done. The frozen surface of the Mère shattered in spectacular spirals, just as when Fortuna had bolted across the Ròdaerr. And just as I’d done that day, Danton’s legion found themselves plunging below the surface and into the icy depths of the still-running river below.

“‘Maggot trap,’ I smiled.

“A hundred at least, two of the highbloods among them, the entire shelf beneath them breaking apart. Only a few had mind enough to scream as the water washed the flesh off their bones and death, long-denied, wrapped them at last in loving arms.

“But others scattered, Danton among them, veering away from the gulf and skipping across the shattering surface. Like shadows, fleet and deadly, they danced along the cracking frost closer to the shore, where the river was frozen all the way to its beds, and there, they continued pursuit. Dior’s gambit had carved a bleeding gouge through Danton’s force, but dozens of the vampires still remained—most of the highbloods and the Beast himself among them—and now, Dior’s folly was laid bare.

“She was dragged along the ice behind her dogs, desperately clinging to the severed harness. I bent double, roaring at my own lancers to run onward, swerving around the gulf in the shattered river glass and riding on. But Danton was filled with fury now, he and his cohort drawing closer, ever closer.

“‘I said I would hunt thee forever, girl!’

“‘F-fuck you!’ she sputtered, holding on for dear life.

“‘You must say please, love!’

“‘Danton!’ I roared. ‘Face me, coward!’

“But the Beast ignored me, save to glance over his shoulder and gift me a murderous smile. I was still too far away to help her, barely keeping pace while the vampires gained with every step. If they caught her, those highbloods could keep me busy while the Beast made his escape with Dior, and all this, everything, would be for nothing. I heard that snow hawk calling again somewhere in the dark above, Ashdrinker’s voice ringing in my mind over the clamor of my pulse.

“Ride, Gabriel! We m-must save her! RIDE!

“And then, the inevitable happened. Dior’s dogs pounded onward, terrified of the Dead, heedless of the girl they dragged behind. They dashed toward a drift of snow, a foot or two high across the ice, veering around it. But Dior shrieked as she swung wide on the harness, closing her eyes as she plowed into the drift. Her grip failed, and with the sound of snapping whips, the harness broke free, sent her tumbling, sprawling, spilling through the snowbank and rolling to rest on the other side. She cracked her face on the ice, split her brow, blood on her hands and cheeks. I roared in horror as Danton howled in triumph, his highbloods swooping toward the fallen girl, his wretched scrambling, claws unfurled.

“One of the highbloods seized hold of her—an elderly fellow dressed like a country gent—lifting her up by the collar as if she weighed a feather. Dior cursed, scrabbling at his face, the vampire shrieking as her fingers painted crimson lines across his cheek. And where her blood kissed his flesh, fire bloomed, white-hot and blinding. He staggered back, howling, Ironheart flesh carved with great ashen rents by the merest touch of her blood.

“A silverbomb burst among the wretched, blasting a few to pieces. Another exploded, another, sailing from my hand and lighting up the night, silver caustic scalding Dead skin and eyes. Danton’s flock scattered as I unleashed another volley, leaping from my sled and roaring, ‘DIOR!’ And the girl cried, ‘GABRIEL!’ and scrambled to her feet. A tall, dead-eyed brute made a grab for her as she dashed toward me through the silversmoke, her fine frockcoat shredding in his fist. A wretched leaped atop her, trying to bring her down. But again, she lashed out with those blood-slicked hands, and again, the vampire fell back, its flesh burned black where her blood had touched it.

“She made it to my side, crashing into my arms, face slicked red. Ashdrinker sang in the air, scything through the wretched at her back, leaving them in smoking pieces on the ice. I hurled my holy water, my silverbombs, cutting through the rabble that charged me headlong, soulless eyes and open mouths. Dior lashed out with her silversteel dagger as I cut more wretched down into the bloody snow, the pair of us standing back-to-back as the song of the blade rang in my head: steel as mother, steel as father, steel as friend. I’d been killing these bastards since I was sixteen years old, and near the first of them I’d ever slain was a Prince of Forever—there was no way under heaven I’d fall beneath the teeth of a few dozen mongrels with a full dose of sanctus in me, with my sword arm whole and the fury of a widower, of a father undone burning within. And though I made a red fucking slaughter of those dogs, still, I knew it was no kind of triumph. Danton and his highbloods hung back, watching as I spent the last of my arsenal, backing away onto the ice now with nothing left to throw, no more tricks up my sleeve.

“And still almost a dozen highbloods to kill.

“They fanned out about us as we backed away, slowly encircling. I knew a few by name, by bloody reputation. A dark-bearded brute named Maarten the Butcher, who wore mail and carried a great two-hander in hammer fists. Another warrior named Roisin the Red, swift and sharp, her body clad in fur-trimmed leathers and her hair in slayer’s braids. A slender woman with wheat-gold hair and blood-red eyes called Liviana. A boy known only as Fetch, not more than ten when he died, dressed in pale finery spattered with blood.

“Ironhearts all, each the father or mother of decades of murder, each a nightmare to slay alone, let alone with ten siblings beside them. And at their head, a Prince of Forever, son of their dread liege himself. The butcher of a thousand maids, the bloodhound of the Forever King, the Beast of Vellene, now stalking toward me across the ice as his fellows slowly closed their circle around us.

“‘I warned thee, Silversaint,’ he said. ‘Ye should have stayed buried.’

“I clenched my fangs. ‘Papa should have killed me when he had the chance, bastard.’

“‘But he did kill thee, de León. Not the hero who songs were sung for, the chevalier who defeated undying armies, the man who became legend. Not even the boy who slew my sister dear do I see before me.’ Danton shook his head, their circle drawing tighter. ‘A shadow is all that remains of thee. A hollowed cur, a drunkard and a wretch, sodden with spirits and with spirit broken.’

“Danton raised his blade, the saber’s edge gleaming.

“‘But ye may still live to see the dawn, de León. Thou hast business with my dread father in the east, do ye not? Debts unpaid?’ He circled around us now, behind the wall of his highbloods, his smile ruby red. ‘Thy Patience? Thy Astrid? Thou didst slumber in thy cellar as my father had his way with thy bride, but still, certain am I thou hast imagined the sweet sufferings he bestowed before planting her in the ground beside thee. And more certain am I, thou doth desire nothing so much as to see my king again.’

“The leather on Ashdrinker’s hilt creaked as I squeezed it tight.

“‘A chance for vengeance I offer thee,’ Danton said. ‘Put up thy sword and step ye aside. Give the girl over to me, and ye may yet live to see thy vow fulfilled. Ye need not die for her, de León. For in the end, what is Dior Lachance to thee?’

“I glanced to the girl at my back, bloodied and shaking.

“Eyes wide and blue, rimmed with tears.

“‘Gabe…’ she whispered.

“And I saw the truth then. The truth of it all. No matter the vengeance I’d sworn, nor the life that had been stolen from me, nor the endless ache inside my chest. Because even in darkest hours, that ache let me know I was still alive. It was as my love had told me, as she’d always said. Hearts only bruise. They never break.

“And in the end, I knew I’d not take back a breath of it. Not the bliss I knew then, nor the pain I felt now. Not all the forsaken hours I’d spent without them, the ache of my lips without Astrid’s kiss, the emptiness of my arms without Patience’s embrace. In those few moments I had them, and if only then, I was immortal. Because they were immaculate. And they were mine.

“And no matter the God I’d turned my back on. No matter the father I cursed and the heaven I defied. Because in the end, it matters not what you hold faith in. So long as you hold faith in something.

“I tore off my glove with my teeth, wrapped my bare hand in Dior’s.

“‘I will never leave you,’ I vowed.

“It began as an ember, just a spark to tinder, finite and small. But like to the summer-bleached grasses of my youth, the spark began to smolder, and that smolder became flame, burning down my arm and into the palm of the hand that now held Dior’s. I felt it like fire in the ink Astrid had scribed upon my skin. I felt it like her lips upon mine. And releasing my grip, looking to the sevenstar on my palm, I saw it burning with light—not cold and silver as in days of old, but hot and crimson. Tearing my coat away, the tunic beneath, I saw the lion on my chest ablaze with that same furious light, red as the heat of my stepfather’s forge, as the blood I’d spilled and seen spilled in kind, as all the fires that surely burn in the hate-drenched heart of hell.

“I raised my hand, ablaze. And I saw them tremble.

“‘Which of you unholy bastards wants to be the first to die?’

“‘Kill him,’ Danton hissed. ‘Kill him and bring me the girl.’

“The vampires wavered, crimson light reflected in narrowing eyes.

“‘Obey me!’ the Beast roared. ‘You are ten, he is one!’

“Dior raised her dagger. ‘You mean two, bastard.’

“‘Count again, girl.’

“The whisper drifted across the ice. Danton turned, glowering as a now-familiar figure strode out from the tumbling snows. Locks of midnight-blue ran thick to her waist. Her long red frockcoat whipped about her in the howling wind, silken shirt parted from her pale chest. She’d fashioned herself a new mask; white porcelain with a bloody handprint over her mouth, red-rimmed lashes. And beyond, those pale eyes, drained of all light and life.

“Liathe still looked injured from our brawl in San Guillaume—her chest yet marred from Ashdrinker’s kiss, her hands yet charred from the blade’s touch. But she held her sword and flail nonetheless, both sculpted from her own blood, glistening red in my burning light.

“‘Who art thou?’ Danton snarled.

“‘Call usss Liathe.’

“The Beast of Vellene pressed his lips thin. He could sense the power in this one, wounded though she was. ‘Step aside then, Liathe. This prey belongs to the Blood Voss.’

“‘We will not,’ she replied. ‘The child comes with usss.’

“‘Us?’ Danton spat. ‘Thou art but one, cousin. Know ye who I am? Know ye my dread king and father in whose affairs ye now meddle?’

“The vampire tilted her head, long black locks flowing in that howling wind. ‘We know Fabién. Knew him, long before he laid claim to his hollow crown. Long before you did, Danton.’ She stepped forward, raised her bloody blade. ‘Tonight we drink your heartsblood, little prince. Tonight your father grieves another child.’

“Danton’s face twisted—fury and perhaps the slightest trace of fear. But a prince of the Blood Voss wasn’t about to be denied when so close to his prize, nor, I suspect, did he have any desire to explain to his father that the Grail had been plucked from his very fingertips by another leech. And so, he turned to his black circle and snarled with all the weight of the sovereign blood in his veins, ‘Butcher her! And I shall take the girl myself!’

“The highbloods obeyed, moving like a storm of crows, black and swift. I had time to see Liathe raise her bloody blade, sling back her bloody flail, and then Danton was upon us. I raised Ashdrinker to meet his charge, roared to Dior ‘Get behind me!’ as the Beast came on. His saber crashed upon my blade, sparks flying as the edges kissed. We stared at each other a moment over crossed steel, eyes burning with purest hatred.

“‘Tonight you sleep in hell, de León,’ he hissed.

“‘This is hell, Danton,’ I smiled. ‘And the devil loves his own.’

“And then, it began in truth.

“When last we’d faced each other, I’d been starving, weak, and he’d spitted me like a pig. The time before, with the weakling sun in the sky, I’d taken his arm off at the elbow and torn the heart from his daughter’s chest. But now there would be no excuses, no measure found wanting. The night was bitter cold and sin-black, the Beast’s full power at his command. But I burned like a beacon, my aegis aglow, the bloodhymn ringing in my veins. No mercy asked, no quarter begged, the debt I owed hanging above us like a headsman’s blade, and a pale shadow—a beauty of edgeless winters and lightless dawns—standing at my shoulder.

“‘My lion,’ she whispered.

“I could feel them, I swear it. My angels. Their love. Their warmth.

“And with that inside me, I was unbreakable.

“But alas, so was the skin of my foe. It’d been years since I faced an enemy like this; an ancien Ironheart, a prince of the Dead. His flesh was stone as I struck it, Ashdrinker almost jarred from my hand with every blow, and though deep cracks appeared in his marble skin after each strike landed, I felt like I was chipping away at a mountain. Danton’s blade flashed quick as silver, reflecting the burning red light of my aegis, and though the glow kept his eyes part blinded, burned him as he drew close to strike, still he did, like thunder, like the monster he was—a bleak lord of carrion, too heavy with the weight of centuries to be bested by my faith alone.

“Ashdrinker caught him across the throat, a chunk taken from his pale skin. His riposte cut through my shoulder, blood sluicing across the snow and the burning lion on my chest. I reached toward him, desperate to get a grip and unleash my bloodgift. But the Beast of Vellene knew the fate that had befallen the Wraith in Red—knew that for me to get my hands on him might spell his end. And so, he kept his distance, circling like a snake and rearing back as I drew close, almost taking my hand off at the wrist as I reached toward him.

“He smiled, wagging a finger. ‘Learn a new trick, dog.’

“‘No dog, leech. The blood of lions flows in these veins.’

“‘Thou art weak, de León. So weak ye could not even defend that which ye loved most dear. And I shall make thee watch as I take another from thee.’

“Behind me, Dior raised her silversteel. ‘I’ll burn your heart out, bastard.’

“The Beast laughed, and we clashed again, sparks and blood raining into the black. I could hear screams behind me, the sound of snarls and steel—I knew not how Liathe fared, but nor could I risk a glance to tell. Danton came on again, again, his saber cutting a bone-deep gouge through my chest, another across my arm, and I felt the slack weight of muscles sliced loose from their anchors of bone, my left arm hanging heavy now, my speed failing. Ashdrinker’s voice rang in my mind, spurring me on, silver bright.

“They knew us, Gabriel. The b-blade that cleft the dark in twain. The man the undying f-feared. They remembered us. E’en after all these years.

“The silvered dame smiled in my mind.

“And so do I.

“We feinted, shifted, and finally lunged, everything we had behind that strike. Ashdrinker split the night in two as once she had, arcing between the falling snowflakes and toward the Beast’s chest. With snarling, sinuous speed, Danton raised his blade, turned Ash aside, and instead of sundering his long-dead heart, the broken blade pierced his shoulder, driven in to the hilt. The Beast roared in agony, fangs bared bloody. But I saw my folly now—same as Saoirse on the walls of San Guillaume. My blade was stuck in the stone of his flesh, his hand locking about mine on the hilt. His claws whistled as they came, speeding toward my throat, Dior screaming my name as I tore myself loose, talons shearing across my chin as I tumbled backward and landed with a crunch on the ice.

“The Beast towered above me now, gasping as he tore Ashdrinker free. His hands smoldered at her touch, and with a dark curse, he flung her away into the dark. And on he came, plunging his blade toward my heart. I rolled aside, kicked his knee with silver heels, rewarded with a crunch, a curse. But he swung again, again, blinded by my aegis, by his fury, at last striking true, his sword spearing my bicep and pinning my left arm to the ice. I roared in pain, thrusting my free hand toward his throat as he lunged atop me. We struggled, fangs bared, breath hissing through my teeth. All I needed was one moment, one second with my fingers around his neck.

“‘I’ll k-kill you, bastard,’ I spat.

“‘Bastard?’ He smiled ruby red as he leaned in harder. ‘Nay, halfbreed, no bastard, I. I am of the Blood Voss. The blood of kings. I am a Prince of F—’

“The vampire grunted as Ashdrinker plunged down though his back. His black eyes grew wide, and he stared stupidly at the blade of broken starsteel protruding from his chest, bewildered at how Ash had bested his flesh.

“But still, still, he was the son of Fabién Voss, ancien Ironheart, and the bastard didn’t die. He snarled at the girl who’d stabbed him—Dior, standing behind him now like a thief come in the night. She was gasping, ragged, her hands slicked with blood as she tore the blade loose. The Beast reared up toward her, serpent-swift, furious.

“But he staggered as the wound in his chest began to smolder, and I saw Ashdrinker’s blade doing likesame; as if the gore upon it burned. And I realized at last that the blood on the blade wasn’t his, it was hers—it was hers, her palms sliced open and the blood of the Redeemer Himself smeared upon Ashdrinker’s broken edge.

“Danton clutched his chest as it burst into flame, and the scream that tore up out of his throat came straight from the bowels of hell. Dior swung again, no master with a sword but still, silver-quick. And Ashdrinker, forged in an age long past by the hands of legends and now blessed by the blood of the Grail herself, split his throat from ear to ear. The Beast staggered back, trying to scream, trying to curse, trying to beg through the ruins of his neck as those flames spread, as his flesh turned to ash, as he stumbled and fell onto the ice. His body convulsed as if the thing inside him—that dread animus that had propelled his corpse through countless years—refused to let go its broken shell. But the fire laid claim his skin. And dread time laid claim his flesh. And by the terror in his final, croaking wail, I like to believe the dread emperor of hell itself laid claim his wretched fucking soul.

“I dragged myself to my feet, trembling, staring at the bloody waif before me.

“‘Great Redeemer,’ I whispered.

“‘Flatterer,’ she gasped.

“The Beast of Vellene was dead.”