Chapter II. Heroes
II
HEROES
“THE FUCKER?” JEAN-FRAN?OIS glanced up from his tome. “Was that a title or occupation?”
“Neither. It was a foulblood. A woman, mid-forty when she died, maybe four days decomposed before she became a vampire.
Her flesh was bloated, rot taken root in her brain and at her mouth, open to reveal two razored fangs.
I roared as she crashed through the window and into my chest, dragging Ashdrinker from her sheath as I fell, crying out as that silver scream rang near fucking deafening in my head.
“UNHAND ME ILL-brED RUMPHERDING TALLOWCATCHER—
“I crashed into the floor, breath knocked out of me, the shock of Ashdrinker’s scream loosing my grip.
She flew from my fingers as the wretched lunged for my throat, rot-ridden breath making my eyes water as it hissed.
I punched it in the face, and it shrieked as the silver on my skin singed its flesh.
Its fingertips dug into my throat, my wrist, and like a viper it struck, sinking those filthy fangs into my forearm and biting hard.
“With a bellow, I tore myself loose, blood glittering as it sprayed across the room. Argent bucked as it splashed his hide, straining now at his tethers. I rolled across cold flagstones, that deadthing grasping, flailing, hissing, wild at the taste of my blood. But though I’d lost Ashdrinker, I wasn’t yet unarmed—my fingers closing about the wretched’s throat as I reached down deep and dragged up the dread power within me.
“All palebloods are both blessed and cursed by our fathers, vampire. Afflicted by the thirst that eventually drives us mad, but bearers of their boons also; strength, speed, and a touch of the gifts in the blood of their line. Mastery of beasts for sons of Chastain. Strength unholy for boys born of Dyvok. The warping of emotions for the Ilon. And for me, a blessing from the father I’d never known. The unholy arte of the Faithless.”
“Sanguimancy,” Jean-Francois said.
Gabriel nodded. “Mastery of the blood itself. My power was only a shadow of my father’s.
A mere droplet, born of an ocean. But as my fingers dug into that thing’s neck, I summoned that unholy power, rippling up and out through my fingertips and setting that monster’s blood boiling in its rotten fucking veins.
“It screamed; enough of its mind left to acknowledge the dreadful pain. I slammed its head back into the stone, intent on ending it swift. And so I would’ve, had the next two not come bursting through the tower door.
“A boy and girl, not much older than Dior, and like enough to be kin. They crashed into me, my grip ripped from the shrieking woman’s neck, blood spraying, bone cracking.
I kicked the boy aside, the girl lunging at my throat.
And with cold fear slicing my belly, I found myself looking the Angel of Death in the eyes. ”
“Battling foulbloods?” The historian scoffed. “Please, de León. Your attempt at early drama is appreciated, but you can hardly expect me to believe you feared for your life.”
“Spoken like one who’s never had to fight for it.
Rotten or no, wretched are still vampires, Chastain.
Swifter than the fastest deer, strong as half a dozen ordinary men.
And oui, I wasn’t ordinary. But it’d been hours since the sacrament I’d smoked with supper, and though the pisshouse minstrels sing I was the greatest swordsman ever born, my sword lay on the stone where she’d fallen. Barehanded, hungry, three against one?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“Like I told you, the graveyards of the world are full of fools who thought of fear as anything but a friend. You bet your arse I was afraid, Chastain.
“It was Argent who gave me the room to move, the big warhorse finally breaking loose from where I’d bound him, delivering a crushing kick to the boything looming over me.
The coldblood crashed back into the wall, and with a cry, I seized the girl’s wrist and slung her after her fellow.
Her body struck the stonework, rotten mortar and bricks spinning into the night as the pair burst clean through.
But my victory was short-lived; the ancient tower around me shivering, that wall rippling like the sea in a storm as the integrity of the structure finally gave way and the whole shithouse collapsed around my ears.
“Argent was fast enough to escape the downfall, and I managed to fling myself clear of the worst of it, leaping out through the wall as the roof came crashing down.
But I still felt brickwork raining on my back, my fool head, a soundless explosion bursting behind my eyes as I crashed into the snow in a spray of blood.
“Something landed atop me, seething, hissing—that wretched woman again. I’d strength enough to flip her over and seize her throat, but as black blood boiled up into her eyes, I felt skeletal fingers snaking into my hair, roaring as fangs sank into the back of my neck.
“It might’ve ended then and there. The legend of the Black Lion of Lorson.
Conqueror of the Crimson Glade. Savior of Nordlund.
” Gabriel scoffed. “What a fucking joke that would’ve been.
Topped at the last by a trio of filthy wretched on some nothing hill in the middle of nowhere.
But a dull crunch rang in my ears, a wet spray of brains painted my cheek, followed by the echo of a wheellock shot in the dark.
And the deadgirl on my back toppled away, a smoking hole in the place where her face used to be.
“A greatsword sang in the dark; a blade too large for any mortal man to wield, swung with such force the air boomed behind it. I caught a glint of a roaring bear upon its hilt, a ripple of long golden hair in the night wind. The wretched boy was carved from crown to crotch, and as the body toppled in two, I saw the one who’d cleaved it, standing in the gloom behind—tall and fierce and wreathed in darkness deeper still.
“A silversteel hammer came down on the woman beneath me, smashing her skull to pulp in the snow. She bucked once before falling still, the death she’d been denied finally come to claim her.
Trying to rise, I saw another figure now, looming through the red haze across my eyes, big and broad and carved of finest mahogany.
As I took the bloody hand he offered, I felt the warmth in him. The loyalty. The love.
“‘You should take better care of yourself, mon ami,’ he chuckled.
“The other figure nodded. ‘One night, we may not be there to save you.’
“‘Aaron,’ I whispered. ‘Baptiste.’
“They stood in the falling snow before me; brothers-in-arms, and brothers beloved. Baptiste Sa-Ismael was big, barrel-chested, his once-black locks now shorn back to stubble and peppered at his temples with grey. He wore dark leathers trimmed with pale fur, a long winter cloak spilling over heavy shoulders and trailing at his heels in the bloody snow. One arm was tied in a sling—a break earned in the battle of Dún Maergenn, yet unhealed. The ghost of a beard darkened his square jaw, and his handsome face was lit by a friendly smile. Yet somehow, its light didn’t quite reach his eyes as once it had.
“Beside him stood his beloved, clad in black leathers and a greatcoat of midnight blue, long blond hair flowing in the wind. A boy I’d once hated with all the passion of my foolish youth, but now loved more dear than kin.
Yet where once Aaron de Coste had fought beside me against the armies of the Dead, now my brother was one of them, his life and light stolen by the teeth of the Wolfmother, and dimmed further by the beast whose brand he still wore atop his left hand.
“The black heart and thorns of Nikita Dyvok.
“‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I wheezed, pawing at my bloody neck.
“‘Saving yer sorry arse,’ came the call at my back.
“I turned at the sound of boots crunching snow, already knowing who I’d see.
He stalked from between the dead trees like the hunter I’d taught him to be, a smoking wheellock pistol in his hand.
He wore a black greatcoat, adorned with the sevenstar of San Michon.
Four more pistols were strapped to his chest, a greatsword on his back.
Sandy blond hair was shaved in an undercut, a weave of silver roses tattooed along his temples and down his cheek.
The ink was aglow with silver light, the letters G O D S W I L L burning across his knuckles.
As he approached, Aaron hissed softly, stepping back—repelled as any other vampire would be by the aegis of a silversaint.
“‘Lachlan,’ I breathed.
“My old ’prentice flashed a crooked smile, spoke in his soft Ossian brogue. ‘Ye look like shite twice stepped in, ye crusty bastard.’
“‘I’m thirty-three, you little prick.’
“‘Like I say.’ Lachlan winked, tucking the pistol into his bandolier. ‘Ye want a hand, old man? Three wretched is a lot to wrangle for a fellow yer age.’
“I winced, holding firm to Baptiste’s wrist as he hauled me to my feet.
“‘Enough bollocks, what are you all doing here?’
“‘We came after you, of course.’ Baptiste dragged a hand across his scalp, sighing. ‘Aaron and I left Maergenn right after Mlle Lachance’s funeral. Followed your trail.’
“Lachlan nodded to the pair. ‘I followed them. On the sneak, like.’
“Aaron arched one brow. ‘I smelled you days ago, you realize. You could have spared yourself the skullduggery and simply traveled with us.’
“‘I don’t ride with leeches.’
“Aaron bristled at that, but my old ’prentice turned his glare on me.
“‘The hell ye thinkin’, toddlin’ off by yerself? Ye had to know I’d follow ye.’
“‘I’d hoped you wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘I set out on this road alone for a reason, Lachie.’
“‘And where does this road lead you, brother?’
“I looked to Aaron as he spoke, a lump rising in my throat that was almost too big to swallow. We’d not had time to talk after the battle; about what he’d become, or my role in it. And to hear him still call me brother after all he’d suffered …
“‘Where it’s always led, Aaron.’
“‘Voss.’