Chapter VII. Into the Lion’s Den
VII
INTO THE LION’S DEN
“LEóN WAS A pale beauty, cradled in broad stone arms. The city was built in a crescent-shaped bay, her buildings carved into sloping limestone cliffs, three hundred feet high.
Broad streets and narrow stairs ran in steep cutbacks down toward the ocean, and on the rocky shore, a mighty port had been built.
León sat ensconced in that arc of stone like royalty upon her throne, and if the city was a queen, then the chateau was her crown.
“It was wrought of that same bright limestone, inlaid with the designs of dark basalt Lachie had mentioned. A garrison of twenty thousand soldiers called it home. Ma famille had ruled here thirteen generations. West of Augustin, it was the safest city in the empire. And I couldn’t shake the feeling we were waltzing into a serpent’s nest.
“Charlotte marched us across the bailey to a pair of great doors, her men on all sides, tense as coiled steel. Guards snapped off salutes as she approached, but didn’t meet her eye.
The keep seemed busy; bright lights behind her many windows, banners fluttering on her walls, and echoing on her stone, of all things … music.
“I glanced about us, uneasy. ‘Is the House of Lions always this … lively?’
“‘Hardly,’ Charlotte replied, returning the guards’ salutes. ‘You have the good fortune of arriving on the anniversary of Baron Gerrard’s birth.’
“‘His saintsday feast,’ I realized.
“‘Seventy years old, this very eve. Now come. Your host awaits.’
“‘Mlle de León.’
“Charlotte bristled at the sound of Aaron’s murmur, as if she loathed to be reminded of his presence. She did not deign to turn, speaking over her shoulder instead.
“‘What is it, leech?’
“‘Regretfully, I will not be partaking of the good Baron’s hospitality.’
“Charlotte turned then, rage splintering the dark of her eye. ‘You will go where you are commanded. Thank Angel Fortuna I have not already burned you to—’
“‘Command as you will, mademoiselle. But no vampire may enter a home without invitation from one who lives there. And you would be a fool to offer me that.’ Dead blue eyes glittered in the glow of Lachie’s tattoos. ‘You are not a fool are you, Lionne Cendrée?’
“I sighed softly at Aaron’s words; at one more reminder of the thing my brother was become.
But the very act of cautioning Charlotte was more proof that Aaron still had good intentions, and I met Lachie’s eyes to underscore the fact.
As my old ’prentice scowled in answer, Aaron motioned to a long stone building on the bailey’s edge.
“‘I shall wait in the stables. With the other beasts. There aren’t many by the sound.’
“‘I’ll come with you,’ Baptiste offered.
“‘No.’
“‘Aaron, you’re my husband, if you’re to sleep in straw, then I’ll—’
“‘I said no,’ Aaron snarled.
“Baptiste fell silent, eyes downturned. Aaron’s voice softened then, gentle and sad.
“‘Trust me, love. This is for the best.’
“Lachlan and I exchanged another grim glance—both knowing exactly what Aaron meant. We’d not had occasion to hunt since Charlotte found us, and Aaron must have been starving by now.
I understood the pain my brother had to be feeling in the presence of all these people, thirst crawling up from his belly with flaming hands.
I swallowed hard, my tongue ashen, watching as Charlotte nodded to Mathieu.
“‘Go with it, Lieutenant. Lock it in the stable, and set a cadre with torches at every door. If it tries to leave, if it even speaks to one of you…’
“Her eye fell on Aaron’s, glittering with menace.
“‘Burn it to death.’
“Aaron’s gaze flickered to Lachlan, then back. ‘I can see why he likes you.’
“Lachie scowled as I placed a hand on Aaron’s arm. ‘We’ll talk to the Baron. Mayhaps we’ll find no welcome here, and it’s back to the road. Either way, we’ll be swift.’
“Aaron smiled, his gaze like knives. ‘Enjoy the party, Gabriel.’
“My brother was marched away by a dozen bristling soldiers, Lieutenant Mathieu looming at his back, Baptiste staring after his love. Charlotte turned to another of her men.
“‘Lock their weapons in the armory. Tell the steward to triple the guard and that I alone shall have the keeping of the key.’ Looking to me with brow raised, my cousin gestured to the doors. ‘After you. Chevalier.’
“And heart thumping, I stepped across the threshold of my grandfather’s house.
“The entrance hall was polished oak and blood-red carpet, gables reaching high overhead.
Banners bearing the house arms and lamps wrought of goldglass adorned the walls.
Beside the doorway stood a tall statue—a likeness of Angel Gabriel, one hand holding a burning blade, the other, a goblet filled with clear liquid.
Charlotte dipped her fingers, touched her forehead, her lips, her heart, looking to us expectantly.
“‘More holy water?’ I asked, brow raised.
“‘No thrall nor leech may abide its touch,’ Charlotte replied. ‘In the City of Lions, attendance at duskmass is compulsory, and every home has a font such as this at its door.’ I fancied I saw rising flames reflected on Charlotte’s narrowed eye as she stared me down.
‘Those who do not learn from the past shall suffer the future, Chevalier.’
“I sighed, dipping my fingers. ‘Véris.’
“The beautiful music grew louder as my cousin led us down a broad stone corridor.
The wealth dripping from the walls set me thinking of our little hovel in Lorson—leaky thatch and draughty windows, my heart bleeding to know my mama had let all this go just to hold on to me.
We stopped at last outside a pair of tall oaken doors set with bas-reliefs of the house arms. A maidservant awaited there—a dark flower in an astonishing azure gown, smoky eyes and long black curls, four masks of papier-maché in her hands.
“The maid curtseyed as she laid eyes upon us. I tried to ignore the hymn of her pulse, fantasizing instead about the liquor awaiting beyond those doors.
“‘Holy Frère. Monsieur.’ Her gaze flickered up to meet mine. ‘Chevalier.’
“‘What are the masks for, mademoiselle?’
“The maidservant smiled shyly. ‘The banquet is a masquerade, Chevalier.’
“‘Merci, Odette,’ Charlotte said, snatching a black domino. ‘Be about your duties.’
“The maid curtseyed, eyes downturned once more. ‘Mlle de León.’
“Odette handed us a mask apiece; a punchinello for Baptiste, a shining sun for Lachlan, a second domino for me. And with another curtsey, the maid backed away.
“Another font bearing Angel Gabriel’s likeness stood beside these doors, and Charlotte touched her brow, lips, and heart again—it seemed no chances were taken in allowing servants of the Dead to enter this house.
Binding her mask about her scarred face, my cousin waited until we’d done likesame. And satisfied, she knocked.
“The doors parted, revealing a vast room, awash with light and life. The rush of sensation threatened to overwhelm me—music and laughter and body heat and wine and deep below that perilous undertow, like a bellyful of razorblades …
“‘Ye aright, brother?’ Lachie asked softly.
“I swallowed hard. ‘I’d kill everyone in this room for a mouthful of Ossian black.’
“A grand ballroom lay before us, packed with a waiting throng. Long tables skirted the room’s edge, fire burning in three great hearths.
The walls were hung with standards of the house, goldglass chandeliers glittering above like stars long lost. The dancefloor swayed with masked revelers, minstrels playing on fiddle and flute and drum.
The messieurs wore frockcoats and hose, the dames beautiful gowns and ornate wigs, curls stacked atop their heads as if in contest to see who could first reach heaven.
Older gentry sat in conversation, masked maidservants filling golden goblets with actual, honest-to-God wine.
It was a revel I’d not seen like of since my days at the Emperor’s court, and I’ll admit I was taken aback—to witness such indulgence when the world outside these walls was on its knees …
“‘Mesdames and messieurs! My noble Baron!’
“All dancing and talk fell still as my cousin called for attention. I rubbed ruefully at my road whiskers, fingertips brushing the scars on my cheek. Trying not to think of the girl who’d gifted me them.
Most of my gear was in my saddlebags, but at my waist and in each sleeve I could still feel the weight of her gifts—three vials of holy blood, secreted in the hems of my shirt.
I’d not been in this place a heartbeat and already I wanted to be gone.
I knew I’d no need to be anxious—I was the Black Lion of Lorson, Slayer of Tolyev, Savior of Nordlund.
Folk sang songs about me, mothers named their fucking babies for me.
“So why was I fretting like a maid on her wedding night?
“‘I present Baptiste Sa-Ismael, Capitaine of Aveléne; Frère Lachlan á Craeg, Silversaint of San Michon; and Gabriel de León.’ Charlotte scowled. ‘Sword of the Realm.’
“All eyes turned toward our company, standing atop the stairs like jesters at a funeral.
Silence hung heavy and dark as lead. Lachie cleared his throat.
Baptiste coughed. But faintly, out in the mob, I heard someone begin to clap.
It was slow at first, scattered, but soon, applause filled the room.
Gentry rose from their seats to bow, the demoiselles dropped into curtseys, the seigneurs lifted their glasses and called ‘Santé!’ Standing beside me, Baptiste nudged me with his elbow, smiling, ‘See? They love you.’
“And gazing about the ballroom, I took a small, grim bow.