Chapter VIII. Forgefire
VIII
FORGEFIRE
“IT WAS THE scent that woke me, somewhere in the deep before dawn. Silverbell and blood, soft as candlesmoke, snaking its way down to my gut and digging in its teeth. But as I opened my eyes in that quiet night, my belly filled with oily ice.
“She stood at the foot of my bed, waif thin, silent as ghosts. Her skin was corpse pale, veiled in a ragged dress, dark as new midnight. Her face delicate as a doll’s, one hand reaching toward me.
Hair black as her mama’s, eyes grey as my own, wide and limpid and fixed upon me as she whispered the word that broke my heart.
“‘Papa.’
“‘Patience.’
“‘I can’t see. It’s dark here, Papa. It’s so dark and so cold.’
“‘Oh, God…’
“‘Why didn’t you protect me? ’ Bloody tears spilled down her cheeks, dripping upon the floorboards. ‘You promised to always protect me.’
“‘I’m so sorry, baby. I tried.’
“A pattering began upon my skin, a soft drumbeat rising in tempo, the scent washing over me in waves. Her tears had become rain, I realized—raining blood, floods of crimson now sheeting down from the darkness above. It drenched my daughter through, drenched me too, thunder rocking the hidden skies. Patience called for me like she’d done as a child—crying in the night when the storms grew loud.
I tried to reach her, clawing across my flooding bed, the song I’d sing to her echoing beneath the red tempest’s roar.
“Sleep now, my lovely, sleep now, my dear,
“Dark dreams will fade now your papa is near.
“Fear not the monsters, fear not the n—
“A dark shape loomed behind her, rising between the raindrops.
I saw a porcelain smile, a long red coat, midnight-blue hair.
I cried warning as Celene peeled her mask aside, revealing the awful features beneath.
The skin on the lower half of her face and throat was torn away, her jaw naked bone, mouth brimming with razored teeth.
“‘Celene, no!’
“My sister pressed her hands upon my daughter’s shoulders, dead eyes fixed on mine as she hissed with all hell’s hatred.
“‘By thisssss blood shall we have life eternal.’
“I screamed as she opened her mouth, those fangs an endless multitude, filling all my horizons. But Celene’s throat bulged then, her jaw distending, dead eyes gone wide.
And from the dark gulf of that dreadful maw spilled a serpent, long and red and sleek, scales glittering like rubies, and eyes of burning flame fixed upon mine.
“‘GAbrIEL,’ it whispered.
“‘GAbrIEL.’
“‘Rise and shine, Chevalier!’
“The voice ripped me from darkness, the curtains of my boudoir yanked aside to let a shear of bloody light through the windows. A dim daysdeath sun had limped far above the horizon, a silhouette framed against its glow, dark tresses and pale skin, and for a moment I thought I’d dragged my sister back across the veil of dreaming.
“‘Come along, sleepyhead. The whole city awaits.’
“I frowned, heart athunder as my nightmare faded, realizing who the woman was.
“‘Mlle Odette…’
“‘Fairdawning, Chevalier.’ The maid chuckled. ‘Though dawn is long past, I fear.’
“I pushed my knuckles into my eyes, willing the awful remnants of that dream begone. Dragging a shaking hand back through my hair, I peered around the room, dimly remembering the events of the feast last night; the four bottles of wine I’d drowned my thirst with before retiring to the bedchamber my grandfather had gifted me.
My boudoir was opulent, all mahogany and polished leather, an ornate four-poster bed big enough to lose a herd of sosya in at its heart. I sat up slow, wincing at the light.
“‘Seven Martyrs … What time is it?’
“‘Near noon.’ Mlle Odette shot me a teasing smile, binding back the curtains. ‘Good Frère Lachlan sent me to see if you were still breathing.’
“I groaned, pulse dimming, dream fading in the grim light of day. Yet still, that scent endured, that blood, beautiful, maddening, burning in my belly so bright and real I checked my skin to see if those red rains had drenched me true.
“And blinking up at the maidservant fussing at the drapes, revelation slowly dawned.
“Young Mlle Odette was in her moonstime.
“The thought sent an unwanted thrill along my skin, down my tingling spine, to land humming in my nethers. I closed my eyes against the sight of her, head still thumping from my bender, trying not to think how easy it would be to—
“‘Come along, Chevalier, your comrades await.’
“The maid dragged my blankets aside, meaning to roust me from bed. A playful smile curled her lips, parting in a gasp as she realized I slept naked beneath. As she stammered apology, Odette’s eyes drifted lower, a hot flush pinking her cheeks.
The scent of her blood was filling the room, after all, and the state of me had grown somewhat… ”
“Enthused?” Jean-Francois asked.
The Last Silversaint sipped his wine, abashed. “Quite.”
“A rather rude awakening all around then.”
Gabriel scoffed. “I certainly thought so. But as Odette saw what waited beneath those covers, she didn’t look away as I’d have expected. Instead her gaze lingered, drinking in the inkwork on my skin, the scars and muscle, up, up to the eyes now watching her.
“‘Do you mind?’ I asked, brow raised.
“‘… No,’ she replied simply.
“‘Will that be all, mademoiselle?’ I asked, scowling now.
“‘If it please you.’ Dark eyes pierced mine, her scent kissing my tongue. My gaze flickered to her throat, adorned with a black silk choker and a locket of gold.
“‘It would please me,’ I growled. ‘Au revoir, Mlle Odette.’
“‘Au revoir, Chevalier.’
“With a perfect curtsey, Odette slipped from my boudoir, azure dress rustling like old summer leaves. I could smell her still, hear her pulse, quickening as she poked her head back through the doorway, glancing to the golden bell at my bedside table.
“‘Ring if you’ve a need.’”
Jean-Francois tutted, turning a new leaf in his tome. “Thirsty little strumpet.”
“I’ve told you before, Historian. Folk are drawn to the darkness within palebloods. Just as they’re drawn to the vampires who made us. Some loathe us, others adore us, but none ignore us. And not to strum my own lute, but I was something of a legend.”
“Still. The good mademoiselle was carrying on rather shamelessly, oui?”
“You’re one to fucking talk, vampire.”
“I am actually,” the historian said, smoothing down the page.
“You hold flesh cheap as water,” Gabriel scowled. “You gave Dario to me last night. Offered me Meline, too. You’ve doubtless bedded every thrall who serves you, and you’d gladly offer them all to me if you thought you’d have a chance to watch. Or join in.”
The Marquis chuckled.
“You sound like my mother. But you are mistaken in one respect. For while I am indeed a hopeless hedonist, I’ve no shame about it at all.”
Jean-Francois dipped his quill, tapped the golden nib upon the bottle’s lip.
“… That offer still stands, by the way.”
Gabriel gritted his teeth, sipping his wine. Jean-Francois’s gaze drifted to the sliver of light beneath the cell door. The shadow of the woman lurking outside.
“Thirsty?”
“I emerged a little after noon,” the silversaint continued.
“Fresh shaven and well scrubbed after months of endless mud.
Lachie was downstairs, Charlotte pacing beside him, her eye meeting mine as I descended the grand stair.
My cousin was yet attired like a warrior, long frockcoat cut in a feminine style, breeches not skirts, her hair spilling down to the floor.
Her brow was still marked with ashes, and she held a long bundle, wrapped in oilcloth.
“I nodded. ‘Godmorrow, Dame de León.’
“‘Half the day is gone,’ Charlotte scowled. ‘I was beginning to think you dead.’
“‘I can feel your disappointment from here.’
“‘Quite a celebration last night, brother,’ Lachie smiled. ‘How’s the head?’
“‘Still on my shoulders.’ I glanced to my cousin and took a sip from my hipflask; last of the liquor cabinet upstairs. ‘You’re escorting us to La Forge de San Javon?’
“Charlotte nodded, handing over the bundle. ‘M. Sa-Ismael is already there.’
“Unwrapping the oilcloth, I saw it was Ashdrinker, snug inside her beaten scabbard. We’d not spoken in days and I drew her slow, wondering if I’d be greeted by songs or screams. But her voice echoed in my head, silver, soft as if with sleep.
“Godmorrowmorrowmorrow, Gabriel …
“‘Fairdawning, Ash. All well?’
“All is beautifulfulfulful, my friend.
“‘We’re taking you to the forge now. Baptiste will make you whole.’ I made to slide her back into her sheath. ‘You’ll feel better soon, I promise.’
“Nono, quench me not aready. We do notnotnot talk anymore, m-m-my friend. The sun is shining. The host is singing. Walk with me as once we did in halls of light and love.
“‘As it please.’ Brow quirked, I glanced to Charlotte. ‘Lead on, Mlle de León.’
“Lachie and I followed as my cousin marched through the chateau, past lion’s livery and suits of beautiful platemail, out to the gatehouse at the keep’s rear.
A broad roadway cut in long switchbacks down the cliffside, leading to the city below.
The daysdeath light was grim, the air humid as a trencherman’s codpiece, but still, León was a sight to behold.
The port was warehouses and tavernes and a long boardwalk, a fleet of fishing boats rocking in her piers, a stern fort bristling with cannon overlooking dark waters.
But I noted most of the buildings along the water’s edge were new, the limestone around the city center darker in patches—still stained from when my cousin had burned those vampire broods to ashes.