Chapter XIV. Father of Whispers #2
“‘WELL HATH MY brAVE GERRARD SERVED ME. BUT VENERABLE WAS HE WHEN I CLAIMED HIM, AND E’EN BLESSED BY MY BLOOD, TIME AND TIDES SHALL RUN THEIR COURSE. SWEET CHARLOTTE HATH SERVED ME WELL, BUT SHE IS MARRED IN THE EYES OF MY PEOPLE. I COULD COMMAND THEM TO LOVE SHE WHO BURNED THEIR BABES IN THEIR CRADLES, NO DOUBT. BUT NO NEED NOW HATH I. NOT WHEN LEóN ALREADY ADORES THEE. SAVIOR OF NORDLUND. SWORD OF THE REALM.’
“One pale hand rose toward me.
“‘COME YE NOW. SET ASIDE THY BOOTLESS QUEST, DEATHSEEKER. DEAR FABIéN IS A MONSTER BEYOND THY KEN, AND DARKNESS ABIDES WITHIN HIM YE CANNOT HOPE TO FATHOM. NO MAN OF WOMAN BORN MAY SLAY THE FOREVER KING.’ He tilted his head, eyes boring into my soul. ‘I FEEL THE HUNGER IN THEE. THY THIRST COME FULL TO BLOOM. ALL PASSION SHALL I INDULGE. WOMAN. MAN. GIRL. BOY. WHISPER, AND IT SHALL BE THINE. DESIRE SHALL BE THY LAW. THEIRS FOR THEE, AND THINE OWN FOR ME. FOR THERE BE NO GREATER CHAIN FORGED BY HEAVEN’S TYRANT THAN THE LIE OF LOVE.’
“I clenched my jaw. The vampire only smiled. And lifting his wrist to pallid lips, Ilon bit deep. The scent struck me so hard I was near floored—bright, brilliant, dripping from the wound now with a cadence that mirrored my own hammering pulse.
“‘TWICE AREADY HATH YE SUPPED OF ME, DEATHSEEKER. ONE MORE DROP, AND YE MUST FALL.’
“The beast in me roared as he lifted his bleeding hand; the power, the promise, the blood of one of the eldest vampires under heaven now only a few steps away.
And toward it, like a blind man I stumbled.
Lips already parted. Mouth flooding with spit.
But against my fingertips, still I felt it in my hem; that vial of glass concealed in the stitching.
“Dior’s blood.
“I glanced toward Lachlan and Baptiste, but their eyes were closed like the others’—pinned in this monster’s thrall.
We’d all been duped into supping of his blood; the toast at the feast, the sacrament at mass, the wine in my boudoir.
I supposed they’d drunk a third time that very dusk.
And though I’d not swallowed Odette’s final offering that night, Ilon had poisoned me too—I knew it from my dreams. That serpent crawling from Celene’s mouth, that fire burning her to cinders; his blood had been usurping my sister’s red hold over me. But now, stumbling toward his wrist…”
“You felt nothing for him.”
The Last Silversaint fell silent, gaze falling on the historian. Jean-Francois was writing in his tome, but as he glanced up, chocolat eyes snared in storm grey, his quill fell still.
“Oh, I felt something,” Gabriel replied. “Beyond thirst. Beyond madness. Ilon was the most beautiful creature I’d ever laid eyes on, coldblood. To behold him was to adore him. To be near him was to desire him. A desire I’ve never quite forgot.”
Jean-Francois swallowed. “But his blood held no sway over you.”
“No.” The Last Silversaint sighed. “One more gift from the girl I’d failed so terribly.
Dior’s blood had broken Ilon’s hold over me, just as it had done in Maergenn for the thralls of the Dyvok.
But of course, he didn’t know that. I suppose that’s why he let me get so near.
Bottomless eyes fixed on mine as I stumbled closer, sinking to my knees before my new God.
The Father of Whispers smiled down at me like the end of all things, sweet oblivion in his eyes as he raised that bleeding wrist to my lips.
“‘DRINK AND BE MINE.’
“I took hold with my left hand, his flesh smooth and cool as porcelain. And with my right, I tore my shirt’s hem, rising again now, lips peeling back from my fangs as I swung that vial of blessed blood right toward that bastard’s perfect smile.
“And swift as silver, he stopped me.
“I barely saw him move; so quick, he painted a blur on the air.
His hand seized mine, and I screamed as my bones were crushed to powder.
Ilon hauled me skyward, agony flowing down my broken arm, the vial falling from senseless fingers.
Desperate, I caught it with my other hand, crushed its throat open, meaning to fling it into his face.
But swifter than I could see, he smashed my blow aside.
I cried out as the vial shattered, that holy blood sprayed, not onto Ilon but the pews, the flagstones, folk in the front row.
And with ungodly strength, the ancien threw me backward, crashing so hard into the altar it split asunder.
“I fought back darkness, dragging my eyes open.
Bloodied and broken, I lay upon those flagstones carved with the names of my ancestors, wondering if this place might become my tomb.
But Ilon loomed over me, a candlelight silhouette, intent not to end but slave me.
Seizing hold of my throat with bloodied hands, the vampire smiled.
“‘ALL THIS CITY BE MINE,’ spoke the thousands around us. ‘EVERY MOTHER, EVERY CHILD, EVERY BODY IN LEóN THAT YET DRAWS brEATH.’
“I wheezed, managing to whisper despite my agony.
“‘Shame he doesn’t b-breathe…’
“The vampire blinked, silent question in fathomless eyes. And in answer, the stained-glass portrait of Gabriel behind us shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, and through that razored gulf, another angel flew, his name dripping from my bloody lips.’
“‘Aaron…’
“He sped like an arrow, greatcoat of midnight blue and locks of spun gold streaming behind him. In his hands—still black and charred from Lachlan’s ink—he wielded Epitaph, the sword of dread Nikita, taken from that ancien’s still-warm ashes.
And intent to add another elder to his tally, Aaron swung that dreadful blade right at Ilon’s throat. ”
“How?”
The Last Silversaint blinked over his goblet, downing the remainder before replying.
“How what, Chastain?”
“How did de Coste know you were in need?” the vampire demanded. “And after the bloody parting between you, why had he even returned to the city?”
“He never left.”
Jean-Francois blinked, his quill fallen still once more. Gabriel took up the Monét, pouring the last of the bottle into his golden cup. And leaning back in his chair, leathers creaking, the Last Silversaint sighed, brow creased in thought.
“Listen … it’s difficult to capture with simple words what all this had been like.
Looking back now, it’s like … squinting through smoke.
Being drunk without drinking. Vampires of Voss blood can read minds, and have skins of iron.
The Dyvok can break wills with their Whip, and break steel with their bare hands.
You Chastain speak with the tongues of beasts, and move swifter than falcon’s wings. But the Ilon…”
Gabriel shook his head.
“There’s a reason they’re called the Whispers, Historian.
Theirs is a subtlety that’s … difficult to explain.
Your emotions aren’t truly your own in the presence of their elders.
Ever since we’d entered León, every part of us—our fears, our doubts, our desires—all had been wound tighter.
Quicker to rage. To thirst. To lust. Wrongness in the very air, yet impossible to put a finger on.
When Aaron and I were initiates in the Order, old Greyhand summed up what it was to fight the Ilon.
The hunter who cannot trust his heart can trust nothing.
“But if a hunter is lucky, there are some things he can always rely on. And if in nothing else, coldblood, I was ever lucky in my choice of friends.”
Gabriel lifted his goblet, swallowing deep.
“I’d been suspicious since I’d found the Fool in the cellar—saw the wax those bottles of Vin de León had been sealed in, back when my grandmama laid them down.
Crumbling with age. Red. But the bottles they’d cracked for us at the feast, the bottles Odette had brought me in my boudoir, were sealed white. ”
“No flowers now left to stain it,” Jean-Francois murmured.
“That wax was new,” Gabriel nodded. “Someone was tampering with the wine. My unrest deepened when Lachie started flirting with Charlotte. Echoing those words from Bishop Santiago’s homily, word for word.
Santiago himself flinched when I pressed my palm to his skin, like any other thrall would at the touch of silver.
But by then, I already knew something truly rotten festered in that city’s bones. ”
“How?”
“Baptiste. I’d seen him and Aaron give up all they’d ever known to be together. Their love burned bright enough to defy the Blackheart himself. And I was supposed to believe he’d willingly betray the light of his life for want of a bite? There was no way.”
Gabriel shook his head.
“No fucking way.”
“I had thought you were being a bloody fool telling Aaron about the infidelity.”
“Not a fool, coldblood. Just a bastard. First thing I told Aaron in the stables was that he’d been right. Evil did dwell in that city’s heart. We conjured our plan from there.”
“You staged the brawl.”
“Of course we did. Pretending that my only ally not yet poisoned had been stripped away from me. It made me look vulnerable. Alone.” Gabriel twirled his goblet stem, lips twisted. “A clever lion feigns weakness to draw out his prey.”
“But how did de Coste regain his blade?” the Marquis snapped. “It was locked in the armory, and only your cousin had the key!”
“He kicked the fucking door in, of course.”
“But how did he enter the chateau without invitation?”
“I invited him.”
The vampire scowled, dark eyes aflame. Gabriel only shrugged.
“It was my chateau too, after all. Grandpapa declared it such, before all his court.”
The vampire blinked, flipping back through his tome and reading aloud.
“My house is yours, Gabriel.”
Jean-Francois leaned back in his chair. His eyes were locked on the silversaint, smoldering now as Gabriel lifted his goblet, swallowing another mouthful. And shaking his head, the historian brushed his quill over curling lips.
“Admit it,” Gabriel chuckled. “I might be a bastard. But I’m a clever one on occasion.”
“So clever your so-called prey had smashed you near to pulp.”