Chapter XV. In Nothingness #2
Jean-Francois glanced up from his history, quill falling still. Silence filled the room, a quiet so deep that the sound of the silversaint’s galloping heart seemed deafening. The vampire fixed him in his gaze, but he refused to meet it.
“In nothingness?”
Gabriel lifted his goblet, spilling the last few drops onto his tongue.
But he made no reply.
“… Gabriel?”
“I’m thirsty, coldblood.”
“Are you telling me you killed—”
“I’m telling you I’m thirsty.”
The historian pursed his lips, looking his prisoner up and down. “I have told you once, and I shall tell you again. My Empress wishes the whole of your tale.”
The silversaint snarled, soft and deadly.
“What did you do to sweet little Odette, Gabriel?”
“Goddamn you, get me a FUCKING DRINK!”
The Last Silversaint rose from his chair, seizing the empty bottle on the table.
He flung it into the wall, shattering into a thousand glittering shards as he flashed toward the historian.
Hands sinking into the armrests, looming up into the vampire’s face, he snarled with razored teeth, glowered with burning eyes.
“Your Empress gives not one drop of piss what I did to that woman. And you’re no priest, that you might shrive me of my sins. I’ll not spill my guts so you might bathe in the slop, Chastain. So get me a fucking drink, before I take one from you.”
Spittle flecked the silversaint’s lips, madness boiled in the red of his eyes.
But Jean-Francois remained perfectly still as he stared at the man, the myth, the monster unveiled.
The door burst open, Capitaine Delphine and a cadre of thrallswords spilling over the threshold with blades drawn.
But the Marquis Jean-Francois, historian of the Empress Margot Chastain, raised one alabaster hand.
“Stand down, Capitaine.”
The big man glowered, eyes drifting between Marquis and madman.
“Are you cert—”
“Quite certain. Await me outside, Delphine.”
The capitaine stared at Gabriel like wolf to bleeding lamb, but the silversaint ignored him, eyes still fixed on Jean-Francois’s.
With clear reluctance, the thrallswords did as commanded, blades sliding home, plate armor clunking as they retreated but slowly from the room.
The vampire spoke then, soft as smoke, their lips just a breath apart.
“If you wished to intimidate me, Gabriel, it was a mistake to reveal your heart’s desire. While I’ve no doubt we’d both delight in any attempt to slake your thirst on me, we each of us know you’ll not risk throwing your life away until you’ve seen your sister die.”
Gabriel blinked, the rage in his eyes softening.
Jean-Francois smirked, leaning even closer as he whispered.
“I’m also quite a clever bastard on occasion.”
Their lips almost touched as the historian chuckled softly, chocolat eyes locked on storm grey.
A dozen heartbeats passed before the silversaint eased back.
But so he did, muscles unknotted, fists unclenched, glass crunching beneath his boots as he sank back into his chair.
Brushing a lock of hair from his lips, Gabriel nodded.
“You have your moments, vampire.”
“Meline?”
At the Marquis’s call, his faithful thrall appeared in the doorway, hands clasped before her.
She was clad in a wondrous gown of black velvet and lace, skirts spilling in a black flood to the glass-strewn flagstones.
Her eyes were downturned, but she risked a small glance at the silversaint, lips twisting at his subjugation.
“Master?”
“Fetch our guest another bottle, love. His tongue grows parched, and we must leave him some amusement before we bid him adieu.” That maddening smirk only widened. “I doubt Dario has recovered from Chevalier de León’s affections quite yet.”
The maidservant bowed, retreating from the cell once more. Gabriel lifted his chin, fingers drumming on his leathers as he regarded his jailor.
“Adieu?”
The historian was already packing his history away, the great tome closed, the golden quill cleaned with usual fastidiousness.
“I’ve noticed your temper grows frayed when you grow wearied, Gabriel.
Methinks you’ve earned a breather for now.
There’s yet more to your tale, of course, but another waits in this tower with a story to tell. ”
The silversaint’s eyes flashed, rage setting fire to cool storm grey.
“I’ve no idea why you bother. Every breath Celene steals is drawn only to lie.”
“Because your dear sister knows the path the Grail walked after you walked away from her in Maergenn.” The vampire chuckled, rising to his feet and straightening his cravat. “And because she hates you almost as much as you hate her.”
“I didn’t walk away from Dior. I thought she was dead. And what came next … I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”
The Last Silversaint lowered his gaze, shoulders slumping as he whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
Jean-Francois arched one pale eyebrow in question.
“For losing my temper just now,” Gabriel replied. “For attacking you the first night we spoke. You and I aren’t friends, Jean-Francois. We aren’t anything close. But for all the depths of the gulf between us, we do have one thing in common.”
“Indeed?”
“We’re both playthings of Margot Chastain.”
The vampire sneered, turning swift on his embroidered heel.
“And the heavens grew red as heartsblood. And the tempest cracked the sky. And the rain was like to the tears of all the winged host fallen.”
Jean-Francois turned back to Gabriel, fingers steepled at his lips as he recited.
“Those priests of gods false and covenants broken, numbering all the fingers on hell’s burning hand did stand in bleak amazement. And the Redeemer raised his eyes to his Almighty Father’s throne, and his heart did stain the bones of the earth, and with voice akin to thunder, he cried…”
“By this blood shall we have life eternal,” Jean-Francois finished.
“The things you’re about to learn, vampire…”
Gabriel shrugged, leathers creaking as he leaned back in his chair.
“Well … if you’ve wish to talk afterward, you know where to find me.”
Jean-Francois only scoffed. With a whisper of velvet, the soft perfume of ashwood and desire, Meline stepped back into the room, a golden platter on her hand.
The historian watched the silversaint watching her, leaning forward and setting down another bottle of Monét before him.
Gabriel’s eyes roamed her slender wrists, drifting over the pale, delicious swells above her corset to the pulse hammering down her throat.
As his majordomo met the silversaint’s eyes, the historian saw her suppress a shiver.
Some loathe us. Others adore us. But none ignore us.
“I could bid Meline keep you company if you wish?” the historian offered, chocolat eyes twinkling. “You might get lonely up here all by yourself?”
The silversaint lifted the bottle, cracking the wax seal with his thumbnail.
“Merci, coldblood. But I’ve company aplenty for now.”
“Drink slowly, Gabriel,” Jean-Francois warned. “I may be some time in hell.”
“No fear, mon ami.”
Gabriel smiled bitterly, filling his goblet to the brim.
“I have patience.”
The historian turned, sweeping from the cell in a flurry of dark silk and hawk feathers. Meline followed, Delphine locking the ironbound door behind them.
Reaching into his pocket, the Marquis set one of his familiars on the stone—little Claudia, her whiskers twitching, black eyes gleaming.
And leaving her to watch within, a cadre of men on guard without, he strode down the tower stairs, Meline and Delphine and a dozen other thrallswords following in his wake.
The Marquis was troubled, of course; the silversaint’s barbs about his dam striking a little too close to home.
But he’d precious little time to brood on it.
Descending the tower, he was joined by another pair of thralls, a large ironbound chest between them.
He could hear Margot’s feast with the Dyvok underway, voices murmuring beneath the hymns of a choir of castrati, their song ringing on the gables overhead.
Reaching the grand hallway below the tower, Jean-Francois could smell the perfume of wrists opened into golden goblets, of powdered flesh and dew-damp thighs.
He wondered if he had time to slip inside and snatch a cheeky bite; his mother’s morsels were always choice.
He pondered the finale of the silversaint’s story, picturing Gabriel writhing naked upon crumpled sheets, sinking hilt-deep into his victim, Meline’s skin prickling as he glanced toward her.
“Oh, there you are,” came a bright voice. “Godmorrow, uncle.”
Jean-Francois stopped, thralls arrayed behind him, staring at the figure gliding on gilded heels down the red carpet toward him.
A tall and stately woman, her skin pale as new alabaster.
Long golden hair was woven about her brow in a beautiful wreath, her magnificent gown spilling to the floor in crimson waves.
In the crook of one arm, she held a tiny puff of fluff—some breed of Elidaeni terrier more kin to rat than hound.
“Viscontessa Nicolette. How now, sweet niece?”
“Je vais bien, Marquis, merci beaucoup.” The woman dropped into a perfect curtsey, her Elidaeni accent prim and nobleborn. “Apologies for my interruption, you seem on your way somewhere and my God, that frockcoat is absolutely fabulous.”
“Merci.”
The Marquis stood silently, waiting for his blood-niece to state her business. But Nicolette remained silent, brow slightly arched, head slightly tilted.
“Your gown is also lovely,” Jean-Francois finally said.
“Oh, this dusty rag.” The Viscontessa waved him off, chuckling. “It’s almost older than this castle. Between you and me, I was honestly thinking of giving it to one of my thralls.”
The little dog fixed beady eyes on the Marquis and let out a small, high-pitched bark. Nicolette pressed one pale hand to the beast’s snout, tutting.
“Hush now, Henri, this is Uncle Jean-Francois. You know him.”
“What can I do for you, sweet niece?”