Chapter XV. In Nothingness #3
Nicolette dropped into another curtsey, the dog now becalmed.
“Apologies, as I say. But dear Grandmama asked me to seek you out.”
The Marquis’s lips curled in a smile that belied his mood.
Jean-Francois disliked Nicolette, you see.
In fact, the only thing that stopped him outright hating her was that to do so would be to grant his young blood-niece far more attention than she was worth.
He disliked Nicolette’s velvet voice. Her pretty face.
Her far-too-modern and admittedly striking sense of fashion.
He disliked that she was nobleborn. That when she said between you and me, what she actually meant was between you and me and anybody else who stands still long enough for me to tell them.
But if there was one thing Jean-Francois loathed about the young viscontessa more than any other, it was her insistence upon using that word.
Grandmama.
As if the Undying Empress of Wolves and Men were some moon-faced mortal sow, all blotchy jowls and saggy teats.
As if the Priori Chastain, First of the Shepherds, the eldest vampire that yet walked this earth plotted her conquests from within the bounds of a rocking chair, sewing needles in lap and grandsprogs wiggling about her feet.
Grandmama.
Honestly …
“And what would our Empress Undying have of me?” Jean-Francois asked.
“She asks how your inquiries with the Last Silversaint fare.”
The Marquis pursed his lips, reading between the lines as he began walking again.
“The Draigann was correct, then. Dame Kestrel and the Voss draw near.”
“Do they?” Nicolette fell into step beside him, that fluffy rat clutched at her bosom. “I confess I’d not heard. Although between you and me, uncle, the longer she takes to arrive, the greater my sense of contentment. Do you think it’s true what they say about her?”
“And what, pray tell, do they say?”
“Oh, come, surely you’ve heard the tales.” Nicolette slipped her arm into Jean-Francois’s, whispering in conspiratorial fashion. “It’s said the Iron Maiden has slain ten thousand men. That there is no Ironheart more fearsome in battle than Kestrel Voss.”
“Well, you would know, sweet niece,” Jean-Francois replied, bristling at her too-familiar touch. “You were ambassador to the Forever King’s court.”
“Well, oui, but I didn’t accompany them onto the field. God, can you imagine?”
“I admit, I cannot.”
“Of course not, you’re a civilized person.” Nicolette squeezed his arm fondly. “All that ghastly screaming. And the smell. God, did you know mortal soldiers actually soil themselves when they die? Some fill their britches before the battle even begins.”
“How gauche.”
“God, I know. You think they’d learn to perish with a little dignity.
Tsk. Cows. Honestly, the blood’s lovely, but I find most of the bodies holding it utterly repugnant.
That’s not to say some aren’t pretty, of course, but—” Nicolette stopped suddenly, eyes gone wide.
“Oh, my God, I near forgot to ask! How’s the new one working out?
That strapping young Nordish thing I plundered on the way home?
Dario was his name, oui? He’s a little dim from memory, but he’s got a magnificent cock—”
“Your gift was well received, sweet niece. Merci.”
“Received?” Nicolette slapped his arm, agape. “You surprise me, uncle. I’d have thought him the receiver and you the giver, how positively scandalous.”
Jean-Francois’s smile was blade-thin. “Quite.”
Nicolette’s smile faded then, and she glanced at Meline and the thralls behind before lowering her voice.
“I wanted to thank you again, by the by. For your kind words in Grandmama’s ear.
I’d have thought bringing her the prizes I did, she’d have showered me in gratitude, but between you and me, she actually seemed a little cross.
Kept going on and on about that wretched girl just like Lord Fabién did, God, she wasn’t that pretty. ”
“It was my pleasure. Les liens du sang, c’est sacré.”
Nicolette squeezed Jean-Francois’s arm again, pressing painted lips to his cheek.
But her smile soon died with the light in her eyes.
The pair had reached a set of huge ironbound doors, wrought with the likeness of Mahné and Phaedra: the twin angels of Death and Fear.
A quartet of thrallswords in Chastain livery stood guard before them, stepping aside as the Marquis and his party approached.
Looking up at the bas-reliefs, Nicolette’s lips parted, and were her pretty face not already bloodless, Jean-Francois was sure she’d have blanched.
“Oh. You’re going … down there?”
“Would you like to accompany us?”
The Viscontessa laughed then, slightly brittle and a touch too loud. “Oh, I’d love nothing more, merci. You know how I adore your company, uncle. But I should return to the bloodfeast. Grandmama is waiting for news.”
“Are you certain?” Jean-Francois raised one brow. “It was you who captured the Last Liathe, after all. And her wretched brother. You’ve no wish to gloat over foes fallen?”
“… No.”
Nicolette swallowed again, shaking her head.
“No, uncle. I most surely don’t.”
Little Henri growled, trembling as he felt his mistress’s trepidation. Nicolette’s deep blue eyes were fixed on Phaedra; dark wings outspread, a goblet and morning star held in the angel’s grim hands. The Marquis patted his niece’s arm.
“Très bien. Tell our Empress Undying then, the task is in hand. Well do I know the stakes at play here. I shall not fail her, nor this house. I vow it.”
His blood-niece said nothing, eyes still fixed upon the Angel of Fear.
“… Nicolette?”
The Viscontessa blinked, dropping into a less than perfect curtsey this time.
“As it please you, uncle.”
She glanced at the doors once more, little Henri growling.
“Be careful down there.”
Nicolette turned with a swish of bloody velvet, departing swiftly down the grand corridor.
At a nod from Jean-Francois, the guards unsealed the doors, a set of broad stairs waiting beyond.
Torches were lit, the Marquis turning his back upon those hateful flames, and together, he and his company descended, the contents of that ironbound chest chinking and clinking as they walked.
This path was familiar now—a black spiral, twisting into the lightless labyrinth beneath Sul Adair—but familiarity brought Jean-Francois no peace of mind, and any amusement at Nicolette’s discomfort was soon swallowed by his own.
This was the darkest prison in the empire.
An oubliette, to hold a monster more worthy of the name than any under heaven.
Last of the Liathe.
They stood before tall stone doors now, sealed with silver chains.
The Marquis watched his majordomo open the padlock, wincing at the burn of silver on her skin.
Jean-Francois nodded to Delphine, the capitaine and five of his swords pushing the doors apart.
And with his precious tome beneath one arm, the historian stepped into the cell beyond.
Rough walls. Damp stone. Utterly lightless.
The only sound was an underground river, rushing in the darkness ahead, and the only sensation, a cold prickling on the back of his neck.
Jean-Francois proceeded inside, torchlight cutting the gloom; the small table upset on its side by the river’s edge, the armchair overturned beside it, the broken chymical globe.
Meline began setting all aright, trying not to look at the thing waiting across the river.
But Jean-Francois could see her now, melting from the dark like a wraith, standing on the light’s cusp and fixing him with eyes black as the waters between.
“Godmorrow, sinner.”
The words were a whisper, soft with menace, yet the monster speaking them looked anything but.
She was slender, slight; a maid trapped forever at the moment of her murder.
Her eyes were black as midnight, hair too, straight as blades and spilling over thin shoulders shrouded in a crimson frockcoat, fine enough for an emperor’s court.
Her face was stark in the gloom, but where once her jaws had been trapped behind a cage of silver, all mangled flesh and naked bone, they were now unveiled, and whole.
The cage smashed loose as her brother tried to kill her, and her old wounds undone by …
… Well. Only she and the Almighty knew that tale.
“Mlle Castia,” the Marquis nodded. “Bonsoir.”
The Last Liathe inclined her head, looking him over like wolf to doe.
“I am surprised to see you here.”
“I am full of surprises, mademoiselle.”
A soft chuckle rang in the dark. “I thought you would starve me for at least a night or two as punishment. You do so enjoy your punishments, don’t you, Jean-Francois?”
“Some less than others. Your company, for example.”
A small smile curled her mouth, gaze softened by what felt like …
affection. Her eyes roamed his retinue; the hulking thrallswords with their burning brands and oaken chest, his majordomo with her black velvet brocade, armed only with a golden platter, a goblet, and a bottle of green glass.
But it was upon her the monster’s black gaze now settled.
Meline had set the chair and table aright, the bottle and goblet upon it, taking up her place at her master’s side once more.
But Jean-Francois felt her stiffen as the monster stared, midnight eyes narrowing to slits, bloodless lips pressed thin.
“The Draigann,” Celene whispered.
“Stay out of her head,” Jean-Francois spat. “Or I will leave you down here to starve.”
Celene blinked, and Meline moaned, swaying a little on her feet. Thrallswords came forward, dragging the woman away as the Last Liathe turned her gaze back on the Marquis.
“Well, we both know that isn’t true.”
“Are you calling me a liar? Black! Black! cried the kettle to the pot?”