Chapter VIII. With Black Light It Burns #3
“‘He spun on polished heels, whisked out the door. I could feel his words echoing upon my skin—I’d later learn little Percival was of Ilon blood, and he used his gifts to keep his rot-witted comrade in check.
But though she seemed cowed, I could see that great hulk glancing every so often to my neck.
I knew not where I was, nor what these two were about, but I knew hunger when I saw it.
And when Aleks lifted one massive paw, dipping it into my ruined throat and slipping red fingers into her mouth, I broke for the terror of it.
“‘I lashed out with one foot, catching her belly. She buckled as I rolled off the table, dashing for the doorway, but she was on me in an instant, crashing atop me with ungodly strength and smashing me face-first into the floor.
“‘Uglygirl! Badgirl!
“‘Again and again she pounded me into the ground, staining the carpet a deeper red.
I was left broken, skull split, unable to move.
But I was aware of Aleks atop me now, knee to the back of my head, once more lifting her hand and licking my blood off her fingers.
And looking about, sly despite the dull, dead glint in her eyes, she smiled.
“‘Thirsty …
“‘I gasped, trying to scream with my mangled throat, trying to fight with my broken hands as Aleks plunged her fangs into the join between my shoulder and neck. I’ll admit the first sensation was bliss; that ecstasy of which maids whisper and minstrels sing.
But within blood-slick, shivering moments, my bliss was consumed by agony.
“‘She wasn’t stopping, I realized. My veins catching fire as the unlife was torn from them, flooding into that monster’s gullet.
She drank greedily, paws crushing me into the stone, pain swallowing me whole.
I was going to die, I knew it—with all the dreadful certainty of the sheep as the wolf circles.
But I was too broken to fight, barely able to wheeze; a final, bubbling defiance of death spat with all the heat of a faint summer breeze.
“‘N-no …
“‘Aleks was ripped off my back, slung across the room. Crying out as she slammed into the wall, the big woman crumpled to the floor. She rose swift, fangs bared, but her snarl died as she saw who’d struck her, looming over me now with fists clenched.
“‘Master, Aleks whispered, pressing her brow to the floor.
“‘It was him. After all the bloody miles, two years after I’d set out to find him, six lives spent, there he was. My brother’s father.
My mother’s lover. Lord Wulfric. Tall as mountains and pale as snow, hair spilling over his shoulders in curtains dark as ink.
The black cat he’d come to Lorson with—the same one I’d threatened that night with my dagger—sat beside him, blood-red glower fixed on me.
But when we’d first met, all those years ago, Wulfric’s eyes had been the grey of stormwashed skies, same as my brother’s.
As he looked down at me, I saw his gaze was now black as night itself, glinting with the faintest hint of …
“‘I know thee, he said.
“‘I could give no reply, broken and senseless. His eyes roamed the wreckage of my face, skinless ropes of muscle and gore-flecked bone. And gentle as the first breath of spring, I felt his thoughts touch mine, so calm and cool I near forgot I’d been but a breath from death.
“‘Celene Castia?
“‘Oui …
“‘Merciful God in heaven, child … how comes it thou art here?
“‘I told him then. Told him all, mind to mind. It had been years since I’d spoken to anyone really, and my God, I was so grateful to simply be heard again I found myself weeping. He listened to my tale, silent as stone, little Percival and big Aleks watching from the shadows. I saw pain in his eyes—boundless, bleeding pain—when I told him of my mama’s death.
A single tear of blood spilled down his cheek, its scent so dizzying, so potent, I almost forgot my place.
But I told him of my trials, of my deaths, of all I had suffered just to reach his side.
And I clutched his hand then, eyes boring into his, asking the question that had plagued me every night since I’d risen.
I was a child of provincial superstition after all.
Holy ground was barred me, running water burned me, but I’d lived the life of a faithful daughter of the Almighty, and surely, he’d not abandoned me in death.
“‘Am I damned?
“‘I squeezed, blood in my lashes, ruined lips trying to form the words.
“‘A-am I?
“‘He held my gaze, as if weighing me on some hidden scale. The daughter of his old paramour. The sister of his bastard son. A hundred seasons of the earth seemed to dawn and wither between us, air swelling with winter chill as he finally hung his head.
“‘Damned thou art. And we beside thee. Our flesh accursed and our souls hellbound.
“‘I closed my eyes then. The last breath of hope dying inside me. But I felt his hand, gentle as a father’s, reaching out to encircle my own.
“‘But there is hope, Petit Monstre. Even in this darkness, with black light it burns.
“‘He pressed my hands together, like a penitent. And he spoke, thoughts echoing in my head as if my skull were some great and empty cathedral, filled now with prayer.
“‘O Lord of Love, O God of Blood,
“‘O King of Wolf and Lamb,
‘“Thy will be done,
“‘Thy judgment comes,
“‘Alike to bless’d and damned.
“‘Though Dead, by thy word I yet live,
“‘Though cursed, by thy will I now rise,
“‘Bonds earthly I sever, thy servant forever.
“‘And evil I do, lest evil I be,
“‘No more than the monster ye made me.
“‘I met those black eyes, fervor flooding into my cold, Dead chest. I’d been raised godly, and Wulfric’s words filled me with the same fire I’d once felt in our chapel back in Lorson.
It was a prayer he spoke, I realized. Yet not a prayer for mortal men, spoken with living tongues on holy ground by those to whom heaven was promised.
“‘It was a prayer for the likes of us.
“‘The Vow, we call it, he told me. The Vow Esana.
“‘Master?
“‘Wulfric looked up, the little one named Percival watching with knife-bright eyes.
“‘May I have this one? I have never taken communion with one born of Voss. I would be honored to carry her to—
“‘Noooo, Aleks growled. My turn.
“‘Your turn? You lack-witted clot-bucket, it was I who found her—
“‘My turn! Aleks thumped her breast. You pretty aready, Percival. Not rotten, not reeking. Better get, when we drink, we want be l—
“‘ENOUGH.
“‘Wulfric’s voice snapped like a whip, and both vampires fell silent. He’d seemed a kindly soul as he listened to my tale, gentle thoughts bidding me speak, gentle tears spilling down his face.
But he stood now, that devil-black cat weaving among his ankles, and a chill uncoiled in my belly as I saw a terrible wrath in him unveiled.
As they shrank before him, I realized it was not through love that this strange pair were bound to his service.
“‘They were terrified of him.
“‘God hath given us a gift this night, he declared. A wand’ring lamb hath found her shepherd, and we shall not scorn divine providence. Celene abides with us now. I will show her the footsteps our Founder gave us. The path to her salvation. And should she prove worthy—her mother’s daughter—she will one night lay claim to the same title ye both bear.
“‘All my thoughts were atumble—fear and awe, gratitude and curiosity—but it was fervor that finally won me over as Wulfric offered his hand.
“‘Liathe.’
“I fell silent, waves crashing against the hull, Dawnseeker rocking me back and forth like a babe in a father’s arms. I glanced to the porthole, that reflection of our little sanctuary in the hold.
But in the shadows, I saw a deeper shadow then, moving like a shark, his whisper so near and clear I swore I felt his cold breath upon our ear.
“I should have killed thee then and there.
“The Grail drew on her cigarelle, pale blue eyes on mine as she exhaled a perfect ring of grey. I’d noted she always smoked with her wounded hand—rather than be ashamed of her injury, she called attention to it.
My own hands adjusted my scarf, wrapping it tighter around my face.
A long slice of silence filled the space between us, broken only by the swell and the faint call of watchmen that all was well.
“‘Merci, Celene.’
“‘… For what?’
“‘Sharing with me. Training me. I think I might’ve gone insane cooped up on this boat without you. So merci. For … everything.’
“‘You are welcome. Mon amie.’
“‘One question, though.’
“‘Ask.’
“‘You said the wounds Laure left you with were so bad you could barely speak. But now, you speak just fine. I saw your face unveiled when we fought Kiara on the Mère. It’s no oil painting to be sure, but nowhere near as terrible as you say it used to be.’
“‘No.’
“‘There’s a story there you’re not telling me.’
“The whispering choir rose unbidden in my head; all those voices, all those lives, a symphony of bloodshed and brutality. But beneath, like faint angels in the heavens, I heard the dulcet notes of a sonata. Drifting upon wintersdeep winds, pale fingers pressed upon ivory keys, upon marbled cheeks, the ache in me so real, so deep, that for a moment, I wished I’d not burned through eight of my lives, but nine.
“‘A story. But one that is earned, chérie. Your blood can slice twine, oui. But we doubt your enemies will be so kind as to stand still, waiting for you to cut them in half.’
“‘Hope springs eternal.’
“‘One does not achieve victory by hoping, Dior.’
“Nodding, she stubbed her cigarelle out against the post. ‘You’re right. Fuck hope.’
“Cracking her knuckles, she turned her eyes back to her bloody teacup.
“‘Let’s work.’”