Chapter IX. God’s Own Monster
IX
GOD’S OWN MONSTER
“‘OUT OF MORBID curiosity, how long did it take you to master this?’ Dior panted.
“‘I’d not call myself a master, Dior.’
“She scowled, clawing sweat-damp hair from her lips. ‘You know, when I ran with those pickpockets in Lashaame, one of the older snipes told me to always carry myself in the street with a bit of swagger. Life tends to knock the stuffing out of you, he said. So it’s best to act like you were born with more than your fair share.’
“‘Your point being?’
“‘I was never a fan of modesty, Castia. Especially not the false sort.’
“We were down in the bilge-dank hold as always, midnight bells long faded, ocean song crashing all about us. Dior was taking a breather, cheeks pinked from exertion, pulse pounding. We sat opposite, a bloodstained wooden training sword in hand.
“We’d been trying for weeks to forge her budding skills into something practical—to combine the sword-forms she’d learned from Reyne and my brother with the sanguimancy we’d taught.
But for all her alleged swagger, the Grail seemed unable to concentrate on the blood and her swordplay simultaneously.
Despite her determination, her mind seemed …
unquiet. Her ribs were bruised from our wooden blade, knuckles blue and bloodied, and she’d finally collapsed into an exasperated puddle of rage.
“‘If you wish to see a master sanguimancer at work,’ we told her, ‘wait until you see Mother Maryn unleashed.’
“‘That feels like a long wait for a ship never coming,’ Dior scowled. ‘No offense to your Priori, but she’s spent this whole trip locked in her cabin. She’s not found hide nor hair of Gabe, despite promising to not rest until she did. But all she does is fucking rest.’
“‘A century is a long time to sleep, Dior. Maryn searches for Gabriel as best she is able. But the empire is vast. That mote of herself she sent on the wing will not endure forever. And though we appreciate the gifts of your soldiers each night, we are both…’ We swallowed then, hand to belly. ‘… very thirsty.’
“She chewed her lip, as if debating whether to speak.
“‘Does it bother you? That Maryn doesn’t even know how daysdeath began? I mean, all we’re doing is meant to part the veil, oui? We don’t even know how it started.’
“‘But we know how it ends, chérie. You.’
“‘Well, I hope Maryn shakes off her nightdress soon. Capitaine á Connell says we’re but a few weeks from Augustin. And fuck knows what’s waiting for us there.’
“‘Mother Maryn will be ready. Have faith, mon amie.’
“Dior looked us over, propping one of her last cigarelles on her lips. ‘You look ridiculous, by the by. How am I supposed to concentrate with you dressed like that?’
“We patted the sailor’s slicks we were clad in, head to foot. ‘I know a wise woman once said there are always fucks to give for fashion. But your blood sets fire to any Dead flesh it touches, Dior. Oilskins seemed a more prudent choice than haute couture.’
“She scoffed, rising to her feet and pacing like a caged beast. ‘Seriously. How long did it take to get good?’
“‘It is different for us.’
“I pricked our finger with my thumbnail, holding it aloft.
Our veins were parched, the blood we were rationed every eve barely enough to check our thirst—God only knew what it was like for Maryn.
But still, we willed a tiny drop from the wound, up and into the air.
It hovered, spinning, glittering like a red diamond between Dior and us.
“‘Wulfric’s soul abides within this shell. And his knowledge and power are in part ours now. We did not learn so much as … recall.’
“She stopped pacing, curiosity lighting her eyes. ‘So you know everything they knew? All the vampires you’ve drank? All the souls you carry?’
“‘In a sense. But it is … complicated, Dior. There are many of them now, and it is sometimes difficult to tell where they end and I begin. I know the words to songs I have never heard. Remember places I have never been. The tomes of their knowledge sit upon my shelves, if you will. But the covers are untitled. And I often find them locked.’
“‘What about Aléne Voss?’
“We blinked, gaze sharpening. ‘What about her?’
“‘Well, you’ve got one of the seven Princes of Forever in your library. Can’t you crack her open, see what her father’s plan is? What exactly Fabién wants with me?’
“I peered within us then; to that dark and bloody corner where the Terror dwelled. Seething. Roiling. God, such hellborn rage …
“‘I think not. Even in death, Aléne is very powerful, Dior. There are places in my mind where even I fear to tread now.’
“The Grail shook her head, exhaling grey as she searched my eyes.
“‘Hell of a thing. What you Esana put yourself through.’
“‘The path of the believer is seldom easy. In my bones, I know the teachings of Illia to be true. The Day of Judging promised in the Testaments will come. The Faithful will be gathered up by his hand. On that day, all souls under heaven will be weighed, and hell is exactly the fate we hope to save them from. But faith is no guarantee of happiness. And this road is made to test us. So the question in the end is simple.’
“We pressed our hand to our heart then, silent and empty.
“‘What are you prepared to sacrifice for what you believe?’
“She chewed her lip, nodding slow. This girl had sacrificed a great deal, after all.
“‘Must’ve been hard to swallow, though. When Wulfric laid all this on you.’
“‘I did not need to swallow anything at first.’ I scoffed. ‘Save the rats I hunted through the priory’s bowels. Little Percival mocked me for my appetites. Aleks called me Sillygirl. Even Wulfric’s cat—that little black devil named Grace—looked at me as if I were beneath her.
She never forgave me that night I threatened her with my knife, you know.
If I left my boots unattended for more than an hour, the cur would leave a gift of fresh scat in each.
But I’d vowed I’d not become a monster, and to that I held.
“‘For a while at least.
“‘But even had I wished to hunt mortal prey, I’d not have been able to. The first seasons beneath Wulfric’s wing, he did not allow me to leave the priory.
He taught me little of the Faith at first, save there was one.
He talked of God. Of theology and Testaments.
He conducted a strange, blood-soaked version of the mass I’d been raised with every prièdi.
Sometimes I heard him in the library—meeting with sharp-eyed men in travel-stained leathers, speaking of holy portents, bidding them search for sacred signs.
I know now they were looking for you, Dior.
For omens the Redeemer’s line endured. But when I asked back then, Wulfric told me nothing.
No, in those early years my master educated me only in what I was.
Accursed by heaven and damned by God. Moroi. Maebh’lair. Totelebb. Vampyr.
“‘But even the monstrous serve divine purpose, he told me one night. For all on earth below and heaven above is the work of his hand.
“‘And all the work of his hand is in accord with his plan, I replied.
“‘Véris, Petit Monstre, he said, patting my shoulder. Véris.
“‘We were strolling together, along a grand boulevard in the noble quarter. This was my reward for four years of faithful service—to be finally allowed to walk in San Yves at my master’s side. I admit, I was trembling with excitement at being out in those wondrous streets again. The City of Spears was a beauty I’d only observed from afar; heard but not seen, smelled but not touched.
The Forever King had crossed the Bay of Tears by then, Nordlund and Ossway consumed by war, my brother’s legend full grown.
But aside from a steady influx of refugees, San Yves was yet unscarred, and I thought it a gift to walk in her at last. A blessing for which I was truly grateful.
It never occurred to me that the only reason I’d been denied her splendor for so long was because he had denied it to me.
“‘Wulfric was attired like a nobleborn seigneur: fine greatcoat, cane, and tricorn, dipped politely to the mademoiselles passing us by. I was dressed as a dutiful daughter, out with Papa on a late stroll through the Quartier des Théatres. Like any responsible parent, Wulfric had wrapped his “child” in a thick coat and scarf to spare her the chill. But even with my wounds hidden, it was still a task to pass as human. I’d been working for years at teaching my mangled tongue and jaw to fashion words again.
Speaking slow and careful as we passed a grand fountain of San Antoine, and down the beautiful Rue des Saints.
“‘What then is our purpose, Master?
“‘We wait, Wulfric replied. We watch.
“‘For what?
“‘That knowledge is earned, child. Through faithful service to God.
“‘But how do we serve, if we are accursed by him? How do the wicked do his will?
“‘By punishing those more wicked still.
“‘We stopped. Standing now outside a grand estate.
The house was magnificent, its high fence woven of iron spikes.
The gate was locked, but Wulfric reached out with gentle hand, and the metal gave way.
Pushing the gates aside, he stepped beyond.
I glanced about; quiet midnight streets, lonely winter winds.
And with no small trepidation, I joined him.
“‘Who lives here? I asked.
“‘A priest named Beaufoy. New appointed to San Yves by Pontifex Benét. We hath been watching him these past months. He hath proved a man of … meagre faith.
“‘I glanced to the estate house, faint light burning in the windows.
“‘Why are we here, Master?
“‘To serve God’s will.
“‘I looked at him, uncertain, fire now rising in his midnight eyes.
“‘Do ye remember the Vow? Evil I do, lest evil I be?
“‘No more than the monster he made me.
“‘I blinked, looking once more at that grand estate. I could see a figure now, moving behind the curtains. My skin crawling with goosebumps. This was the home of a holy man. A servant of God, anointed by his Pontifex, his hand upon this earth.