Chapter X. The Duty of the Damned #2
“‘One moment he’d stood motionless; a statue of onyx and alabaster. But in a blinking, he’d sliced his palms with his fingernails, his blood hardening into blades.
The scent was so potent, the power so strange, I could only gawp in astonishment as his body splashed into a puddle of red, re-formed directly behind the trio.
And then he was dancing between the sands of the hourglass; a blur of black, painting crimson ribbons on the air behind.
“‘The woman’s legs left her body—sliced through clean at the knees.
As she fell, she looked bewildered; the attack so swift, her brain had not yet registered the pain.
But as she struck the floorboards, she screamed, blood fountaining from the stumps of her thighs.
Aleks dropped like a stone into the fray, and Percival dove also; landing atop the bloodied woman like a vulture to carrion.
“‘Aleks hit the Slab from behind, bones crunching, ribs breaking. With a roar, the big Dyvok stumbled, lashing out with his longblade. Like a dancer on a crimson stage, Wulfric struck, taking the Slab’s swordarm off at his elbow.
Steel rang bright as the longblade fell to the floor, coupled with another awful roar of pain.
Flailing, the Slab was borne to the bloody boards by Aleks.
Looking down, I saw Percival sat atop the woman now, finger to her lips as he Pushed with the power of his blood.
“‘Hush now, mother. Have no fear. All will be well now, hussssssh.
“‘All this, the Rake had watched with widening eyes.
I knew not the kinship these three shared, but loyalty among the damned only stretches so far, and never as far as forever.
With a curse, he bolted for the wall, crashing through the bricks as if they were glass.
But I was moving then, stirred to action at last. Flying like an arrow, I struck his back, punching us both through a pile of packing crates into a tumble of mud and broken timber.
“‘He rolled atop me, bigger and stronger, coat and face blacked with muck. I flinched as he struck with his cleaver—all the dreadful strength of his bloodline in the blow. But I was grandchild of the Forever King, and the blade did little more than crumple like paper on my flesh. The Rake’s fist met my jaw, skull ringing with his second blow, his third.
But I hung on, clawing at his face, his eye popping loose as my thumb sank knuckle-deep into his socket.
“‘His scream was cut short—bloody hands twisting his head so savagely, I heard every vertebra in his neck shatter. His body was torn off me then, hanging limp in Wulfric’s grip. My master was spattered red, dark eyes alight, bloodscent hanging thick on the air with the sound of … swallowing. Looking through the hole in the warehouse wall, I saw Percival atop the woman, dug like a tick into her throat. Aleks was likewise drinking, the Slab moaning as she crushed him in a deadly embrace. Wulfric tore the Rake’s doublet away, pale torso bared.
And with not a snarl but a prayer, he sank his fangs into the Rake’s throat.
“‘I watched the Kiss take hold as Wulfric drank, the Rake’s eyes alight. But the Dyvok’s euphoria soon soured as he realized—just as I—that my master was not stopping.
Growling deep, swallowing deeper, every red mouthful dragging that sinner closer to the death he’d so long cheated.
Too wounded to fight, the Rake could only groan, terror bubbling up his throat.
At the last, desperate, he looked to me, lips moving in a silent plea.
And with one last gasp, he simply burst apart.
“‘He’d not been long dead—black skeleton and charred clothes tumbling from Wulfric’s grip.
I looked to Percival, rising from the ruin of the woman he’d drunk.
Aleks was staggering upright, lashes fluttering, ashes smeared across her chin and hands.
And as one—Wulfric, Percival, Aleks—all spoke the same refrain. The same prayer.
“‘By this blood shall we have life eternal.
“‘I knew not what I’d seen; cold horror washing through the most of me. But in my remainder, there was a kind of wonder. Because looking to Aleks now, I could see the traceries of rot in her skin, the too-long-dead dullness of her eyes had receded a touch. The mark of death’s cruel hand had somehow been dimmed by this …
“‘Communion, Wulfric told me, there among the ashes. So it was named by my forebear, Illia. Founder of our Faith. A sacrament, intended to save these poor souls within our own immortal shells, there to preserve them from hellfire until all are judged.
“‘Percival stood by his right hand now, Aleks looming at his left. Wulfric pawed a spatter of blood from his cheek, his voice gone dark and thick.
“‘So now ye know, Petit Monstre. The path by which all Esana may find salvation.
To punish the wicked, to be his monstrous hand upon this earth; all these our callings.
But this be the holiest of our tasks. Burden and blessing both.
For the weight of those saved is heavy, and the wait for the Redeemer is long. But such is the duty of the damned.
“‘I was amazed at all this. Remember, I’d been raised a God-fearing girl, and ever I’d sought a way to save my immortal soul. But glancing again to Aleks—her eyes a touch sharper, her skin more wholesome—I wondered if I might not redeem soul and body both.
“‘And so I bowed my head and answered. Until judgment comes.
“‘Wulfric seemed pleased with that; with the fire and hunger now flickering in my mind. And with no more ado, we left those ashes where they’d fallen, and returned to the priory.
Percival was in a playful mood for nights after, carrying me about the library on his shoulders in a display of his fresh-stolen strength.
Aleks studied the grey of her fingernails, the skeins of rotten veins beneath her skin, the mark of death now faded.
“‘For my own part, I prayed with newfound fervor after that night. Diving into the Faith headfirst, headlong. I slew sinners with holy abandon, each murder a prayer to God, writ in blood. I read every word on the Esana in Wulfric’s library a hundred times over, I prayed like a saint to Illia every dawn and dusk, giving myself over utterly to her path toward redemption.
And in my private moments, alone in my coffin, I ran slow fingertips over the ropes of sticky muscle and bone that had been my face, and I wondered.
“‘It was nights later I found myself beneath his window again, the blood of some dead murderer on my tongue.
My face was upturned, snowflakes pressing gentle kisses upon my eyelids as I listened to Laurent play—the grim but sweet Memoria Di.
The hymn seemed appropriate somehow, and so caught up was I in its spell, in blood-born fancies of what I might be and become, I almost did not notice Laurent had stopped playing.
“‘I opened my eyes and found him on the balcony above, just a handful of feet and a lifetime away.
Skin like cream and hair like gold, sightless eyes heavenward.
I wondered what he was thinking. Wondered if I stole enough strength through communion, if I might simply peer inside his head, speak to him as my master spoke to me.
“‘But what would I possibly say?
“‘You did not run away tonight, he called.
“‘I froze; a fox as the hounds start baying. He was talking to me, I realized. He knew I was there. Cursing myself a fool, I turned, snow crunching underheel.
“‘No, please don’t go. You needn’t be afraid.
“‘I hung still, terrified, most of me wanting to flee but …
“‘Are you … an angel?
“‘I scoffed at that, and at the sound he smiled. Though he saw nothing, he yet swiveled his head toward me, wind tousling golden curls about his cheeks.
“‘You smell like a church. Incense and candlesmoke. And you must have wings to get over the walls every night. What is your name, mademoiselle?
“‘I spoke then, my first words to him, slow and slurred.… Celene.
“‘I shook my head.
“‘I am no angel.
“‘He blinked at the shape of my voice, but smiled regardless, crooked and dimpled.
“‘Well, you cannot be a devil, Mlle Celene. The Fallen have no ear for hymns, I wager. And you’ve been stealing in here to listen to mine for months now.
“‘I should’ve fled. Turned and vanished from his life evermore. Wulfric’s rage would be boundless if he learned I’d revealed myself to this boy, blind or no.
The Vow I spoke every night told me I must hold no mortal bond dear.
Yet, I was so overwhelmed to be actually speaking to him, I found the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
“‘You play beautifully. Like God’s own songbird.
“His smile dimmed then. In his gilded cage.
“‘I said nothing, afraid of my voice, searching his blind eyes for meaning.
“‘Forgive me, he scoffed. There are thousands in this city who’d trade places with me in a heartbeat. I am blessed, I know it well. Freedom is a small levy for a life so charmed.
“‘I frowned, not understanding. This boy was the son of a baron. He’d wealth and power beyond anything I could imagine. He could have anything he wanted.
“‘Freedom?
“‘My parents do not permit me to leave the chateau grounds, save for mass on prièdi. He shrugged. Mama fears for my safety, and Papa, of what everyday folk might think of my affliction. I am supposed to rule this city one day. But I’ve never wandered her streets, nor heard her songs but from a distance.
“‘I stared at him; his mystery unraveling. I’d thought it odd—that this princeling would stand at his balcony near midnight and talk so free to a stranger. But looking at him now, clinging to those rails like a prisoner to the bars of his cage, I understood.
“‘Laurent Durand was lonely.
“‘Would you like to?
“‘He frowned at my whisper. Like to what?
“‘Hear her sing up close?
“‘He scoffed again, brushing a curl from his brow. I’d love nothing more. But unless you truly are an angel, and can bear me hence on golden wings—
“‘He flinched, blind eyes wide with shock, stepping back as I scaled the wall in a blinking and alighted onto the balcony beside him. He might’ve fled inside then, save for the touch I pressed upon his cheek, gentle as falling snow.
“‘Be unafraid, Laurent Durand. I will never hurt you.
“‘What … what are you?
“‘I am like you. I am alone.
“‘He hung still, clearly wondering if he should call the gens d’armes. But steeling his jaw, he reached out, gentle hands questing until they brushed my scarf. He held still a moment, his question unspoken, and I understood he wanted to see me, in the only way he could. He touched my hair then, fingertips drifting over my lashes, toward my bare cheeks and the terrible wounds below. I’d not felt another’s hand upon me since Philippe died, and I was almost unmoored by it.
But much as I ached at his touch, I feared what he would see, and I reached up, holding him still.
“‘Take hold of my hand, Laurent. If you’d not be alone.
“‘Silence hung between us, and I’d have given my eternity to know what he thought then. All the moments, all the hurts, all the tiny deaths he’d suffered that brought him to this. But in the end, I knew not what he was thinking. Only what he did.’”
“And what did he do, Mlle Castia?”
The Last Liathe looked across the river then, her gaze gone hard.
She searched the historian’s torchlit eyes, looking for sarcasm.
But she found no trace, and thoughts brushing feather-soft upon the Marquis’s, she felt only genuine curiosity, and a hint of the candlelight warmth that dwells ever in the heart of the secret romantic.
The only reply she gave was a smile.
Jean-Francois smiled in kind.
“He took your hand.”