Chapter XIX. A Taste of Home
XIX
A TASTE OF HOME
“WELL.” JEAN-FRAN?OIS ARCHED one brow, smirking. “Shit again, I suppose?”
Celene hung her head, dragging a claw over the oily stone. “Indeed.”
“I confess, Mlle Castia, I’m unsure whether or not I should have seen that coming.”
“It was the worst possible thing that could have happened to us at the time, Marquis. Of course you should have seen it coming.”
The historian chuckled. “For folk who claimed to have the Almighty on their side, you do seem to have been toyed with rather relentlessly by heaven’s sovereign.”
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways.”
“Surely you can do better than th—”
Jean-Francois fell silent, a heavy thumping echoing on the walls. He glanced at his majordomo, Meline stepping toward the stone doors behind him and pushing them wide. The Marquis recognized the newcomer’s scent without needing to turn.
“Well, well. My brave young beau, back from the dead.”
Dario bowed, eyes downturned. “Master.”
“Are you quite sure you should be up and about?” The historian regarded his young thrall fondly, noting the shadows beneath his eyes had faded, his pallor flushed once more. “Not that I’m displeased to see you so soon, but our Gabriel did drink you awfully dry.”
“Forgive me, Master. But I am sent by Her Grace’s command. Dame Kestrel draws ever closer to Sul Adair, and the Empress has demanded a report on your progress.”
“As is her right. But why have you dragged from your sickbed? Where is…” Jean-Francois frowned, pinching his nose. “Oh God, Meline, what is her name?”
“Jasminne, Master.”
“Jasminne.” The Marquis snapped his fingers. “That little strumpet could have delivered this news as easily as you?”
“Jasminne is at the feast, Master. Entertaining the Draigann and Her Grace.”
“… Oh.”
The historian pouted, twirling his quill through clever fingers.
“Pity. That girl had rare talent.”
Sighing, Jean-Francois shut his tome. The Last Liathe watched from across the waters, torchlight gleaming in the solid blacks of her eyes. The historian cleaned his quill, slipped it back inside its case, and with a sigh, rose from his armchair.
“You are leaving us?” Celene asked.
“I fear so,” the Marquis replied. “Though the pleasure of your company is boundless, mademoiselle, matters are coming to a head swifter than I’d hoped. And I’ve left your dear brother alone quite long enough. He’ll have demolished that Monét by now.”
Chocolat eyes roamed Dario and Meline, a smile curling his lips.
“I imagine he’s rather thirsty again.”
“She will never let you keep him, you know.” Celene tilted her head, eyes on the Marquis. “No matter what promises she made, the Empress of Wolves and Men will not suffer my brother to live.”
Fangs glinted in the historian’s grin. “Why think you I’m in such a hurry, Mlle Castia?”
Jean-Francois turned, stopped by the Liathe’s voice.
“And me?”
The vampire blinked, blond brow rising. “What about you?”
“I have done as you bid. Told all I can, as courteous as I may.” The Last Liathe swallowed, licking at full, pale lips. “We are also thirsty, Jean-Francois.”
The fangs were truly on display now, glittering by firelight as the Marquis laughed.
“Starve, then.”
The smile vanished, and with another snap of his fingers, the Marquis stalked from the cell.
His thralls followed, shutting the door and sealing the Last Liathe inside with thick silver chain.
Young Dario asked for the honors, and the Marquis smiled, handing over the key and watching as the boy shut the lock, wincing as the silver kissed his hands.
The halls of Sul Adair were bustling as the retinue emerged from below.
News of Dame Kestrel’s impending arrival had the servants in a flurry, the air stained with the delicious scent of warm bodies and fresh sweat.
But beneath, the Marquis could smell the red perfume of the bloodfeast in the dining hall.
Low moans echoed down the corridor, cries of passion and pain in the rafters.
Again, Jean-Francois contemplated slipping inside for a cheeky bite, but it seemed his mother was growing impatient.
So instead, the Marquis set to climbing up the wending tower stair, Meline and Dario and his soldiers behind.
Looking over his shoulder, he caught Dario’s eye, smiling as the young lad flushed. He was glad his young beau was on his feet again—he’d roused the silversaint’s passions yestereve after all, and Jean-Francois wondered if Gabriel might not be tempted again.
If he might let him watch.
Or even …
Delphine unlocked the tower door, and the Marquis stepped inside with a smile.
As he suspected, Gabriel was slumped in his chair, long black hair draped about scarred cheeks, a bone-dry wine bottle before him.
The room was lit by the chymical globe on the table, long shadows cast upon the floor, a pale white moth beating frail wings against the glass.
The Last Silversaint raised one dark brow, his voice a dusty growl.
“You took your t—”
He faltered then, storm-grey eyes gone wide as they fell upon the boy. Dario was looking at the silversaint with a cocktail of fear and want in his dark gaze, but as Gabriel rose to his feet, all Jean-Francois saw in him was rage.
“What the fuck is he doing in here?”
“I thought you might like some refr—”
“Get him out.”
“Gabriel—”
“GET HIM OUT OF HERE!”
The Black Lion snatched up the empty bottle and flung it, Dario flinching as it burst on the wall just shy of his head. Delphine bellowed, stepping between the Marquis and the ’saint with longblade drawn, thralled soldiers all about him.
“ENOUGH!”
Jean-Francois’s bark brought stillness to the room. He turned to the thrallboy, bleeding now from a cut on his cheek. And glancing to the silversaint, he saw those storm-grey eyes locked on that trickle of brilliant red, rage swallowed by an awful, soul-sick shame.
“Get him out of here, Jean-Francois.”
Gabriel met his eyes, swallowing hard.
“Please.”
“Await me downstairs, Dario, there’s a love.”
The boy bowed swift, departing as he was bid.
The Last Silversaint withered into his armchair, shaking silvered hands dragged back through his hair.
With a nod of assurance to Delphine, the Marquis sent the soldiers out into the hallway.
Only Jean-Francois and Meline remained, the former sinking into the chair opposite, the latter taking up her place at her master’s side, hands behind her back.
“Thirsty?” the vampire asked.
Gabriel met his eyes; grey rimmed red, cracking all the way to the edges.
“You know I am.”
“Meline could alleviate your suffering, mon ami.”
The Last Silversaint looked up at the thrall, jaw clenched so tight his teeth creaked.
His gaze roamed her body, beginning between her thighs, up her wasp-waisted bodice, over the pale bosom swelling above her corset, and settling at last on her throat.
Meline’s pulse was thunder, the choker cinched about her neck bobbing as she swallowed.
Jean-Francois smiled. “Meline, be a dear?”
Meline stepped forward, heart hammering in her breast, shadow falling over the wretch crouched in that chair. And slow, ever so slow, she sank to her knees before him.
“Don’t,” Gabriel warned.
Her hands emerged from behind her back. In one, she held a goblet, the other, a bright green bottle of Vin de León. Watching through the haze of her lashes, she murmured.
“I thought you might appreciate a taste of home, Chevalier.”
“She found it in the cellar.” Jean-Francois smiled. “A clever thing, our Meline.”
Gabriel scoffed weakly, leaning back in his chair.
“Merci, madame.”
Meline placed the cup down and reached under her voluminous chiffon skirts, producing a long, sharp dagger from a hidden sheath at her thigh.
It was finely wrought silversteel—the very same dagger she’d stabbed Gabriel with in fact, when he’d attacked her master.
Eyes locked on the silversaint’s, she sliced the wax open with the blade that had done the very same to him—a silent little power play that delighted Jean-Francois no end.
Smiling, Meline poured now, the sound of wine kissing goblet and the duet of her heartbeat twined with Gabriel’s thrilling the vampire’s skin.
Try as he might to resist, the silversaint’s eyes drifted again to the milk-white promise of Meline’s throat, and beneath that hungry gaze, Jean-Francois saw his majordomo flush.
She was bound by blood to the Marquis, faithful and true, and she hated the silversaint for hurting him.
But more than anything, Meline wanted to please Jean-Francois, and she knew little would please him more than sharing her with the man she now knelt before.
In truth, Jean-Francois knew it would please her too.
The bliss of the Kiss was a rapture unmeasured.
But being Kissed twice over …
“Will that be all, Master?”
Jean-Francois realized Meline was done, standing at his side once more. Gabriel snatched up the goblet, swallowing without pause, red rivulets spilling down his chin.
With no reply forthcoming, his majordomo turned to leave.
“My love.”
Meline stopped at Jean-Francois’s murmur, question in her eyes.
Reaching out slow, he took her hand, drawing her back toward him.
Meline’s gasp hitched in her throat, breath quickening as the vampire pressed pale lips to her wrist, scattering cool kisses over her skin.
Gabriel had stopped drinking now, Meline staring at her master, Jean-Francois at the silversaint as his lips peeled back and those pearl-white fangs sank into her vein.
Meline moaned, guttural and trembling. She placed her free hand to her breast, as if to stop her galloping heart from flinging itself free.
The rubied flood of life washed over the vampire’s tongue, hot, heavenly, filling his dead heart with living flame.
But the vampire drank not long; one mouthful, two, gaze locked on the man opposite, thrilling to see Gabriel could not tear his eyes away.
And with one last swallow, Jean-Francois released his grip, running a bright red tongue over Meline’s skin.
“That will be all, my love.”
“As it p-please you. Master.”
Meline managed to curtsey, almost falling.
Gabriel tore his eyes from her bleeding wrist, filling his goblet to brimming.
Jean-Francois opened his tome as if nothing were amiss, busying himself with quill and ink as Meline staggered to the door, steadying herself against the frame.
Even after she’d left, a perfume of blood and want lingered in her wake.
“You’re a fucking bastard, coldblood.”
Chocolat eyes returned to Gabriel, ruby lips curling.
“Then I am in like company, Silversaint.”
Gabriel scoffed at that, and Jean-Francois laughed in kind, a fond smile shared between them. Pale fingers drummed on the tome, the air heavy and red. Glancing down at the bulge in the silversaint’s britches, the vampire sighed.
“My God, you look good enough to eat right now.”
“Perhaps it’s the wine talking. But you’ve looked worse.”
“That must be magik wine indeed.”
“All wine is magik.”
Jean-Francois chuckled. “Shall we get back to it? There is much left in your story to tell, and time is close to catching us, mon ami.”
“I thought time is meaningless to the timeless.”
“On any ordinary night, surely.”
“The Dyvok pressing your Empress of Wolves and Men to cut off my head, eh?”
“Dyvok.” Jean-Francois yawned. “A paupered line, bereft of sovereignty. They press my Empress for nothing, Gabriel, save the scraps from her table.”
“Then what’s the rush, coldblood?”
Jean-Francois made no reply, buffing an imaginary speck from his talons upon his velvet lapel. But the silversaint stared hard, realization dawning in dark storm grey.
“The Voss.”
“They are close.”
“… How close?”
Jean-Francois shrugged.
“And where are the Ilon?” Gabriel demanded.
“Fear them, do you? Having slain their eldest?”
The silversaint leaned forward, eyes ablaze. He placed his goblet upon the table, not quite swift enough to hide the tremor in his hand.
“Where are they, Jean-Francois?”
“Peace, mon ami. You’ve nothing to fear from Kestrel, nor Kariim. Should you please my Empress, of course. But the sooner you finish your tale, the sooner you get your wish. Poor little Celene, looking into your eyes as the hell she so richly deserves yawns below her.”
“Hell.”
The bulge in the silversaint’s britches had vanished entirely, grey eyes staring into the depths of that chymical globe. Thunder rocked the skies outside, lightning slicing bright upon the walls as Gabriel whispered.
“Did she tell you? My sister?”
“Your sister told me a great many th—”
“About the Five,” Gabriel snarled. “Those priests of gods false and covenants broken. Your dear mama Margot was one of them, Jean-Francois. You know who they served.”
“I know your sister is a liar.” Pale fingers unstoppered the ink bottle, drew out his quill.
“I know you are too. I know the Esani were a line drenched in depravity, and mired in madness. But of one thing above all I am absolutely certain, Gabriel de León. And that is the punishment I will suffer if I fail my Empress of Wolves and Men.”
Jean-Francois dipped his quill, expectant. The silversaint still seemed subdued, casting his gaze to the thin window, the storm raging outside.
“You had liberated the City of Lions, murdering the Father of Whispers in the process. You had gathered an army, equipped with marvels from the mind of Fernando Cortez, forgemaster of León. Your cousin Charlotte, your brothers Aaron, Baptiste, and Lachlan stood united at your side. But the thirst was budding within you. That red madness that claims all palebloods in the end. And you did not even know Dior was alive.”
Gabriel sighed.
“You’re very good at this, vampire. You should become a historian.”
Jean-Francois only smiled. The Last Silversaint took up his goblet again, leaning back in his armchair with the creak of soft leathers, of tired bones.
He drank from his cup, the fruits of his famille’s vineyards, withered now to dust. His hand was steady, the name of the daughter long dead inked across his fingers, glinting silver in the chymical globe’s dull light.
But as he drank, his gaze drifted again to the window.
And his pulse ran quick.
“What did you do next, Gabriel? Where did you go?”
“Where I was always going to go in the end, coldblood.”
Storm-grey eyes drifted from the window to the vampire.
The silversaint shook his head.
“Hell.”