Chapter III. The Sharpest Edge of Want
III
THE SHARPEST EDGE OF WANT
“IT WASN’T THE grandest piss-up I’d ever attended, but it was definitely the most welcome.
“We’d trudged on through the day, catching our new fellows up on our trials.
The road was rough as ever, but God’s truth it was good to have more ’saints on it with us.
The sight of grim Tolman and the handsome Beaufort boys soon had the men in high spirits; talk of our inevitable victory over the Forever King rolling down the line for the rest of the day’s march.
And as we made camp that night, to improve morale further, Charlotte produced five crates of Vin de León from her wagons—the last remnants of our grandfather’s cellars.
“It had been weeks since I’d touched a drop, and my hands were fair shaking as I cracked the wax.
Vodka and homebrew were also hauled from the stores, shared among the soldiers not on duty, and for that single, blessed night, beneath that black autumn sky, our camp was filled with merriments such as we’d not seen since León.
“Tolman spoke not a mumbling word, but it seemed he was a musician, slipping a twin-bladed flute from his greatcoat as we drank around the fire. And though he’d a head like a dropped pie, the music he played was nothing short of beautiful.
The Beaufort boys and I spoke of old battles over a bottle, and my spirits were just as high as the men to have them with us.
Our new recruits weren’t an army, but one member of the Silver Order is worth a thousand men in a battle against the Dead, and we now had five in our company.
“The twins soon shifted focus to my cousin, and though he’d taken a vow of chastity like any other ’saint, Valentino was still a shameless flirt.
Not to be outdone, Lachlan began fencing wits with the pair, and Charlotte found herself under pleasant siege.
I’d noted she often hid her face, dragging her hair over her scars.
But the attentions of the twins and Lachie coupled with the wine seemed to let her forget herself, if only for a night.
Charlotte was laughing harder than I’d ever seen, cheeks pinked, lips rouged with wine.
“‘That cannot be true,’ she scoffed.
“‘I swear it!’ Valentino vowed, hand raised to heaven. ‘Neither of the young femmes in question were any the wiser, I assure you. Or if they were, they never raised objections.’
“‘But surely they could tell.’
“‘My brother and I are twins, Mlle de León.’
“‘Well, you are, but…’
“Here Charlotte glanced to Carlos, while Valentino scoffed.
“‘It’s aright, my brother knows perfectly well I’m the handsome one.’
“‘Certainly the louder one,’ Carlos muttered.
“‘My point is,’ Charlotte said, ‘you’re not completely identical.’
“Carlos shared a grin with his brother.
“‘All twins are identical with the candles blown out.’
“Baptiste got well merry, leading the singing as Tolman launched into a new tune—a bawdy ballad named The Vicar’s Daughter.
Aaron stood on the edge of the firelight, the glow of silver ink ever keeping my brother apart.
But he watched his husband singing in his rich baritone, more and more unbelievable conquests being added to the eponymous lass’s exploits, and in the final verse, as the general, pontifex, and emperor himself joined the fray, I saw Aaron begin to smile.
The song closed, the blackthumb taking a bow as his audience cheered, and looking to his love, Baptiste found Aaron clapping too, an old light come into his eyes.
The big man walked to his husband’s side, taking up Aaron’s hand, pressing gentle lips to his knuckles. Aaron shook his head and smiled.
“‘I love you, sometimes.’
“‘Only sometimes?’
“‘Most times, I just adore you.’
“Baptiste sighed, resting his brow against his beau’s.
“‘Stay with me tonight. We’ve no need to…’ He shook his head, drawing back to meet Aaron’s eyes. ‘I just want to wake with you in my arms. I want it to be like it was.’
“But Aaron’s eyes darkened then. And my heart dropped as I heard him whisper.
“‘It will never be like it was, Baptiste.’
“I watched them part, chest aching for the pair of them. I wanted to take Aaron aside, find some way to have him see reason. But in truth, I’d troubles enough of my own without plunging into theirs.
I’d had a skinful of wine by now—enough to see me stumbling, but not near enough to drown my other thirst. Ever it waited, roused by all these folk about me; the heat of the bodies, the songs of their hearts.
The hole never filled. The empty always waiting. The truth impossible to deny.
“You pay the beast his due, or he takes his due from you.
“The hour was deeping, revels rolling on, and as is the way, I felt nature calling.
With a nod to Lachie, I departed, wandering from music and firelight, bottle still in hand.
Saluting a passing patrol, I chose a stretch of deadwood to serve as my privy; all tangled scrub and wasted trees, strung with asphyxia and blooms of luminous maryswort.
“Paleblood eyes searched that long and lonely night, and I thought of my Astrid then.
She still visited my dreams, but not near as often as she used to.
I was afraid I was forgetting her. And there in the black, far from firelight and song, I imagined her arms about me, the lips of my bottle no substitute, guzzling the last and hurling it into the dark.
“‘Sweet fucking Mothermaid!’
“The cry followed a crash of breaking glass.
With a curse, I pushed through scrub and dead saplings, finding a soldier in León colors.
A young fellow, perhaps eighteen, new mail and sword unnotched.
Nordish born he was; long dark hair and darker eyes.
He was clutching his face, but even before he took his hand away, I smelled it, like a broken bottle to my belly, and as he turned to me, hand falling and that flood spilling, spilling bright and red from the slice in his cheek, I knew.
“I knew.
“‘You’re bleeding,’ I whispered.
“‘Pig-eyed, shit-witted fool, what in the name of mighty—’
“The lad paused, dark eyes going wide as he recognized me.
“‘Chevalier? Did … d-did you just throw a bottle at me?’
“‘Apologies, I didn’t mean…’
“My eyes drifted to that slick of brilliant red, on his fingertips, slipping down his cheek. His jaw was pale, undusted by stubble, the scent uncoiling like a viper in my belly and sliding up my slowly closing throat.
“‘Shit.’ He touched the wound, squinting at bloody fingers. ‘Is it bad?’
“I whispered then, the only truth in that long black night I was sure of.
“‘… No.’
“‘Apologies.’ He shook his head, trying a brief chuckle, tucking one dark lock behind his ears. ‘I meant no offense, Chevalier. Just … startled me, is all.’
“‘We’re a long way from the fire,’ I heard myself say. ‘Shouldn’t be out here alone.’
“‘Had a bit too much to drink. You know how it goes.’
“I could smell the vodka on his breath now, under the far-headier perfume of that ribbon of lush, gleaming life, dripping thick and hot from his chin.
My gaze drifted to the slice in his cheek, pale skin riven crimson by that trail of blood, blood, trying to ignore the storm of my pulse, the depth of my want, the beast within slamming itself against the bars, over and over and ov—
“‘Are you aright?’
“‘No. You’d b-best be gone, boy.’
“‘Sweet Mothermaid, you look ready to fall; here, sit, Chevalier, sit.’
“He guided me to a weeping elm on colt’s legs, and I could feel the warmth of him, hear the pulse of him, so loud and near I almost wept.
He sat beside me, enveloping me in his perilous perfume.
My eyes were closed tight, tight against the sight of that red.
But I could hear the teasing smile in his voice.
“‘I thought you legends of the realm could hold your liquor. You look like you’ve had quite enough to drink yourself.’
“‘I fear not n-nearly enough.’
“‘I’ve a hipflask, if you’ve a fancy? Something to keep us warm?’
“He paused then, drawing breath, all my senses so enflamed that over the song of his quickening heart, I could hear the rasp of his tongue across his lips.
“‘Unless you…’
“I opened my eyes, saw him gazing back at me, lips parted, breath coming a touch swifter. He was pretty. Young. Half-rattled by the bottle blow and liquored enough for inhibitions to crumble. I could see it in him now, as I saw it often. That dark and perilous wanting. Like I’ve said, some loathe we palebloods, Historian. Others adore us.
“But none ignore us.
“‘There are…’
“He licked his lips again, eyes roaming the woods before returning to mine.
“‘There are other ways we might keep warm.’
“I swear God I didn’t want to. No thought behind the motion at all.
But I found my shaking hand rising to that pretty face, warm and smooth beneath my fingertips.
He quickened, stiffened, swallowing thick as I brushed my thumb over that dark and viscous red.
His hand sought mine, drawing it down, smudging the blood across his lips as he drew it into his mouth.
He sighed, lashes fluttering, groaning as he suckled, licked, biting soft.
“He let my hand slip his mouth, eyes glazed as he whispered to the night.
“‘My name is—’
“But my thumb pressed back upon his lips then, hushing him.
“‘I don’t want to know.’
“And my hand closed around his throat.”
Silence rang in the cell, the vampire’s quill fallen still.
He sat motionless, staring at the man opposite, chocolat eyes gone wide and ruby lips parted.
But the quiet stretched on, the Last Silversaint staring at the chymical globe between them, that pale moth beating frail wings ever upon the glass, hopeless and fruitless.
“Is that it?”
Gabriel looked up, brow raised. “What?”
“You heard,” Jean-Francois scowled. “You ravage some fresh young stallion up against a tree in the wilds of Nordlund and that’s all you’re going to give me?”
“I’m not giving you a fucking thing, coldblood. I already said I’ll not bare my soul for your amusement, and you’re no priest to shrive me of my sins.”
“There’s no shame in it, Gabriel.” The historian shook his head in wonder.
“I’ve told you before, beauty may be found across any boundary.
Especially for we who are forever. Blood knows not the meaning of sin, nor mortal man the sharpest edge of want.
You are what you are, just as God made you. Beautiful and horrifying, perfect and—”
Gabriel raised his hand.
“Spare me the sermon. You know what you need to know. The night may be long but this story will be longer if I’m to give you your jollies and your Empress her truth.”
Jean-Francois rolled his eyes. “You grow more like your sister every minute, I swear.”
“Now you’re hurting my feelings, Chastain.”
The vampire scoffed. Meeting the silversaint’s eyes, he began to laugh, and his prisoner laughed in kind.
Despite the grim surrounds, the pair chuckled together like old friends then, Gabriel grinning as he drained his goblet, dragging tattooed knuckles across his mouth.
Jean-Francois found himself staring again, smile fading as he fell into Gabriel’s eyes.
“I say you’re like your sister to provoke you. But in truth … I think perhaps you’re more like me. You know, if talk of sating your thirst embarrasses you…”
A blood-red tongue flickered across soft lips.
“You need not talk about it at all.”
Jean-Francois threw a meaningful glance to that ironclad door. In the thin slice of torchlight beneath, both could see the shadow of Meline, stood dutifully outside.
“Thirsty?” he whispered.
Their eyes met.
The dark deepened.
And filling his goblet, the silversaint rolled on with his tale.