Chapter I. To the Abyss #2
And one by one, they dashed after the Maiden.
A pale hand grasped Jean-Francois’s arm, holding him with the strength of centuries. The Marquis gasped, bending double, whimpering as his Empress squeezed.
“My heart thou hast broken with thy failure, Jean-Francois. Were ye not mine own son, ashes and dust wouldst thou be. A shame I name thee. A lecherous, drool-flecked cur, more intent to drench his wick in mortal tallow than serve his mistress’s will.”
“I’m s-sorry,” he whispered. “Forgive me, Mother, I—”
Her hand came down like thunder, a slap so swift and sharp it opened his cheek to the bone. Jean-Francois was sent sprawling, gasping, bleeding in the snow.
“Name me not thy mother, boy.”
“Empress,” he whispered, crawling now toward her. “Forgive m-me.”
“Of forgiveness thou art unworthy, child, ’til thy sovereign’s will is done. And while Margot and her court hunt for the quarry this bespawling doe-eyed coxcomb behind thee was still clever enough to catch, that will ye shall yet serve.”
Behind Jean-Francois, Nicolette blinked—the Viscontessa uncertain if she was being insulted, yet clever enough not to seek clarification. Margot seized a fistful of those golden curls she so adored, wrenching the Marquis up to his knees as he cried out in pain.
“In her cell, the Liathe yet languishes. And I shall have the ending of her tale. Drag thy worthless carcass into the hole that I have hurled her, and wrest truth from her lips.”
Margot released her grip, lip curled.
“If ye fail her again, may God help thee, Marquis. For thy Empress shall not.”
Servants scuttled forth, unbinding stay and ribbon and button, releasing Margot from the prison of that elaborate gown.
Naked, bloodless, the Empress of Wolves and Men stepped onto the cold snow, and with the arching of her spine, the sound of snapping greensticks and ripping skin, a great she-wolf now there stood.
Her fur was ashen blond, streaked with grey, eyes red as heartsblood, gazing at her son in fury.
And with a snarl, she turned and ran after the Maiden, a blur across the snows.
The other fledglings of Margot’s court drifted back inside, cold contempt in their eyes. But a pale hand reached for his, lifting him up from the snows, a little puff of fluff licking the blood from his split cheek.
“Are you well, uncle?” Nicolette asked.
“Well enough, sweet niece,” he winced. “Merci.”
“That was … unkind of Grandmama. I know she is the greatest of us. I know we owe this all to her. But between you and me, uncle, sometimes…”
The Viscontessa hugged her dog, scattering his brow with kisses.
“Well, sometimes she frightens me.”
“You and me both, sweet niece.”
The Marquis turned toward the chateau, but as he set foot upon the stair, the pain overcame him. Clutching his mangled nethers, the vampire staggered, caught silver swift by Nicolette. Placing little Henri upon the ground, his blood-niece slid her arm about him.
“Let me help you, uncle.”
The Viscontessa led the Marquis back up the broad, snow-clad stairs, past bowing servants gathering armfuls of clothes, and into the vast cold maw of Sul Adair. Blowing a stray hair from her face, Nicolette glowered about the entrance hall.
“Where is that bloody Nordling I gave you? The one with the strapping cock?”
“I don’t know…”
“Well then, what about your femmes? That Sūdhaemi slip, or your majordomo?”
“Young Jasminne was shared yestereve between our Empress and the Draigann. And when she learned the particulars of de León’s escape, Mother was … upset. She could not take out her full measure of wrath upon me. I’m afraid poor Meline bore the brunt.”
The historian swallowed, the sound of a tearing throat and a severed head striking stone ringing in his mind. Sightless eyes locked on his, wide and terrified.
“Poor thing,” Nicolette mused. “I rather liked her. Lovely breasts.”
“Twelve years she served me.”
“Grandmama has been in a beastly mood of late.”
“Heavy lies the head, Nicolette.”
The Viscontessa blinked then, clearly baffled. Smiling, Jean-Francois patted her arm.
“Never mind. Come, lead me on.”
The historian could only hobble at first, Nicolette taking most of his weight, but as they shuffled down the great frescoed halls, across oceans of blood-red carpet beneath high-flung gables hung with hundreds of bats, the historian eventually began limping under his own power, little Henri trotting at his heels.
“Is it true what they said?” Nicolette murmured.
“What did they say?”
“That the silversaint escaped while you were rutting with him?”
“As good an explanation as any, I suppose.”
“Oh, you absolute beast. How shameless of you, uncle, really.”
Scoffing in faux outrage, Nicolette slapped Jean-Francois’s backside, eliciting a hiss of pain. But his blood-niece slipped her arm about him again, fondly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial hush.
“What was he like?”
Jean-Francois shook his head.
“Magnificent.”
Nicolette gave a delighted little titter, clutching his arm tighter.
They’d reached that set of huge ironbound doors now, wrought with the likeness of the Angels of Death and Fear.
A dozen hulking thrallswords in Chastain livery stood guard there; three times the previous tally.
With a nod to the Marquis, they unbound the doors, that stair to the abyss waiting beyond.
Nicolette swallowed, staring into the dark.
“You served as Mama’s ambassador to the Forever King’s court, oui?”
She blinked, attentions once more sharpened. “I did.”
“You were at the Battle of San Maximille. When the ’saint got his daughter back.”
“Oui. A pretty little monster, she was. Quite a glutton, between you and me. But … while I was present in the chateau, I did not truly see the battle, uncle. As I said, I’ve no stomach for all those screams and britches filled with dung.
” Red lips curled in a wicked smile. “I prefer the feasting and fucking part of diplomacy. Like you.”
“What do you think Kestrel will do, should she catch the silversaint before Mother?”
“He murdered her father, uncle. She’ll tear his heart out through his teeth.”
The historian nodded. Nicolette looked into that dark doorway, the stairs beyond.
“I shall accompany you. Down there.” She swallowed. “If you wish.”
“No need. But it is very kind of you to offer, sweet niece.”
Nicolette smiled, kissing his cheek. “What is famille for?”
She left him then, gliding down grand frescoed halls, and the historian began the long limp down into the chateau bowels.
The journey through that labyrinth had been a long one before the silversaint had incinerated his privates, but now, each step was agony, a dozen of his mother’s thralls trudging behind him, not a one offering to help.
The pain was fitting punishment for his failure, he knew, and a part of him longed to return to the light of Margot’s favor.
Yet his cheek still ached from where she’d struck him.
I just gave you forever, Jean-Francois. Use it wisely.
“… Dario?”
The Marquis stopped, staring down the corridor.
At its end awaited those great stone doors, that silver chain, and strangely, his handsome young beau.
The thrall started in fright, turning toward the historian and his company, hand pressed to his chest. But as he set eyes on Jean-Francois, an adoring smile at once curled his lips.
“Master,” he sighed.
“What are you doing down here?”
“I knew the Empress would bid you take up the Liathe’s tale, Master. Your history, fresh ink and quill, and a warm bottle await within. Just as you like it.”
Jean-Francois limped down the corridor, stood now before the thrall. He studied the lad, long dark hair and deep dark eyes, pressing one hand to his cheek.
“What would I do without you, love?”
“I’m … sorry about Meline, Master. I know she served you long years.” He took hold of Jean-Francois’s hand, kissed his knuckles gently. “I only pray I serve you as faithfully.”
“You’re a good lad. You serve me well and true.”
He blinked then, peering into the Nordling’s eyes.
“Where did you say you were from?”
“You’ve never asked, Master.” A shy smile curled his lips. “You’ve only just begun to call me by name, in truth. But I was born in Madeisa. A hunter’s son.”
“Viscontessa Nicolette said she found you on the road to Sūdhaem?”
“We fled. When food grew too scarce. I was grateful for the Viscontessa’s rescue, but … more grateful when she gave me to you.” Warm lips roamed his fingertips, teeth nipping soft as he breathed, “Can I come to you later? When the sun rises?”
Jean-Francois winced, the twinge of pain reminding him of the state of his nethers.
“Not today, love. I’ve work to do.”
With a gesture, the historian bid the thrall step aside.
The chain was already unlocked, and nodding to his mother’s thugs, Jean-Francois set them to the doors.
Those slabs of stone yawned wide, that deep, cold cave awaiting beyond.
The historian saw the leather armchair waiting at the water’s edge, the table set with a platter embossed with Chastain wolves and moons.
A bottle of green glass sat beside a golden goblet, the brass-bound pages of his history, a chymical globe illuminating the darkness.
And at the edge of that frail light, on the other side of those black waters, she awaited.
“You can stay outside, Capitaine. Come if I should call.”
The lead thug saluted, cold blue eyes glinting beneath a scarred brow. “Apologies. But the Empress bid us accompany you at all times, Marquis.”
He scoffed at that, glancing to young Dario.
“Well, then. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
The thralls marched in first, heavy tread all in time, burning torches in their fists.
Jean-Francois followed slowly, eyes on the dark ahead.
He could see her, uncoiling from the gloom like some serpent.
And easing down into his armchair, trying not to wince as he crossed his legs, he met her ink-black eyes.
“Godmorrow, Mlle Castia.”
“Fairdawning, Marquis.”
Celene dropped into a flawless curtsey, red frockcoat whispering. Her face was pale in the gloom, bolts of long black hair framing her small but perfect smile.
“You look unwell.”
Jean-Francois lifted his tome from the table, placed it gingerly on his lap.
“I assure you, mademoiselle, I am in the best of health.”
“Count us relieved, then.”
Lifting the bottle, Dario filled his goblet, the scent of still-warm blood kissing the air.
Celene shivered, parched tongue slipping across ashen lips.
But her black gaze drifted to the thralls upon the shoreline, torches in hand.
The stone beneath her feet was still slick with lamp oil, her coat and boots now stained.
“New faces, we see. What happened to Delphine and the others?”
Jean-Francois sipped the blood, cleared his throat.
“The Battle of Augustin was done. The Forever King retreated in the face of young Dior’s transformation, your company safe.
For the moment. But after you discovered Oleander the Wise had been slain by Empress Isabella, and the Redeemer’s Blade given to your accursed brother, what happened next? ”
“Accursed?”
Celene tilted her head at his tone, smile gone sly.
“Has my dear Gabriel been misbehaving?”
The goblet sang as it struck stone, hurled from his trembling hand. Blood sprayed as the historian slapped the pages of his tome, half rising from his chair with a snarl.
“Your dear Gabriel left you down here to die. And if you’ve a wish to, by all means, let your tongue continue to roam unchecked! The cold lies heavy on my bones this night, Mlle Castia, and little would please me more than to warm myself over your ashes!”
“He betrayed you, too.”
Her smile faded then, a hint of sorrow in the blacks of her eyes.
“He’s good at that, isn’t he?”
Jean-Francois took a handful of heartbeats to calm his temper, smoothing the silk of his cravat.
A white moth was circling about the chymical globe and he batted it aside, reaching for the bottle and pressing it to his lips.
The blood was warm enough to banish his rage, to wash the edge off his pain.
He swallowed, shivering, comforted to know pleasure could yet be found in the simplest of things.
Lowering the bottle and licking his lips, he sighed.
“He’s very good at it.”
“Now perhaps you understand why we hate him, Marquis.”
He lifted his gaze, found the Liathe’s eyes fixed upon the bottle.
“Would you like a drink?” he heard himself ask.
Celene swallowed then, barely suppressing a shiver.
“We’d not say no.”
The glass gleamed, flung across the babbling gulf between them. The Last Liathe’s hand moved swift, snatching the bottle from the air. Shaking, groaning, she pressed it to her lips, Jean-Francois watching the motion of her throat as she swallowed, long and thick.
“You’ve still not told me what became of your wounds, mademoiselle. How exactly the ravages of your murder were lifted from your skin.”
Celene lowered the bottle, head thrown back as she shivered. For an age she sat, face upturned to the heavens, lashes fluttering upon her cheeks. But finally she lowered her chin, fixed him with those bottomless eyes.
And she smiled.
“Patience, coldblood.”