Addendum
ON THE SPIRIT IN THE MAIDEN’S BONE
Chateau de Tiffauges Tiffauges, France
And now we’re down to the quick.
This part I remember clearly.
See us now—the master, the old one and me—as we approach the Madman’s gates. We are on foot. Our horses have served their last and the old one is crackling with their anima. He is everywhere around us, like rats in the walls of the world.
It is dark. As we walk, I shed my beautiful corset, gown and chemise, and finally my shoes.
My earlobes are throbbing with the weight of the Shackles and my Contract is a floating collar, ready to burn me at the slightest transgression.
The master removes the earrings with a warning glare; I will need a measure of freedom if I am to be effective for the evening’s business.
He pockets the Shackles and draws his silver sword.
I step into the pool of torchlight before the gates, pushing my glamers ahead of me like smoke. The guards take notice and there is a lot of shouting.
But they’re so confused! Why is there a naked woman here? What is that delicious scent? She must tell them her name! Does she know that they are in love with her?
They’re already mine.
I close my eyes. This has been almost a decade coming.
Why am I suddenly so afraid? Is it because we’re all likely to die tonight?
No, that’s nothing new. My freshly reinstated hand is actually tingling a bit at the opportunity to get properly dirty again.
So, what’s wrong? Is it the cold, or the memory of the deep, black touch of the demon Avstamet, who calls himself Barron and who was once Ares and Mars, curling inside me? Is that it?
I look at the master. He’s frowning and muttering to the old one as we approach the gate, but every so often he glances at me.
And then I realize what’s bothering me.
They’re lying to me.
Call him Barron.
The cycles of the summoning rite pulsed through Chateau de Tiffauges like the heartbeat of a colossus.
Call him Ares.
Livia went first, entrancing the men of the chateau with her mere presence.
They were drawn to her from every post and patrol.
Distracted, aroused and unsure of themselves, their voices failed as they saw her.
Those who came within reach died gratefully at her talons, their lifeblood splashing over her naked skin.
The master and the old one followed with serpentine speed, dispatching the rest and consuming their anima under a shroud of Arcane silence.
Call him Mars.
“Excuse me!” hissed the succubus over her shoulder, tearing out the throat of a young guard. She let out a small whine of longing as the old one devoured the man’s anima right in front of her. “Are you going leave any for me?”1
Your way takes too long. And we must be strong if we are going to win the Olympian.
The Spirit’s voice was heavy with satisfaction, and more than a little smug.
The master was already reclaiming his magnificence, his mortal flesh thickly muscled and all but blazing with new life.
Livia whimpered again as she saw him so delectably restored.
She brushed her talons over her throbbing nipples; the temptation was almost too much to bear. Keep moving, half-breed.
The succubus gave a tiny, dry sob but strode ahead nonetheless.
The castle was strangely empty. Furnishings were spare and austere, and the walls were bare. Livia and her master carved a silent red path through the courtyard and the retainers’ galleries, right to the doors of the great hall itself.
There they stopped. They could all feel the Arcane charge building on the other side.
The way is Warded, warned the old one.
The master nodded. He cast a handful of silvery ash into the air, murmuring quietly.
The powder shimmered and sifted down, caught on a circular web of Arcane strands just in front of the doors.
The barrier was gossamer-thin, but it seemed also unimaginably deep, yawning into a vastness beyond its own dimensions.
The master swore as he scanned the planes and angles of the Ward. “The Sudden Jaw. Prelati is as extravagant as ever.” He looked at Livia. “Watch my back. I can unravel this, but it will take some time.”
Livia watched, unimpressed, as he rummaged through his pockets. After a few moments, he produced a stick of chalk and a small silver mirror. He began to crawl along the floor, holding the mirror close to the stone. His voice rose and fell in whispered incantations.
The succubus snarled impatiently and strode over to the nearest dead guardsman.
“Livia, don’t you da—!”
The corpse flew over the master’s head and struck the glittering Ward with a purple flash. Triggered, the silver threads gripped the material world and then all aligned at once, converging impossibly to occupy a single, white-hot point.
“Oh,” said Livia. This was quite bit more than she had expected.
“Down!” Sebastian leaped at her, enveloping her in his arms and bearing her to the ground.
Livia felt a vertiginous drag in the air as the dead soldier’s matter imploded, collapsing the doorway and several inches of structural stone into a tiny, winking sphere. It vanished with a high pop, leaving a perfectly circular opening where the doors had been.
The master rested atop her for a moment longer, sheltering her from a hail of stone fragments.
“Livia, you reckless, stupid—are you hurt?”
“Not at all,” she said. “Thank you, Dominus.”
Their faces were perilously close together. He was positively singing with anima, a charging current that was more than just energy—it was him. Delicious, overcautious, frustrating, violent, magnificent him.
He lowered his face toward her, his lips parted and his breath coming faster.
Is now really the time? Get up, both of you!
Sebastian withdrew, standing up with a scowl. “Well, Livia.” He helped her to her feet. “I’m sure we have their attention now.”
“Have you ever raised a Spirit, meatbag? They’re not watching the doors,” she replied, stepping through the round opening.
Livia’s assessment was correct. There were only two people inside the great hall, and they were paying absolutely no attention to the main doors.
On one side, the sorcerer Francois Prelati knelt in a triple Circle of ideograms. He was chanting, but Livia heard nothing. His voice was lost to the Mundane world, drowned in the waves of Arcane energy that thundered through the room, below mortal hearing.
Call him Barron.
Call him Ares.
Call him Mars.
On the other side of the hall, dressed in his theatrical white angel’s robe, was Gilles de Rais.
He was inside another protective Circle drawn on the floor, facing toward the center of the room.
His ardor was palpable. He stood high on his toes and danced back and forth from one foot to the other.
With one hand, he brandished his ceremonial rapier, waving it like a conductor’s baton.
With the other, he tugged and kneaded at the front of his robe.
The Madman of Tiffauges was just outside the Arcane epicenter, and snatches of his voice came to the intruders in the doorway.
Gilles de Rais was singing. “RISE, JEHANNE! RISE, FRANCE!” he exulted. “TO GLORY, TO GLORY IN GOD’S NAME!”
In the center of the great hall, between the two men, was a veritable mountain of riches.
It was suddenly very clear why the rest of the chateau had seemed so stark.
Statues, priceless heirlooms, jewelry and piles of coins were heaped on the floor of the hall.
The Marshal of France had spared nothing; among the treasures of his estates were his silks, his trophies, his weapons and his medals, ready to be consigned for the resurrection of his beloved Maiden.
A third, much larger Arcane Circle surrounded the hoard, its sigils hewn into the stone floor and filled with molten silver—a Circle of Offerings.
And sitting atop the pile like a monstrous jewel was a great glass vessel, containing the sixty fresh, red hearts of the Madman’s final harvest.
Sebastian took it all in at a glance, his face dark.
“Where is it?” he muttered.
Livia followed her master as he moved silently into the room.
They hid behind one of the hall’s mighty pillars; the eldritch charge in the room was quickly stripping away their Arcane concealment.
Sebastian kindled the Violations on his silver blade with exquisite care, whispering slowly and softly, so close to the metal that his breath misted the surface. His eyes never left Prelati.
Livia could barely concentrate. Gilles de Rais was a fountain of lust, filling the air with his yearning—both for the Maiden and for Prelati.
Every breath she took was ripe with the smell of him, mixing delectably with the scent of blood.
It didn’t help being so close to the master, with the anima of all those men boiling like magma just beneath his skin, and the lingering taste of his breath on her lips.
She edged closer still, craving his heat.
Perish the thought, half-breed, warned the old one.
Livia stepped back, her eyes flashing.
She quickly realized what was wrong. The Maiden’s relic—the centerpiece of the ritual—was nowhere to be seen. Had the Madman simply buried it among the rest of his fortune? It seemed unlikely.
The old one’s presence sharpened. Be ready, he said. The way is opening.
The light changed.
Something shifted, like a hiccup in the natural order. The thumping subliminal pulse of the ritual cycled higher and higher until it was a single, crystal-pitched tone, resonating from the center of the room.
The sorcerer Prelati rose to his feet.
Livia exchanged a wide-eyed glance with the master and quickly covered her ears.
Prelati spoke a single word that shattered the air like a windowpane. Behind the pillar, the master crouched low and bit his sleeve to stop from screaming. The old one was buffeted like a tree in a hurricane.