V
A BEAUTIFUL VIEW
‘“TEA, INITIATE?” ‘Père Lafitte’s voice broke me from my reverie, and I glanced up from the fireplace. The sight of a little girl’s burning corpse was etched in my head. The stink was on my clothes, the horror fresh, and all had put me in mind of my sister again. Amélie’s death felt a lifetime ago now, and I’d thought the boy who’d watched her burn was just a ghost. And yet, I’d proved myself a boy
again that day. Headstrong and foolish. ‘“No,” I replied. “Merci, Father.” ‘De Blanchet’s manservant nodded, placed the tray he carried on the mantel, and left the room. The pot was silver, the cups of finest porcelain. The tea’s scent was sweet, sharp, only half remembered from around my mama’s table in my childhood. ‘The sun had fallen outside, and my comrades still hadn’t returned. Wounded as she was, I knew the highblood who’d escaped us would be more dangerous in the dead of night. My fellows at deeper risk. For the hundredth time, I cursed my own stupidity. ‘“What troubles, my son?” Lafitte asked, sitting opposite me. ‘My seat was near Madame de Blanchet’s bed, Lionclaw within easy reach.
The longue was red leather and plush velvet, large enough to lose myself in. I turned my eyes to the dame ensconced in her mountain of pillows. Her breath was shallow and rapid, her skin pale as paper. The alderman was at work in his study down the hall. ‘“Nothing worthy of note, Father,” I sighed. ‘“You look exhausted.” ‘I shook my head, knowing the bloodshot red of my eyes was only a residue from the sacrament. “I’ll not sleep this night.”
‘“I have heard only rumour of your holy order,” Lafitte remarked. “My papa met one of your number once. He said the man slew a witch who plagued his village as a boy. Tracked her down and nailed her soul into her body with a length of cold iron before setting her alight. I’d thought it stuff and nonsense, truth told.” ‘“I’ve met no witches, Father. But I have seen evil. And it walks now among us, doubt it not.” I swallowed. “There will be dark nights ahead.” ‘“The folk you found in the catacombs. They were … changed?” ‘I nodded. “I’ve fought the Dead before, but … not like that. The woman seemed … afraid. The man told her to run. It was like they remembered what they’d been.” ‘“I knew them both,” Lafitte said, dabbing his sweating lip with his kerchief.
“Parishioners of mine. Eduard Farrow and Vivienne La Cour.” His fingertips hovered over the silver wheel about his neck. “They were to be married in spring.” ‘“And the little girl? Her name was Lisette.” ‘Lafitte shrugged. “There are many strays in a town this size, Initiate de León.
Many who come and go, and more yet who would not be missed. A tragedy.” ‘“It’s God’s will,” I declared. “All on earth below and heaven above is the work of his hand.” ‘“Véris,” the priest smiled. “But come, if we are to stand vigil ’til dawn, you should drink something. A tea this fine is a rarity these nights. It would be sin to waste it.” ‘I took the cup Lafitte offered, staring into the flames. I remembered my mama, brewing tea in her big black kettle in the years before daysdeath. My sisters and I sitting at table, Amélie scoffing while Celene and I squabbled over a game of knucklebones. I missed my baby sister, felt guilty about not answering her letters. I wondered if I should write to my mother and ask her the truth about my father. A part of me didn’t want to know. The rest of me desperately needed to. ‘“Santé, Initiate,” Lafitte said, raising his cup. ‘“Santé, mon Père,” I replied. ‘I swallowed the draught with a wince. Bitter and too hot. Lafitte put his cup aside, watching me. He was quite handsome, truth told – Nordish stock, dark of hair and eye. A rich man’s son most like, to have been posted by the Pontifex to a town this wealthy at his age. ‘“How long have you served the Ordo Argent, Initiate de León?” ‘I glanced to Madame de Blanchet as she moaned in her sleep. “Seven months.”
‘“Are there many brethren of your holy order?” ‘“A few dozen,” I replied, rising from my chair. “Though it’s hard to tell sometimes. The Hunt keeps us often from home. It’s rare that we’re all at San Michon at once.” ‘“Why so few of you? If dark nights come as you say, could you not recruit more?” ‘I checked Madame de Blanchet’s temperature, and she groaned as my sevenstar touched her skin. “The birth of a paleblood is no common thing, Father. We are like the coldbloods we hunt. Our making is happenstance. A curse, and one not to be encouraged.” ‘He frowned. “Coldbloods are made by other coldbloods, are they not?” ‘“Oui. But not all the folklore is true. Their affliction is capricious, Father.
Only passing to their victims by chance. Some stay dead. Others rise as mindless monsters.” ‘“Chance, you say?” Lafitte frowned. “Curious.” ‘I rubbed my sweating brow, sloughed off my greatcoat. “That’s the shame of all this. The vampire who started this mess may not have even known Claude de Blanchet turned.” me ‘“MLuncóit did not strike me as a careless woman.” me ‘I blinked. “I thought you said you didn’t know MLuncóit?” ‘“Only by reputation. The folk she dealt with in Skyefall regarded her highly.
Even the alderman seemed under her spell.” ‘“What other folk did she deal with?” I asked, wiping sweat from my lip. ‘But Lafitte made no reply. His head was tilted as if he were listening, his tea untouched. My head was throbbing. My eyes stinging and blurred. ‘“Seven Martyrs, it’s sweltering in here …” ‘The priest smiled at me. “Open the window. It’s a beautiful view.” ‘I nodded, trudging over to the glass bay doors. Eyes still stinging, I took hold of the drapes, dragged them apart. And there, gleaming moon-pale in the dark outside, was the face of little Claude de Blanchet. ‘“Sweet Redeemer!” ‘Ten years old. Coal-black hair and grave-white skin. He was dressed in noble’s finery, black velvet and gold buttons, a silken cravat at his throat. But his eyes were the darkest part of him, heavy-lidded and gleaming like wet jewels.
And he fixed them on the priest, and pressed his hand to the glass. ‘“Beautiful, isn’t he?” ‘I turned and saw Father Lafitte, now holding my sheathed sword. The priest’s eyes were filled with a thrall’s rapture, gazing at that pale shadow beyond the
glass. ‘“Let me in,” it whispered.
‘“Let me in,” it whispered. ‘“Lafitte, no!” I shouted. ‘“Come in, Master,” the priest breathed. ‘The doors slammed apart, the glass cracking in the frame. I barely had time to turn before Claude de Blanchet was on me, slamming me back into the wall.
The plaster split, the ribs I’d cracked earlier in the day bursting into new flame. I saw Lafitte walking to the balcony, but I was too busy fighting the boy off to do anything but roar protest as he tossed my sword out the window. As if roused by the thing’s unholy presence, Madame de Blanchet was now sitting up in bed.
She’d loosed her nightshift, arms outstretched. ‘“My boy,” she breathed, tears in her eyes. “My sweet baby boy.” ‘That sweet baby boy slammed me back into the wall, his fingernails iron- hard and sharp. The whole room was blurring, a bitter tang on my tongue, and I understood at last that Lafitte had slipped some toxin into the tea, dimming the bloodhymn in my head. As the vampire fixed me in his black gaze, I realized I
was in the deepest shite of my life. ‘“Kneel,” Claude commanded. ‘The word hit me like a pistol shot, wrapped in satin. The desire to please this thing was as real as the air I breathed. I knew if I simply relented, everything would be all right. Everything would be wonderful. But in some dim corner of my mind, I could feel Greyhand’s blade skewering me against that tree, the fire of his words burning away the dark. ‘Listen not to a word these bastards hiss, lest you find yourself their meal. ‘I reached for the teapot on the mantel. Bright and gleaming silver. I felt my fury rising, my canines growing sharp. And as the vampire spoke again, “Kneel!” my fingers found purchase, and spitting, “Fuck you!” I smashed the pot right into his ruby lips. ‘Claude wailed in pain, staggering. The pot crumpled like paper, but it gave me a moment to breathe as the bedroom door burst open. The alderman stood on the threshold, pale with shock. He took in the chaos – wife screaming, Father Lafitte drawing a knife from his sleeve as I smashed the monster in the face again. But de Blanchet’s eyes were fixed on the thing I brawled with, the dark remnant of the boy he’d buried months ago. ‘“My son?” ‘I lunged for my bandolier of holy water and silverbombs, but the priest leapt upon my shoulders, stabbing me with his little blade again and again. Lafitte’s strength was impressive, his knife puncturing my chest a dozen times. But I was no fucking thrall like him. I was a paleblood, an initiate of the Ordo Argent, trained at the feet of a master of the Hunt. Smashing his jaw with my elbow, I
heard bone splinter, a scream from the treacherous prick’s broken mouth. I speared myself backwards, felt Lafitte’s ribs crumble as we collided with the wall hard enough to shatter the bricks. ‘But by then, little Claude was upright again, delivering a blow to my bollocks so thunderous, it actually made me vomit. I doubled up in agony, and he slung me down into the floorboards. Sitting on my chest, the vampire lunged towards my throat. ‘A burning piece of timber crashed over the boy’s head, splintering in a shower of sparks. Claude screamed in agony, his hair smouldering. Rising off me, he turned to his father, standing at the fireplace with a shattered log in hand. ‘“Papa,” the vampire hissed. ‘“No son of mine,” de Blanchet whispered, tears in his eyes. ‘He struck the boy again, the thing shrieking as the fire blacked its skin. A scream rang out in the room then, and Madame de Blanchet snatched up Lafitte’s fallen dagger, launched herself at her husband’s back. The blade punched through the alderman’s flesh, the man gasping as he and his wife
collapsed onto the blood-slicked floor. ‘“Claudette! S-stop …” ‘Vomit in my mouth, blood streaming down my chest, I lunged for my bandolier again. I heard hissing breath, felt strong hands sling me across the room, demolishing Madame de Blanchet’s magnificent bed. I raised my left hand as Claude landed atop me, the unholy little fuck shrieking as the silver in my palm flared bright. But still he struck me like a hammer, driving the breath from my punctured lungs. With one clawed hand, he grabbed my arm, forcing the light of my tattoo from his eyes. With his other, he reached for my throat.
And desperate, gasping and bleeding, I seized hold of his wrist. ‘My strength versus his. His will against mine. He loomed above me, cherubic face scorched and spattered red. I remembered those two highbloods in the crypts, the semblance of their old lives still clinging to their corpses. But this fucking monster atop me, glutted on months of murder, this, this was what they
really were. ‘“Hushhhhhh now …” ‘I was thirteen years old again. Lying in the mud the day Amélie came home.
And there, just as before, with death breathing cold upon my throat, I felt heat flood up my arm. Something stirred once more inside me, tenebrous and old.
And with a shriek of agony, Claude de Blanchet reared back, clutching the hand that clutched his. ‘His flesh was blackening in my grip, as though it burned without flame. The boything tried to pull away, and beneath my clenched fingers, I saw his porcelain skin bubbling and splitting, red vapour rising from the cracks as if the
porcelain skin bubbling and splitting, red vapour rising from the cracks as if the very blood boiled in his dead veins. His voice was a child’s again, bloody tears in black eyes. ‘“Let go!” he squealed. “Mama, make him stop!” ‘His hand was a charred ruin now, scalding blood spilling down my forearm like hot wax. Still, I held on, horrified, amazed. I heard boots up the stairs.
Greyhand’s shout. Little Claude gasped as my master’s flail wrapped about his throat and chest. And bound at last by silver, the little bastard tumbled to the floor. Madame de Blanchet flew off her husband and towards me, but de Coste wrestled her to the ground. ‘“I’ll kill you! You hurt my baby, bastard, I’LL KILL YOU!” ‘The woman was drenched in blood, her husband dead by her own hand, and she had no thought but for the leech laying helpless beside me. Claude de Blanchet stared up at me, soulless eyes brimming with malice. I pictured the bite wounds upon his mother’s breast and between her legs, trying not to imagine the shape of his nightly visitations. And I wondered if I’d ever walked so close to hell as this. ‘Greyhand placed his hands under my arms, eased me to my feet. My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stand, head spinning from Lafitte’s poison.
My master surveyed the carnage: the crushed priest, the moaning highblood, the murdered alderman and his screaming wife. I was drenched in sticky red, stab wounds in my chest, ribs broken. My hair hung about my eyes in a matted, bloody curtain, mind racing with the thought that I’d somehow boiled that vampire’s blood just by touching him. ‘“What did I do?” I whispered, looking at the boy’s black flesh. “How did I do
it?” ‘“I’ve no idea.” ‘Greyhand patted my shoulder, gave me a grudging nod. ‘“But fine work, Little Lion.”’
