XVII
REMEMBRANCE
JEAN-FRANÇOIS WAS STILL chuckling, the vampire shaking his head as he wrote in his accursed book. The cell about them was chill, silent, save for the gentle scratching upon the page. Dipping his quill again, the historian frowned, realizing his ink bottle was almost empty. ‘Meline?’ he called. ‘My dove?’ The door opened immediately. The thrall with her long chains of auburn hair stood at the threshold; a puppet summoned by invisible strings. She was a beautiful woman, Gabriel realized, wrapped in black corsetry and lace. The blood she’d suckled from Jean-François’s thumb had healed her entirely now; only the faintest scar marked the place where he’d bitten her wrist. But still, Gabriel could smell it – faint traces of rust and autumn’s fading. He pictured the woman on her knees before him, kohl-rimmed eyes gazing up at him as she brushed those auburn locks back from the pale promise of her neck. His blood thrummed southwards at the thought, leaving him hard and aching in his
leathers. ‘Master?’ she asked. ‘More ink, my dove,’ Jean-François said. ‘And something to drink for our guest?’ Gabriel emptied his glass and nodded. ‘Another bottle.’ ‘Wine?’ Dark eyes drifted to the bulge below the silversaint’s belt. ‘Or something stronger?’ Gabriel’s eyes flashed. ‘Another bottle.’ Jean-François glanced to the thrall, and Meline dropped into a smooth curtsey, feet whispering as she retreated down the stairs. Gabriel counted the number of steps again, listening to the faint song in the château below – laughter, still echoes, faint screaming. The night was past its deeping now, and he could feel the distant promise of dawn on the horizon. He wondered if they’d let him sleep.
He wondered if he’d dream.
He wondered if he’d dream. ‘The hope of the empire entire,’ Jean-François mused. ‘The last scion of the line of Esan. The cup that held the blood of the Redeemer himself. A sixteen- year-old girl.’ Gabriel poured the last few drops of Monét into his glass. ‘Plot twist.’ ‘And Danton had no hint of this revelation either, I take it? I imagine his pursuit would have been rather more single-minded had he known the truth of things. Despite his age, the Beast of Vellene ever favoured the pretty demoiselles.’ ‘Chloe knew.’ Gabriel shrugged. ‘Saoirse, too. But Sœur Sauvage kept the girl’s secret buried deep enough that Danton didn’t pluck it from her thoughts the night he chose to visit them. He never bothered to rummage around in Saoirse’s head. And Dior’s mind was always a closed room to the Dead.’ ‘And so, Danton toyed with you instead.’ Jean-François tutted. ‘Allowing your little famille vendetta to distract him from simply plucking his prize, and instead watching it slip, literally and metaphorically, through his bloody fingers.’ ‘I wouldn’t describe the vendetta between me and the Voss as little, Chastain.
The bloodfeud between me and Fabién’s brood had been brewing half my life.’ ‘And so.’ Jean-François steepled slender fingers at ruby lips, watching the man opposite with hunter’s eyes. ‘We return. Back to the beginning. And San Michon.’ Gabriel sighed, looking at the empty glass in his hand. Wondering if he were numb enough. Cold enough. He could feel them both; the endings to the tales he’d begun, like old scars on tattooed skin. He wondered which would tear wider, bleed harder, and for a brief, moonstouched moment, he considered the glass in his hand, the blade he might fashion of it; not enough for a vampire’s skin, surely, but enough for his own.
Not across the stream, but up the river. The shard digging deep, letting that accursed blood flow. But such thoughts were folly, and he knew it – knew it from bitter experience and long, lonely nights, watching the wounds close over before his tear-stung eyes, the curse in his veins not allowing him to die. To
sleep.
To sleep and never dream.
Meline returned, footsteps soft on the stairs. She stepped through the door she’d left unlocked, golden tray poised on one manicured hand. The damask of her skirts rustled like falling leaves as she swept into the room, and Gabriel could feel the warmth of her body, hear the music of her pulse as she placed a fresh bottle of Monét upon the table between him and the historian. She sank to her knees then, head bowed, hands upturned like a priestess before the marbled
statue of a god of old. And Jean-François plucked the fresh bottle of ink from her
open palms.
‘Merci, my dove.’ ‘Do you desire anything else, Master?’ The vampire reached out, running one long, sharp fingernail ever so gently down the woman’s cheek. Her breath caught in her breast as he hooked his claw beneath her chin, lifting her face so she could meet his eyes. ‘Oh, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘Always.’ Her lips parted, a trembling sigh slipped from her mouth. But the vampire withdrew his hand the way God withdraws a blessing. ‘Leave us now.’ ‘I am your servant, Master.’ The thrall rose on shaking legs, curtseyed, and retreated from the room. The pair were left alone again, killer and monster, an ocean unsaid between them.
The vampire watched Gabriel refill his glass, the wine dark as blood yet holding none of its promise, brought brimming to the edge. Leathered wings cut through the night skies beyond the window. The twin moons hung in the heavens, dipped crimson. ‘We must return there eventually, de León,’ Jean-François said. ‘Back to the seven pillars and the Scarlet Foundry and the walls of the Gauntlet. To wise Master Greyhand and cruel Seraph Talon, to treacherous young Aaron de Coste and your final Hunt together. You had been sent out onto the frozen roads of the Nordlund, Silversaint. A Voss of ancient blood had been behind the malady in Skyefall. An Ironheart of immeasurable power was already east of the Godsend Mountains, when the Forever King himself was still massing his Endless Legion in Talhost. There is a secret buried within your vaults here, de León. A secret soaked in darkest blood and whispered with holy tongues. And I would like to unearth it before you are too befuddled with wine to remember.’ ‘But that’s the problem, vampire. Hard as I try. Much as I wish.’ Gabriel looked to the bleak night outside. Hands curling to fists, ears ringing with the song of silver trumpets, tongue tingling with the taste of fruit forbidden. ‘I remember everything.’
