‘“Don’t go, Gabe,” Celene pleaded. “Don’t leave me alone.”
‘“I’ll return,” I promised, kissing her brow. “Look after Mama for me, Hellion.”
‘The young fellow who rode behind Greyhand prised Celene off me, offering no words of comfort as he pushed me up onto the back of his pony. Then he wrapped that whimpering monster back up in silver chains and burlap, slung it over Greyhand’s mount. The frère looked about the gathering with pale, bloody eyes.
‘“We captured this monster three days’ west of here. And there shall be more of them before there are less. Dark days come, and nights yet darker. Set candles at your windows. Invite no stranger into your homes. Ever keep the fires burning in your hearths and the love of God burning in your hearts. We will triumph. For we are silver.”
‘“We are silver,” the young fellow echoed.
‘Little Celene was weeping, and I held out my hand in farewell. I called to Mama that I loved her, but she was just staring at the sky, tears freezing on her cheeks. As we rode out of Lorson, I can’t remember ever feeling so lost, and I watched ma famille through the falling snow until they grew too distant to see, and the gloom swallowed them whole.’
‘A fifteen-year-old boy,’ Jean-François sighed, stroking the feathers at his throat.
‘Oui,’ Gabriel nodded.
‘And you name us monsters.’
Gabriel’s eyes found the vampire’s, and his voice became steel.
‘Oui.’
V
FIRE IN THE NIGHT
JEAN-FRANÇOIS SMILED FAINTLY. ‘So, from Lorson to San Michon?’
Gabriel nodded. ‘It took us a few weeks, riding along the Hollyroad. The weather was freezing, and the coat they’d given me did nothing to keep the chill from my belly. I was still reeling with it all. The memory of what I’d done to Ilsa. The dark heaven of her blood in my mouth. The sight of that monster that Greyhand had dragged from his sack, still slung behind him on his saddle. I knew not what to make of any of this.’
‘Did Frère Greyhand tell you what was in store?’
‘He told me one-fifth of three-eighths of fuck all. And at first, I was afraid to ask. There was such a fire in Greyhand, it seemed he might scorch you if you stood too close. He was all skin and bone, sharp cheeks and chin, hair like dirty straw. He chewed his food like he hated it, spent almost every moment of rest at prayer, pausing occasionally to whip his back with his belt. When I tried to speak to him, he’d just glare ’til I fell silent.
‘The only affection he showed was to that falcon he rode with. He called it Archer, and he doted on that fucking bird like a father on a son. But the strangest part of him was revealed the first morning he washed in front of me.
‘As he removed his tunic to bathe in our bucket, I saw Greyhand was covered in tattoos. I’d seen inkwork before – fae spirals on Ossway folk and the like – but the frère’s tattoos were something new.’
Gabriel ran his fingers over the inkwork atop his own hands.
‘The ink was like this. Dark, but metallic. Silver in the pigment. Greyhand had a portrait of the Mothermaid covering his entire back. A spiral of saintsrose and swords and angels ran down his arms, and he wore seven wolves for the Seven Martyrs across his chest. The young apprentice who rode with him had less inkwork, but he still wore a beautiful weave of roses and serpents on his chest. Naél, the Angel of Bliss, covered his left forearm, Sarai, the Angel of Plagues, filled his bicep, her beautiful moth wings spread wide. And both of them had the sevenstar inked in their left hands.’
Gabriel turned his hand over, showed the vampire his palm. There, among the calluses and scars, sat a seven-pointed star inside a perfect circle.
‘I am curious,’ Jean-François mused, ‘why your Order profaned your bodies so.’
‘Silversaints called it the aegis. There’s no sense wearing armour when fighting monsters that can crush platemail with their fists. Armour makes a man slow. Noisy. But if your faith in the Almighty was strong enough, the aegis made you untouchable. No matter what monster of the night you stalk – duskdancer, faekin, coldblood – none can abide the touch of silver. And God hates your kind in particular, vampire. You fear even the sight of holy icons. You cower before the sevenstar. The wheel. The Mothermaid and Martyrs.’
The vampire gestured to Gabriel’s palm. ‘Then why do I not cower, de León?’
‘Because God hates me more than he hates you.’
Jean-François smiled. ‘I presume you have more?’
‘Much more.’
‘… May I see?’
Gabriel met the thing’s eyes. Silence passed between them, three breaths deep. The vampire ran his tongue over his lips, bright red, wet.
The silversaint shrugged. ‘As you like it.’
Gabriel stood, the chair creaking beneath him as he rose. Reaching up slow, he sloughed off his greatcoat, unlaced his tunic and dragged it over his head, leaving his torso bare. A small sigh, gentle as a whisper, slipped over the vampire’s lips.
The silversaint was sinew and muscle, lanternlight shadows etched deep on the furrows and troughs of his body. A bevy of scars decorated his skin – from bladework and claws and Redeemer knew what else. But moreover, Gabriel de León was covered in inkwork, neck to navel to knuckles. The artistry would’ve been breathtaking if the historian had breath to take. Eloise, the Angel of Retribution, ran down the silversaint’s right arm, sword and shield ready. Chiara, the blind Angel of Mercy, and Eirene, the Angel of Hope, were on his left. A roaring lion covered his chest, sevenstars in its eyes, and a circle of swords stretched across the taut muscles of his belly. Doves and sunbeams, the Redeemer and Mothermaid – all decorated his arms and body. A dark current ran thick in the air.
‘Beautiful,’ Jean-François whispered.
‘My artist was one of a kind,’ Gabriel replied.
The silversaint dragged his tunic back on and sat once more.
‘Merci, de León.’ Jean-François continued to sketch him, apparently from memory. ‘You were speaking of Greyhand. What he told you before you arrived.’
‘As I said, as little as he could at first. And so, I was left to wonder in silence. How badly had I hurt Ilsa? How was it I’d grown strong enough to throw grown men about like toys? I’d thought the alderman’s dagger had sliced me to the bone, but now, the wound seemed not so bad. How in the Almighty’s name was any of this possible? I had answers for none of it.’ Gabriel shrugged again. ‘But finally, it all came to a head. Our motley little band was bedding down one eve in the Nordlund wilds, in the shadow of dying pines just off the Hollyroad. We’d been travelling nine days.
‘The young rider who accompanied Greyhand was an initiate of the Order named Aaron de Coste. An apprentice, if you like. He was a princely looking lad; thick blonde hair and bright blue eyes and a face girls swooned for. He was older than me. Eighteen, I guessed. “Coste” was the name of a barony in western Nordlund, and I supposed he might be related to them somehow, but he told me nothing of himself. The only time he ever spoke to me at all was to order me about. He referred to Greyhand as “Master”, but he called me “Peasant”, spitting the word as if it tasted like shit.