‘Soon,’ the coldblood said.
The woman’s lips parted. Gabriel could see her pulse quickening at the thought.
‘Your will be done, Master,’ she whispered.
And without even a glance to Gabriel, she curtseyed and slipped from the room, leaving the killer alone with the monster.
‘Shall we sit?’ it asked.
‘I’ll die standing, if it’s all the same,’ Gabriel replied.
‘I am not here to kill you, Chevalier.’
‘Then what do you want, coldblood?’
The dark whispered. The monster moved without seeming to move at all; one moment standing beside the armchair, the next, seated upon it. Gabriel watched it brush an imaginary speck of dust from its frockcoat’s brocade, place its book upon its lap. It was the smallest display of power – a demonstration of potency to warn him against any acts of desperate courage. But Gabriel de León had been killing this thing’s kind since he was sixteen years old, and he knew full well when he was outmatched.
He was unarmed. Three nights tired. Starving and surrounded and sweating with withdrawal. He heard Greyhand’s voice echoing across the years, the tread of his old master’s silver-heeled boots upon the flagstones of San Michon.
Law the First: The dead cannot kill the Dead.
‘You must be thirsty.’
The monster produced a crystal flask from within its coat, dim light glittering on the facets. Gabriel narrowed his eyes.
‘It is only water, Chevalier. Drink.’
Gabriel knew this game; kindness offered as a prelude to temptation. Still, his tongue felt like sandpaper against his teeth. And though no water could truly quench the thirst inside him, he snatched the flask from the monster’s ghost-pale hand, poured a swig into his palm. Crystal clear. Scentless. Not a trace of blood.
He drank, ashamed at his relief, but still shaking out every drop. To the part of him that was human, that water was sweeter than any wine or woman he’d ever tasted.
‘Please.’ The coldblood’s eyes were sharp as broken glass. ‘Sit.’
Gabriel remained where he stood.
‘Sit,’ it commanded.
Gabriel felt the monster’s will pressed upon him, those dark eyes swelling in his vision until they were all he could see. There was a sweetness to it. The lure of bloom to bumblebee, the taste of bare young petals damp with dew. Again, Gabriel felt his blood stir southwards. But again, he heard Greyhand’s voice in his mind.
Law the Second: Dead tongues heeded are Dead tongues tasted.
And so, Gabriel stayed where he stood. Standing tall on colt’s legs. The ghost of a smile graced the monster’s lips. Tapered fingertips smoothed a golden curl back from those bloody chocolat eyes, drummed on the book in its lap.
‘Impressive,’ it said.
‘Would that I could say the same,’ Gabriel replied.
‘Have a care, Chevalier. You may hurt my feelings.’
‘The Dead feel as beasts, look as men, die as devils.’
‘Ah.’ The coldblood smiled, a hint of razors at the edge. ‘Law the Fourth.’
Gabriel tried to hide his surprise, but he still felt his belly roll.
‘Oui,’ the coldblood nodded. ‘I am familiar with the principles of your Order, de León. Those who do not learn from the past suffer the future. And as you might imagine, future nights hold quite an interest for the undying.’
‘Give me back my sword, leech. I’ll teach you how undying you really are.’
‘How quaint.’ The monster studied its long fingernails. ‘A threat.’
‘A vow.’
‘And in sight of God and his Seven Martyrs,’ the monster quoted, ‘I do here vow; Let the dark know my name and despair. So long as it burns, I am the flame. So long as it bleeds, I am the blade. So long as it sins, I am the saint. And I am silver.’
Gabriel felt a wave of soft and poisonous nostalgia. It seemed a lifetime had passed since he’d last heard those words, ringing in the stained-glass light of San Michon. A prayer for vengeance and violence. A promise to a god who’d never truly listened. But to hear them repeated in a place like this, from the lips of one of them …
‘For the love of the Almighty, sit,’ the coldblood sighed. ‘Before you fall.’
Gabriel could feel the monster’s will pressing on him, all light in the room now gathered in its eyes. He could almost hear its whisper, teeth tickling his ear, promising sleep after the longest road, cool water to wash the blood from his hands, and a warm, quiet dark to make him forget the shape of all he’d given and lost.
But he thought of his lady’s face. The colour of her lips the last time he kissed her.
And he stood.
‘What do you want, coldblood?’
The last breath of sunset had fled the sky, the scent of long-dead leaves kissed Gabriel’s tongue. The want had arrived in earnest, and the need was on its way. The thirst traced cold fingers up his spine, spread black wings about his shoulders. How long had it been since he smoked? Two days? Three?
God in heaven, he’d kill his own fucking mother for a taste …
‘As I told you,’ the coldblood replied, ‘I am Her Grace’s historian. Keeper of her lineage and master of her library. Fabién Voss is dead, thanks to your tender ministrations. Now that the other Courts of the Blood have begun bending the knee, my mistress has turned her mind towards preservation. And so, before the Last Silversaint dies, before all knowledge of your Order is swept into an unmarked grave, my pale Empress Margot has, in her infinite generosity, offered opportunity for you to speak.’
Jean-François smiled with wine-stain lips.
‘She wishes to hear your story, Chevalier.’
‘Your kind never really hold the knack for jesting, do you?’ Gabriel asked. ‘You leave it in the dirt the night you die. Along with whatever passed for your fucking soul.’
‘Why would I jest, de León?’
‘Animals often sport with their food.’
‘If my Empress wished sport, they would hear your screams all the way to Alethe.’
‘How quaint.’ Gabriel studied his broken fingernails. ‘A threat.’
The monster inclined its head. ‘Touché.’
‘Why would I waste my last hours on earth telling a story nobody on earth gives a shit about? I’m no one to you. Nothing.’
‘Oh, come.’ The thing raised one eyebrow. ‘The Black Lion? The man who survived the crimson snows of Augustin? Who burned a thousand kith to ashes and pressed the Mad Blade to the throat of the Forever King himself?’ Jean-François tutted like a school madam with an unruly student. ‘You were the greatest of your Order. The only one who yet lives. Those oh so broad shoulders are ill-suited for the mantle of modesty, Chevalier.’
Gabriel watched the coldblood stalking between lies and flattery like a wolf on the pin-bright scent of blood. All the while, he pondered the question of what it truly wanted, and why he wasn’t already dead. And finally …
‘This is about the Grail,’ Gabriel realized.
The monster’s face was so still, it actually seemed carved of marble. But Gabriel supposed he saw a ripple in that dark stare.
‘The Grail is destroyed,’ it replied. ‘What care we for the cup now?’