"I WOKE TO find a legion of tiny devils throwing a revel inside my skull.
"Most were taking turns kicking at my brain with rusty hobnail boots, though one had apparently crawled into my mouth, vomited, and died. I risked opening my eyes, rewarded with a shear of light so blinding, I thought for a moment daysdeath had finally ended, and the sun had returned to full and blessed glory in the skies.
"'Fuck my face,' I groaned.
"My arm had healed as if the break had never been. I reached up to my neck, down into my britches, felt no trace of wounds. The thirst crouched on my shoulder like an unwelcome friend, magpie and mockingbird. I pushed away the memory of pale curves and lips red as blood as what sounded like an enraged stallion kicked at my door.
"'Chevalier de León?'
"The hinges screamed as the serving lass poked her head into the room. I was lying on my bed shirtless, britches unlaced and dragged dangerously low. The window was unlatched. After a shy glance at my tattooed skin, the lass turned her gaze downward. 'Pardon, Chevalier. But the bishop sends for you.'
"'What t-time is it?'
"'Past noon.'
"I squinted at the pitcher in her hand. 'Is that m-more vodka?'
"'Water,' she replied, handing it over. 'I thought you'd have need.'
"'Merci, mademoiselle.'
"I took a long, slow gulp, then upended the rest onto my face. The strangled daylight streamed through the open window like a white-hot lance. My insides began making noises like they'd prefer to be outside, and could find their own way if I refused to show them.
"'Chevalier,' the girl said, voice unsteady. 'The Dead are at the gates.'
"I hauled myself upright with a groan, dragging the sodden hair from my face. 'No fear, mademoiselle. You've men aplenty and strong walls besides. A few wretched won't—'
"'These are no wretched.'
"I glanced up at that. My sluggish pulse tripping quicker. 'No?'
"The girl shook her head, eyes wide. 'The bishop bids you come with all speed.'
"'All right, all right … Where are my britches?'
"'You are wearing them, Chevalier.'
"'… Seven Martyrs, I can't feel my legs.'
"I pushed my knuckles into my eyes. My skull was pounding like I'd been thrice fucked in it. The lass stepped up as I tried to stand, and with her help, I wobbled upright, holding my brow and hissing with pain.
"'Should I fetch more water?'
"'What's your name, mademoiselle?'
"'Nahia.'
"And with a sigh, I shook my head. 'Just find my pipe, Nahia.'
"Ten minutes later, I trudged through the mud toward Dhahaeth's southern gate, freezing sleet about my shoulders, rats about my heels. Nahia followed, wringing her hands. I'd shrugged on my greatcoat, mercifully dry, and hauled on my boots, sadly still damp. But pulling on my kit, I couldn't help being reminded of younger days. Glory days. And with Ashdrinker at my waist, I hoped I looked a fucksight more imposing than I felt.
"The bishop waited at the gate. In the water-thin light, the militia lads looked even less impressive than they had last night. Word of my name had no doubt worked its way among their number. Talk of last night's drunken fuckarsery in the pub obviously had too.
"'Thank the Almighty,' the bishop began. 'Chevalier, doom has come t—'
"'Take your jewels in hand, Your Grace.'
"A cry came from beyond the palisade, a voice that made the men about me quaver. 'Bring him out! Eternity we might have, but we'll waste it not on lowing cattle!'
"I set boots to stairs, old nails creaking, climbing until I stood on the rough, splintering timber of the highwalk. I hugged the shadows like old friends, hidden behind the palisade's highest spikes, the bishop following on my heels with clear reluctance. A dozen men stood up here, clad in worn leather armor and rusty tinpot helms. The skinny prick who'd given me lip last night stood among them, along with a man I presumed was their leader. He was a bulky fellow with a busted face and walnut skin, a whalebone pipe at his lips. Callused hands. Scarred chin. The only real soldier among them.
"'Capitaine,' I nodded.
"'Chevalier,' he grunted, looking beyond the walls. 'Fine day to meet your maker.'
"The man's voice was steady, his jaw set. But every one of his fellows seemed ready to fill their britches. And peering between the timbers, I saw the source of all their fear.
"A coach sat in the middle of the road. It was finely wrought; glossy black paint and gold trim, two lanterns casting a moon-pale light through the sleet. But instead of horses, the coach was drawn by a dozen wretched. Each had been a teenage girl before she was murdered. Ragged and rotten, they stared up at the men on the walls with nothing but hunger in their dead eyes. And sitting in the driver's seat was something hungrier still.
"It wore the shape of a young lass, too. But unlike the coldbloods hauling the coach, this one was a perfect beauty. She wore a leather corset, a half-skirt, high boots. Her lips were painted glossy dark, deep blue eyes ringed with kohl and framed by long black hair. Her skin was white as death, her chin smudged with faint stains of murder.
"'Dyvok, I'd wager,' the capitaine grunted.
"'No,' I replied, looking the coldblood over. 'She's a Voss.'
"'Ancien?' the bishop asked, trembling.
"I shook my head. 'Just a fledgling, by the look.'"
The historian suddenly tapped his quill on the tome in his lap.
"Really?" Gabriel sighed. "Again?"
"As to a child, de León," the vampire said. "How could you tell this one's bloodline just by looking at her?"
"Because I wasn't fresh fallen from the last rains? You Chastains seldom travel by carriage. The Dyvoks were still busy razing the Ossway, and the Ilons were far too subtle to make an appearance this gaudy. But the Forever King's get had grown arrogant after their famille's successes in the Nordlund. All Shall Kneel was the creed of the Blood Voss, and Fabién's children saw themselves as vampiric royalty, destined to rule the endless night from atop thrones built of the old empire's bones. Rolling up to a peasant mudhole in a fancy carriage drawn by a dozen corpses was exactly a Voss's style."
Jean-François nodded. "And the term you used? Fledgling?"
"You know what a fucking fledgling is."
"Nevertheless, I would like you to explain it."
"Well, I'd like a glass of fine single malt and a courtesan with thousand-royale tits to read me a bedtime story, but we don't always get what we want."
The vampire glowered. "Margot Chastain, First and Last of her Name, Undying Empress of Wolves and Men, does."
Gabriel bit back an insult, drew a calming breath.
"There are three stages to a coldblood's existence. Three ages to your so-called life. The new Dead are called fledglings. Young, comparatively weak, still shedding the remnants of their humanity and finding their way in the dark. After a century or so of murder, a fledgling can be thought of as mediae; a vampire in full possession of its gifts, extremely dangerous, and devoid of anything approaching human morality. The last, and most deadly, are the ancien. The elders."
"And you can tell the difference at a glance?"
"Fledglings, sometimes." The silversaint shrugged. "Even though they don't breathe anymore, they'll do things like gasp in surprise. Blink out of habit. A few even delude themselves that they can see mortals as anything other than meals. But everything erodes. Everything ends. And by the time you're mediae, you're something else entirely."
"Something more," Jean-François nodded.
"And much, much less," Gabriel replied.
The vampire ran his fingers along the feathered tips of his lapels, lanternlight glinting in dark eyes. "How old do you think I am, Chevalier?"
"Old enough to have nothing left inside you," Gabriel replied.
And, unwilling to play the game, the silversaint returned to his tale.
"I looked down on the coldblood from atop the palisade, weighing her up. She climbed off the driver's seat, heels sinking into half-frozen mud. Stalking past those hollow, wretched girls hauling the coach, she approached Dhahaeth's walls through the freezing sleet, altogether unconcerned about the arrows aimed at her chest.
"I guessed she'd been no more than thirteen when she was killed, her body trapped a year or two shy of adulthood's shore. Her smile was razor-blade sharp as she looked among the militiamen above. The fear of her washed the walls like pale fog.
"'You are all going to die,' she declared.
"One of the younger men lost his nerve at that. Loosing his crossbow with a sudden twang. The boy's aim was true, but the arrow simply thumped against the coldblood's chest as if she were made of ironwood. Eyes fixed on the lad who'd shot her, the vampire reached up and plucked the bolt free of her breast. Black lips parted, she licked the tip with a long, clever tongue.
"'You first, boy,' she promised.
"'Loose!' the capitaine cried.
"Crossbows sang, a dozen other quarrels sent speeding after the first. But the coldblood simply stood her ground. The arrows hit her in a dozen places but, again, did almost nothing. One struck her full in the face, leaving naught but a scratch in her porcelain cheek. And when the rain was done, she looked mournfully down at the holes in her outfit, plucking another arrow loose and tossing it to the mud.
"'I was fond of this dress…'
"'Oui,' I murmured. 'She's Voss for certain.'
"'Pitch shot!' the capitaine called. 'At the ready!'
"The militiamen reloaded. But the tips of these new quarrels were bound in homespun, dipped in tar. The archers of Dhahaeth gathered about their burning barrels, ready to set their shots aflame.
"The coldblood paused at that. She might've made a show of standing in the rain, but if there's one thing all Dead fear, it's fire. A small tremor of courage ran along the wall at her hesitation.
"And then the carriage door cracked open.
"A figure stepped out onto the mud, closing the door with a gentle hand. Through the sleet, I could see he was dressed as gentry—a dark frockcoat, silken undershirt, a beautiful saber at his belt. A long duelist's cloak of thick wolf fur hung from one shoulder, lined with red satin. Dark hair was slicked back from his pale brow in a sharp widow's peak. He was beautiful as a bedful of fallen angels. But his hems were spattered red, and his eyes were like black knife holes in his skull. He joined his companion and took her little hand in his, and a thrill of perfect rage ran through me, toe to crown.
"'That's an ancien,' I breathed.
"'… You know him?' the capitaine asked.
"I nodded, not believing my fortune. 'That's the Beast of Vellene.'
"A murmur rippled along the walls. Bishop du Lac turned pale as babies' bones.
"'My name is Danton Voss,' the male declared. 'Child of Fabién and Prince of Forever.'
"The coldblood plucked the ruffled edges of his sleeves, smoothed a stray lock of dark hair from his brow. The wretched girls pulling the carriage remained stone-still, deathly silent. I knew they were all the Beast's offspring now—held motionless by their maker's immortal will. The little female was also his get most like, but she'd Become before she had a chance to rot. The monster's gaze settled on du Lac, lip curling at the sight of the wheel dangling from the bishop's neck on its thin silver chain.
"'Bring him to me, Your Grace. Lest I come in there and fetch him.'
"I could feel the power in that voice. Cold as tombs and centuries deep. The other militiamen aimed uneasy glances my way. I'd seen the corpses impaled around the fortifications—these men had fought the Dead before today. But it was plain not a one of them had faced foes like these, and plainer still that none were in the mood to die for me.
"'Do you think he means it?' the bishop asked.
"'I think he does,' I replied.
"The capitaine glanced around at the boys and greybeards he led, every one of them aquiver. Chewing his whalebone pipe, he blew a plume of grey smoke into the air.
"'Then I think we're fucked.'"