The killer didn’t let himself flinch – he knew the coldblood would’ve
relished that. Instead, he kept staring out the window at the broken knuckles
of the mountains beyond, capped by ash-grey snow. He could feel the thing
standing behind him now, its gaze roaming the back of his neck. He knew
what it wanted, why it was here. Hoping it’d be quick and knowing, deep
down, that they’d savour every scream.
He finally turned, feeling fire swell inside him at the sight of it. The
anger was an old friend, welcome and warm. Making him forget the ache in
his veins, the tug of his scars, the years on his bones. Looking at the
monster before him, he felt positively young again. Borne towards forever
on the wings of a pure and perfect hate.
‘Good evening, Chevalier,’ the coldblood said.
It had been only a boy when it died. Fifteen or sixteen, perhaps, still
possessed of that slim androgyny found on manhood’s cusp. But God only
knew how old it was, really. A hint of colour graced its cheeks, large brown
eyes framed by thick golden locks, a tiny curl arranged artfully on its brow.
Its skin was poreless and alabaster pale, but its lips were obscenely red, the
whites of its eyes flushed just the same. Fresh fed.
If the killer didn’t know better, he’d have said it looked almost alive.
Its frockcoat was dark velvet, embroidered with golden curlicues. A
mantle of raven’s feathers was draped over its shoulders, the collar upturned
like a row of glossy black blades. The crest of its bloodline was stitched at
its breast; twin wolves rampant against the twin moons. Dark britches, a
silken cravat and stockings, and polished shoes completed the portrait. A
monster, wearing an aristocrat’s skin.
It stood in the centre of his cell, though the door was still locked like a
secret. A thick book was pressed between its bone-white palms, and its
voice was lullaby sweet.
‘I am Marquis Jean-François of the Blood Chastain, Historian of Her
Grace Margot Chastain, First and Last of Her Name, Undying Empress of
Wolves and Men.’
The killer said nothing.
‘You are Gabriel de León, Last of the Silversaints.’
Still, the killer named Gabriel made not a sound. The thing’s eyes burned
like candlelight in the silence; the air felt sticky-black and lush. It seemed
for a moment that Gabriel stood at the edge of a cliff, and that only the cold
press of those ruby lips to his throat might save him. He felt his skin
