Forged by angel and hell.., p.39
Forged by Angel & Hellfire, page 39
“It’s not likely, is it?” I say. “I think he just liked turning women into animals for fun and blaming his wife for it. And what does a cow story have to do with me? Are you calling me a heifer, my lord?”
He looks at me like I might actually have turned into a cow at the table, then continues his story like I didn’t speak. “The Athenians revered violets. They wove them into crowns for their feasts, decorated their tables and their houses with them. Just as I am doing now.”
I don’t bother to hide my scorn or sarcasm. “Lovely.”
“Speaking of which, I apologise for the manner in which you received your dress. It won’t happen again.”
“Good.”
“I wonder perhaps if you will consent to allow me to offer you gifts from time to time as I see fit?”
“What sort of gifts?”
“Any sort I have a mind to give you. Things I think you’ll appreciate. Books, works of art, that sort of thing.”
“No more dresses,” I say.
“You don’t like the dress?”
“I don’t like being dressed.” I take a small sip of wine. “I’m not a doll, my lord.”
“As you wish. No dresses.”
“And no sneaking things into the house. You can use Royal Mail like everyone else.”
His mouth twitches. “Agreed.”
I make him wait. Finally, I say, “Yes, then. As long as they’re what you say—books and art.” Movement above me forces my head up because I swear I saw something move on the ceiling, but there’s nothing there. I look back at Fane. “Nothing cursed either.”
“I have the finest collection of paintings depicting Zeus.” He spears an unfortunate mushroom several times before it stays on the fork. “Perhaps I might find one for you.”
“That would be very kind of you, my lord.”
I can just see myself wandering out of this deceptively glamorous hellscape with a giant portrait of Zeus tucked under my arm. Eden would probably hang it in the library, assuming she could find a space not covered in books and witch balls.
Before Fane can launch into another story about the girl who became a swan or a puffer fish or a duck-billed platypus, I ask, “What was the name of the man who broke my arm?”
He looks disappointed that I’m diverting the conversation away from adulterous gods. He doesn’t even answer.
“The one who stabbed me and left me for dead,” I remind him.
“Darius. His name was Darius. He was punished severely for his transgressions against you. I made sure of it.”
“So did I.”
“Ah, the scuffle with the nuns was… unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? You slaughtered a religious order.”
“My apostles were overzealous, most of them new to their orders… eager to prove themselves. The nuns were exceedingly vicious. My men were expecting that, but—”
“They weren’t expecting us?”
“They were warned, of course. Perhaps they didn’t take the warning seriously. I cannot ask because they paid for their mistake in underestimating you, did they not?”
“None of them survived?”
“None.”
I frown. “Then who…?”
“Tabby?” He grins maliciously. “I cut her myself.”
39
Tabby’s Truth
I grab Archer’s hand under the table, and we cling to each other like it’s the only thing stopping us from toppling into a bottomless abyss. Waves of anger pulse back and forth between us, and I wonder if I feel like heat and hate and static too.
When I get my breathing under control, I ask, “Why did you do it?”
Fane wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “You can blame Stewart for that.”
“The Mouldering Duke?”
“I groomed him to take over Aleksandr Krayevsky’s role. Aleks had become obsessed with the properties of blood and sought to increase his own power. He lost sight of the bigger picture. Stewart was altogether more charming, but the Brotherhood wouldn’t let him in. It caused me unforgivable delays. I was unaware his thirst for the archives exceeded even mine. He hid it well. Eventually, it cost me the lives of the brothers themselves. I was led to believe only Arnold Cloud was left, and he has proved elusive for decades.
“Then it became apparent the painting of Albert was a ruse. Once he was in my possession, it was obvious he wasn’t a bloodborn, which could mean only one thing.” He taps the base of his glass. “The painting was created to obscure the identity of the real last bloodborn. As for Stewart… after all those years studying Krayevsky’s papers, he was still no closer to discovering the identity of the third doctor or of the last bloodborn. Imagine my elation, Violet, when I discovered they were the same person. The same woman.”
“If she’s the last bloodborn, why did you leave her for dead?”
“She will return to me when she’s ready.”
“How can she return to you if she’s dead?”
“The triblade didn’t kill her. It can give or take life, and oh so many variations in between. Her blood will drain and replenish itself until I cut her again. An endless cycle until she comes to her senses and gives me what I want.”
“Access to the archives?”
“She has done some astonishing work with blood. Truly astonishing.”
“Her work’s already been stolen from her,” I say. “And others are already looking for it.”
He swirls the wine in his glass. “Others like Halston Lazarus?”
“Other thieves. What does it matter what their names are? A thief is a thief.”
“You think me a thief?”
And a murderer, kidnapper, and blackmailer. I don’t say it because I don’t want to die right now. “Tabby’s been experimenting with herself since you cut her.”
“I suspected she might.”
“It’s not working like you said. She’s drowning in her own blood, and the cycle is getting shorter every day.”
“This is bluff.” He flicks his hand like he’s shooing an irritating fly.
“She’s not bluffing,” Archer says. “Tabby’s drowning every hour or so. She’s chosen to end it on her own terms.”
I lean towards Fane. “You lose.”
He grabs my hand on top of the table and squeezes painfully, his whole face twitching. Daniel shoots out of his seat, but Amethyst pulls him back down when a growl rumbles around the room. The masked apostles shift restlessly, and I hold my breath.
Nobody moves.
“Violet is a peach,” Lucifer says, glaring down the table. “I’d hate to see her bruise, Fane.”
Peach? I barely ever bruise. But Fane loosens his grip, and I breathe again.
The look he gives Lucifer is pure hatred. “I embrace the name my mother gave me and use my father’s for convenience only. Don’t think to control me, angel.”
“Control is not really my forte,” Lucifer says. “I much prefer chaos.”
The Bishop turns to me, ignoring Lucifer’s comment. “Is it true, Violet? Look at me.” His voice is gentle now, coaxing. “Is Tabby set on ending her own life?”
“Yes. You must’ve realised she’d never let you have her work.”
“I overestimated her.”
“You underestimated her.”
“What good is she dead?” he spits, gripping his spasming jaw to stop it moving.
“You drove her to it.”
“There is nobody she cares about,” he mutters. “That is my problem. She is quite cold-hearted. If there was just one person she loved, somebody to offer a little leverage, I might have persuaded her, but she cares for nobody. What sort of woman cares more for her work than the people who care about her?”
It’s like he doesn’t know her at all. It’s like he doesn’t know what irony is.
But all I say is, “She’s a succubus.”
Namika hisses again, her shoulders spiking up to her ears like a cat.
“Calm yourself, Namika. Violet means no harm.”
“We do have feelings.” Namika looks longingly at the statue of her son. “We can love.”
“Of course you can love,” I say. “But it’s harder to trust in the love of others, isn’t it?”
She lowers her eyes but doesn’t speak.
The Bishop looks from Namika to me. “You are a perceptive young woman, Violet.”
Nobody says my name as often as he does; it makes me want to change it.
“Albert is perceptive,” I correct.
“Perhaps Tabby loves but dares not show it,” Fane muses. “Is that what you are saying?”
Now I’m in dangerous waters. Not that I’m about to tell the Bishop about Caleb, but maybe Tabby would make the effort to save herself if she thought Caleb was at risk. Would she? I wish I’d thought of it sooner.
“Violet?”
I shake my head. “I was thinking about Namika’s love for her son. If Tabby had children before she… before her human death, she would’ve loved them. She’s not cold-hearted.”
I didn’t want to give anything away, but I can’t bear the thought of him thinking she’s as cold and unfeeling as he is.
“Tabby did have children. Two sons and two daughters. She died with her fifth child in her belly.”
“Oh fu—” Bile rises in my throat, and I reach for my water glass, guzzling until the acidic taste is washed away.
“Her husband had her committed. She was no madder than you or I. She died in Bedlam.”
I glance down the table at Kite, my jaw clamped shut, nostrils doing double-time to keep my lungs in business. Kite’s eyes are wide, and although Lucifer looks bored, his jaw is ticking. It’s a little too close to home for them both, but Glenda survived, and I can’t help thinking it’s a good thing she doesn’t remember. I try not to be offended that Fane thinks my level of madness matches his.
“How long was she in there?” I whisper before I can stop myself.
“Eight years.”
“You said she was pregnant when she died.”
“Swollen with the seed of one of the guards. I expect that’s why she had to die.”
“You mean she was murdered?” I can’t get enough air into my lungs. Poor Tabby. Albert told me once that most potential bloodborns were murdered or died by suicide, but I hadn’t connected either of those things with Tabby, and now I’m fighting my own eyeballs.
“Her husband didn’t visit her in all that time. Someone was responsible for her pregnancy and felt threatened enough to hide it behind her murder.”
“I bet the bastard paid when she rose from the dead.”
“I’m certain of it. I hear she seduced her way out of the grave. I’d like to have seen it.”
My smile is soft and bitter. When I asked, Albert wouldn’t tell me how the all-but-one bloodborn got out of their grave with their soul intact. If he had, I would’ve known who he was talking about instantly.
“How do you know all this?” I ask. “Tabby can’t have told you herself.”
“Albert told me.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t he?”
“No. So, who told you?”
“You have your answer.”
“And you have yours. After a life like that, Tabby would have no reason to trust in anybody’s love.”
“Yes, perceptive,” he mutters absent-mindedly. “No, I do not think I shall grow bored with you.”
“You won’t get the chance.” Daniel’s voice is like nails.
Fane turns his grisly smile on Daniel. “I was wondering when you might speak.”
Before Fane can say anything else, Daniel asks, “Where’s my brother?”
Fane’s eyebrows flick up in momentary surprise. “Why should I know where your brother is?”
“Because this area is crawling with demons who will do anything for a favour,” Daniel says.
“Why would you even care for such a man?” Fane sips his wine. “I hear his attitudes are medieval.”
Daniel arches an eyebrow. “Pot and kettle, mate.”
Amethyst’s voice in my head cuts my snigger in half. He tried to rescue me.
“Is he here?” Daniel asks.
“Not at the moment.”
“What did you do with him after he tried to rescue my sister?” I ask.
Fane’s head turns slowly, eyes drifting over Amethyst before latching onto mine. “I gave him to mine.”
“What?”
“My sister, Silver.”
“Silver is dead,” Amethyst says, her voice shaky and quiet. Silver is Mara’s real sire. She headed the Daughters of Lilith. Caspar told me.
“Not so,” says Fane. “Mara believes so because it suited me to have her believe it.”
“What does your sister want with Paul?” I ask.
“Revenge.”
“She’s here?”
“I can promise you, Violet, that she is not here, and neither is Paul. I don’t have him locked up in the palace. Satisfied?”
“They’re at one of your other palaces?”
“I do not have your uncle locked up anywhere.” Impatience tightens his words. “Are you really so concerned for his wellbeing?”
“He’s family.” I give a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t have to like the guy.”
Daniel grunts—at least, that’s what it sounds like—and my eyes shift to his, hoping he hasn’t been punished for calling Fane mate while I wasn’t looking. Daniel isn’t hurt. He’s smirking, and I don’t know why.
“Tell me, Daniel, what manner of man abandons his own daughters?” Fane’s words put an end to Daniel’s amusement.
Please don’t lose your shit, Dad. Please.
“A youthful mistake.” His voice is robotically even. “The sort that makes a man determined to right his wrongs.”
Amethyst smiles up at him with quivering lips. She looks delicate, like a passing wind could sweep her away and she’d feel nothing but gratitude. What did Fane do to her?
“Amethyst is so easily pacified.” Fane sneers. “I expect Violet will take more convincing.”
“You know nothing about my daughters and nothing about me, but your bluffs are bold. I’ll give you that.”
I grin at Daniel, and he winks back, and I know our united front is irritating Fane. He rubs his fingers together as he watches Daniel, then his gaze drifts to the apostle directly behind Daniel’s chair.
“My lord,” I say, hoping to distract him from whatever signal he’s about to make. “Your interest in Tabby’s work… is that why you collect blood?”
He drags his eyes back to mine and smiles. “Yes.”
“So, you can experiment with it using Tabby’s methods?”
“And expand upon them.”
“Right. But you know she issued instructions to have her work destroyed?” I figure it’s worth a try.
“Let us hope that’s not true.” He claps his hands. “Enough. We have cause to celebrate tonight. After centuries, my nephew will be restored to his throne.”
Two apostles step forward, one draping a fur-lined cloak around Fane’s shoulders. The other places a headdress on his white head: a black bull skull with studded horns and massive fangs. Like he’s not ridiculous enough already with his pretentious purple robe and cloud of hair. A third apostle arrives holding a black, lacquered box, inlaid with carved ivory circles. When the apostle opens it, Fane reaches inside and pulls out the triblade.
Six men enter the room wearing a uniform of brown boots, baggy trousers, and a dark red jacket, each with a curved sword on display at his waist. They lift Iwao reverently onto their shoulders like they’re carrying a coffin and follow the bishop and Namika into the next room. Two apostles urge us to follow.
A large, canopied bed draped in indigo silk sits on a raised platform at the far end of a carpeted room. Mara is lying on it, still as death, eyes wide open. A heavy floral fragrance fills the air, masking something bitter I can’t name, and settling thickly at the back of my throat. Candles flicker on the walls, creating a rippling effect on the painted silk wallpaper like a heat haze rising from a desert.
“Come closer, Violet,” Fane says. “I want you to touch her skin.”
I skirt the bed, so I’m on the opposite side to Fane because I’m not going anywhere near the triblade. My gaze is drawn to Mara’s face, and I hate the fear I see there because it reminds me of the way Albert looked that night at the watermill. My eyes burn at the memory, but the last thing I want is to cry in front of Fane. I can’t think about Albert now, so I drag my eyes from her face and touch her arm. She’s cold and smooth like a porcelain doll, but her flesh gives slightly when I squeeze, like Leia’s bendy hair rollers, leaving dents behind.
“Fascinating, isn’t it? So silky, yet so solid.” He looks up at me, a cruel smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Watch me cut her.”
I fight for inner calm as nausea wells up inside me, but I couldn’t look away if I tried.
Fane trails the central blade from Mara’s neck to her breastbone but doesn’t pierce her skin. In a quick twisting motion, he stabs her just beneath the collarbone on her left side with one of the longer side blades, then flips the weapon over to puncture her in the same spot on her right side with the opposite blade, his movements swift and precise.
There’s no blood.
Mara lies still.
“I didn’t expect Mara to inspire such loyalty in her betrayed sister, yet Amethyst came so willingly to her rescue. Curious, is it not?” Fane glances up at me. “Piper fetched me the night Amethyst plunged her knife into Mara’s chest. I plucked her away at the crucial moment, though not too late to feel Amethyst’s anger, raw and perfect. I cannot decide whether her desire to rescue Mara now is weakness inspired by guilt, or bravery inspired by naivety.”
Before I can wrap my head around the idea that Fane was at the priory on the night of the battle, two young women dressed in gold bring a tray to the bedside. On it is a decanter filled with rich, red liquid and coils of clear tubing.
“It’s been filtered?” Fane asks.
The women nod. They poke two lengths of tubing into Mara’s wounds, and a horrendous sucking sound fills the room. The other ends are placed in the decanter, and the blood flows immediately along the tubing into Mara’s cold body.
