Empire of the Damned (Empire of the Vampire, #2)

by Jay Kristoff

“‘You’re quite a woman, Phoebe á Dúnnsair.’ “‘I am nae woman. I am the wild. I am the wind.’ “‘Thorn and bramble,’ I smiled. “She nodded. ‘Blood and scars.’

“I’d rather die for something that matters than live for nothing at all. And because a man survived long enough to have a grey beard and wrinkles means not that he’s actually lived. To live is to risk. To fear and to fail. A man must dance on the dragon’s teeth to steal the fire from its tongue. Most are burned alive in the attempt. But better to dance and fall than to never have danced at all. Pity not the man who dies too soon, but the one who lingers too long. For those men who pass peaceful in their beds, who slip one night soft into sleep and wake nevermore … can they be said to have been awake at all?”

“And unless you were about to bend Phoebe á Dúnnsair over the nearest table and make her say please again, your definition of the best part differs from mine.” “You’re a strange one, coldblood.”

“My brother shook his head as he called reply. ‘Listen, I know none of your dogs have the balls to tell you this, but do you have any idea what a fucking wanker you sound, referring to yourself in third person?’

“‘Hold no fear for what is coming, Dior. It is coming anyway.’

“She’d told me that we don’t get broken, but that we’re made so. And we were wounded, the pair of us, sure and true; both still bleeding from the wounds life had carved in us, the loved ones torn away from us. Honestly, I still feared my hurts would never be mended entire. But as I held that woman in my arms, I knew she’d spoken truth—that if we’re blessed, we might find someone whose edges fit against our own, like pieces of the same puzzle, or shards of the same broken sword. Someone who, in their own broken way, makes our brokenness whole, and our shattered edge complete.

“I knew full well this might be the last time her lips touched mine. A kiss to remember and be remembered by. We’d had too little time, and now, we might be at the finish of it. And as we parted, all too soon, she spoke, ruby-red lips curling. “‘I don’t love ye, Gabriel de León.’ “I kissed her knuckles, one at a time. ‘I don’t love you too.’ “She laughed then, eyes feral and bright with battlelust. ‘See ye in the dún.’

“The storybooks are full of fools who died for love,” Jean-François murmured. “That they are,” the silversaint nodded, rubbing his stubble. “And though it might mark me a fool also, I’m glad for that fact, Historian. If you fight for nothing? That’s exactly what you’ll give to defend it. But if you fight for something worthwhile—I mean something that truly matters—there’s no length you won’t go to. Brotherhood. Famille. Loyalty. Love. All worth trying for. All worth dying for. In the end, that’s what makes us different from you, vampire. And that which makes us different, makes us mighty.” Gabriel smiled.

“‘No fear. Only fury.’

“That there is nothing that grows as deep on this green earth, nothing that shines as bright in all the gables of heaven, nothing that burns as fierce in the blazing heart of hell, than a parent’s love for their child.”

They’d shared a life together, he and Baptiste. Loved one another as fierce as any couple I’ve known. But love is mortal, Historian. Blood is eternal.

“A part of me always knew it. When you truly think about it, alone in the deeping hour, when the music stops and the babble stills and you stare hard into that bloody mirror of your soul, it’s impossible to reconcile the idea of a benevolent creator with a life that looks like this. To convince yourself the one above cares, when there’s so much horror and hurt and hate in the world. Only the blind can look into hellfire and smile. Only the coward raises a fist to his child and calls it love. And I was reminded of that time I spoke to Patience, then. Her little dead bird cupped in her palms. Her questions about why he died. I told you it’s hard to explain death to your child, vampire, but in truth, it’s impossible to explain any of this to anyone. So we settle. For the myth of the grand plan. For the fable of the God who loves us. We teach ourselves to believe in the lie, that all of it will make sense once we die.

“It was the scream of the damned.