Empire of the Vampire (Empire of the Vampire, #1)

by Jay Kristoff

“‘Devils fuck that syphilitic whore,’ Astrid growled.

“‘You’re … daughter of the ruler of all Elidaen,’ I breathed, my eyes a-wonder. ‘Benefactor of the Order of San Michon, Protector of the Realm and Chosen of God Himself.’

Astrid

“‘You’re … daughter of the ruler of all Elidaen,’ I breathed, my eyes a-wonder. ‘Benefactor of the Order of San Michon, Protector of the Realm and Chosen of God Himself.’

Astrid

Greyhand suspects I’m descended from another kith bloodline altogether. A fearsome one, and ancient, thought extinguished centuries ago.’

“I rolled my eyes again. ‘Why do I feel like I’m striking a bargain with the devil?’ “‘Oh, I’m twice as crafty as the devil, Gabriel de León. But we’ll not be striking anything lest you ask me nicely.’

‘What a world this would be, were it not held wholly and solely in the grip of stubborn old men.’

But Chloe Sauvage was no lunatic. She was something twice as dangerous. Something I was too back then. But will never be again.” “And what is that, Silversaint?” Gabriel met the vampire’s eyes, a bitter smile on his lips. “A believer.”

“The keeper looked at me from the corner of his eye, smiling fondly. ‘You know, you’re not half the sniveling backwater scab the other lads make ye oot to be, de León. I quite like ye, in fact. For a Nordish-born prettyboy sheepfucker, like.’

“Mayhaps your holy kin do not love you so dear as they should.

“Shrouded in black. Creeping like a thief. “Aaron de fucking Coste. “And I murmured again. Softer this time. “‘Tried to kill me…’”

“I remembered little Claude’s blood boiling at my touch. Talon’s words: We should take him to Heaven’s Bridge right now. Cut his throat and give him to the waters.

“Thirsty?” Jean-François asked, sketching in his damnable book. “You know I am.” “More wine?” Chocolat eyes drifted up to meet Gabriel’s. “Or something stronger?” “Just get me a fucking drink, you unholy cunt.”

I like to highlighting gabrielS charming personality

I put him at maybe twenty, he played with his fine bloodwood lute like a thirteen-year-old boy with his cock.” “Artfully?” Jean-François asked. “Constantly. I fucking hate soothsingers. Almost as much as spuds.” “Why?” “Poets are wankers,” Gabriel sighed. “And minstrels are just poets who’re allowed to strum themselves in public. It’s a self-important prat who believes his thoughts are worth putting to parchment, let alone writing a fucking ballad about.”

“Very pretty, vampire. But truth is a sharper knife. Truth is, most men write songs so they can hear themselves sing. And the rest sing not for the song, but for the applause at the end. You know what most men don’t do enough of?” “Tell me, Silversaint.” “They don’t shut the fuck up. They don’t just sit and listen. It’s in silence we know ourselves, vampire. It’s in stillness we hear the questions that truly matter, scratching like baby birds on the eggshells of our eyes.

“Do you know what irony is, de León?” “They make swords out of it, don’t they? Mix it with coally and hit it with a hammery?”

“‘Fuck me,’ I sighed. ‘She’s already married, priest. And to God no less.’ “‘Are you trying to be a bleeding arsehole, hero?’ Dior scowled. ‘Or are you just naturally gifted?’ “‘Shut your noise hole, boy. The adults are talking.’

A poem. Penned in old Talhostic. From holy cup comes holy light; the faithful hand sets world aright. And in the Seven Martyrs’ sight, mere man shall end this endless night.’

“‘Fuck,’ I sighed. “‘Fuuuck,’ Dior said. “‘… Fuuuck?’ I asked. “‘Fuuuuuuuuck,’ he nodded.

“‘You knew them.’ “Glancing up, I saw Dior watching me from the back of Chloe’s horse. “‘Those bitches. You knew them.’ “‘We’ve met. Briefly.’ “Bellamy glanced at me sidelong, Père Rafa fixed me with a curious stare. Even Chloe threw me an eyeful on the wrong side of suspicious. ‘Met how?’ “‘I shot one in the back and stole their horse.’ “Dior scoffed. Chloe’s jaw dropped. ‘Gabriel de León, you shot a nun?’ “‘Not to kill. Well … not technically.’

“‘You’re telling me this skinny little fuckstain…’ “‘… is the last-known scion of Esan’s line. Dior doesn’t know where the Grail is, Gabriel. He is the Grail. The cup of the Redeemer’s blood.’

“‘Well, fuck my face…’”

“‘I need your advice like I need a donkey dancing on my dick, hero.’

And worst of all? The fear that was really chilling my piss?” “That Danton must surely be tracking you?” Jean-François asked. “That you knew nothing of that masked highblood, yet she seemed to know you exact? That the Inquisition was surely still stalking you, and yet you’d seen no sign of them since the Ūmdir?” “No.” The silversaint scoffed. “My vodka was running low.

“‘Did you…’ The lad cleared his throat, uncertain. ‘I mean to say, have you ever…’ “‘Careful, boy,’ I growled. ‘You’re sailing awfully close to the

“No mercy begged, Gabriel. And none bestowed.

“Ah, much better, much b-better indeed. The snik and the snak and the red red red.

“The first of seven, Gabriel. First of s-seven. As Fabién took from ye, take like from him.

“‘You kicked my balls, you fuck-eyed little pigdick!’

“I glanced to the shivering rat at my feet. ‘You aright, boy?’ “‘I’m all r-right,’ he wheezed. “‘Because you look like shit twice stepped in.’ “Dior squinted up at me and coughed. ‘We look n-nothing alike, hero.’

“‘Oh, shit…’ I hissed. “Dior blinked, his arms wrapped tight and shivering. ‘What?’ “I spun on the spot, heart sinking. ‘Oh, you saints-buggering, cack-gargling TWATGOBLIN!’ “‘What?’ Dior demanded. “I knew not how it happened. Mayhaps it’d been cut away when that thrall stuck me with his pigsticker. More likely, I lost it wrestling with this idiotic little turd as he tried to drown us both. But the how of it made no difference at all. “I’d lost my bandolier. And with it had gone my black ignis, my spare silvershot, my few remaining silverbombs, and worst, worst, worst of all … “‘God spunks in my spuds once again.’ “I clawed the waterlogged locks from my face and sighed. “‘My sanctus is gone.’”

Twatgoblin

Whatever else he was—liar, thief, ungrateful little shit—Dior Lachance was still no coward.

“The slayer scowled. ‘Keep calling me girl and you’re going to wake one morn with yer lollies in yer mouth, de León, I swear it.’

“‘Shut the fuck up, Bouchette.’ “‘That tree … its face looks like … my mother’s.’ “‘Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Bouchette.’ “‘Is it me, or are the feathers on that bird … tiny tongues?’ “‘SHUT THE FUCK UP, BOUCHETTE!’

“I looked to Rafa. ‘Do me a favor, Father?’ “‘Ask it, Silversaint.’ “‘If you should happen to meet our Maker tonight, kick him in the cock for me.’

Oh, de León, you are priceless. How much the fool did you feel?” The silversaint reached for the wine, muttering, “No need to rub it in, prick.”

some feeble attempt at modesty we both knew was doomed to fail. “The girl looked up into my eyes, horror, indignity, fear. “‘Fuck,’ she said. “‘My,’ I replied. “‘Face,’ we chorused.”

“‘You’re improving, my spud-witted little shit-bucket,’

“‘I was not always a Seraph of the Order, shitblood,’ Talon growled. ‘I earned my aegis when you were still a tadpole paddling about in your godless father’s janglesack.’

Better to die a man than live a monster,’ I murmured.

“‘Unknot your gizzards, you quivering peon.’

“‘You shitblooded little arsegrubber!’ Talon spat.

Jean-François quirked his lip. “A falcon watching you like a hawk? Truly, de León, your wordsmithery is a marvel to behold.” “My story, coldblood. I’ll tell it how I like.” Gabriel finished off his wine and wiped his lips. “And for your information ‘wordsmithery’ isn’t a real word.” “Nor is ‘fuckarsery,’ but you hear no complaints from me.”

“The vampire seized Greyhand’s wrist, flinging him down onto the stone so hard the flagstones shattered. Greyhand cried out, blood on his lips. Luncóit slung him like a bag of rocks—once, twice, twisting as she did so. I heard bone breaking, saw Greyhand’s red eyes wide with agony. And then he roared, head thrown back as the vampire thrust her heel against his chest and leaned away, tearing his swordarm out at the root.

She legit just ripped his arm off.

“I remembered the tales I’d heard of her around the fireside. A terror of the night. A true ancient. When the walls of Vellene had fallen to her father’s Endless Legion, Laure had gathered every infant in the city, snatching them from cribs and wailing mothers’ arms like some horror from a tall fireside tale. She’d opened them up like saintsday gifts and poured their blood into the fountain in Vellene’s square. “And then, she’d fucking bathed in it.

“‘I see her, frailblood,’ Laure whispered. ‘That sweet daughter of Lorson, floating beside thee like a shadow. I smell her, dripping like blood from thy guilty hands. If thou hadst but been there, ye might have protected her. If thou hadst but gone with her into the woods that day as she asked thee, thy sister Amélie might still be alive.’ “Laure’s eyes bored into mine, and her voice was a knife in my chest. “‘Instead, she met me.’

Shut the front door

“‘There is no God that shall save thee from me,’ she vowed. ‘I am a Prince of Forever, and forever shall I hunt thee. All thou hast, shall I take. All thou art, shall I unmake. And in the end, I shall have thee on thy knees, frailblood. I shall taste thee unto dying.’

“‘You will do nothing of the sort, you gutterborn spunk-rag,’ Talon snapped. ‘Count your blessings we do not flay the ink off your skin and throw you from these halls.’

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, looking at the ceiling of his cell with shining eyes. “That girl had a thousand smiles,” he sighed. “A smile cruel as winter wind, that cut you down to shivering bone. A smile light as dove’s down, just the softest hint of it across her cheek to let you know she was listening as you spoke. A smile that could make you fear, and a smile that could make you cry, and a smile that made you feel like you were the only man alive. And the smile she gave me that night was the first time she’d ever done so, and I’ve not forgotten it, not through all the blood and fire, not through all the nights from that one to this. A smile that whispered, and made me smile in kind.” “What did it whisper?” Jean-François asked. “That she was happy. And the sight of me had made her so.

I knew Gabriel had a heart.

“‘You treacherous swamp donkey, how dare you? I’ll be miserable all I like. You’re the one who’s enjoying herself. And rather too much, some might say. You’re supposed to be betrothed to the Almighty, but you carry that thing about like you were bedding it.’

“‘Last, and verily, most contemptible of all Courts of the Blood,’ Chloe read. ‘A broken line of sorcerers and cannibals, damned even among the damned. Spit their name from thy tongue as thou wouldst the blood of pigs, and guard thine own blood lest they wrest it from thy veins.’ “Astrid pointed to a name scribed beneath the skulls. “‘Esani,’ she said. ‘The Faithless.’