“Never has to limp another step,” Lukain finishes, adding a humorless chuckle at the end.
I lean forward to the writing on the wall, realizing it’s been painted with Ant’s blood. Another cherry on top of the macabre cake. “This is a message, Lukain,” I whisper.
We lean forward and read it together:
FOR EVERY ONE OF MINE
I TAKE TWO FROM YOU
My face twists with confusion, brow threading, lips firming. I look to Lukain, who appears equally perplexed.
Then our eyes widen, understanding coming to both of us at once.
“Ohfuckme True,” I rasp.
We turn and run down the hall.
I know why the eating room was empty and quiet now. People were either hiding . . . or working.
That work consists of trying to keep one of our own alive, in the makeshift infirmary of the Chained Sisters, who inhabit the southeast tunnels of the Firehold.
I throw back the privacy flap they installed, with my mates taking up space behind me. I’m instantly greeted by a cornucopia of shouting, running, and clattering. Some girls pour liquids, fill vials, and speak in hushed tones with one another at the many tables, with only one thing on their minds: Silverblood.
Dozens of Grimsons—the ones too young, old, or untrained to join us in battle—partner with the Sisters to finish their work. Others run from one cave room to the next, gathering supplies, dropping empty beakers and failed experiments with shattering glass, talking loudly over the constant conversations all around us.
It’s like a different world in here, a lively one removed from the somber silence of Ant’s tunnels and the front of the Firehold.
“Where’s Iron Sister Keffa? Where’s Jinneth?” I demand, trying to stop anyone who will stand still long enough to listen.
Finally, a young girl waddles up to me and points down the leftmost hall. I hurry that way, toward my mother’s and Keffa’s dwelling.
Two rapscallion soldiers stand guard at the door with mismatched armor, oversized helmets. They’re probably fifteen, scared out of their boots.
A line of blood leads just past them into the room, and I follow it, croaking, “Oh fuck.”
I expect the worst as the layman guardsmen part and I pat them on the shoulders for their good work, pushing through, turning the corner into the room. I’m prepared for another mind-numbing, heartbreaking sight like Antones’ chamber.
It’s similar in here yet different.
There’s a headless body slumped against the nearest wall. A pale-skinned body with a slight stature, slender arms placed neatly on their lap. That part is grotesquely similar to Ant’s room, and it makes my skin crawl as I wonder who it could be.
My eyes swerve and I find the head against thefarwall of the room, as if it rolled over there only a few minutes ago. It’s on its side, and I recognize the slack face immediately.
“Sister Cyprilis,” I say with a ragged breath.
The poor fucking woman. I wonder if Lukain has another quip that says “she’s in a better place,” like he did with Antones. Because she certainly deserves it.
If I knew Antones the longest of nearly any man here, I knew Cy the longest of anyperson.We grew up in the House of the Broken together, as whelps. While I fled like a coward, she was molested by Father Cullard before getting traded off to heartless sex slavers. She was raped and bred by the monsters, who forced two whelps from her womb and filled her with a third before trading her to even more vicious Faith Ward vampires. There, under the blind eye of Valenthia Yurlyth, Sister Cyprilis was kept for years, abused, and turned. She was never able to see her three children again. She eventually escaped into Nuhav where we found her.
Now this. Beheaded. Staked through the heart to make sure the vampiress is dead.
We tried our prototype Silverblood tincture on her and it failed, nearly collapsing our whole plan. I’ll never know for sure,but I certainly believe it failed because Cyprilis’ life was too difficult and dark to ever get of.
What humanity could have ever returned to a girl whose entire life was stolen from her at a young age? Therewasno humanity to return to Cy.
In that, I almost feel a sense of relief to know her suffering has gone. The tears don’t come like they did with Antones.
Four people are huddled over the cot in the corner of the room, and I can already see who they’re standing over and murmuring to by the cut of their ragged gray robe.