"So, I just have a question," says Chandra.
Arlinn smirks. Standing outside the gates, they've had little in the way of things to do. A new set of guards replaced the old, but they're no more talkative. "What's on your mind?"
"It's a vampire wedding, right?"
"Right," says Kaya, sensing danger. "A vampire wedding."
"Do you think there's cake in there?"
"I think your little party's over," he says.
Chandra grins. "Looks like the party's getting started."
The two of them join the crowd: cathars mounted and unmounted, priests bearing herons and priests bearing Avacynian collars, and farmers who have lost their families.
Onward across the bridge, toward that den of depravity, the rush of the living and the mortal.
Onward the lances, onward the hammers and shields, torches and pitchforks, the holy tomes and blessed blades.
And downward come the bats. Distant, at first, easily mistaken for pieces of falling ash, but the sound soon drowns out that hope. Screeching pierces her sensitive ears; Arlinn covers one and tucks the other against her shoulder to try and block out the cacophony. It's no use.
But what is useful are the bolts of magic hurled over her shoulder. Arrows, too, soon find their marks. As the bats descend, hungry for blood, the witches and archers are eager to meet them. Fur sizzles; the screeching worsens—and then goes silent. Her ears are still ringing as the bats go down. She can't hear the crunch of their bones beneath the boots of their makeshift army, but she can feel it.
She can feel the shift beneath her, too, as they move from simple stone to carefully curated marble. Up ahead, at the secondary gates, the guards have already been overwhelmed, floating face down in pools of blood. Maybe Kaya's right. If they aren't quick, there's hardly going to be anything left.
The Church could be as bloody as any werewolf pack.
Olivia's not cheering. "You . . . all of you! You're ruining my wedding day!" she roars from atop the stairs.
"At least use a proper weapon!" Sorin snaps.
"I thought you understood," Sorin rumbles. "I thought you saw, grandfather, that there is more to this existence than gluttonous parties and wanton excess. I thought you saw that!"
"You are a child. You have always been a child," he intones. "It's truly a shame. Millennia ago, I gave you a gift. Now I have to live out the rest of my days knowing you squandered it."
"I never asked for that—" Sorin begins.
"My dear boy, that is what makes it a gift."
Memory subsumes reality. He is a young man, called into his family's gathering hall. His grandfather sits at the head of the table. Lashed to the ceiling is an angel, her blood dripping into a wine glass.
Everyone is there. His aunts, his uncles. His parents. All of them lay their hands upon him and tell them this is for his own good. For the family's own good. If they're to survive in the dark, they must become a part of it. Famine has taken all the things that humans eat—so they should no longer be human. It's perfectly reasonable.
He's dizzy.
He opens his mouth.
Blood—sweet, sticky, intoxicating as wine—pours in. Sinew weaves itself back together. Bones crack into place. Wounds stitch shut. His muscles swell with stolen vigor—his vigor. They thought this cellar would drown him, but it's only made him stronger.
It takes longer than he'd like. With every reach of his hand, his body continues to heal itself, continues to stitch itself back together. He grunts. But he throws himself fully to the work, to the effort, and when he crests the lip of the pit, there is no longer any place for doubt within him.
Sorin steps into the maelstrom. An arrow whistles over his shoulder. He catches it, driving it into the throat of an oncoming Voldaren guard. The man struggles to breathe. Sorin twists the arrow's shaft.
"Quiet," he says.
The man collapses when Sorin pulls the arrow away. Sorin doesn't much care.