The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves #1)(90)

Roux-Joubert got up from his chair. In the sulfurous lighting of the catacombs, his face was drawn. Almost yellow from illness.

“Shhh … Shhh … Don’t do that. You shouldn’t hurt yourself. Let someone else do that. Otherwise, where’s the fun?”

He touched Séverin’s face, trailing a nail down the side of his cheek. But then Roux-Joubert winced. He grabbed his sleeve, as if there was a wound there that needed tending. Slowly, he drew up the fabric, revealing a long gash covered in a bandage that was stained yellow.

“This is the price of godhood,” rasped Roux-Joubert. “A price that we tried to pay once before.”

Séverin looked behind Roux-Joubert. Enrique and Hypnos stood there, clearly inside the exhibition and talking to each other, throwing something up in the air as if they had all the time in the world. Séverin wetted his lips. His voice sounded hoarse, but he needed to talk. Needed, more importantly, to keep Roux-Joubert talking.

“Godhood?”

“Of course,” said Roux-Joubert. A manic gleam shone in his eyes. “Have you never wondered about why only some humans can Forge? It is an essence alongside the blood. One capable of being harnessed by the power of the Babel Fragment itself. God made us in His image. Are we not gods, then?”

Once more, Roux-Joubert lifted his sleeve. He tore off the yellow-stained bandage, revealing pale skin crosshatched with scars.

“It was hard,” he admitted. “To hurt oneself. To flay oneself. But—”

He took a glowing knife from his breast pocket and dragged it across his arm. He winced, but when his blood ran, it was not red, but gold. Gold as ichor. As the blood of a god.

“—it is worth it. The Fallen House made a discovery of our blood years ago. With the right tools, we could harness the essential essence within us that allowed those of us with the affinity to Forge. But that is just the beginning. It gives one power over more than just matter and mind—it gives one power over the spirits of other men. I’ll show you.”

Séverin jerked back, but the ropes bound him into place. Roux-Joubert took a step forward. He pressed the knife point against Séverin’s cheek, dragging it downward. Séverin tensed. His breath turned jagged, his pulse leaping wildly. When he had finished making the cut, Roux-Joubert pressed the broken skin of his arm to Séverin’s face. Séverin cried out, but Roux-Joubert only pressed harder.

Roux Joubert’s voice was low, damp against Séverin’s neck. “I could make you an angel, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie.”

A searing pain rent itself across Séverin’s back. He screamed. Something shoved through his shoulder blades. He exhaled a shaky breath then looked behind him. The slender point of wings shoved through his suit, sharp as finials. Wet, pearl-pale feathers rose steadily into the air as they dried.

“Or I could make you a devil.”

Séverin doubled over. A new pain gripped him, shooting through his temples. His vision blacked out, then restored just as horns shot out from his forehead, curving around the backs of his ears.

“I could change you.”

The very cells of Séverin’s being quivered until, in an abrupt rush, it fell away. The horns pulled back into his skull. Wings furled tight against his spine.

Roux-Joubert gasped—Séverin could not tell whether from triumph or pain. He looked up to see the other man squatting, rocking on his heels. He was grinning and smiling so hard Séverin thought his teeth would crack. Roux-Joubert licked his lips, but no blood fell. Gold flaked off onto his chin, spattering the front of his jacket.

“But we cannot remake the world on just the power given by one Fragment, you see? If we were to join them, then perhaps such imaginings as I might have performed would be permanent. I could remake you. Remake the entire human race in the images of new gods. Imagine it. No more of this hideous mixing of blood. A purity. Assured and filtered through the holy relics passed down to us from the first ages.”

Séverin fought through a wash of pain. His tongue felt leaden. “You know, I was told once that an ancient civilization in the Americas made gods by sacrificing humans.” He smiled. “If you’d like me to drive a stake through your heart, you need only ask.”

Roux-Joubert laughed. “It’s far too late for that. It is time for revolution. Soon, the Babel Fragments will be joined together … but first, they must be awakened. Only then can we fulfill the promise and potential that the Lord set out for us.”

Even through the haze of pain, Séverin’s mind latched onto something: first, they must be awakened …

“And what promise would that be?” he asked.

“Why, to make the world anew, of course.”

The man in the blade-brim hat hoisted the Phobus Helmet. Séverin recoiled. He would do anything—anything—not to wear that cursed thing again.

“And it’s nearly time,” said Roux-Joubert.

He looked over his shoulder, grinning widely at the image of Enrique and Hypnos.

“Your friends have been most helpful. Which makes me think that perhaps I owe you something … a thank-you, of a sort. All this time, you wished to know where the West’s Babel Fragment lay, did you not? Perhaps you wanted to alert the Order? Warn them, even?”

Séverin said nothing. His gaze flicked to the image of Hypnos and Enrique. Still laughing.