by Renee Ahdieh
“Of course he did,” Celine murmured, disbelief flaring through her.
The devil at work once more, no doubt.
Then—as if he’d been summoned by her thoughts—footsteps pounded down the hewn stairs behind her, moving rhythmically. Efficiently. Celine turned in place just as Bastien brushed past her in a suit of dove-grey linen, his Panama hat tilted atop his brow, the scent of bergamot and leather unfurling in his wake.
He did not pause to acknowledge her, so Celine returned the gesture.
“The carriage will come to collect you this evening at seven o’clock,” Odette said as Bastien settled into the phaeton in a single fluid motion. “And don’t trouble yourself with respect to your appearance. What you’re wearing now is lovely.” Without warning, she struck Bastien’s arm with the carved handle of her parasol. “Don’t you think Celine looks lovely?”
Bastien pursed his lips and glanced Celine’s way. “C’est une belle couleur.” He took hold of the reins, his expression dispassionate.
Odette cut her eyes in his direction, then smiled at Celine. “It is indeed a beautiful color. But I wasn’t talking about—”
The pair of gleaming black horses took off before Odette could finish, their hooves clattering across the cobblestones, scattering any poor soul still milling about the white cathedral.
In the ensuing ruckus, Celine heard Odette screech through the courtyard, her words a jumble of French and Spanish, her outrage aimed at a precise target.
Celine smiled to herself, her features sobering the next instant. She watched the elegant phaeton turn the corner, her back to the church. A moment later, her gaze snagged on the unremitting stare of a familiar figure standing on the opposite end of the steps, studying Celine intently. The Mother Superior frowned, her censure plain, the sun casting half her face in shadow.
It did not take the work of a genius to deduce the source of her irritation. Once again, she’d been thwarted in her attempts to control Celine, this time by the monsignor himself. With a huff, the matron of the convent continued down the steps, her posture stoic, her strides unwavering.
Sighing to herself, Celine tarried for a while in front of the cathedral until the spired structure emptied of its patrons and Pippa joined her.
“Did the meeting go well?” Celine asked Pippa.
Pippa nodded. A warm breeze tugged at her organza skirts. “As well as could be expected. It’s the first ladies’ organization I’ve ever joined. Are you certain you don’t want to accompany me next time?”
“I know little about music and art. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to offer much in the way of conversation.”
“You know as well as I do that conversing about the arts isn’t really the objective.”
Celine grinned, a black brow curving up her forehead. “How many of the society dames tried to foist their horrible sons on you?”
Pippa paused, her expression grim. “Three. One of them might not be . . . terrible.” She turned to Celine, her eyes forlorn. “His name is Phoebus.”
Laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “I gather he doesn’t resemble his namesake, the Sun God.”
“I’m meeting his mother for tea next week.” Pippa exhaled in a huff. “After all, we can’t remain at the convent forever.” A line formed along the bridge of her nose. “And it’s up to us to make the best of our lives.”
Celine said nothing in response. With a kind smile, Pippa linked arms with Celine, and they began the short journey back to the convent.
As they walked, Celine’s thoughts wound through her mind.
She shouldn’t go tonight. She wouldn’t go tonight. Even if it meant forgoing a meal at Jacques’. Even if it meant she had to join a few ladies’ organizations of her own. Associating herself with any member of La Cour des Lions was a terrible mistake. They were dangerous. Beyond the ordinary. Something dark writhed around whatever they touched.
It was a fool’s folly to consider anything else.
Celine resolved to do what she had come here to do. Begin her life as a proper young woman. Find a proper young man. Have a passel of proper young children.
And that would be the end of it.
Celine sighed to herself once more.
Her own lies were starting to taste bitter on her tongue.
What was it her father liked to say?
We must taste the bitter before we can appreciate the sweet.
Tonight Celine supposed she would do just that.
HIVER, 1872
CATHÉDRALE SAINT-LOUIS, ROI-DE-FRANCE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
You may wonder why I hold so much hate in my heart.
As tellers of tales often say, it is a long story. Hundreds of years long, in fact. It begins as many things do, with a love lost and a trust broken.
I could spend hours telling you what I lost. What my kind has suffered. How the plight of the Otherworld has sifted like grains of sand onto this mortal coil, forever threatening our survival. It is the cause célèbre of our kind, so to speak.
As our survival has long been a bone of contention.
Once, all creatures of the Otherworld existed beneath the same enchanted sky, through doorways concealed from the realm of man. Those of us who thrived in the light basked in the glittering woodlands of the Sylvan Vale, a place of perpetual springtime, the air forever bathed in the golden warmth of the sun. Those born to darkness took refuge in the Sylvan Wyld, a world of unending night, frosted by wintry stars.
But that was before our elders committed their original sin. Before the Banishment.
Now creatures such as I exist in a place between light and darkness, without a home to call our own. Rootless. Untethered. Alone.
For our elders’ crimes, we were cursed to walk in the shadows of mankind. Soon—as is wont to happen—a rift occurred, dividing our ranks between those of the Fallen and those of the Brotherhood. Through the centuries, our lore spread around the world. Humanity bestowed on us—on all these immortal night-dwellers—many names: wode; wearh; dhampyr; moroi; undead; revenant; lycanthrope; alukah; vardalak; lamia.
The name the locals of New Orleans often use is vampire, no matter that it is a bit of a misnomer, as not all of us survive solely on the blood of others. To the Brotherhood, the name is an insult. To the Fallen, it is a badge of honor. As with many things, its origins lie in the Old World. In a time of perpetual darkness and war, when those in power drank the blood of their foes and impaled the conquered on wooden pikes driven deep into the mud.
The title was granted to night-dwellers by superstitious codgers. Sad beings who believed such demons could be thwarted by cloves of garlic or sprinkles of holy water. By whispered prayers and flashing mirrors, wooden stakes and blessed crosses.
Utterly laughable. Nothing contrived by man could ever control such beings.
Creatures of the Otherworld have enjoyed propagating such notions, as it keeps our victims enthralled with the belief that their gods can save them. Fey beings—both light and dark—have always enjoyed toying with the minds of men in such a fashion.
There is only one thing that can destroy a vampire.
The light of the sun.
And there is only one thing that can subdue it.
Pure silver.
But ultimately these details don’t matter.
What matters is how I feel now. How those I hold dear have felt for centuries. How we’ve managed to endure.
Even more important is what I plan to do. It is no longer enough to ruin my enemy and dismantle everything he’s built over the years. He took me from my family. Stole the very breath from my lungs. I will hurt him as he and his kind have hurt me. With a love lost and a trust broken.
With justice finally done.
Many would say this story is not about justice. It is about vengeance.
To me, there
is simply no difference.
Tonight I will test my suspicions. I will see if the girl matters, as I’ve come to suspect.
Before dawn breaks, I will know the scars Death left on her soul.
WORDS ARE WEAPONS
I’m standing at the top of the world!” Ashton Albert—elder son of the shipping magnate Jay Ballon Albert—crowed into the deep purple skyline. “And I like what I see.”
His voice sounded smug in its drunkenness. Despicably self-assured.
Bastien hated it, though he sent the arrogant weasel an approving smile as he stared up into a fleece of clouds.
Ashton’s younger brother, Arthur (a shitcan in his own right), elbowed his way onto the steel scaffolding, standing perilously close to the edge for a seventeen-year-old boy recently conquered by drink. “Make room for me, Ash. I want to see what it feels like to stand on top of the world.”
“Technically”—Phoebus Devereux, youngest grandson of New Orleans’ current mayor, interjected in a nasally monotone—“you’re standing on a half-built hotel along the coast of Louisiana. You’re nowhere near the top of the world.”
Bastien wanted to laugh. Instead he grimaced. He could swear he’d seen Phoebus adjust his spectacles while speaking. Like a gazelle who’d limped onto the Serengeti at the exact moment the lions decided to feed. Ash and Art would not be kind to him for this transgression.
“Shut your sniveling mouth, you little rat,” Ash yelled over his shoulder.
“No one cares what you have to say,” Art echoed like the good little sycophant he’d been raised to be.
Bastien crossed his arms and leaned against a steel column. He took a moment to check his pulse, pressing two fingers of his left hand against the side of his throat. Though he desperately wanted to take these spoiled bastards to task (or at least imagine what it would feel like to do so), he held his tongue and allowed the scene to unfold.
Bastien hated this bullshit.
That raised the question: why was he here at all?
His lips pushed forward, his eyes panning across the silhouette of New Orleans.
Because Sébastien Saint Germain loved money. In his nearly nineteen years, he’d discovered there were only two things he loved more: his family and his city. Money made all manner of grievances disappear. It erased sins and paved pathways into palaces of power and influence. It made what had been impossible, possible.
It was the greatest lesson his dead parents had ever taught him. With money, you could buy anything and everything. Even a way to save your own life.
It was a shame his parents hadn’t learned that lesson in time to spare themselves.
Or Émilie.
Bastien pressed away from the metal column, drawing closer to the edge of the unfinished structure. “So what do you think?”
Ash spun around, grabbing hold of a steel cable to maintain his balance. “I think it’s precisely the kind of project my father would love.”
“He’s been telling us for some time that Marigny is in need of a fine hotel,” Art added. “It’s in a perfect location, so close to the Quarter.”
“He knows that,” Ash spat at his younger brother. “It’s why he picked it, you fool.”
“Why my uncle picked it,” Bastien corrected, keeping his tone mild. Good-natured.
Decidedly unmurderous.
“I’ll definitely discuss it with him,” Ash said. “It’s the perfect project for me to whet my appetite.”
“And put that expensive Princeton education to good use,” Art teased.
“Trust me, I’ve put it to good use. Just ask the whores on the other side of Rampart.” Ash chortled like a drunken hyena.
Even the way he laughed made Bastien want to deck him. To stop and watch the blood drip from his nose.
To relish what happened next.
“The city planning committee might present a problem, however,” Phoebus interjected yet again. “They haven’t granted anyone permission to build a hotel this tall in . . . forever.”
Art shoved Phoebus in the arm, the slighter boy stumbling into a steel column. “Who gives a rat’s ass about them?”
“You and your brother seem to have a disturbing fixation with rodents,” Bastien replied. “And you’re not wrong, Phoebus. I was hoping to consult with you about that.” He shifted alongside the boy, careful to keep his posture light. Unthreatening. A feat in itself, as he stood nearly half a head taller than the youngest Devereux. “Your opinion on how to go about this would be much appreciated.”
Bastien didn’t need his opinion. He needed a member of the politically connected Devereux family in his pocket. Phoebus was as good a mark as any. He’d recently returned from a stint at Oxford, and rumor had it his mother had grand plans for him in the way of a political future.
Politics was the next great frontier.
Bastien patted Phoebus on the shoulder as if they were old chums. Shrewd business was about identifying an opponent’s fatal flaw . . . and exploiting it. “You’d be of great help to me in this matter. I’d appreciate it immensely.”
Phoebus swallowed, his brown eyes bright behind the rims of his spectacles, betraying how flattered he was to have garnered Bastien’s notice. “I’ll look into it.”
“Good man.” Bastien struck his shoulder again, this time a little too hard.
He needed Phoebus to stand up straighter. Speak with conviction. If he did, he would be a force to be reckoned with one day. Worth at least four of Art and eight of Ash.
Art tugged a leather-wrapped flask from inside his frock coat pocket. He took a long swig and passed it to his elder brother. “I don’t know if the Sun God is going to be any help to you on this, Bastien. He’s too busy scaring away all the wenches his mother keeps tossing his way.”
“Now she’s even trying to recruit from the dregs at the Ursuline convent.” Ash guffawed again.
Bastien gritted his teeth and checked his pulse a second time.
A wicked light flashed in Art’s eyes. “I heard there are a few choice morsels among the latest arrivals.”
Ash laughed even louder, the scent of stale liquor spoiling the balmy night air. “Maybe I should have a look.” He sneered at Phoebus. “Would you even know what to do with a honeypot, Devereux?”
Rage swirled in Bastien’s fists. A bloodlust longing to be slaked.
He needed to mind his temper. It had often been his undoing as a boy. It had cost Bastien the thing his uncle had desired most for him: an education at West Point and all that it entailed. Now Uncle Nico insisted he marry well to remedy the loss, a prospect Bastien despised. The tittering débutantes of New Orleans—as well as their meddling mothers—wearied him past the point of reason, a fact that amused his uncle a great deal.
“Being bored by them is far better than being enamored,” Uncle Nico would say. “Never fall in love with a mortal, for love is an affliction. It always ends in blood,” he’d warned countless times, in countless tongues.
Anger had also cost Bastien his sister, a young woman with a fiery temper and a ferocious heart. A lump gathered in his throat, as it always had for more than a decade. He swallowed it the next instant, disdaining any sign of weakness. Any chance for an opponent to best him.
Though Bastien fought it, his thoughts drifted unbidden to another young woman with a fierce soul. To her unflinching nerve and rapier wit. To the darkness that lingered in her gaze. To hair that glistened like a raven’s wing and eyes the color of envy.
Bastien wanted to slide his fingers into that hair. Loosen it from its bonds. Let it cascade around her shoulders in a waterfall of black ink. Pause to grip the silken strands before savoring the salt on her skin.
Love is an affliction.
Frustration heated through Bastien’s veins.
He had no time for such nonsense, despite what Odette had to say. Managing his uncle’s
affairs consumed most of Bastien’s waking hours. Following General Lee’s surrender at Appomattox seven years ago, Nicodemus Saint Germain had begun buying land in port cities throughout the South with a plan to one day own the largest collection of luxury hotels in the country. Most of the year, Uncle Nico traveled between his holdings in New York and Charleston, leaving control of their New Orleans operation largely to Bastien. As such, there was always someone who needed something, be it a word in the right person’s ear or an intervening handful of coin. Countless decisions to be made at the drop of a hat.
Celine Rousseau was an unwelcome distraction. She brought with her nothing but trouble, as she’d proved several days ago during Michael’s interrogation at the convent, when she’d attempted to bait them both. A silly attempt that, by all rights, should have failed.
Alas, it did not. It was as if she held Bastien by a spell, even at a distance. As if he’d been told not to think of the color red. Now all he saw were its vibrant hues. In the sunrise and the sunset. In every trembling flower. In the splash of wine into a crystal glass.
It always ends in blood.
Bastien already had too much to lose. This beguiling girl—with a sense of humor to match his own and a story begging to be told—would not be yet another casualty. Not if he could help it.
“I’ll be sure to speak with my father about this tomorrow,” Ash said with a toothsome grin.
Bastien countered with an equally obnoxious smile. “Excellent. Then I suggest we return to terra firma and grab ourselves a plate of the best sole meunière in the city, along with a chilled bottle of Chateau d’Ygeum.”
Art howled into the sky while clomping drunkenly toward the suspended platform system positioned alongside the structure, Phoebus trailing in his footsteps.
Ash lingered behind for a second. “The only thing is . . .” He pulled Bastien closer by gripping his forearm, an action that sent the ball of latent anger from Bastien’s chest into his throat. “I know my father isn’t going to cotton to some of your . . . associates.”