The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  There is no chance Nicodemus will have turned Bastien.

  Not when he refused me ten years ago.

  Amusing how tethered to his morals the great Nicodemus Saint Germain can be. Especially considering all the death and destruction he has wrought over the centuries. Bastien was the last living scion of the Saint Germain line. Now the one thing this four-hundred-year-old leech fought to protect above all is gone. His purpose has been taken from him, as mine was taken from me.

  I have dismantled his legacy.

  And it is sweet. The kind of sweetness that overshadows the bitterness, consuming it whole.

  For I once loved Bastien more than I loved myself. I even gave my human life for his.

  My beautiful little brother.

  But my loyalties lie elsewhere now. With the creatures who offered me the gift Uncle Nico refused to grant me ten years ago. With the true immortal beasts of the Otherworld. The same ones the vampires have always cast aside, to be used as watchdogs and fed the scraps from their dinner table. Treated as nothing more than fodder in a centuries-long war with the Sylvan Vale.

  But no matter, that is a tale for another time.

  Once I walked among the Fallen. Saw them as family.

  But I am no longer a Saint Germain. I do not need to mourn the death of my brother. He was complicit in my uncle’s misdeeds. His impetuousness brought about my mother’s death those many years ago. Bastien is the reason no one sought to save me, a mere girl, destined to become nothing.

  My thoughts linger on Celine Rousseau. A formidable quarry, I will admit. She was close to uncovering the truth of what I have become.

  But close counts only in cannon fire and horseshoes.

  It was something my father used to say.

  I move from my spot along the pier, slinking toward the shadows beneath it, comfortable in my skin for the first time in ages. The stars twinkle with abandon, oblivious to how they exist by the grace of the moon. But I am aware. She is our mother in all ways.

  Luca will be waiting for me, as he always did, even when we were children. Beneath the silver light of our mother moon, we will run free together. Our families may have been mortal enemies in life, but it doesn’t matter now. For I am among his kind. One of them. A member of the Brotherhood, evermore.

  And Luca will always love me, as he has for over a decade.

  I love him, too. In my own way. Just as I loved Marin.

  Beneath the dock, the change begins. The magic burns through my bloodstream, sending shudders down my spine. My fingers curl into claws, my fangs lengthen, my long hair twists and reshapes.

  And I become who I was always meant to be.

  Émilie le Loup, an immortal wolf howling at the moon.

  Ready for whatever may come.

  * * *

  Celine opened her eyes with a start, as if she’d fallen from a tower in her dreams. Her body felt battered and sluggish, like the hull of a ship after a summer storm. A cloud hovered over her mind, causing everything around her to appear filtered as if through a haze.

  She cleared her throat with a weak cough.

  Immediately a figure moved to her side. “Celine.”

  It sounded like the voice Celine wanted to hear. But different. In her dreams, it had been different. “Michael.” His name cracked on her tongue. She cleared her throat again, realizing how dry it was. How long she must have slept.

  “Do you want some water?” he asked.

  “Please.” Celine drank from the cup Michael held to her lips. Every movement he made was slow. Careful. Unmistakably tender.

  Celine blinked hard, but the film clung stalwart to the edges of her vision. “What happened to your nose?” Her brow furrowed. “Did someone hit you?”

  Annoyance flickered across Michael’s bruised face. “I’m fine.”

  “Is Pippa all right?”

  “Pippa is fine. Everyone is . . . fine.”

  “What happened?” She swallowed. “I can’t remember how I got here.”

  Michael nodded. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

  “It—feels like there are holes in my memory.”

  “That’s normal after all that happened.” Michael shifted a hand to cover hers. “Later, I promise we can piece everything together. But now you should rest.”

  Celine swallowed again, trying to banish the taste of metal and herbs from her tongue. She fell back against the pillows, the ache in her side causing her to cringe. “Thank you, Michael. It’s comforting to know you are here with me.”

  “Where else would I be?” He squeezed her hand, his pale eyes warm. The openness in his expression soothed her. As if he had nothing he wished to hide from her, ever again.

  Perhaps Celine had been wrong to discount his affections as she had in the past. Michael Grimaldi had always felt like a piece of a puzzle that simply wouldn’t fit.

  Today? Something felt . . . different.

  Michael continued speaking. “Pippa left less than half an hour ago to get some sleep.” He smiled to himself. “She’ll be furious when she discovers you woke in her absence.” He turned toward the door, his strides long. Capable. Quick. “I’ll send for her soon.”

  Celine sat up, her body screaming in protest. “Please don’t leave. Not yet.” She didn’t know the reason, but she didn’t want to be alone.

  He curved a sardonic brow at her. Then reached for the wooden chair at the end of her hospital bed. “I’m simply moving closer.”

  With a grateful sigh, Celine sank into the pillows once more. She looked around. The cover strewn across her bed resembled the shawl she’d last seen on Nonna’s shoulders. A vase of cheerful yellow flowers rested on a worn table beside her. At the foot of her bed was a small, well-worn tome. “What is that?”

  Michael paused while he sat. “It’s a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I’ve been reading them for research.” An awkward smile tugged at his face. “A girl with a soul of iron told me I should write her a poem.”

  Celine blinked, the memory returning to her, indistinct at first, then slowly taking shape. When Michael reached out to grasp her hand again, she hesitated a moment, wishing the rest of her mind would clear of all its clutter. Wishing she could fill the gaps in her memory. Then she threaded her fingers through his. “Will you read one to me?”

  Michael grasped her fingers tightly, then began to speak in a steady voice. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds / Admit impediments. Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds, / Or bends with the remover to remove. . . .”

  EPILOGUE

  First there was nothing.

  Then . . . there was everything.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This story has lived in my head since I was a surly teenager, with my head buried in Anne Rice novels until the wee hours of the morning. From the moment it became an actual reality, not a day has gone by that I haven’t been thrilled beyond measure to have a team of people believe in me—and my work—without hesitation.

  Barbara, I still remember your delighted cackle when I said I wanted to write a vampire book set in New Orleans. Nothing I’ve achieved in this career would have been possible without you. And that gorgeous cackle. Good luck, stupid . . . forever and always.

  Stacey, there is no better champion than you. Your voice in my head pushes me every day to be better than I was the day before, and for that there are not enough words of gratitude. Also I’ve found us the perfect restaurant in the Quarter. I even picked our table already. New Orleans better watch out.

  To the team of magic-makers at Penguin: your support and enthusiasm and work ethic have made the world and characters I created in my mind a beautiful reality. To Marisa Russell: thank you so much for your passion and enthusiasm. The day you told me you loved Penny Dreadful, I knew we were a match made in heaven. Endless gratitude to Caitlin Tutterow fo
r answering every single one of my inane questions. A heartfelt thank-you to Carmela Iaria, Venessa Carson, Doni Kay, Theresa Evangelista for the stunning cover and design, Elyse Marshall, Felicia Frasier (I insist on another Brooklyn pasta night!), Lindsay Boggs, Shanta Newlin, Erin Berger (pasta night part deux, right?), Christina Colangelo, Colleen Conway, Caitlin Whalen, and Bri Lockhart. Immense gratitude to Laurel Robinson, Cindy Howle, and the inimitable Anne Heausler for their notes and edits. And a special note of thanks to Kara Brammer and Felicity Vallence for being the mad geniuses you both are.

  A huge thank-you to all the amazing book bloggers, readers, and book lovers from all over the world. I cannot do what I do without you.

  To Jessica Khoury for the stunning map and the gorgeous emblem. It’s my desktop, and I am in awe of your talent and consummate professionalism.

  To Daniel José Older for the New Orleans expertise, the notes, and endless support. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  To Alwyn for your precious emails and your enthusiasm and all the help perfecting my sad attempts at French. You are a delight and one of the most genuinely kind people I know. I adore you.

  To Rosh, JJ, and Lemon: when I think of all the memories we’ve already made, I smile at everything destined to come. Thank you for gracing me with your love and endless talent.

  To Sabaa for cheering with me, crying with me, reading with me, and inspiring me every day. And for watching The Two Towers Extended Edition and knowing every line by heart, just like me. Your friendship is a gift beyond measure.

  To Gio Mannucci for all the help with the Italian. I love how this career has reconnected us in such a wonderful way.

  To Carrie Ryan and Brendan Reichs for all the Cantina lunches, advice, and laughter. QC represent!

  To my assistant Emily Williams: thank you for being the most organized person I know and keeping me—and my hare-brained ideas!—on track.

  To Maggie Kane, Heather Baror-Shapiro, and the wonderful team at IGLA: thank you for all your endless work and unceasing professionalism.

  To Elaine: I am so lucky to have a chosen sister like you. Thank you for fixing all the Spanish in the book and sending me curse-laden text messages at 3:00 a.m. and for loving New Orleans like I do. There is no one I’d rather gallivant down Dumaine with, searching for a tarot card reader or our next foodie fix.

  To Erica, Ian, Chris, and Izzy: I love you all so much, and am so grateful to call you family. To my parents—Umma, Dad, Mama Joon, and Baba Joon—thank you for all your love and for always putting my books where everyone can see them, front-facing in bookstores.

  To Omid, Julie, Navid, Jinda, Evelyn, Isabelle, Andrew, Ella, and Lily: thank you for our family and for all the times you never fail to show up and cheer for me. I’m so proud to share in this life with you.

  And to Vic: for the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention, and for the way you make me smile even when you’re not there, thank you, to the stars and back. There is no better man than you.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCERPT OF RENÉE AHDIEH’S FLAME IN THE MIST

  The Beginning

  In the beginning, there were two suns and two moons.

  The boy’s sight blurred before him, seeing past the truth. Past the shame. He focused on the story his uba had told him the night before. A story of good and evil, light and dark. A story where the triumphant sun rose high above its enemies.

  On instinct, his fingers reached for the calloused warmth of his uba’s hand. The nursemaid from Kisun had been with him since before he could remember, but now—like everything else—she was gone.

  Now there was no one left.

  Against his will, the boy’s vision cleared, locking on the clear blue of the noon sky above. His fingers curled around the stiff linen of his shirtsleeves.

  Don’t look away. If they see you looking away, they will say you are weak.

  Once more, his uba’s words echoed in his ears.

  He lowered his gaze.

  The courtyard before him was draped in fluttering white, surrounded on three sides by rice-paper screens. Pennants flying the golden crest of the emperor danced in a passing breeze. To the left and right stood grim-faced onlookers—samurai dressed in the dark silks of their formal hakama.

  In the center of the courtyard was the boy’s father, kneeling on a small tatami mat covered in bleached canvas. He, too, was draped in white, his features etched in stone. Before him sat a low table with a short blade. At his side stood the man who had once been his best friend.

  The boy sought his father’s eyes. For a moment, he thought his father looked his way, but it could have been a trick of the wind. A trick of the perfumed smoke curling above the squat brass braziers.

  His father would not want to look into his son’s eyes. The boy knew this. The shame was too great. And his father would die before passing the shame of tears along to his son.

  The drums began to pound out a slow beat. A dirge.

  In the distance beyond the gates, the boy caught the muffled sound of small children laughing and playing. They were soon silenced by a terse shout.

  Without hesitation, his father loosened the knot from around his waist and pushed open his white robe, exposing the skin of his stomach and chest. Then he tucked his sleeves beneath his knees to prevent himself from falling backward.

  For even a disgraced samurai should die well.

  The boy watched his father reach for the short tantō blade on the small table before him. He wanted to cry for him to stop. Cry for a moment more. A single look more.

  Just one.

  But the boy remained silent, his fingers turning bloodless in his fists. He swallowed.

  Don’t look away.

  His father took hold of the blade, wrapping his hands around the skein of white silk near its base. He plunged the sword into his stomach, cutting slowly to the left, then up to the right. His features remained passive. No hint of suffering could be detected, though the boy searched for it—felt it—despite his father’s best efforts.

  Never look away.

  Finally, when his father stretched his neck forward, the boy saw it. A small flicker, a grimace. In the same instant, the boy’s heart shuddered in his chest. A hot burst of pain glimmered beneath it.

  The man who had been his father’s best friend took two long strides, then swung a gleaming katana in a perfect arc toward his father’s exposed neck. The thud of his father’s head hitting the tatami mat silenced the drumbeats in a hollow start.

  Still the boy did not look away. He watched the crimson spurt from his father’s folded body, past the edge of the mat and onto the grey stones beyond. The tang of the fresh blood caught in his nose—warm metal and sea salt. He waited until his father’s body was carried in one direction, his head in another, to be displayed as a warning.

  No hint of treason would be tolerated. Not even a whisper.

  All the while, no one came to the boy’s side. No one dared to look him in the eye.

  The burden of shame took shape in the boy’s chest, heavier than any weight he could ever bear.

  When the boy finally turned to leave the empty courtyard, his eyes fell upon the creaking door nearby. A nursemaid met his unflinching stare, one hand sliding off the latch, the other clenched around two toy swords. Her skin flushed pink for an instant.

  Never look away.

  The nursemaid dropped her eyes in discomfort. The boy watched as she quickly ushered a boy and a girl through the wooden gate. They were a few years younger than he and obviously from a wealthy family. Perhaps the children of one of the samurai in attendance today. The younger boy straightened the fine silk of his kimono collar and darted past his nursemaid, never once pausing to acknowledge the presence of a traitor’s son.

  The girl, however, stopped. She looked straight at him, her pert features in constant motion. Rubbing her nose
with the heel of one hand, she blinked, letting her eyes run the length of him before pausing on his face.

  He held her gaze.

  “Mariko-sama!” the nursemaid scolded. She whispered in the girl’s ear, then tugged her away by the elbow.

  Still the girl’s eyes did not waver. Even when she passed the pool of blood darkening the stones. Even when her eyes narrowed in understanding.

  The boy was grateful he saw no sympathy in her expression. Instead the girl continued studying him until her nursemaid urged her around the corner.

  His gaze returned to the sky, his chin in high disregard of his tears.

  In the beginning, there were two suns and two moons.

  One day, the victorious son would rise—

  And set fire to all his father’s enemies.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCERPT OF

  Copyright © 2015 by Renée Ahdieh

  MEDITATIONS ON GOSSAMER AND GOLD

  THEY WERE NOT GENTLE. AND WHY SHOULD THEY BE?

  After all, they did not expect her to live past the next morning.

  The hands that tugged ivory combs through Shahrzad’s waist-length hair and scrubbed sandalwood paste on her bronze arms did so with a brutal kind of detachment.

  Shahrzad watched one young servant girl dust her bare shoulders with flakes of gold that caught the light from the setting sun.

  A breeze gusted along the gossamer curtains lining the walls of the chamber. The sweet scent of citrus blossoms wafted through the carved wooden screens leading to the terrace, whispering of a freedom now beyond reach.

  This was my choice. Remember Shiva.

  “I don’t wear necklaces,” Shahrzad said when another girl began to fasten a jewel-encrusted behemoth around her throat.

  “It is a gift from the caliph. You must wear it, my lady.”

  Shahrzad stared down at the slight girl in amused disbelief. “And if I don’t? Will he kill me?”