by Renee Ahdieh
Their immortality.
Nicodemus is one of the few remaining vampires to witness the events of the Banishment, the time in which vampires and werewolves were exiled from the Wyld’s Winter Court for these transgressions. Forced to cede their holdings to the Summer Court of the Sylvan Vale.
“Jae,” Nicodemus says, his tone weary, “that’s enough.”
Jae restores his blades with two quick flicks of his wrists. It rankles me how quickly he obeys, his affect cool, as if he were about to remark on the weather. My uncle looks to me, expecting me to behave in kind.
“Bastien,” he says. “You will do as your maker commands, in this and in all things.” Though his tone brooks no reproach, I sense another test. Another round in the proverbial ring.
I was small as a child. More comfortable around books and music than I was around people. In an attempt to teach me to stand tall in a crowded room, my uncle paid for me to train with New Orleans’ best pugilist. Despite my protests, I learned to box. To feint. To dodge. To take hits and dole them out in equal measure.
I have not entered a ring in years, but my uncle has traded figurative jabs with me since I was a boy. If I obey without hesitation, I am a sheep, like Jae. A creature meant only to serve. If I resist, I am a child throwing a tantrum. A wriggling worm who knows nothing of respect.
The terms of this battle change like the seasons, without warning.
It is an impossible fight. One I usually lose.
Perhaps it is because only moments ago Jae accused me of being afraid. Perhaps it is because I don’t give a damn about the consequences. Perhaps I only wish to trade more jabs, until my opponent cries mea culpa, his blood staining my fists.
I laugh, the sound bounding into the coffered ceiling.
Something akin to approval glints in Nicodemus’ gaze. My uncle disdains any hint of weakness. At least I have not failed in that respect. My brothers and sisters exchange glances. Raise eyebrows. Bite back their retorts.
Before the strains of my laughter die down, I attack.
BASTIEN
Bedlam erupts the instant my fist cracks against the side of Jae’s jaw.
Our resident assassin is so stunned that it takes him a second to react. But only a second. He dodges before I manage to land my right hook. When Boone and Madeleine attempt to intervene, Nicodemus stays them in their tracks.
The next breath, Jae winds away from me, grabbing the back of my bloodstained frock coat. He yanks it over my head, attempting to disorient me. With a twist, I relinquish the garment and aim a series of punches at his midsection. There is no time for me to marvel at the quickness of my reflexes. At the inhuman strength in every strike. Even before I make contact, Jae flips through the air—thumbing his nose at gravity—then veers toward me until we crash onto the plush Persian carpet. I blink and his arm is around my neck, his knee pressed into my spine.
It is over in less than five seconds. I consider grappling. Instead I laugh again like a madman.
The next moment, Toussaint erupts from the darkness, his fangs shining, his aim precise.
Hortense blurs in the snake’s path, positioning herself in front of Jae, her eyes wide with warning. “Non,” she commands. “Tu ne vas pas lui faire mal.”
Toussaint coils back with a resentful hiss.
I always suspected that damned serpent loved Hortense more than he loved me.
My uncle steps forward, his expression unreadable, his eyes glittering. The scene before me is almost comical. My clothes are covered in dried blood, the remnants of my white masquerade costume a mockery of everything that followed. My face is pressed into a silk carpet that cost more than most men earn in a year of honest work. A vampire holds me in a vise. A giant snake thinks to avenge my honor.
Last night, I loved and lived. Tonight, I dance in a ring with Death.
My emotions roll through me once more, punishing in their severity. Near impossible to control. Like tongues of fire licking at pools of kerosene.
“Get off me,” I demand in a low voice, struggling to maintain my composure. Again Jae waits for my uncle’s permission, ever the sheep in need of a shepherd.
The instant Jae eases his grip on me, I elbow him away, refusing Odette’s assistance as I rise to my feet. I take a deep breath, hating the force of habit. How the air filling my lungs no longer calms me. “What did Celine give you in exchange for turning me?” I ask my uncle.
He says nothing.
My hands flex with rage, unsettling in its potency. “I already know what you did. I want to hear you say it. What price did you exact from the girl I loved in life?” My words stab through the darkness with vicious precision, causing both Odette and Arjun to wince.
“Good,” Nicodemus says. “You are angry. Let the anger console you. I hope it one day grants you purpose.”
Madeleine frowns as if she wishes to say something. Jae glances her way and shakes his head. They’re all sheep. Every last one of them.
“But you will need to hone it first,” Nicodemus continues. “At present, it is the anger of a spoiled boy, not of a man.” His smile is derisive. “Are you angry you were not permitted to die on your own terms, Sébastien?” He scoffs. “Who among us is granted such a bounty? It was Celine Rousseau’s choice to make a deal with me. Her sacrifice granted you the power to overcome death. She deserves your gratitude, just as I deserve your respect.”
Bitter laughter rushes past my lips. “Don’t think to evade my question, Monsieur le Comte.” I move toward him in a fluid motion, my face a hairsbreadth from his. “What did Celine give you?”
“A chance for you to learn from your mistakes and begin anew. She offered her memories of your time together in exchange for a fresh start for you both.” Nicodemus’ eyes narrow. “Honor her choice. It is the least of what she deserves.”
I want to taunt him for pretending to care about Celine. To lambast him for forcing a decision upon her, under duress. My uncle does not bargain with anyone unless he is certain he has the upper hand. But I see no point in baiting him. I know what Nicodemus wanted. It is the same thing he wants from any mortal unfortunate enough to form an attachment to any of us: complete surrender. The veins along my forearms flex, my fingers resembling claws. I need to destroy something before these truths destroy me.
“Forget and be forgotten,” I manage to say.
My uncle nods.
Another tense moment passes in silence. Something rustles in the shadows on the other side of the room. It is likely Toussaint, but my neck stretches in its direction anyway. Madeleine’s eyes become slits. Boone pushes away from the wall, a feral gleam in his gaze.
Each of us is itching for a fight. Itching to tear something apart with our bare hands, like the killers we are.
“Well, this has been un rendez-vous charmant,” Odette says, drawing out the French with her particular flourish. “But if there are no objections, I’d like to shed a bit of light on all this gloom.” With that, she strikes a match and begins touching the flame to all the candles throughout the chamber, the scent of sulfur infusing the air. “I must say I’m unsurprised that your first worry is for Celine, mon petit frère,” she says to me. “But I went in secret to check on her earlier today. She was surrounded by friends and in the care of the best doctors in the city, who have assured me she will make a full recovery,” she babbles as she works. “Rest assured she is safe. One day soon she will undoubtedly be . . . happy . . . again.” She catches herself, her slender brows gathering at the bridge of her pert nose. “Or at least—she will find a measure of mortal contentment.” The flames grow long and lean, bathing the chamber in a warm glow.
Boone’s laughter is rich as he steps into a pool of spreading candlelight. “Amen to that. Truly it’s all for the best, my brother. I know the wound has yet to scar, but you know as well as any that Celine could never have made a place for herself in our world. L
ord knows what might have happened to her.”
“Something did happen,” Jae says in a quiet rasp. “Nigel almost killed them both.”
“As a point of fact, he did kill me.” My face hardens, my grief far too close for proper reflection. I stop myself from taking another unnecessary breath, again frustrated by my inability to control the tempest in my mind. I know why I keep turning to this tactic, which often gave me solace as a mortal.
Not long after I lost my sister and my parents, Madeleine told me that whenever I was on the cusp of losing control, I should close my eyes. Breathe in through my nose. Exhale twice as slowly through my mouth.
Though I know it is an exercise in futility, I turn to this approach once more. This final gasp of my humanity. I close my eyes. Focus as I breathe.
A slew of scents floods my nostrils. The citrus wax used to polish the furniture; the rose water in Odette’s perfume; the expensive myrrh oil Hortense smooths through her long hair; the sharp brass of Nicodemus’ walking stick; even the musty smell of the dust collecting above the velvet drapery. But one aroma rises to the forefront, winding through my mind, ensnaring all my senses, beckoning me forward in a trance.
Something warm and salty and . . . delicious.
Before I can think, I blur toward the windows facing the street and tear back the heavy indigo curtains, without a thought for safety.
Thankfully it is dusk, the last rays of sunlight waning in the distance. On the pavers across the street, a boy of no more than five is sprawled across the stones after tripping on his overlarge shoes. He looks to his mother, then proceeds to wail as if in the throes of death. Bright crimson drips from his scraped knee, trickling toward the grey stones at his feet.
The smell of it bewitches me. Sears all else from my mind. I am Moses in the desert. Jonah in the whale. It is not redemption I seek. Lost souls do not seek redemption.
My mouth waters. Otherworldly energy flows beneath my skin. Something inside me begins to take shape. A monster I cannot contain. Incongruously it is like fighting for breath. Like clawing to the surface of the sea, every second all the more precious. My teeth lengthen in my mouth, slicing through my lower lip. My jaw and fingers harden to bronze. If I had a pulse at all, it would be hammering in my chest like a Gatling gun.
I press a palm to the glass of the mullioned window. It begins to crack under the force of my touch, splintering from my fingertips like a spiderweb.
Boone flashes to my side and takes hold of my arm. I snarl at him like an untamed beast. With a thin smile, Boone digs his hand tightly into my biceps, to root me to the earth. “Brother,” he says in a soothing tone. “You have to control the hunger before it consumes you.”
I tear my arm from Boone’s grasp with a force that takes him by surprise. He shifts half a step back before grim determination settles onto his face. Again he reaches for me, but I snare my brother by the throat and slam him into the wall beside the window, causing a gilt-framed portrait to crash to the floor.
Dark blood falls from the back of Boone’s head, two drops staining his pristine collar before the wound heals, the sound like the rending of paper. Though he appears nonchalant, I cannot miss the shock that flares across his face, there and gone in the blink of an eye.
Even I am taken off guard. Injuring an immortal like Boone is no mean feat. I am . . . strong. Stronger than I first realized. My anger has become a creature too large for me to contain. I should let him go. Apologize.
Instead I tighten my grip, the rage unfurling over my body like a second skin.
Apologies are for sheep. Let them all see what I’ve become. Let them fear me.
Something stirs at my back.
“No,” Madeleine demands. “Stay where you are, Arjun. A blow like that could kill you.”
“I can help,” Arjun replies carefully. “At the very least I can buy us some time.”
“You can try,” I whisper without glancing toward the half fey.
It’s foolish for me to bait an ethereal. Arjun’s touch could immobilize me. Leave me at my siblings’ mercy. But I am more focused on what will follow, should he bother to make the attempt.
They cannot corral me forever.
“I know you think yourself unafraid,” Arjun says. “That we should all fear you instead.”
I say nothing, though a twinge knifes through me.
“My mortal father used to say that anger and fear are two sides of the same coin,” Arjun continues. “They both make us behave outside our nature.”
“Or perhaps they simply distill us down to our essence. Maybe this is my nature now.” I glower at Boone, who raises his arms like Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man.
“I don’t believe that.” Boone’s voice is hoarse, but gentle. “Not for one minute.”
Madeleine blurs closer, pausing to my left. “Sébastien.” Her tone is laced in warning. Her teeth begin to lengthen, commanding me without words to stand down. “Don’t do this, mon enfant.”
Mon enfant. My child. Madeleine is the closest thing to a mother I have known since my own mother perished ten years ago. Nevertheless I ignore her, the bloodlust raging through my veins. The desire to kill and consume of utmost importance.
Tulle rustles to Madeleine’s right. “Écoute-moi, mon petit diable,” her sister, Hortense, commands in the singsong of a medium conducting a séance. “Nous ne sommes pas vos ennemis.”
“Listen to her, brother,” Boone says, his hands inching toward his temples. “Our enemies are real. If we waste time squabbling among ourselves, there’ll be nothing left for the true fight to come.”
The rational part of me knows Boone is right. But I respond by tightening my grasp until he can no longer speak. The plaster around his head starts to powder, causing a shower of white dust to descend on his cherubic curls.
Another flicker of movement. “Let him go,” Jae demands, taking hold of my right shoulder. Each of his words is the point of a dagger at my back. “Now.”
“Do you still think me afraid?” I level a cool gaze at the assassin. One meant to convey nothing but contempt.
His scowl deepens.
It is all a lie. Everything I’ve done or said to this point is for show.
I am afraid. Deathly afraid. From the moment I first understood what had happened to me. But fear cannot be all I know. I will not let it be all I know.
Jae remains silent. My fear threatens to eclipse all else. I stoke my anger until it burns everything else away. The color leaches from Boone’s skin, the ink in his eyes swirling, spreading until the whites are completely black. His fingers turn into fists.
I know he is preparing to fight back. I should release him before the situation worsens. But the wrath continues flowing down my arms, surging through my stomach, burrowing into my bones. It makes me feel powerful. As if I am in control. I do not want to lose this feeling. I cannot be afraid. I cannot be weak.
What kind of beast surrenders to its basest nature?
The kind with nothing to fear.
So be it.
I squeeze tighter, feeling the bones in Boone’s throat begin to splinter in my grasp.
I don’t see Madeleine move until she has shattered my wrist with a single swipe of her arm. I roar and fly backward, slamming into the far wall. My body lands in a position of defense, crouched like a panther. Toussaint coils at my feet, his fangs bared, daring any of my siblings to tread closer.
I clutch my injured hand, feeling the crushed bones knit back together like torch fire through tinder. The sensation should feel marvelous, for it is further proof of my indestructibility; instead it only emphasizes my monstrousness. The utter loss of my humanity.
All the while, no one moves. Madeleine stands guard before a fallen Boone, who grips his throat and coughs, blood spewing from his lips. His eyes flash as Madeleine bares her fangs at me and hisses through her teeth.
“It is as I suspected,” Nicodemus says. A casual observer might believe he is troubled by this turn of events, but I know my uncle far too well. He did nothing to stop me from injuring Boone, nor did he attempt to intervene when the rest of his progeny moved against me in force. There is a gleam in his amber eyes. One of supreme pleasure.
Nicodemus wanted to see what might happen. I suspect he is thrilled to witness how strong I am. How invincible his immortal blood has made me.
With Nicodemus Saint Germain, everything is a test.
I ignore the world around me, squeezing my eyes closed.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
The smell of the blood beyond the window taunts me again. Surrounded as I am by other vampires—my brothers and sisters—I know I cannot break free and sate my hunger. Though I have attacked one of their own, still they take on the mantle of responsibility. Still they fight to save me from myself.
Even though I almost crushed Boone’s throat in my fist a moment ago.
I look around the room. I search within me for something more. I find nothing. It is not gratitude I feel for my immortal brethren. Only despair.
Choking through a haze of bloodlust, I recoil. My chest heaving, I settle my sights on my uncle, who has not moved from his position beside the burl-wood table. Who continues to watch the scene unfold with a disconcerting gleam.