by Renee Ahdieh
“Tonight, you will go with Jae and Boone to hunt,” Nicodemus says as if he were prescribing a tincture for a common cold. “They will teach you how to mark your victims. Then they will show you how to dispose of all traces, so that you do not put any of us at risk with reckless behavior.”
“No,” I reply. “I am not going anywhere with any of you.”
“If you refuse to learn our ways, then you will be forbidden from leaving this place,” Nicodemus counters without missing a beat. “I cannot risk you causing a scene.”
Disgust grips me for a moment. My uncle is more concerned with me drawing attention to our coven than he is about the plight of the humans in my vicinity. I could kill every last one of them and he would not care, provided I cleaned up after myself.
I make my decision without even considering it. “Then I will remain confined here.”
At least at Jacques’—ensconced in the tri-storied building my uncle owns on Rue Royale—I will not be a threat to any of the hapless mortals unfortunate enough to wander too close. Were I left to roam the streets of the Crescent City, that boy and his mother and every person nearby would be killed before I wasted a single breath reflecting upon the consequences.
Nicodemus’ cheeks hollow. He arches a brow. “And what will you do for food?”
I almost blanch. “Bring me what I require to survive. Nothing more.” If I sound imperious enough, perhaps he will not argue.
Anger clouds his expression. “That is not the way of it, Sébastien.”
“It is now.”
“The bloodsacs below should not—”
“Never call them that again in my presence,” I interrupt, incensed by the slur. One he never before used in my presence.
His eyes narrow further. “And what will you do then? You are only beginning to understand what you are. Will you crush them in your arms? Listen to them scream and beg for mercy? Or will you learn our ways and subdue their emotions, never forgetting to stay to the shadows?”
The revulsion in me grows. Already I am being taught to see mortals as lesser beings. Only last night, I wandered among them, a young man with the promise of a future filled with light. A boy with a soul. Now I am demon of the shadows, subsisting off stolen blood.
I don’t want to be reminded of the price paid for my immortality. The price Celine paid. The price I paid. “Keep them away,” I say. “If they don’t know what I’ve become, I want them nowhere near me.”
Nicodemus takes a step closer. There is danger in the way he grips the roaring lion carved into the brass handle of his walking stick. He thinks me weak.
Nevertheless I refuse to cow beneath his scrutiny.
“I can bring him blood for the time being,” Odette interjects. “It is no trouble to me. First thing tomorrow, I’ll put in an order for a new case of the Green Fairy’s finest.”
I glance her way, puzzled.
“A capful of absinthe prevents the blood from becoming too thick to drink,” she explains. “When blood grows cold or is left standing too long, it congeals.” She speaks in soothing tones.
Of course. A detail I never had occasion to consider. Nicodemus looks to Madeleine.
She nods in turn.
“Very well,” Nicodemus says. “But I will not permit this accommodation for long. You will learn our ways, no matter how much you may disdain them.” He points the end of his walking stick at my chest. “And you will obey your maker without question, as your brothers and sisters do, or you will be banished from the city.” With that, he exits the room in a swirl of darkness.
After a time in stilted silence, Odette sighs. Then a bright smile cuts across her face. “Charades, anyone?”
Jae grunts. “You are . . . tiresome.”
“And you are an incomparable wordsmith, Jaehyuk-ah.” Odette simpers.
“Don’t bait him,” Madeleine commands before their bickering can continue, her expression weary. “We’ve had enough of that for one evening.”
Odette crosses her arms, her lips pursing. “Le chat grincheux started it.”
“I was hoping to appeal to your better nature,” Jae says.
“Silly boy,” Odette snaps back. “You know I don’t have one.”
“Enough!” Madeleine says. She looks to me. “Sit, Bastien. You are due for a lecture, tout de suite.”
Hortense yawns. She throws herself on the closest chaise, pausing to cross her bare ankles on the edge of a carved tea table. “Ça sera un grand ennui,” she sings to no one.
“I am in no mood for your lecture,” I say.
“You damn near took Boone’s head off, old chap.” Arjun’s British accent rounds out his words. “Learn from today’s mistakes so you won’t make them again tomorrow.”
“I have no intention of making mistakes today, tomorrow, or any day thereafter,” I retort, biting back the taste of my own blood. The hunger that thrashes in its wake. “I suppose I need only to accept”—I stare at my hands, my fingers still curled like bronze talons—“this fate. My new future. No matter how much I might wish it were not the case.”
“Even if that meant you had died the true death?” Odette’s voice is small.
I do not hesitate to respond. “Yes.”
For a time, none of them says a word.
Then Jae moves forward. “It does no good to dwell on things we cannot change.” The muscles in his jaw work. “And you should learn the ways of a vampire sooner rather than later. The rules are clear, Sébastien. If you cannot rein in your appetites—if you draw undue attention to us with indiscriminate violence—then you will be banished from New Orleans. Our peace is paramount.”
Boone feigns a cough, as if to clear his throat. “Can’t have a repeat of what happened in Dubrovnik or Wallachia hundreds of years ago, when so many of our kind were lost to superstitious mayhem. Why, I even recall when . . .”
I let his words fade into a drone as I stare at the cracked window across the room and the damaged plaster beside it, noting how the hem of the blue velvet curtain continues to sway like a pendulum. I let it lull me into a trance. Out of habit, I shift my fingertips to the side of my neck to check my pulse, an action that always served to remind me of my humanity.
The absence of a heartbeat rocks through me like a blow to the chest. I turn in place and retreat into the recesses of the chamber. In my periphery, the edges of a gilt-framed mirror glisten in the glow of the candlelight. I stride toward the silvered glass like a mortal, one foot in front of the other, my fingers flexing at my sides.
“Don’t, mon cher,” Odette warns, trailing in my shadow. “Not today. Give it some time. Un moment de grâce.” She smiles at our shared reflections, a suspicious shimmer in her eyes. “We could all stand to be a bit more forgiving of ourselves, n’est-ce pas?”
I disregard her. Something about her sisterly affection grates my nerves like it never has before. I take in my appearance, refusing to turn from the mirror, no matter how disturbing its truth. My canines shine like ivory daggers; my eyes burn lambent, suffused with an otherworldly light. Thin rivulets of blood trickle from my lower lip where my fangs pierced through my brown skin.
I look like a monster from Hell. A creature from a Grimm fairy tale, come to life.
I . . . hate what I have become. Despise it as I have never despised anything before. I want to shed this new reality like a snakeskin. To leave it in the dust so that I might stroll in the sunlight and breathe in the air with the lungs of a mortal man. I want to love and hope and die with all the limitations that make such a life worth living.
What I wouldn’t give for a chance to be a mortal boy again, standing before the girl I love, hoping she will take my hand and walk with me toward an unknown future.
Bitterness seeps through to the marrow of my bones. I let the bloodlust fill me again, watch my eyes swirl to obsidian, my ears lengthen into points, and m
y fangs unfurl like claws, cutting through my flesh once more, until the wet crimson trails down my neck to stain my collar.
“Bastien,” Madeleine commands over my shoulder, her expression like stone. “Too many newborn vampires lose themselves to the hunger, drowning their sorrows in blood, destroying all sense of who they were in life,” she says. “Rarely do they survive a decade before walking into the sun or being obliterated by their elders. Turn away from this path of destruction, no matter how tempting it might be.” She leans closer to the mirror, watching me all the while. “The best among us never forsake their humanity.”
“The higher hatred burns, the more it destroys,” Arjun says. “My father is proof of that.”
“Feel your anger, but do not succumb to it,” Madeleine continues, “for it will be your end.”
“And what would you have me embrace in its stead?” I ask my reflection, my words a coarse whisper.
Odette gestures to the handful of immortals gathered before me. “We would have you embrace love.”
“Love?” I say, gripping the edges of the gilt mirror in both my hands, my eyes blacker than soot.
Odette nods.
“This is not a love story.” My fingers fall from the mirror, leaving dents in the gold filigree. I want nothing more than to rage about like a demon unleashed. To defy the moon and the stars and all the torments of an infinite sky.
But most of all I want to forget everything I’ve ever loved. Each of the immortals standing guard around me. My cursed uncle for bringing this blight upon our family. Nigel, for betraying us and leaving me to drown in a pool of my own blood.
But mostly I curse her. I want to forget her face. Her name. Her wit. Her laughter. How she made me hope and want and wish and feel. As far as I am concerned, Celine Rousseau died that night in Saint Louis Cathedral. Just like I did.
A true hero would find a way back to her. Would seek a path of redemption for his lost soul. A chance to stand once more in the light.
There is no such path. And I am no one’s hero. So I choose the way of destruction.
ÉMILIE
They were called Romeo spikes.
Beneath the light of the mother moon, they looked like iron crowns mounted close to the top of the narrow columns supporting the balcony. Pieces of twisted black metal—their barbs pointed heavenward—meant to deter unwanted intruders.
Émilie smiled to herself.
In truth, they weren’t meant for just any kind of unwanted intruder. Specifically, they’d been designed for Romeos on a mission to court their fair Juliets. Just imagine . . . a hot-blooded young man looking to scale the balcony, eager to win his young lady’s affections. Those spikes would catch him by the ballocks, literally. A gruesome, altogether fitting punishment for a city with a gruesome, haunted past.
In other words, Émilie found them utterly delightful.
She waited until the sounds of the last passersby faded in the distance. Until all that remained was the rustling of branches and the chirruping of cicadas. The symphony of an early March evening.
These spikes would not deter her. She was no foolish Romeo, and Juliet was a weed among the roses, especially when compared to some. Émilie gripped the slender column of sun-warmed metal and began her climb. Once she reached the first balcony, she crouched in the shadows behind the railing, the leaves of dripping ferns tickling the back of her neck and snagging her dark brown curls. Inside the home behind her, the scent of servants bustling about in preparation for tonight’s repast, the tang of their sweat both salty and sweet, wafted out toward her.
Taking care to make less noise than a ghost, Émilie climbed the next set of narrow iron columns toward the third floor of the structure. Again she waited in the shadows until she was certain she remained beyond notice. Then she stood and stared at the building across the way, studying it intently.
Two weeks had passed since the incident in Saint Louis Cathedral. According to reports, her younger brother, Sébastien—the only living heir to the Saint Germain line—had been grievously injured in the skirmish, his throat all but torn from his body. A week ago, gossip in the Quarter hinted that the monsignor had come and gone after administering last rites, though preparations for a street procession typical of a New Orleans funeral had yet to be made.
The entire situation made Émilie uneasy, a feeling she abhorred. She wanted her questions answered, so that she might proceed to the next phase of the plan. Which was why she’d taken to standing along the deserted balcony, watching Jacques’ from across the way. Hunting for any signs of her brother. Any possibility he might have survived his injuries.
After an hour passed, Émilie’s eyes tightened. Her arms crossed over her slender chest. It would have been impossible for Bastien to survive a near beheading by a vampire as strong as Nigel. No mere mortal could weather such a storm. Perhaps it would have been more poetic for Bastien to perish in a fire, but that was a fate Émilie did not wish on her worst enemy. Fire did not kill as one would expect. It was a slow death of smoke and choked screams.
Her fingers grazed the puckered skin along the side of her neck. Even the dark magic of being made into a she-wolf could not heal this kind of wound. Her resolve hardened.
Some injuries were not to the skin but to the soul.
No. Her brother could not have survived the attack she’d orchestrated with Nigel Fitzroy. And Nicodemus would rather die the final death than turn Sébastien into a vampire. The risk of her brother going mad was simply too great, especially given what had happened to both their parents. Not to mention the Fallen’s treaty with the Brotherhood. If her uncle brought another vampire into the city without first asking for Luca’s permission, there would be war.
Nicodemus could not risk war. That was a lesson he’d learned the last time. One that made him weak. Predictable. Full of fear. A shame her uncle still had yet to learn life’s greatest lesson: a creature without fear is a creature capable of anything and everything.
Movement caught Émilie’s eye from the uppermost floor of the building across the street. The blue velvet curtains drew back, revealing a figure she recognized in passing.
Odette Valmont.
Anger gripped at Émilie’s insides like an icy vise. She took in a draft of jasmine-scented air, willing herself calm. What a precious gift it would have been to count among her confidants a vampire as loyal as Odette. How much it would have assuaged Émilie’s mortal fears, to have such a formidable immortal nearby to protect her in life.
Perhaps if she’d had a guardian like Odette Valmont, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have risked herself to save her little brother from a fire. She wouldn’t have been trapped in his stead. She wouldn’t have had to forswear the family of her birth for the one she’d chosen in death.
Sébastien didn’t deserve such devotion. He’d done nothing to merit it, save being born beneath a lucky star.
For nigh on a decade, Émilie’s little brother had taken for granted Odette’s protection and loyalty. The service of so many vampires at his beck and call. Bastien had everything Émilie had ever wanted for herself: loyalty; the best education money could provide; a future filled with promise. A chance to rule his uncle’s kingdom, though he claimed never to have desired it.
Fitting. For he certainly didn’t deserve it.
The fool had even gotten himself expelled from West Point, all for the sake of his ego.
Émilie would never have squandered such opportunities. She could have led them all, had she been granted the chance. But such a position was never meant for her. It was only ever intended for the favored son. Everything was for Bastien. In the end, her very life had been given in exchange for his.
For more than ten years, Émilie had kept her distance. Watched and waited to see what her brother would make of himself. As she traveled the world, she’d read the reports Luca passed along to her, and they stoked h
er anger. Hardened her bitterness.
Sébastien was destined to become everything Émilie despised in their uncle. A man concerned first and foremost with money and influence, all the while taking for granted his family and the myriad opportunities afforded to him.
Émilie’s brow furrowed while watching Odette’s lovely silhouette move about the opulent chamber. The sable-haired girl turned toward the window, her expression sad. Troubled.
A smile turned up the corners of Émilie’s lips.
She would be happy to comfort the beautiful leech. Mollify her concerns. Smooth any ruffled feathers. Just before tearing out her swanlike throat.
A moment later, the resident assassin of La Cour des Lions moved into Émilie’s sight line, just over Odette’s shoulder.
Émilie’s amusement faded. Shin Jaehyuk worried her. The research Luca’s contact in Crete had done in the bowels of the Brotherhood’s Greek archives indicated that the assassin from the Far East posed a significant threat. He was skilled in all types of blades, yet knew how to kill in countless ways, using nothing but his two hands. Already three different factions of wolves had tried to dispatch Jae, only to have their packs wiped out in return, the masked assassin vanishing without a trace. If Jae were to learn of Émilie’s involvement in Bastien’s death—and that the Brotherhood provided her refuge—no treaty would spare them from his wrath.
Émilie continued watching Odette and Jae, the jealousy a yawning pit in her stomach.
She forced her shoulders back. Stretched her neck from side to side.
Jealousy was a petty emotion. Powerful people did not succumb to it.
Instead they leveled the field.
She scanned the three floors of the structure, as she had for the last week. Still no sign of Bastien. No trace of a reckless newborn anywhere in the vicinity of Jacques’. No bodies in need of disposal in the dead of night. No cadre of immortal creatures waiting in the wings, ready to teach Bastien their soulless, blood-drinking ways.