The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  It called out to her again, without words.

  At first Celine’s footsteps were hesitant. As she climbed, she glanced over her shoulder more than once, to find the gentleman with the earring standing there, his gaze expectant. The noise around her began to die down to a murmur, the air cooling as if the walls were lined with frosted glass. The path ahead was dark, the light waning around her. It should have been discomfiting, but a delicious shudder rolled down her spine. When Celine neared the top of the rounded staircase, she noticed that the banisters were embellished with the same symbol that hung on the sign outside the establishment: a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion.

  Dim gas lamps burned on either side of the railing. It took Celine a moment to acclimate to the darkness. When she stepped forward, her slippered foot sank into plush carpeting.

  She looked up. And gasped.

  The shadowy room before her was a den of pure iniquity. A world completely apart from the one below.

  Stunning young men and women lounged in various stages of undress on silk-covered chaises and velvet settees, holding glasses of champagne and tumblers of deep red wine. On a divan set against a darkly paneled wall sat a trio of pale figures sipping from snifters of glowing green liquor. Faint silver smoke tinged with a floral scent collected near the coffered ceiling. In the center of the chamber, a girl around Celine’s age was sprawled atop a boy, the ties of her ivory lawn gown loose, a smudge of rouge in the hollow of her throat, her brown eyes feverish.

  At first Celine’s gaze was caught on the girl. She’d never seen another young woman in such a state of dishabille. Nor had she ever seen a girl quite so lovely, her limbs long and lithe, her bare feet swaying lazily above the Aubusson carpet.

  Then the boy lying beneath the girl turned his head toward Celine.

  She almost stumbled where she stood. A stabbing pain radiated from the center of her chest.

  In all her nearly eighteen years, Celine had never beheld a more beautiful young man.

  His face was sculpted bronze, his cheekbones cut from glass. Half-lidded eyes trailed after tendrils of smoke above, framed by sooty black lashes. A hint of stubble shadowed his jawline, his brows heavy and low across his forehead. But it was his perfect mouth that arrested Celine. Made her breath catch and her heart pound.

  Everything about him suggested sin. Hinted at a complete disregard for propriety. He wore no cravat or waistcoat, and he’d shorn his hair close to his scalp in defiance of the current fashion. A crystal tumbler filled with red wine dangled from his fingers, his right hand tracing slow circles on the girl’s back. When she saw Celine staring, the girl aimed a pointed grin at her, then took hold of the boy’s chin and pressed her mouth to his.

  Rage spiked in Celine’s throat. An odd, possessive kind of rage, her skin tingling with awareness. When the boy’s gaze slid her way, the rage melted into despair.

  He broke away from the girl and stood at once, his perfect lips pursed, his expression strange. Almost wild.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Celine remained frozen to one spot, her fingers trembling in the folds of her blue linen skirt. A mad part of her wanted to run to him. His voice seemed to beckon her closer, the sound filled with a lulling music.

  “I—I’m . . .” She thought to apologize, but stopped herself. Straightened, her hands clenched at her sides.

  He glided toward her, his movements liquid. His eyes were the oddest color, the grey of molten gunmetal. Another unreadable emotion crossed his face, causing his pupils to flash as if he were a panther.

  “You don’t belong here,” he said, his whisper like ice against her skin. He reached for her, then pulled back, his fingers twisting into a fist. “Who sent you?”

  Though her knees shook and her voice trembled, Celine did not falter or look away. “The gentleman downstairs.”

  “Rest assured, I’ll have words with him later.”

  “You will not.” Celine took a step forward. “If you are cross with anyone, be cross with me. I chose to come upstairs. No one forced me to do anything.”

  A woman with dark skin and jeweled rings the size of walnuts tilted her head back and laughed throatily; a young, tanned-skinned gentleman with cherubic curls grinned like a fox.

  Frustration crossed the beautiful boy’s face. The muscles in his forearms pulled taut. Celine had the distinct feeling he wanted to reach for her just as much as she wanted to reach for him. Wanted to touch her as much as she wanted to touch him. The longer she looked at the boy, the more she simply wanted, the desire taking on a life of its own.

  Over his shoulder, the disheveled girl on the chaise scowled at Celine.

  “Why does it hurt me to see you kissing her?” Celine asked without thought. As soon as the question left her lips, something cracked behind her heart.

  He flinched as if she’d slapped him. Then his expression hardened. “Why should I give a damn if something hurts you?”

  His rudeness should have shocked Celine. But it didn’t. “Do you love her?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You’re right. It shouldn’t be. But still I would like to know,” she said, another pang knifing between her ribs. Why was she so captivated by him? By the line of his jaw, the bronze skin of his bare chest, and that cursed, cursed mouth.

  “Leave. Now.” He strode toward her, bringing them within an arm’s length of each other.

  “You’re trying to frighten me. It won’t work.” Celine lifted a hand to his face. Then stopped herself, stricken by the breadth of her desire. “Who are you?”

  He swallowed, his eyes unblinking. Then all at once, the intensity in his gaze dampened. He let his voice fade to a hypnotic drone. “You will go downstairs at once, Celine Rousseau. You will have no memory of coming here, nor will you repeat this intrusion.”

  Her bones seemed to vibrate inside her body as her limbs began to move of their own volition. Celine turned in place, a cloud settling over her mind. She fought for her bearings, gritting her teeth. Then she spun around, forcing the haze around her thoughts to clear. “I do not have to listen to you.” Her jaw locked in defiance. Anger threaded through her veins. “And how the devil do you know my name?”

  All motion halted in the space. Countless pairs of eyes settled on her, all unmoving and unblinking. It was as if Celine had stepped into a painting by a Dutch master, one of light and shadow, every stroke bewitched.

  “Well, I’ll be hog-tied,” the young man with the foxlike smile murmured, his angelic blond curls falling across his forehead. “She’s bested you, Bastien.”

  Bastien?

  She . . . knew that name. Didn’t she? Flickers of desiccated fruit peelings in a darkened alley, of being chased down a shadowy street, of feeling relief at the scent of leather and bergamot raced through her mind.

  With a glower that would have melted stone, the beautiful boy twisted his head around, his wrinkled shirt shifting over his trim torso, exposing more of the bronze skin across his chest. “Go to the devil, Boone. And take her with you.”

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs at Celine’s back. She turned just as Michael snared her by the arm, his features frantic. Even in her periphery, she noticed the boy named Bastien lower his chin dangerously, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  Concern had blanched Michael’s tawny face of color. “What are you . . .” His voice trailed off, his eyes widening at the sight before him. As if he were shocked to his core. He recovered the next instant and said, “Pardon the intrusion. Please excuse us.” Then he laced Celine’s hand through his and led her down the winding staircase.

  As they made their way into the light and sound of the world below, Celine could not stop herself from glancing over her shoulder one last time.

  The boy named Bastien watched them from over the railing, his eyes glinting like a pair of honed da
ggers.

  BASTIEN

  Time freezes for a second. Then thaws all at once.

  Blame begins to fly around the room like a flock of starlings.

  “This is Kassamir’s doing,” Odette accuses, invective heating each of her words. “He’s the world’s worst romantic.”

  Hortense points a finger at Odette. “Ne t’avise pas de le blâmer. You were the one who invited the chit and her lapdog to dinner. Nous savons que c’était toi!”

  Odette whirls in place, the tails of her baroque frock coat swirling about her. “I did not tell her to bring that hairless mongrel into our home.”

  I say nothing, the words knotting in my throat. Still the air in front of me is filled with Celine’s scent. Still I cannot shake the irrepressible desire to race after her. To hold her, if just for an instant. To send her away. Compel her never to return.

  Revulsion courses through my chest, tasting bitter on my tongue. I tried to glamour Celine. I tried to force her to leave against her will.

  I am the selfish monster my uncle hoped I would become.

  Madeleine steps between Odette and Hortense just as Kassamir reaches the top of the stairs, his expression subdued. Unapologetic.

  “Pourquoi voudriez-vous faire une telle chose, Kassamir?” Odette demands.

  “Because I don’t wish to perpetuate a lie,” he retorts, his Créole accent harsh. “The girl knew she belonged here. She realized it the instant she crossed the threshold. Who am I to tell her otherwise?”

  Boone’s laughter is dry. “Well, perhaps you didn’t have to make it quite so easy. A warning would have been nice.” He pitches his voice louder. “Beware, fair folk, I’m sending the goddess of madness and mayhem your way!”

  Kassamir frowns. “I am under no obligation to any of you on this account. Nor do I wish to maintain the wall of ignorance you and your kind have built around this poor girl. I am not one of you. As such I will not bow to the demands of any immortal, even Nicodemus, who should know better by now.” His nostrils flare. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an establishment to run.”

  Odette puts up both her hands, as if to placate him. “We know you were well intentioned, Kassamir.”

  “I was not,” he says. “But I am right, nevertheless, and that is what matters.”

  Madeleine sighs. “Do you know the danger you inflict on Celine Rousseau by interfering in these affairs?”

  “I am not a seer of the future. For that you would have to ask Odette.”

  Odette wrings her gloved hands. “As I’ve said time and again, I can no longer see the future as it pertains to Celine. When we meddled with her memories, we changed the course of her fate. It will take time for the new path to become clear.”

  Lines of irritation gather across Kassamir’s brow. “What you’ve allowed Nicodemus to do to Mademoiselle Rousseau’s mind is criminal. It is the cruelest form of punishment to allow Sébastien to bear witness to it.” He is angrier than I’ve ever seen him. My face grows hot as he speaks. The revulsion in my chest continues to spread. To fill the emptiness around my heart like water poured over ice.

  “Maybe you have forgotten,” Kassamir continues, “but I have worked alongside Nicodemus for decades. I was here when he first brought Bastien to us. I remember what a sad, lonely child he was. How much he wished to love and be loved. In him, I saw myself. A boy taken from all he knows. From everything he loves. He has lost everyone dear to him. Must he lose this young woman as well? I will not be—”

  “Mademoiselle Rousseau asked me to take away memories that might cause her pain, my friend,” a voice chimes in from the back of the chamber.

  Kassamir stands taller. Refuses to avert his gaze, even when confronted by my uncle’s unflinching countenance. “She was given an impossible choice,” he says. “A decision made with a proverbial revolver pointed at her head. You took advantage of her pain, Nicodemus. It was wrong of you.”

  I watch as my uncle crosses the room, our guests parting around him like Moses through the Red Sea. The words remain lodged in my throat, though I know I should defend my brothers and sisters—my uncle—against Kassamir’s accusations.

  But I cannot. I cannot think beyond the echo of Celine’s question.

  Why does it hurt me to see you kissing her?

  She shouldn’t be asking that. To her, it shouldn’t matter who or what I do with my life. Nicodemus is the most powerful vampire I know. If he glamoured away Celine’s memories, it should be impossible for her to care about anything to do with me.

  How has this mortal girl defied the will of such dark magic?

  Though I am lost in my thoughts, I am aware of how my brothers and sisters eye me, even from a distance, like a powder keg about to explode. Every once in a while, Arjun or Hortense glance my way. Odette hovers near me like an elegantly attired wasp, Jae a step behind her. Madeleine watches in silence, the pity in her gaze only fueling the pain inside me.

  I know what they are doing. They are waiting for me to react. Waiting for me to rage. To attack, hurling venom at anyone in my vicinity.

  A few weeks ago, I did just that. But I refuse to let rage be my master.

  I will not succumb to the demon inside me.

  It is not anger I feel. It is cold, unforgiving anguish. The kind of anguish I experienced as a boy, when I realized my mother would not be there to greet me the next morning or sing me to sleep that night. When I understood my father chose immortal power, risking madness, over a single human lifetime with his son. When I knew my sister was never coming back, her body burned to ashes in a fire I inadvertently started.

  It is that feeling of being utterly alone. Of being nothing to no one, except a nuisance.

  I know I matter to those around me. But it isn’t the same. It will never be the same. Everyone here serves my uncle from a place of responsibility. Of loyalty to their maker. Perhaps they have learned to love me in their own way, but the choice has never been theirs to make.

  Celine loved me because she wanted to love me. Because she saw something more than Nicodemus Saint Germain’s heir apparent. Something beyond the money, the power, or the mystery.

  She saw me.

  The revulsion in me dissolves into grief. It was that same courage of conviction that gave Celine the strength to walk away. To choose a life apart from this world of dark magic and dangerous creatures.

  No. I do not feel rage. My despair is too great for rage.

  I wish that I could walk away from this life. But it is too late for me.

  “I’ve always respected you, Kassamir,” Nicodemus says, his voice going soft. An unspoken warning. “You have been a great friend to me for many years. You were the one who made all this”—he raises one of his hands, indicating the entirety of the building—“possible. Without your guidance in the complexities of the modern man, my businesses here would not have flourished as they did.” He paces forward another step. “I know you suffered as a boy, as a result of this country’s greatest sin. How I wish I could bring your parents back or return your lost childhood to you. But the affairs of the Fallen are not your concern. Take care not to interfere.” His golden eyes glint with fury.

  “I don’t give a damn about the affairs of the Fallen or the Brotherhood, Nicodemus. I never have.” Kassamir does not waver. “But I do care about Bastien. And as long as there is breath left in my mortal body, I will fight for him to retain his humanity. No matter how much you may wish to deny it, he needs that young woman. He must learn what it means to live.”

  “Sébastien is immortal.” Nicodemus draws himself up to his full height. “Life is a given to a creature with such a gift.”

  A long sigh escapes Kassamir’s lips. “Life is not a given to any of us. Neither is love. A hundred thousand years will not teach you that truth. You must accept it for yourself.” He turns to me. “What you are has no bearing on who you become, Sébastien. Man
or demon, that is entirely up to you. It is never too late to chase the better version of yourself.” Without waiting for a reply, Kassamir makes his way down the stairs.

  Though my uncle remains still, I can sense his fury. His teeth are clenched, not unlike mine. The whorls of his dark hair gleam as he glances my way, the handle of his walking stick gripped in his fist.

  Nicodemus faces all those present, his attention fixed on the immortals who have formed a protective ring around me. Still I have not managed to say a word. I am too haunted by the things Celine said. The harsh truths Kassamir revealed.

  What I am has no bearing on who I become. It is the kind of thing Celine would have enjoyed debating.

  I almost smile at this thought.

  Without warning, Nicodemus heaves a nearby tea table into the air, knocking everything from its surface. Muted screams follow the sound of breaking glass and smashed china.

  “Do you think this is a game?” my uncle says, his eyes black, his fangs extending from his mouth. With another flick of an arm, he slams a priceless Ming vase from its pedestal, watching as mortals and immortals alike shrink away from his fury. “How long do you intend to waste the gift given to you, Sébastien? How long do you plan to languish about like a spoiled child?”

  Because he expects a reply, I remain silent.

  All at once, Nicodemus straightens. Smiles. Rounds out the rich tone of his voice. When he speaks, it is layered with the weight of his magic. “All our guests will forget what has transpired here in the last twenty minutes. Not a word of it will be breathed beyond these walls.”

  The hum of his directive passes through my bones. I see the faces of the ethereals and the goblins and the witches and the halflings present smooth into looks of supreme ease. The next instant, low laughter and conversation resumes as if nothing of import has occurred.

  It is powerful magic. The kind a mortal girl like Celine should not be able to thwart.