The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  Nicodemus looks at me. “This?” He glances about the room, glowering at the absinthe and the opium, the bare flesh writhing in the shadows. “This ends tonight,” he whispers. “Your time of rebellion has ended. I forbid you from burying yourself in such base amusements. From tomorrow, you will work with me to make the future I envision for you a reality.” He grabs me by the lapel, pulling me closer. “Ever since you were a boy, I hoped to grant you a position of power in the mortal world. A senator perhaps. At the very least a statesman of repute. I had dreams for you. You were to be the culmination of my work on the mortal plane. A respectable man of wealth and influence. Through you, I would establish a dynasty worthy of its name.” His fingers twist through the linen fabric of my shirt. “I thought I had lost that chance when you became a vampire. It will not be taken from me again. You will do as your maker commands and return our family to its rightful place on the Horned Throne.”

  I consider refusing, for no other reason than the pleasure it brings me to defy him. For the chance to retain control of something in my life. A life that is not a given, even for an immortal. A love that was never anyone’s to take.

  What I am now should have no bearing on what I become.

  Conviction rises in my blood as I stare at my uncle. For the first time since I woke as a vampire, purpose flows through my veins. I do not have to be the demon I was made to be. I can choose my own path. Build my own future.

  A future that would be easier to construct if I no longer waste energy defying Nicodemus.

  It is never too late to chase the better version of myself.

  I will do as my uncle asks, in name only. I will play the game he wishes me to play. I will become a master at it. And in the meantime, I will work to make the life I want a reality. If I have to move heaven and earth—if I have to find my lost soul buried in a treacherous underworld—I will undo what has been done to me. What has been done to Celine.

  I will find a way to unmake my future.

  And once Celine learns the truth, I will do whatever she asks, even if she tells me to walk away and never lay eyes on her again.

  This is what it means to live. To choose a path and face the consequences.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle,” I say, letting my posture fall to one of resignation. “I have taken the gift you gave me for granted. My ingratitude is shameful. Tell me what must be done, and I will do it.”

  Surprise flashes across Nicodemus’ face. He releases me. Settles back on his heels and nods. He is about to reply, but then his eyes swirl to black, a vicious hiss emanating from his mouth.

  I turn, a familiar scent curling into my nostrils. Acrid, like overripe fruit.

  Michael Grimaldi stands at the top of the stairs. Though he is not a wolf, the smell of his blood is tainted with magic. He glares at me, an unfathomable expression on his face. “I had to see it again for myself,” he says. “I . . . thought you had died, Sébastien. Everyone said you had died.”

  I smile without showing my teeth. “And were you gladdened to hear it?”

  “No.” His lips form a tight line. “But I was not surprised.”

  “If I had died, Michael,” I drawl, “I would expect nothing less than the most overblown funeral parade this city has ever seen.”

  “No one has heard from you in weeks.” Michael shakes his head, still in disbelief.

  “And it would have remained that way, had you not been foolish enough to bring Celine Rousseau to this establishment,” Nicodemus interjects.

  “You clearly do not understand the first thing about Celine,” Michael says to my uncle in a cool tone. “Once she settles her mind on something, there is little anyone can do to dissuade her.” He looks back at me, his eyes narrowing. “Did you honestly think becoming a vampire was a solution?”

  I raise a flippant shoulder. “It wasn’t my solution.”

  “Then allow me to propose another one,” Michael says. “Stay away from Celine. She wanted nothing to do with this world. She asked to forget. For once in your life, be selfless and listen.”

  My laughter is brittle. “You mistake me for someone who gives a shit what you think.”

  “It’s not a request, leech.”

  Jae blurs before him. “Flee, little cub. While you still have legs to carry you.” Menace radiates from his every syllable.

  “If you lay a finger on me, the Brotherhood will return the insult, tenfold.” To his credit, Michael Grimaldi does not shrink away from Jae’s threat.

  “Not if there’s nothing left of you to avenge.” Jae’s response is more breath than sound.

  Michael turns to Nicodemus. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”

  My uncle says nothing.

  “You promised the Brotherhood you would not break faith,” Michael says. “Ten years ago, you swore never to bring another vampire into New Orleans.”

  Nicodemus whirls away without a word and vanishes into the darkness.

  “Perhaps your uncle doesn’t care about keeping his promises,” Michael says to me. “But there is no reason for me to hide the truth of what you’ve become from my family. You shattered this peace, Bastien.” His hands fist at his sides. “What happens next is on you.”

  “And what happens if we choose to share your secrets with the girl you love?” Odette says softly. “What happens if Celine discovers you are not the hero you’ve cast yourself to be? That you, too, are part of this world she wishes to forget?”

  Michael does not blink, though his jaw clenches. “I lay the consequences at your feet, Miss Valmont.” His lip curls. “But if you cause Celine any pain, you will answer to me.”

  Hisses ripple around me. I hold up a hand, staying my brothers and sisters before they take it upon themselves to attack. No one threatens Odette in our presence. No one.

  “Celine is yours to protect, then,” I say with a malicious smile.

  He nods.

  “Then have at it,” I continue in a mild tone. “It’s sure to be an easy task.” I lean forward, my hands in my pockets. “Tell her Bastien says hello.”

  Anger descends on his face like a storm cloud. He opens his mouth to issue a reply. Reconsiders it. Then races down the stairs.

  Madeleine comes to stand beside me. Every muscle in my body is stretched like the surface of a drum. I do not move. I do not speak.

  “Her memories are returning,” she murmurs. “How is this possible?”

  I say nothing. For I am wondering the same thing.

  BASTIEN

  The following evening, Arjun waits until the precise moment the last rays of the sun dip below the horizon to knock on my chamber door.

  I do not respond, but the ethereal turns the brass handle and steps inside, uninvited. “You’re to come with me.” It is not a request. His poncy British accent makes that quite clear.

  I sit up. Make a show of swinging my legs to the floor beside my bed, the velvet drapes swaying around me. Then I place my open book beside the single candle on my bedside table and quirk a brow at him.

  “Valeria Henri is waiting for you in her shop,” Arjun says, dropping onto an ornate chair positioned in the corner of the room. He lights a cheroot, the blue smoke unwinding above his head. “Nicodemus says it’s time for you to have your fétiche made so that you may move about freely in the sun.”

  I rub my left hand across the back of my neck. “Bold of me to walk about in broad daylight after Michael Grimaldi levies such threats. If he did indeed tell the wolves I am no longer mortal, Luca Grimaldi will have my head.”

  “Which will happen whether you wander around in the middle of the day or the middle of the night. And it’s all the more reason to give yourself every advantage. You don’t want to be one of those foolish immortals left to die in the sun. It’s too droll, even for you.”

  “Do you know what you’re talking about, or did you read about it in a
book?”

  Arjun snorts. “I heard some stories in the Sylvan Vale.”

  “Wishful thinking, perhaps. I’ll bet those in the Vale love to envision creative ways of bringing about a blood drinker’s demise.”

  He inclines his head toward the book on my bedside table. “Speaking of wishful thinking, is that more research on the elusive Sunan the Immortal Unmaker?”

  Surprise flares through me, though I’m careful not to show it. “The subject merely piqued my interest.”

  Laughter rumbles through his chest. He exhales twin plumes of smoke from his nostrils. “You really are a terrible vampire. If you’re going to lie, at least make it believable. We all know what you’re reading. Odette and Madeleine have been keeping watch over any requests you make, including those as mundane as books from the library.”

  I swear beneath my breath, the Spanish words rolling from my tongue.

  “Don’t be too fussed about it,” Arjun continues. “Mother and Auntie are trying to make sure you’re not drowning in literature about the futility of life. Death is not the only outcome, old chap.”

  “As a point of fact, it is.”

  More low laughter. “And this Sunan character can help you along your merry way?” He stands. Adjusts the monocle clipped to his jacquard waistcoat. “Stop reading fairy tales and collect your things. Let’s spend a night among the living.”

  * * *

  I keep my head down as we make our way through the Vieux Carré, my Panama hat pulled low on my brow. My eyes flit from side to side. Ever since we encountered Celine and Michael walking along Royale last week, I’ve become aware of my own recklessness.

  At any given time, we could be confronted by a member of the Brotherhood.

  If we were, what would I do?

  Run like the wind, I suppose. If I were to stay, it would be in defense of someone else. After what happened in the swamps with Cambion, I have no interest in an altercation of any kind. Violence seems to bring out the worst of my inclinations.

  “Do you know how to fight?” I ask Arjun as we make the final turn onto Rue Dauphine.

  “I boxed at university,” he says. “And I’m fairly proficient with a bagh nakh.”

  “Which is what?”

  “If it ever comes down to it, you’ll see.”

  I glance at his tailored, immaculate ensemble. “You’re carrying a weapon on you now?” My brows rise in disbelief.

  “That’s what the ladies say, anyway.”

  “Fucking hell,” I mutter as he laughs.

  A pair of young women stroll beside us arm in arm. Once they pass, we pause before a nondescript blue door to our right, the sign above it swaying in a soft breeze. Lettered in gold across its surface is the single word PARFUM.

  An intoxicating array of scents surrounds the slender building: rose water, oud, peonies, tonka bean, sandalwood, and vanilla. Another layer of fragrance lies deeper beneath it, something headier, spicier. Herbs and burning incense. Melting wax and a trace of blood.

  The bell above the blue door rings when Arjun pushes it open.

  The shop itself is long and narrow, like many of the small apothecaries in the heart of the French Quarter. Along the wall to our left are endless rows of shelves, many of them covered by tiny bottles of perfume, followed by stacks of scented soap and sachets of dried flowers. On a small stool to the left sits a young lady with skin the color of porcelain, a matching parasol artfully arranged beside her flowered skirts. Her inner forearm is exposed so that a shopgirl can test the sillage of different fragrances. The veins in her wrists pulse in time with the beat of her heart.

  If only she knew that, to a vampire like me, this is the most delectable perfume of all.

  I look away and swallow. After nearly two months, the desire for blood still trumps almost everything else. It’s made me wary of hunting without the buffer of one of my siblings.

  “Bonne nuit, gentlemen.” The shopgirl conducting the fragrance test stands. “How may I help you?”

  When I step into the gaslight, recognition flares in her burnished face, a scowl forming around her mouth. “Sébastien Saint Germain,” she says, a groove etched between her delicately arched brows.

  My eyes go wide. “Eloise?”

  She moves toward us, her patterned skirts in hand. The intricate scarf around her head is styled in the same fashion as her mother’s, the points folded into triangles.

  Eloise gestures with her chin, beckoning us toward the back of the shop. We slip through the curtains into darkness, and she pivots in place, her irritation plain. “So it’s true, then?” she asks. “You’ve become the very thing that killed your mother.”

  Something glitters in Arjun’s hazel eyes. “Is that really necess—”

  “Cállate, fey boy,” Eloise interrupts. “You’re in my home now.”

  Irritation filters through my chest, but I force amusement to settle in its place. “I can see not much has changed since we were children, Ellie.”

  “Don’t call me that.” She whirls back toward me. “You lost the chance to call me that when your family stopped associating with us ten years ago, despite all we’ve done for your kind throughout the decades.”

  I take a step back, unsettled by her hostility. “I was under the impression my kind would be welcomed here tonight. If that is not the case, then—”

  “I have no issues with your kind. My quarrel is with you alone. Just because my mother welcomes you does not mean I am pleased to see your ridiculous face.” Disgust curls Eloise’s upper lip.

  “You despise the sight of me that much?”

  “Claro, though you’re even more beautiful now than you were as a child. It’s frankly disgusting. No man should have eyelashes like that. It’s obscene.”

  Arjun laughs, and Eloise aims her ire at him. “You should be ashamed,” she says, crossing her arms. “Are you not of the Sylvan Vale? What are you doing working in service to a Saint Germain?”

  The ethereal blanches at her accusation. It is rare to see unchecked emotion on Arjun’s face. “I like his style,” he says.

  “Meaning he pays well. And I suppose—”

  “Eloise,” another voice emanates from the staircase near the far corner of the poorly lit space. “Es suficiente.”

  “Sí, mamá,” Eloise replies without turning around.

  Valeria Henri glides closer, her right hand brushing across her daughter’s shoulder in a soothing gesture. She smells of fresh-cut herbs and vegetables, her dark skin luminous in the dim light. “After so many years, it’s good to see you, Sébas.”

  Only Valeria and my mother ever called me Sébas. It’s like a blow to the chest to hear it.

  With a smirk, Valeria glances at her daughter. “And rest assured that a part of Eloise is pleased to see you, too.”

  Eloise harrumphs.

  “You have the look of your father even more than you did when you were a boy,” Valeria says. Then she glances toward Arjun. “And who is your friend?” Her chestnut eyes narrow in consideration. “A halfling of the Vale? Muy interesante.”

  Arjun straightens. “Well, I would characterize our association as more of a—”

  “Yes,” I interrupt. “He is my friend.”

  Valeria nods. “Hold your friends close,” she says, “for you never know when they might be taken from you, as your mother was from me.” Her voice trails off, lost in memory. “Sígueme.” She turns toward the stairs and gestures for us to follow her. With a scalding glare, Eloise marches to the front of the shop to finish helping her customer select a fragrance.

  On the second floor of the building is a room I have not seen in ten years. The kitchen in the center of the open space has not changed much since then. Sprigs of thyme, rosemary, lavender, and oregano hang above a long wooden table marred by nicks and deep scratches. Pots and pans are stacked on oak shelving al
ong the far wall, beneath a row of ancient books, their spines all but crumbling to dust. The air here feels cooler and freer, much like the second floor of Jacques’. Imbued with unseen magic.

  “Your uncle informs me you have need of a fétiche,” Valeria says as she steps behind the long wooden table and begins clearing its surface.

  I nod.

  Her lips purse. “It’s been over seven weeks since you were turned. Why have you waited so long to see me?”

  The blunt way she speaks reminds me of my mother. It’s part of the reason I avoided her after I lost my family. It unsettled me to be around an approximation of my mother, as if I were seeking a substitute for the real thing.

  Valeria Henri and Philomène Saint Germain grew up together in the heart of the Vieux Carré. When they were children, they learned to practice Santería from Valeria’s aunt and attended Mass together every Wednesday and Sunday. It was Valeria who introduced my mother to my father. Given what happened, I wonder if she regrets it.

  After my sister, Émilie, perished in a fire, my uncle found a set of paw prints in the ashes behind the charred structure. Though I confessed to being the cause of the inadvertent blaze, no one listened to me. Nicodemus and the rest of my family were eager to blame the wolves for my sister’s death. From a desire for vengeance, my mother demanded that my uncle turn her into a vampire so that she could fight in the war to come. The change drove her to madness. Soon she became obsessed with finding a cure. Of being unmade. She met the sun less than six months later.

  My father’s grief consumed him not long after that. When Nicodemus refused to turn him, my father took me to Haiti in search of another vampire. Overcome with loss and drunk on the blood of innocents, he met the same fate as my mother the following year.

  “Lost in your thoughts again, are you, Sébas? Just like when you were a child.” Valeria laughs. “Ruminate a while longer, but I expect an answer to my earlier question. It wounds my soul that you have not come to visit me once in ten years. Your mother would be ashamed.”

  I want to say something poignant. Something Odette would say. A poetic turn of phrase that would excuse a decade of cowardice. But I’m certain Valeria would see through it, just as my mother always did. “I wasn’t ready,” I say simply.