The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  Celine pulled her cloak around her. “And I still don’t know why we’re here in the first place.”

  Arjun canted his head like his father always did when Arjun said something ridiculous. “Because you failed to ask.”

  “We’re here because I wanted to meet Sunan of the Wyld,” Bastien said in a subdued tone.

  “Why?” Celine pressed.

  “Because he thinks this Sunan character can cure him of his vampiric ailment,” Arjun finished. Then he clapped Bastien on the back. “Couldn’t wait all night for you to spit it out, old chap.”

  Celine blinked. “Is that possible?”

  Only a fool could ignore the hope in her words. Poor little princess, Arjun mused. She had the rest of her overlong life to learn of disappointment in this world. Arjun was still learning, and he’d been disappointed from childhood.

  “Is Sunan here?” Celine asked, her head tilting back to gaze up at the palace of ice that had once been home to the Sylvan Wyld’s gentry. A castle built to house the wealthiest blood drinkers.

  Arjun raised a shoulder. “Those who dwell in this place would be the ones most likely to know where he is.” He crossed toward the largest alcove, searching for the entrance to the main hall. “Let’s find someone and get out of here before any other misfortune befalls us. Come rain or shine, I intend to return Celine to Lady Silla hale and hearty. Because even if I can’t stand many creatures in the Vale, it’s my home, for better or for worse. I don’t intend to forfeit it or my life for failing to honor a promise.”

  Bastien nodded.

  “Yes,” Celine agreed. “Tell us what to do, and we will do it.”

  Arjun rolled his eyes. “If only I believed that to be true.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, the trio passed beneath a set of smashed double doors bound in iron. The interior sconces were lit by cerulean flames. Three long tables framed three walls of the cavernous chamber. Surrounding each table were feasting creatures of all shapes and sizes. The beasties of the Sylvan Wyld. So engrossed were they in their meal that most of them did not pause to notice the three strangers standing at the destroyed entrance to what had undoubtedly been the castle’s Great Hall.

  “Don’t look at what they are eating,” Arjun said softly.

  Celine groaned. Above them, small winged sprites and pixies made of shattered ice danced throughout the space, chittering and waiting to steal scraps of food. Glasswing butterflies gathered on iron torches, their translucent bodies dipped in shining black ink.

  “Those are poisonous,” Arjun warned. “Don’t touch them or let them land on you. The ichor on their bodies burns like the devil.” His attention caught on the figure seated at the head of the center table, a horned goblet in one hand, an iron crown atop his head, his red beard coated in small icicles.

  “He looks as knowledgeable as any,” Arjun said over his shoulder to Bastien and Celine.

  Celine chewed at the inside of her cheek. “Do you think he might wish us harm?”

  “Without a doubt.” Bastien began walking toward the bearded man in the iron crown.

  Arjun pressed a hand to his chest to stop him. “The presence of a blood drinker will likely provoke his wrath. Let me speak to him first.”

  As they moved between the tables lining the chamber, whispers and growls trailed in their wake. A slithering, snakelike beast with wet hair and two voids for eyes glided into their path, pausing to glare up at them and lick its fangs. Many of the creatures slowed their feasting in order to peruse the newest arrivals.

  If Arjun had to guess, they were deciding which of them to eat first. Dread coursed down his spine. If he could smell the frost and mint and magic of the Wyld on their skin, he would bet a barrelful of gold that they could smell the sunlight of the Vale on him and on Celine.

  A beast with hairy ears and a mouthful of cracked teeth smacked its lips with gusto when Celine passed by. Another green-skinned hob and the white-haired phouka beside it glared at Bastien without blinking.

  The man in the iron crown gestured for a horde of bat-eared goblins to fill his goblet and replenish the food on his plate, his black eyes fixed on Arjun. A blue goblin bearing an immense carafe of blood-colored wine hobbled toward him last, a pained expression on its face.

  “What have you brought as a sacrifice?” he asked Arjun before Arjun could even open his mouth.

  A fist clenched in Arjun’s stomach. He should have realized those in the Wyld still adhered to the old ways. Nevertheless he bowed low, his arms outstretched in a flourish. “What does the good lord desire?”

  The bearded man sat up straight, the icicles along his chin chiming with the movement. It was then that Arjun realized he was addressing one of the fabled dwarfs of the mountain. His small stature and grizzled countenance gave him away.

  Then the bearded dwarf king peered over his plate at the trio and began to laugh as if he’d been told a fantastic joke.

  “You brought me nothing?” he barked, spittle flying from his lips. “You brought the King of Kur nothing?” He thrust his goblet into the face of the tiny blue goblin holding the carafe, who startled before refilling it at once. After draining its contents dry, the dwarf swiped his sleeve across his mouth, his amusement plain. “What about the girl?” he said after belching. “She looks fresh.”

  “The girl is here as a guest, not as a gift,” Bastien said. When he spoke, the sound of his voice seemed to carry to the rafters, causing the glasswing butterflies to cease with their fluttering. A sudden hush descended on the crowd.

  “And what have we here?” the king in the iron crown said. “Is that a . . .” He paused to take in a deep breath. “Is that a blood drinker on our doorstep?”

  All the goblins beside him began to titter, the hob with the mouthful of jagged teeth cackling.

  “Do you not know the rules, vampire?” the king said, and yanked a silver blade with an iron handle from the sheath at his belt. “Don’t you know your kind were banished from here more than four hundred human years ago?” He leaned forward, pointing the end of his sword at Bastien’s chest. “Go back to your beloved mortals, traitor of the Wyld.”

  Arjun’s soul cringed as Bastien stepped forward. “I know what my ancestors did,” Bastien said.

  “Your ancestors?” the bearded dwarf king drawled. “You know the rules, vampire, so why would you risk coming here?”

  “What is the punishment for a vampire who crosses into the Wyld?” Bastien asked. “At no time did anyone tell me what the punishment was.”

  “I suppose it’s . . . whatever . . . whatever I choose it to be,” the king stammered, clearly unwilling to acknowledge his ignorance. Arjun knew the punishment, but he had no intention of divulging it to this bearded tyrant. The dwarf king slammed down his horned goblet, causing the little blue goblin beside him to shriek in terror.

  Laughter rasped from all corners of the room.

  “I’ll admit I’m intrigued by your brashness. It isn’t every night a vampire and two ethereals with the blood of the Vale visit our illustrious court,” the dwarf king said. “What brought you to the doors of the famed Ice Palace of Kur?”

  “I wish to speak with Sunan the Unmaker,” Bastien said.

  All motion ceased in the room. Even the chittering creatures roosting in the eaves fell silent.

  “That is a name I have not heard for an age,” the dwarf king replied. “It’s a shame he is no longer with us. Sunan would have enjoyed your story, no doubt. The wise old fool was always fond of stories.”

  “Where is he?” Celine asked. “Is there any way we might find him?”

  “He does not exist anymore,” the dwarf king said. “Sunan left the Winter Court long ago, even after the iron crown was offered to him.” A snigger flew from his lips, spittle freezing on his beard. “The damned fool objected to the idea of a king so much, he turned down the chance t
o become one!”

  Again the room filled with coarse laughter. Unsurprisingly Bastien kept silent. Not that Arjun blamed him. The vampire’s entire reason for journeying to the Wyld—for taking on such a risk—had been lost in this moment.

  “Curse the kings, he used to say. For they never bring anything but bloodshed and misery to their people.” The dwarf barked once more. “I would have to disagree with that.” He shoved his horned goblet into the face of the terrorized blue goblin once more, barely waiting long enough for it to be refilled.

  Still Bastien said nothing. He had not taken a breath since the king’s revelation.

  The dwarf stopped drinking when his attention fell once more on Celine. “This girl looks familiar. Tell me, child, which member of the summer gentry granted you your immortality?”

  Celine frowned. Took the smallest step back. And curtsied. “I’m afraid I don’t know, Your . . . Majesty.”

  “Majesty!” the dwarf king crowed with delight. “You must be an earthbound ethereal?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I love it.” He chortled. “From now on, everyone here will call me ‘Your Majesty.’ Humans are so amusing. Sunan would have liked you, girl. He used to speak of a prophecy in which a creature with mortal blood would be the one to tame the beasts and save our world.” He laughed into his goblet, wine dribbling down his frozen chin. “I miss him sometimes, if for no other reason than his amusing ways.” After he drained the dregs of his drink, he thumped his other hand on the table before him. “Now then, for the matter of tribute. You’ve come to my court without anything of value to offer me. My ice jackals are waiting in the wings to exact the blood price for this insult.” His beady black eyes sparkled. “Unless you can offer me something worthwhile.”

  Arjun paled at this, recalling the dying chollima in the courtyard. It was his fault for not remembering that the Wyld was a place where such tribute was necessary. If he did not offer the dwarf king a worthy tribute, it was likely his bloodthirsty minions would take an arm or a leg from each of them, at the very least.

  And if something happened to Celine, Lady Silla would not be forgiving, even if Arjun was the son of her friend and general.

  “I have something worthwhile,” Arjun said. “I can offer you a month of service by a son of the Vale, to begin after the next harvest moon.”

  “Whose son?” the dwarf king said, his fingers steepled before him.

  “The son of General Riya, leader of the Grey Cloaks.” The din arose once more at the mention of the name. Arjun was not surprised. His mother was infamous throughout the land. Beloved and hated in equal measure. The best huntress in the Vale. The best killer of Wyld beasts who dared to cross into the summer lands.

  Bastien grabbed Arjun’s shoulder. But Arjun did not flinch.

  “A year,” the king bargained.

  “One month,” Arjun replied.

  “Six months.”

  “Six weeks.”

  The king laughed. “Make the promise, son of General Riya. And I will hold you to it, as your kind never fail to honor a promise.”

  “In exchange for our safe passage from the Ice Palace of Kur and its immediate surroundings, I, Arjun Desai, son of General Riya, promise to return in service to the lord of the Ice Palace for a period of no more than six mortal weeks following the next harvest moon.”

  The dwarf king laughed harder than he’d ever laughed before. “Now be gone before I change my mind.”

  * * *

  As soon as the strange trio of newcomers left the castle, the dwarf king and his court of feasting minions began to blur and shift. In a sudden gust of wind, they vanished, leaving behind two lone goblins, among them the smallest one with the blue face and the carafe of wine. The blue goblin hoisted himself onto the iron chair and contemplated the recent happenings.

  “Do you think they will return?” the other goblin asked, his yellow eyes wide.

  “Most assuredly. They are far from finished with the Wyld. And the son of General Riya made a promise.”

  The other goblin sighed. “Maybe he will be the one to save us all.”

  “Or maybe it will be the girl,” the blue goblin replied with a knowing smile.

  “Do you speak in jest, Sunan?” the goblin with the yellow eyes pressed.

  “Never, Suli. I never jest about the future.”

  BASTIEN

  I have not spoken in almost an entire league.

  Anger and disappointment swirl inside my chest. I fear that if I breathe life into them, I will lash out at those around me. My actions today have placed two people I care about in a dangerous world of perpetual night, populated by bloodthirsty monsters. And for what?

  Nothing, it seems.

  I should have known better than to fixate on such a far-fetched dream. But I cannot prevent the sorrow from settling inside my chest. From clenching my dead heart in an icy fist.

  What if Sunan still existed? What if he could unmake me?

  What would I have done then? What price would I have paid?

  I think back on everything I’ve learned about myself since the night I woke on the table in Jacques’ as an immortal. If I had not died and been made into a vampire, would I have continued to see the world as I always had, or would I have opened my eyes?

  My mother once said that it was easy for a man to be kind and generous in times of plenty. The real measure of a man was what he did and said in times of difficulty.

  My mortal life was a life of plenty. One in which I rarely paused to consider anything outside my immediate sphere. My sight was set on the future before me. A future my uncle had laid out since my birth.

  As I walk behind Arjun and Celine, my mind drifts to the day I was expelled from West Point for attacking another cadet, who had brought about the accidental death of a friend. I was happy to leave the military academy. I thought my path righteous. I remember telling my uncle that if those in power refused to punish someone for wrongdoing, it was my responsibility to do it in their stead. I don’t regret avenging my friend. But I do regret the way I did it.

  Before I became a blood drinker, not once had I stopped to reflect upon that time in my life. Had I not been made into a vampire, I would never have sought out Valeria Henri. Perhaps I would have continued down the same path, toward the same future. One of power and wealth and influence in the city I loved.

  I would be who I always was. Sébastien Saint Germain. Heir to New Orleans’ largest fortune. A richly entitled boy who became a richly entitled man.

  What you are has no bearing on who you become. Kassamir said that to me several weeks ago. I think back on that night often.

  Perhaps it is not what I am that matters. Perhaps it is who I am.

  I glance ahead to where Arjun and Celine walk through the darkened wood, the snow crunching beneath their feet. My ethereal brother, who has offered himself in service to a mad dwarf king to save our lives, and the girl I love, who would not be in this frozen wasteland if it weren’t for me.

  Why did I think Sunan would offer me salvation?

  Fitting to discover that my dream was nothing more than a mirage in a desert.

  I have learned much in the last few weeks. I have come far, but there is a long way to go.

  Do I possess the fortitude to chase the better version of myself, even if that better version is not human?

  “The silence is driving me mad,” Arjun announces as we continue trekking toward the bridge along the border between the Vale and the Wyld. A faint mist has gathered on the outskirts of the forest, collecting near our feet and along the river.

  Celine says nothing as she slows to walk beside me.

  “Isn’t his silence driving you mad?” Arjun asks her.

  “A little, I suppose. But I always need a moment to reflect after I’m met with disappointment.” She offers him a stern look. “And do
n’t think I plan to ignore what you’ve done.”

  Arjun pauses to kick up a swirl of thickening mist. “Pardon?”

  “I don’t know if I should yell at you or kiss you for what you did at the palace,” she says.

  “You should always kiss me, princess.” Arjun winks.

  Celine frowns. “Are you not worried about what he’ll make you do for the six weeks you’re in service to him?”

  “Eh.” Arjun raises a shoulder. “It will be predictable. Most likely he’ll relish the chance to enact petty revenge on my mother for—”

  Celine screams as Arjun is wrenched from the footpath and swallowed into a patch of rising mist.

  I yank the crossbow from my cloak just as Celine brandishes her dirk.

  “Arjun!” Celine calls out.

  “Stay back,” Arjun yells. “They’re lamiak.” A sound rips through the darkness, followed by a keening wail. With a gasp, Arjun stumbles toward us, his silver blade coated with thick blood and an open gash near his collarbone.

  “What are lamiak?” I demand as we all gather together, our weapons flashing white beneath the moon.

  “Mindless blood drinkers,” he says through gritted teeth. “As if a vampire had been reduced to its basest element. Stay alert. They are never alone.”

  All at once a pair of shimmering eyes, the color like the inside of a flame, glow through the darkness. Celine shrieks as a pale creature dressed in filthy grey rags lumbers toward us. His nails are long; his hair hangs down his back in a snarl. His face has been torn from the pages of a childhood nightmare, his eyes sunken and hollow, his cheeks gaunt. Chipped fangs protrude down his chin.

  Another lamiak launches itself through the night sky, hissing through the air. It snatches Celine by the hood and tries to yank her away. Both Arjun and I move toward it, slashing at its throat. I am knocked to the ground by two more of the creatures. A sound like the clacking of teeth flies from one of their mouths, and four more bound from the mist toward us, their long, ragged nails curled like talons.