The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  They tear at my cloak as I lift the crossbow and fire two quarrels at one of them.

  “Aim for the center of the chest,” Arjun instructs.

  I fire another quarrel, and it flies wide. The lamiak nearest to me tries to snatch the crossbow from my grasp, and I shove it toward the snow. Three more land on my back. I look up as I struggle to stand, throwing one of them off my shoulder as another digs its talons into my arm, just above the arrow wound inflicted by the twig men.

  Snow flies around me, obscuring my vision. My fangs have lengthened in my mouth, my vision sharpened by my fury. In my periphery I see Arjun pull Celine from an attack as she turns her blade around and sinks its point into the chest of the creature nearest to her, who draws back with an ear-piercing screech, taking the blade with it.

  I cannot stop the onslaught of lamiak descending on us. They do not try to drink from me, as if they know I am one of them, but this knowledge has also identified me as their enemy. They bear down on me in force, preventing me from coming to Arjun’s or Celine’s aid.

  Arjun falls to the snow, overcome by two lamiak, as Celine is grabbed from behind by another.

  I shout and try to stand.

  Something starts to glow in Celine’s hand. With a cry, she brandishes the sphere of sunlight in the air above her head. It starts to burn brightly. She gasps, and I can see that her fingers have started to shine as if they’ve caught fire. With both hands, she lifts the bauble high. The lamiak shriek, their skin beginning to burn. The ones far enough away try to crawl toward the darkness, but many of them smolder and catch flame, their clothes turning to ash.

  Celine waits until the last of the creatures is nothing but tendrils of smoke. Tears stream from her eyes, the scent of burning flesh carrying on the wintry air.

  She collapses into the snow, her hands and arms blistered.

  CELINE

  When Celine sat up, panic began to set in. The same panic she’d felt in the hospital after she’d been attacked at Saint Louis Cathedral the night of Mardi Gras.

  The first thing she noticed was the light. Even though dusk appeared to have settled around her, the sun still shone from beyond the window, its light faint and warm. Tiny baubles flickered throughout the room, multiplying as they neared the high domed ceilings. Her bed was the largest bed she’d ever seen in her life. It appeared to be fashioned of twisting vines carved from a pale tree that smelled of cedar and spice. The coverlet felt as soft as a cloud to the touch. The faint scents of honeysuckle and citrus suffused the space.

  Even at a glance, Celine knew this was not the sort of chamber one found in the mortal world. All at once, recent events flashed through her mind’s eye. She swallowed at the memory of the lamiak coming toward her, the chittering echo of its death cry. The perfume of the frigid mist in the Wyld seemed to curl through her nostrils and ripple down her spine.

  Shivering, Celine pulled the cloudlike coverlet to her chin.

  A buzzing sound rang in her right ear, startling her. A tiny winged fairy zipped before her, inspecting her as it muttered in a language Celine could not understand. Then it vanished out an open window, undoubtedly to deliver a message.

  She was in the Vale. The sunlight alone told her this truth. She was safe and warm. No creatures of the night would barrel from the shadows, intent on causing her harm.

  Celine fell back against her mound of pillows and sighed. With a start, she recalled the way the golden bauble had burned to the touch. She sat up to examine herself. Her hands and forearms should be horribly burned. Yet she failed to find a single mark anywhere. The smell of crushed herbs lingered on her fingertips, as if some kind of tincture had been applied to her wounds. She stretched her limbs, expecting to feel a twinge of pain.

  Nothing at all disturbed her. It was as if she’d woken from a healing sleep.

  A knock resounded at the door.

  “Come in,” Celine said after tugging the coverlet higher once again.

  Bastien walked in. Alone.

  Celine’s grasp on the coverlet tightened. He was the last person she wished to see. The only person she wished to see. Conflict warred within her. It had been the same in the Wyld, whenever Bastien drew near. She wanted to push him away or pull him close so she might breathe in the scent of bergamot on his skin.

  It was infuriating.

  Bastien stood at the foot of the immense bed, dressed in loose trousers and a long, collarless tunic of raw silk. He looked . . . strange. The clothing of the Vale did not suit him. He wasn’t willowy enough. Too broad in the shoulders. But it would take far more than ill-fitting garments to make a young man like Bastien look less than beautiful. Perhaps it was the hue. Perhaps the soft gold clashed with the icy grey of his eyes.

  Color rose in Celine’s cheeks. She’d spent the last minute staring at him like a lovesick fool. She cleared her throat and pursed her lips.

  “Are you feeling well?” Bastien asked.

  Celine nodded. “It’s a bit shocking how . . . well I feel.”

  He crooked a brow. “That’s the second time you risked your life to save mine.”

  “I couldn’t very well let you die.” Celine crossed her arms, letting the irritation flow through her veins. It was better to be irritated with him. Better to kindle this aggravation than be consumed by her desire. “Not again, at least. It was horrible the first time. I still hear the echo of my screams ringing in my ears. Truly I saved you for me.”

  Bastien stilled. He did not appear to be breathing. “You . . . remember the night I died?”

  “I can’t set foot in Saint Louis Cathedral anymore, thanks to you,” she snapped. “It was one of the top three worst moments of my life, and I . . .” Celine’s voice trailed off when she realized what she’d just said. What she’d remembered. Her hands flew to her mouth, the color draining from her face. “Oh,” she breathed. “Ohhhhh.”

  Everything came to her in a sudden rush. All the answers she’d sought for so long. All the hopes and feelings and dreams she’d yearned to know again. Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she looked at Bastien. As he watched her take back her lost memories. The weight of it fell on her shoulders, causing her to double over, her arms wrapped around her stomach. The remembrances of what she’d seen—what she’d done, what she’d felt—flooded her mind.

  And she knew. She knew. Not because her memories had been returned to her. But because Celine understood that it was never about seeking the truth from others. It was about finding it within herself.

  “Bastien,” she whispered.

  He was beside her before she could blink. “I’m here.”

  Celine buried her face in his chest and let the tears fall. Bastien held her. He did not offer words of affection or promises to make the sun shine on her always. It was as if he knew what she needed. A place to feel safe. A place to call home. A place to be herself.

  That’s what Bastien had always offered her. It didn’t matter if Celine dwelled in darkness or basked in the light, so long as she could be who she was, for better or for worse.

  “This shirt,” she said against his chest, her words muffled, “doesn’t suit you.”

  His low laughter rumbled against her ear. “A shame, because it’s quite comfortable.”

  “It would look much better on Arjun.”

  “Should I feel insulted?”

  “Yes. You should always feel insulted. I like you best when you’re slighted.”

  Bastien tilted her chin upward. “And you’re sure you don’t need me to send for that goblin with skin like the bark of a tree? He fed me a ghastly drink that helped me heal quite nicely.”

  Celine shook her head. “No. I don’t need anyone or anything else.” And in that moment, it was the truest thing she could think to say.

  He pressed his lips forward. And began to pull away.

  Celine held him there, her fingers twined i
n his silk shirt. “Stay.”

  “I can’t. You should rest.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” she asked.

  Bastien tucked an ebony curl behind her ear. “Two days.”

  “Then there’s no reason for you to go.” She drew him closer, her fingers tracing along his jaw.

  “Are you not hungry?”

  She bit her lower lip. “I am. Quite hungry,” she murmured, her eyes bright.

  “Celine, I don’t think—”

  “You love me. And I love you. Enough of this nonsense.”

  “It isn’t nonsense,” Bastien argued. “For the second time this year, I watched you endanger yourself to save me. We come from opposing worlds, Celine. My kind and your kind . . . we kill each other. After our time in the Wyld, I thought you understood. What part of us being together makes sense?” He paused, his fingers clenched around hers. “We are blood foes, Celine. My uncle and your mother . . . they’ve conspired to destroy each other for generations. That won’t end anytime soon. Especially when your mother wants you to—”

  “I don’t give a damn what my mother wants when it comes to us. The only thing that matters is what we want.” Celine sat up. “Everything you’re saying now is an excuse. I never thought you would be such a coward, Sébastien Saint Germain. This is my world, too. If I’m going to be in danger anyway, I would rather be in danger with you.”

  “Your mother will never allow this,” he said softly.

  “My mother is not my keeper.”

  “Nicodemus will—”

  “I’ll handle Nicodemus. I promise I won’t let him hurt you.”

  Bastien laughed, his palm coming to rest on her cheek.

  “I learned something in the time I lost sight of my memories,” Celine said. “I should not be looking to others to uncover my truths, no matter how dark or twisted they may be. I need only look inside myself. Everything I need is here.” She placed her hand on her chest, over her heart. “There is only one question that matters now. Do you want to be with me, Bastien?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then be with me.” Celine pulled him close and pressed her lips to his with a gentle kiss. His left hand traced along her collarbone. When his fingers twined through the curls at the nape of her neck, Celine dragged him down onto the bed, luxuriating in the feel of his body against hers. In the way the cloudlike coverlet seemed to swallow them whole.

  The hem of her nightshift rose as she wrapped her legs around Bastien. Then Celine gripped his shoulders and rolled until he was beneath her, her knees on either side of his hips.

  Before Celine had a chance to think, she tugged her gown over her head. She knew what she wanted, and she had no plans to be coy about it.

  Celine stared down at Bastien, her fingers dragging across his chest. Slowly. Deftly. He took in a sharp breath, his grey eyes darkening into drops of black ink. His fangs began to lengthen, and he closed his eyes, as if to shield her from the truth of what he’d become.

  “No,” Celine said, a hand against his jaw. “Don’t look away from me. Don’t hide what you are. Beside the river, when we were attacked by the lamiak, I wasn’t afraid to see what you are. It is who you are that matters most. I’ve seen you at your best and at your worst. And you are beautiful to me in any light.”

  He sat up at once, unchecked emotion in his gaze. “Thank you.” His words were a whisper. When Celine kissed him, it was gentle, the tip of her tongue brushing across his fangs with the softest caress. Bastien shuddered and drew her closer, his arms enveloping her in an embrace.

  “Bastien,” Celine whispered in his ear. “Make love to me.”

  In response, he pulled his tunic over his head. The feel of his skin against hers caused a spark of delicious warmth to race through her body. That same spark she’d felt for weeks in his presence. Perhaps it wasn’t safe. Fire was rarely safe. But it made her feel alive. And she was not a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued by a knight on a shining horse.

  She was Celine Rousseau. The daughter of a linguistics professor and the Lady of the Vale. The girl who had defended her own honor and fought to protect the one she loved.

  Fey royalty in her own right.

  Bastien’s hands brushed up her bare rib cage toward her chest. “Tell me how you want me to touch you,” he said. “Show me.”

  Celine thought she would feel bashful or embarrassed. But she didn’t. Not at all. This was Bastien, after all. He’d asked her, without pride or agenda. And she loved him more for it. Celine took his hands and showed him how. Showed him where. When she gasped and threw her head back, her heart trilling in her chest like a bird longing to be set free, the whites of his eyes vanished in swirls of delicious darkness.

  Her limbs wondrously heavy, Celine began to touch him as he had touched her. She pushed him back against the bed, her palms trailing across the sculpted planes of his chest and chiseled muscles of his stomach.

  “Tell me what you like,” she murmured.

  “If I tell you, this will be over all too soon,” he said with a wicked grin.

  Celine shifted, conscious of where their bodies touched.

  Again Bastien sat up, until their eyes were level. He lifted her by the hips and waited for her to move.

  Celine brought them together in one careful slide, gasping at the twinge of pain and the sudden fullness. Then she pressed her lips to his, her hips rolling forward. The rest of the world faded away, and it was nothing but touch and sound and sensation.

  Nothing but each other. This kiss that was a moment and a lifetime.

  Celine fell back against the coverlet, her fingers grasping his arms. When she opened her eyes, the flickering lights above her glittered like stars. She lost herself in the rise and fall of Bastien’s shoulders. In the way the rhythm of her body matched his. In the feel of his strong hands as they twined through hers.

  A lush warmth took shape within her, spreading through her body until she gasped his name and gripped the carved vines along the headboard and let the starlight above them fade into oblivion.

  Later, their arms and legs threaded together, Bastien’s fingers trailing down her spine, he turned toward her, his gunmetal eyes soft. “I have loved you in both my lives. I will love you in all the rest to come.”

  And Celine slept the sleep of dreams.

  * * *

  The next day, they strode into the Summer Court, hand in hand.

  Celine expected to see disapproval on her mother’s face. After all, it was clear the Lady of the Vale’s daughter had fallen in love with their blood foe. A cursed vampire. And not just any vampire, but the immortal heir of Nicodemus Saint Germain.

  It did not matter. Celine had already decided to defy the stars. And she would defy them again and again if it meant she could keep what she wanted close to her heart.

  The gentry in her mother’s court frowned and whispered behind their hands, their displeasure plain. One of them—a man with long silver hair and eyes the color of dark citrine—stepped forward as if to protest outright, but he was drawn back by a slender man standing to his left, who stared at Celine with a calculated expression.

  A man whose angular face she would not soon forget.

  The Lady of the Vale stood from her sunburst throne and welcomed Celine and Bastien with open arms.

  “I am grateful to you for bringing my daughter back to me,” Lady Silla said to Bastien. Her laughter was bright, her features kind. “Though I am a bit put out that she did not arrive in the Summer Court hale and hearty, as Arjun promised.”

  “Please,” Celine said. “That was not his fault. Arjun nearly gave his life to spare me from harm. As it was, he made a bargain with a creature in the Wyld so that we could move through what remains of the Winter Court safely.”

  Celine’s mother returned to her throne, her elegant fingers curling beneath her pointed chin, her
long nails shining like the surface of a mirror. She smiled indulgently, her ebony eyes soft. Like the richest kind of velvet. The waves of her waist-length hair hung about her shoulders like a shining cape. “Don’t worry yourself over Arjun. I am grateful for him as well.”

  Inhaling, Celine stepped forward, her fingers falling from Bastien’s. “May I make a request?”

  “Of course you may, my daughter.”

  “I want to stay in the Vale with you for a time. But first there are people in New Orleans to whom I owe an explanation. Affairs I wish to put in order. Will you grant us leave to travel back if I promise to return?”

  Lady Silla tapped a silver nail against the curved arm of her golden throne, another serene smile settling on her face. “You know promises are not made lightly here, my child.”

  “I know.” Celine nodded. “And I promise I will return. As you said, I would like to spend time in this world. More important, I want to know who my mother is.” She offered her a smile. “I want to learn the things that bring her joy and the things that bring her sorrow.”

  Her mother’s velvet eyes shifted over Celine, then moved toward Bastien, their sloe-shaped corners narrowing in consideration. Celine wasn’t sure what her mother was thinking, but she suspected the Lady of the Vale did not hold much love in her heart when it came to the handsome blood drinker standing before her now.

  With bated breath, Celine stood in silence, awaiting her mother’s decision.

  Then Lady Silla stood, her long ivory dress rippling as she glided toward Celine. “Of course, aga. You have a life in the mortal world. It stands to reason that you have affairs you wish to settle first. We will take our time learning from each other when you return. I want nothing more than that.” She pressed her pale hand to Celine’s cheek. “Do you still have the bauble I gave you?”

  Celine reached into her pocket and removed the golden sphere, which no longer retained its previous luster. The Lady of the Vale wrapped her palm around it and squeezed. When she opened her hand again, a gold ring with a large yellow stone in the shape of a rectangle was all that remained of the bauble.