by Renee Ahdieh
The pair of gleaming black horses took off before Odette
could finish, their hooves clattering across the cobblestones,
scattering any poor soul still milling about the white cathedral.
In the ensuing ruckus, Celine heard Odette screech through
the courtyard, her words a jumble of French and Spanish, her
outrage aimed at a precise target.
Celine smiled to herself, her features sobering the next instant.
She watched the elegant phaeton turn the corner, her back to
the church. A moment later, her gaze snagged on the unremit-
ting stare of a familiar figure standing on the opposite end of the steps, studying Celine intently. The Mother Superior frowned,
her censure plain, the sun casting half her face in shadow.
It did not take the work of a genius to deduce the source of
her irritation. Once again, she’d been thwarted in her attempts
to control Celine, this time by the monsignor himself. With a
huff, the matron of the convent continued down the steps, her
posture stoic, her strides unwavering.
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Sighing to herself, Celine tarried for a while in front of the cathedral until the spired structure emptied of its patrons and
Pippa joined her.
“Did the meeting go well?” Celine asked Pippa.
Pippa nodded. A warm breeze tugged at her organza skirts.
“As well as could be expected. It’s the first ladies’ organization I’ve ever joined. Are you certain you don’t want to accompany
me next time?”
“I know little about music and art. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be
able to offer much in the way of conversation.”
“You know as well as I do that conversing about the arts isn’t
really the objective.”
Celine grinned, a black brow curving up her forehead. “How
many of the society dames tried to foist their horrible sons on
you?”
Pippa paused, her expression grim. “Three. One of them
might not be . . . terrible.” She turned to Celine, her eyes forlorn.
“His name is Phoebus.”
Laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “I gather he doesn’t resem-
ble his namesake, the Sun God.”
“I’m meeting his mother for tea next week.” Pippa exhaled in
a huff. “After all, we can’t remain at the convent forever.” A line formed along the bridge of her nose. “And it’s up to us to make
the best of our lives.”
Celine said nothing in response. With a kind smile, Pippa
linked arms with Celine, and they began the short journey back
to the convent.
As they walked, Celine’s thoughts wound through her mind.
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She shouldn’t go tonight. She wouldn’t go tonight. Even if it meant forgoing a meal at Jacques’. Even if it meant she had to
join a few ladies’ organizations of her own. Associating herself
with any member of La Cour des Lions was a terrible mistake.
They were dangerous. Beyond the ordinary. Something dark
writhed around whatever they touched.
It was a fool’s folly to consider anything else.
Celine resolved to do what she had come here to do. Begin
her life as a proper young woman. Find a proper young man.
Have a passel of proper young children.
And that would be the end of it.
Celine sighed to herself once more.
Her own lies were starting to taste bitter on her tongue.
What was it her father liked to say?
We must taste the bitter before we can appreciate the sweet.
Tonight Celine supposed she would do just that.
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HIVER, 1872
CATHÉDRALE SAINT-LOUIS, ROI-DE-FRANCE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
i
You may wonder why I hold so much hate in my heart.
As tellers of tales often say, it is a long story. Hundreds of
years long, in fact. It begins as many things do, with a love lost and a trust broken.
I could spend hours telling you what I lost. What my kind
has suffered. How the plight of the Otherworld has sifted like
grains of sand onto this mortal coil, forever threatening our
survival. It is the cause célèbre of our kind, so to speak.
As our survival has long been a bone of contention.
Once, all creatures of the Otherworld existed beneath the
same enchanted sky, through doorways concealed from the
realm of man. Those of us who thrived in the light basked
in the glittering woodlands of the Sylvan Vale, a place of
perpetual springtime, the air forever bathed in the golden
warmth of the sun. Those born to darkness took refuge in the
Sylvan Wyld, a world of unending night, frosted by wintry
stars.
But that was before our elders committed their original sin.
Before the Banishment.
Now creatures such as I exist in a place between light and
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darkness, without a home to call our own. Rootless. Untethered. Alone.
For our elders’ crimes, we were cursed to walk in the shad-
ows of mankind. Soon—as is wont to happen—a rift occurred,
dividing our ranks between those of the Fallen and those of the
Brotherhood. Through the centuries, our lore spread around
the world. Humanity bestowed on us—on all these immortal
night-dwellers—many names: wode; wearh; dhampyr; moroi;
undead; revenant; lycanthrope; alukah; vardalak; lamia.
The name the locals of New Orleans often use is vampire,
no matter that it is a bit of a misnomer, as not all of us survive solely on the blood of others. To the Brotherhood, the name
is an insult. To the Fallen, it is a badge of honor. As with many things, its origins lie in the Old World. In a time of perpetual
darkness and war, when those in power drank the blood of their
foes and impaled the conquered on wooden pikes driven deep
into the mud.
The title was granted to night-dwellers by superstitious cod-
gers. Sad beings who believed such demons could be thwarted by
cloves of garlic or sprinkles of holy water. By whispered prayers and flashing mirrors, wooden stakes and blessed crosses.
Utterly laughable. Nothing contrived by man could ever con-
trol such beings.
Creatures of the Otherworld have enjoyed propagating such
notions, as it keeps our victims enthralled with the belief that
their gods can save them. Fey beings—both light and dark—
have always enjoyed toying with the minds of men in such a
fashion.
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There is only one thing that can destroy a vampire.
The light of the sun.
And there is only one thing that can subdue it.
Pure silver.
But ultimately these details don’t matter.
What matters is how I feel now. How those I hold dear have
felt for centuries. How we’ve managed to endure.
Even more important is what I plan to
do. It is no longer
enough to ruin my enemy and dismantle everything he’s built
over the years. He took me from my family. Stole the very breath
from my lungs. I will hurt him as he and his kind have hurt me.
With a love lost and a trust broken.
With justice finally done.
Many would say this story is not about justice. It is about ven-
geance.
To me, there is simply no difference.
Tonight I will test my suspicions. I will see if the girl matters, as I’ve come to suspect.
Before dawn breaks, I will know the scars Death left on her
soul.
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Words Are Weapons
i
I’m standing at the top of the world!” Ashton Albert—elder
son of the shipping magnate Jay Ballon Albert—crowed into
the deep purple skyline. “And I like what I see.”
His voice sounded smug in its drunkenness. Despicably self-
assured.
Bastien hated it, though he sent the arrogant weasel an ap-
proving smile as he stared up into a fleece of clouds.
Ashton’s younger brother, Arthur (a shitcan in his own right),
elbowed his way onto the steel scaffolding, standing perilously
close to the edge for a seventeen-year-old boy recently con-
quered by drink. “Make room for me, Ash. I want to see what it
feels like to stand on top of the world.”
“Technically”—Phoebus Devereux, youngest grandson of
New Orleans’ current mayor, interjected in a nasally mono-
tone—“you’re standing on a half-built hotel along the coast of
Louisiana. You’re nowhere near the top of the world.”
Bastien wanted to laugh. Instead he grimaced. He could
swear he’d seen Phoebus adjust his spectacles while speaking.
Like a gazelle who’d limped onto the Serengeti at the exact
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moment the lions decided to feed. Ash and Art would not be kind to him for this transgression.
“Shut your sniveling mouth, you little rat,” Ash yelled over his
shoulder.
“No one cares what you have to say,” Art echoed like the good
little sycophant he’d been raised to be.
Bastien crossed his arms and leaned against a steel column.
He took a moment to check his pulse, pressing two fingers of
his left hand against the side of his throat. Though he desper-
ately wanted to take these spoiled bastards to task (or at least
imagine what it would feel like to do so), he held his tongue and allowed the scene to unfold.
Bastien hated this bullshit.
That raised the question: why was he here at all?
His lips pushed forward, his eyes panning across the silhou-
ette of New Orleans.
Because Sébastien Saint Germain loved money. In his nearly
nineteen years, he’d discovered there were only two things he
loved more: his family and his city. Money made all manner of
grievances disappear. It erased sins and paved pathways into
palaces of power and influence. It made what had been impos-
sible, possible.
It was the greatest lesson his dead parents had ever taught
him. With money, you could buy anything and everything.
Even a way to save your own life.
It was a shame his parents hadn’t learned that lesson in time
to spare themselves.
Or Émilie.
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Bastien pressed away from the metal column, drawing closer to the edge of the unfinished structure. “So what do you
think?”
Ash spun around, grabbing hold of a steel cable to maintain
his balance. “I think it’s precisely the kind of project my father would love.”
“He’s been telling us for some time that Marigny is in need
of a fine hotel,” Art added. “It’s in a perfect location, so close to the Quarter.”
“He knows that,” Ash spat at his younger brother. “It’s why he
picked it, you fool.”
“Why my uncle picked it,” Bastien corrected, keeping his tone
mild. Good-natured.
Decidedly unmurderous.
“I’ll definitely discuss it with him,” Ash said. “It’s the perfect project for me to whet my appetite.”
“And put that expensive Princeton education to good use,”
Art teased.
“Trust me, I’ve put it to good use. Just ask the whores on the
other side of Rampart.” Ash chortled like a drunken hyena.
Even the way he laughed made Bastien want to deck him. To
stop and watch the blood drip from his nose.
To relish what happened next.
“The city planning committee might present a problem, how-
ever,” Phoebus interjected yet again. “They haven’t granted any-
one permission to build a hotel this tall in . . . forever.”
Art shoved Phoebus in the arm, the slighter boy stumbling
into a steel column. “Who gives a rat’s ass about them?”
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“You and your brother seem to have a disturbing fixation with rodents,” Bastien replied. “And you’re not wrong, Phoebus. I was hoping to consult with you about that.” He shifted
alongside the boy, careful to keep his posture light. Unthreat-
ening. A feat in itself, as he stood nearly half a head taller than the youngest Devereux. “Your opinion on how to go about this
would be much appreciated.”
Bastien didn’t need his opinion. He needed a member of the
politically connected Devereux family in his pocket. Phoebus
was as good a mark as any. He’d recently returned from a stint
at Oxford, and rumor had it his mother had grand plans for him
in the way of a political future.
Politics was the next great frontier.
Bastien patted Phoebus on the shoulder as if they were old
chums. Shrewd business was about identifying an opponent’s
fatal flaw . . . and exploiting it. “You’d be of great help to me in this matter. I’d appreciate it immensely.”
Phoebus swallowed, his brown eyes bright behind the rims of
his spectacles, betraying how flattered he was to have garnered
Bastien’s notice. “I’ll look into it.”
“Good man.” Bastien struck his shoulder again, this time a
little too hard.
He needed Phoebus to stand up straighter. Speak with con-
viction. If he did, he would be a force to be reckoned with one
day. Worth at least four of Art and eight of Ash.
Art tugged a leather-wrapped flask from inside his frock coat
pocket. He took a long swig and passed it to his elder brother. “I don’t know if the Sun God is going to be any help to you on this,
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Bastien. He’s too busy scaring away all the wenches his mother keeps tossing his way.”
“Now she’s even trying to recruit from the dregs at the Ursu-
line convent.” Ash guffawed again.
Bastien gritted his teeth and checked his pulse a second time.
A wicked light fl
ashed in Art’s eyes. “I heard there are a few
choice morsels among the latest arrivals.”
Ash laughed even louder, the scent of stale liquor spoiling the
balmy night air. “Maybe I should have a look.” He sneered at
Phoebus. “Would you even know what to do with a honeypot,
Devereux?”
Rage swirled in Bastien’s fists. A bloodlust longing to be
slaked.
He needed to mind his temper. It had often been his un-
doing as a boy. It had cost Bastien the thing his uncle had
desired most for him: an education at West Point and all that
it entailed. Now Uncle Nico insisted he marry well to remedy
the loss, a prospect Bastien despised. The tittering débutantes
of New Orleans—as well as their meddling mothers—wearied
him past the point of reason, a fact that amused his uncle a
great deal.
“Being bored by them is far better than being enamored,”
Uncle Nico would say. “Never fall in love with a mortal, for love is an affliction. It always ends in blood,” he’d warned countless times, in countless tongues.
Anger had also cost Bastien his sister, a young woman with
a fiery temper and a ferocious heart. A lump gathered in his
throat, as it always had for more than a decade. He swallowed it
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the next instant, disdaining any sign of weakness. Any chance for an opponent to best him.
Though Bastien fought it, his thoughts drifted unbidden to
another young woman with a fierce soul. To her unflinching
nerve and rapier wit. To the darkness that lingered in her gaze.
To hair that glistened like a raven’s wing and eyes the color of
envy.
Bastien wanted to slide his fingers into that hair. Loosen it
from its bonds. Let it cascade around her shoulders in a water-
fall of black ink. Pause to grip the silken strands before savoring the salt on her skin.
Love is an affliction.
Frustration heated through Bastien’s veins.
He had no time for such nonsense, despite what Odette had
to say. Managing his uncle’s affairs consumed most of Bastien’s
waking hours. Following General Lee’s surrender at Appomat-
tox seven years ago, Nicodemus Saint Germain had begun buy-
ing land in port cities throughout the South with a plan to one
day own the largest collection of luxury hotels in the country.
Most of the year, Uncle Nico traveled between his holdings in