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The Beautiful (ARC)

Page 19

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

 

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