The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

which I make the necessary amends, so that I might one day

  thrive. It is a blessing to even hope for such a future, given the stains of our past.

  I remember the last time I watched a vampire die.

  She was a vampire I loved beyond words, though I knew I

  should not, for I realized it would amount to nothing but heart-

  break. But when one finds a kindred spirit, how is it possible to turn away? These connections are so rare, even for immortals.

  For me, they are the food of life.

  I watched as they threw Marin into a narrow pit. Those in

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  my coterie bore witness from the sidelines as cloaked sentries.

  I buried my affection for her deep behind my heart. Locked it

  tightly in my chest, so that none of our ranks would know how

  much I loved a creature who flouted our rules and treated the

  gifts given to her as nothing more than tokens of appreciation

  from a dark god.

  It was one of the things I appreciated most about her. Marin

  never took herself too seriously.

  After they threw her in the pit, it took a moment for her to

  regain her bearings. Only a moment. She realized where she

  was the instant she looked up.

  I remember seeing her face as the knowledge passed through

  her, thankful she could not discern me from the shadows.

  She was terrified. Her eyes turned to stone, leached of all

  light.

  But she laughed. Defiant to the end.

  She called out to us, knowing we stood on the fringes under

  cover of darkness, safe in our self-righteousness. Secure in the

  cloak of our shared hatred.

  Marin hurled terrible names in our direction. Demanded to

  know what we sought to prove by putting an end to her exis-

  tence.

  I call it an existence because—to this day—I do not believe

  what she lived was a life. Hunting under cover of night. In con-

  stant war with beasts of the Otherworld. In constant worry

  about whom to call friend and whom to call foe. It was not a

  life because Marin never longed for anything more. She was

  complacent. She learned nothing in all her years.

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  And in the end, this complacency failed her. She should have betrayed me before I betrayed her. She never should have been

  my friend. I never should have loved her. It brought me nothing

  but pain in the end. The reminder of her skin, soft and hard all

  at once, like velvet and steel. The taste of her lips upon mine,

  ever so bittersweet.

  But no matter. That is a story for a different night.

  Not long after Marin was thrown into the pit, the sun be-

  gan to shift over the opening of the narrow chasm, slipping in

  place of the waning moonlight. We all watched in silence while

  its rays streamed toward the stone floor. We listened as Marin

  laughed louder, pressing her body against the stacked stones of

  the cylindrical chamber.

  She cried for help in the last moments. Screamed through her

  laughter, begging for a reprieve. Howling for rescue, her song a

  broken melody.

  Her shrieks haunted me for years. The smell of her flesh as it

  burned is a memory that still turns my stomach, and not much

  can do that anymore. Alas, fire will never be my friend. In the

  years that followed, I hardened myself to such sights. These

  punishments were necessary if my kind intended to survive. If

  we meant to establish our place in this world.

  After Marin’s death, her coven scattered to the far corners of

  the earth. Every so often I would hear tales of one of its ranks

  stalking one of ours in retaliation.

  A fool’s errand. True vengeance does not happen in a mo-

  ment. It happens over time. The careful doling out of chips,

  the assiduous display of self-control. When I reap what I have

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  sown, it will be in safety. It will be a breath to savor. And I will be far away when it finally comes.

  I turn from my lovely street corner, moving toward a nar-

  row alleyway shrouded in thick darkness. A place in which my

  kind have thrived for centuries, across all the continents of the world.

  I sense a familiar presence though it moves without sound. I

  wait until it draws near. Close enough that I am the only one to

  hear his words.

  “Master,” he says, his eyes glowing like embers in the night, “I

  did as you asked.”

  I nod, my features cool. Aloof. Even through the layers of

  darkness, it is impossible to miss the adoration in his gaze. The almost feverish desire to garner my approval. “And the girl?” I

  continue.

  “She is no longer welcome at the convent.” He practically vi-

  brates with the pleasure of delivering this news.

  Irritating how much he craves my affection. Like a dog beg-

  ging for its master’s touch. “Good,” I say. “And the Court?”

  Amusement tinges his words. “They know of her plight. A

  member of their thieving ranks was sent to her rescue.”

  Delicious. It will make my vengeance that much sweeter.

  “Does he know?”

  My faithful servant draws closer, the scruff on his youthful

  chin shadowing his inhuman speed. “I assume as much. The

  Valmont creature will undoubtedly tell him. She angers me,

  master. I wish to silence her now, more than ever. I wish to si-

  lence them all for what they stole from us.”

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  “The girl is incidental, as are the rest. The usurper alone matters.”

  Silence swallows us for a breath. “Master?” he says, his voice

  tentative. “What is the meaning behind the Carthaginian sym-

  bols you’ve instructed me to leave?”

  “It is the mark of my kind. Its deeper meaning need not con-

  cern you.” I keep my tone flat, my rejoinder final.

  When my servant shifts back in frustration, his motions send

  a whiff of dried blood in my direction. Immortal blood. I nar-

  row my gaze at him. “What caused you injury?”

  “She—attacked me, master.”

  I smirk at him. “You allowed a witless human girl to get the

  better of you?”

  “I did not expect her to be so . . . fearless.”

  “I told you already; she has met Death and lived to tell the

  tale. Of course she would be capable of causing you harm. You

  are lucky the blade was not made of silver.”

  “Yes, master,” he grumbles. “Is there anything else you need

  of me?”

  I sense his irritation. He did not wish for me to learn of his

  wound. Even endeavored to conceal it by changing his shirt.

  More than his need for revenge, this one’s pride will be his

  undoing. His desire to be noticed. To be deemed the savior

  who resurrected his fellow demons of the night—those of us

  banished from the Sylvan Wyld—back to their rightful place

  among the wintry stars.

  But L
azarus was no savior, and this pathetic quim is no con-

  cern of mine. They are all expendable. Each a means to my end.

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  “Master?” he presses. “Is there any other service you require?”

  “Not at this time.” I pause. “No. That isn’t true. I wish for you to take a bath.”

  “Master?”

  His puzzlement vexes me. “You may have changed your gar-

  ments, but still you reek of death. They will smell it on you be-

  fore they set eyes on you.” I resort to my greatest asset. The

  power to hold lesser beings in my thrall, with nothing more

  than my words. “This is your next lesson: if you wish to com-

  mand respect and rise above your ranks, you must be better

  than your brethren. Far more cunning. Your life was stolen

  from you, and you have been relegated to a place of servitude

  far too long. But you are not a servant. You have at hand the

  tools to be king of this jungle. A means to bridge the divide . . .

  and save us all.” I let my voice fade with significance, my fea-

  tures high in their regard.

  “A lion,” he breathes, his eyes luminous in their glory.

  I nod. “But you must never forget. All the world’s a stage.”

  “And all the men and women merely players,” he finishes with

  a flourish.

  I direct him to leave with a jerk of my chin. He bows before

  dissolving into the darkness, his steps light with his success.

  Insignificant fool.

  He is eager to please me. Eager to assume the usurper’s role

  and settle into a position of power. It is why I singled him out

  not long ago. For I am also eager to take from my enemy what

  has been taken from me. To have him know what it feels like to

  have a love lost and a trust broken.

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  Briefly I recall the moment the betrayal tore through my soul. The realization hollowed me, the way a scorching of one’s

  essence is wont to do. It took years for me to collect the embers.

  To remake of myself something whole. After that trying time,

  I no longer felt sorrow for what I had lost. I only felt anger.

  Hatred.

  Now I feel vengeance. It tastes sweet. Sweeter than all the

  blood and death I could ever hope to swallow.

  One man in his time plays many parts.

  They thought there was no reason to fear me. That I had scat-

  tered to the winds, like ashes from an urn. They sought to steal

  my birthright and install a false king upon the throne.

  They were wrong.

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  A Midsummer Night’s Soirée

  i

  No.

  Bastien had refused to meet with Celine. The insufferable

  cad hadn’t even bothered to display the barest measure of

  civility in his response.

  The first five times she read his note—his initial scrawled

  larger than life along the bottom of the page—rage had coursed

  through her veins. She’d resorted to pacing across the plush

  carpet of her borrowed bedchambers, seething with fury.

  Then—on the sixth reading—she’d composed herself. Settled

  her expression.

  Rage was a moment. He would regret this forever.

  Coolly and calmly, Celine made plans. She sent a note to

  Odette via the hotel’s courier, who passed along Odette’s im-

  mediate reply, informing her of Bastien’s plans for the evening.

  He would be attending the Midsummer Night’s soirée hosted

  by a member of the Twelfth Night Revelers. The same party

  Celine had declined to attend when Odette had invited her at

  dinner only a few days ago.

  That particular evening, it had not served a purpose.

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  But today was a different story. Celine intended for this event to serve several purposes, all in her favor. Indeed, she would

  frequent every ridiculous carnival function in the foreseeable

  future—even the blasted masquerade ball itself—if it meant

  rooting out the perpetrator of these ghastly crimes, which were

  now occurring around her once a week.

  Her plan tonight was twofold: to gain answers to her many

  questions from the lion himself, and to inform the killer that

  Celine Rousseau was not going to tuck tail and run.

  That she planned to stay and fight.

  She took time to make herself ready. It didn’t matter that she

  had less than a single afternoon to procure a costume. Another

  quick message to Odette secured Celine a dress borrowed from

  a family who owed the Court “a barrelful of money.”

  The resulting gown did not fit Celine well, but she spent the

  latter part of the day remaking it to suit the occasion, an out-

  door event held alongside a manse in the wealthiest lane of the

  Garden District. To be sure, it was in poor taste for Celine to be attending a party of any kind, mere days after she’d been cast

  out of the convent.

  But it didn’t matter anymore.

  Proper society didn’t hold a place for Celine anyway. It was

  high time she removed herself from its confines.

  After she finished applying the final details of her costume,

  Celine placed Bastien’s letter into the pocket of her borrowed

  gown. She planned to reach inside every so often to pinch the

  piece of parchment between her fingers, imagining it was his

  neck.

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  The idea alone steeled her spine. He might have avoided her earlier summons, but Sébastien Saint Germain would not

  be able to elude Celine tonight. Tonight she would have her

  answers. She would know the truth about the yellow ribbon.

  About his involvement in these murders. What exactly all the

  members of La Cour des Lions were.

  Finally she would know where they all stood.

  If they weren’t fighting with her, they were against her. And

  Celine intended to use every tool in her arsenal to protect those she cared about—and herself—from whatever may come.

  Even if Hell itself unleashed all its monsters on the Crescent

  City.

  j

  Rapturous screams rang along the hedge of ochre rosebushes

  at Celine’s back. A man streaked past the entrance to the gar-

  den maze, his garments covered in leaves, twigs placed strategi-

  cally throughout his hair, champagne dribbling from his fluted

  glass. He laughed, glancing over his left shoulder while he ran.

  A young woman in diaphanous skirts dyed the color of palest

  jade almost rammed into Celine in her efforts to trail after the

  drunken gentleman. The girl raced into the boy’s arms, and they

  crashed into each other before dissolving in a fit of laughter.

  Celine inhaled slowly. It might have been a mistake for her to

  come here.

  The longer she wore this gown, the more she realized how ill it

  suited her. Its basque of emerald silk polonai
se was hot, its layers of cream-colored underskirt heavy. Worse still, its smaller

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  size had forced her to tightlace into her stays. And—as evinced by the other “costumes” guests had chosen for a soirée themed

  after Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—all her efforts had clearly been for naught.

  The members of New Orleans’ upper echelons had taken the

  party’s theme as nothing more than a light suggestion. Already

  Celine had caught sight of people dressed as forest nymphs or

  fairy sprites, replete with paste gems, translucent garments,

  and twigs affixed to their elegant frock coats. At least five satyrs were in attendance. Five young men from prominent families dressed as randy goats. One was already too many, in Celine’s

  opinion.

  Had they even seen or bothered to read the play?

  Celine had hoped to channel Hermia, a character named

  after the god of trade. As such, it felt fitting to don a dress the color of greed. Along her cheekbones and around her eyes,

  she’d stippled flakes of paper-thin gold leaf into the shape of

  coins, positioning them as if they were falling from the crown of ebony curls at the top of her head. Actual bills had been pinned

  to her coif, half of which she’d left down, thrown carelessly over one shoulder. It had been years since society had deemed it

  appropriate for Celine to wear her hair unbound in public.

  Hang society anyway. Well, hang it halfway at least.

  At Odette’s insistence, a final touch of powder made from

  crushed pearls had been dusted across Celine’s face and dé-

  colleté. “You simply must, my dear,” Odette had said, as if this

  made a sliver of sense.

  Every time Celine bent one way or leaned to reach for some-

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  thing, she could hear the seams of the emerald basque start to scream. She’d laced her stays as tightly as they would go, and

  still the rich green fabric across her bust was holding together

  on little but a prayer. By the end of the night, her breasts were likely to burst free from her corset, a sight that would draw

  a certain kind of ignominy. Though it would advance Celine’s

  removal from proper society, it might bring about this con-

  clusion in an abrupt manner. One with which she was not yet

  entirely comfortable.

  But from the way the evening looked to be progressing, it

  might not be the most scandalous event of the night.