“I am in no mood for your lecture,” I say.
“You damn near took Boone’s head off, old chap.” Arjun’s British accent rounds out his words. “Learn from today’s mistakes so you won’t make them again tomorrow.”
“I have no intention of making mistakes today, tomorrow, or any day thereafter,” I retort, biting back the taste of my own blood. The hunger that thrashes in its wake. “I suppose I need only to accept”—I stare at my hands, my fingers still curled like bronze talons—“this fate. My new future. No matter how much I might wish it were not the case.”
“Even if that meant you had died the true death?” Odette’s voice is small.
I do not hesitate to respond. “Yes.”
For a time, none of them says a word.
Then Jae moves forward. “It does no good to dwell on things we cannot change.” The muscles in his jaw work. “And you should learn the ways of a vampire sooner rather than later. The rules are clear, Sébastien. If you cannot rein in your appetites—if you draw undue attention to us with indiscriminate violence—then you will be banished from New Orleans. Our peace is paramount.”
Boone feigns a cough, as if to clear his throat. “Can’t have a repeat of what happened in Dubrovnik or Wallachia hundreds of years ago, when so many of our kind were lost to superstitious mayhem. Why, I even recall when . . .”
I let his words fade into a drone as I stare at the cracked window across the room and the damaged plaster beside it, noting how the hem of the blue velvet curtain continues to sway like a pendulum. I let it lull me into a trance. Out of habit, I shift my fingertips to the side of my neck to check my pulse, an action that always served to remind me of my humanity.
The absence of a heartbeat rocks through me like a blow to the chest. I turn in place and retreat into the recesses of the chamber. In my periphery, the edges of a gilt-framed mirror glisten in the glow of the candlelight. I stride toward the silvered glass like a mortal, one foot in front of the other, my fingers flexing at my sides.
“Don’t, mon cher,” Odette warns, trailing in my shadow. “Not today. Give it some time. Un moment de grâce.” She smiles at our shared reflections, a suspicious shimmer in her eyes. “We could all stand to be a bit more forgiving of ourselves, n’est-ce pas?”
I disregard her. Something about her sisterly affection grates my nerves like it never has before. I take in my appearance, refusing to turn from the mirror, no matter how disturbing its truth. My canines shine like ivory daggers; my eyes burn lambent, suffused with an otherworldly light. Thin rivulets of blood trickle from my lower lip where my fangs pierced through my brown skin.
I look like a monster from Hell. A creature from a Grimm fairy tale, come to life.
I . . . hate what I have become. Despise it as I have never despised anything before. I want to shed this new reality like a snakeskin. To leave it in the dust so that I might stroll in the sunlight and breathe in the air with the lungs of a mortal man. I want to love and hope and die with all the limitations that make such a life worth living.
What I wouldn’t give for a chance to be a mortal boy again, standing before the girl I love, hoping she will take my hand and walk with me toward an unknown future.
Bitterness seeps through to the marrow of my bones. I let the bloodlust fill me again, watch my eyes swirl to obsidian, my ears lengthen into points, and my fangs unfurl like claws, cutting through my flesh once more, until the wet crimson trails down my neck to stain my collar.
“Bastien,” Madeleine commands over my shoulder, her expression like stone. “Too many newborn vampires lose themselves to the hunger, drowning their sorrows in blood, destroying all sense of who they were in life,” she says. “Rarely do they survive a decade before walking into the sun or being obliterated by their elders. Turn away from this path of destruction, no matter how tempting it might be.” She leans closer to the mirror, watching me all the while. “The best among us never forsake their humanity.”
“The higher hatred burns, the more it destroys,” Arjun says. “My father is proof of that.”
“Feel your anger, but do not succumb to it,” Madeleine continues, “for it will be your end.”
“And what would you have me embrace in its stead?” I ask my reflection, my words a coarse whisper.
Odette gestures to the handful of immortals gathered before me. “We would have you embrace love.”
“Love?” I say, gripping the edges of the gilt mirror in both my hands, my eyes blacker than soot.
Odette nods.
“This is not a love story.” My fingers fall from the mirror, leaving dents in the gold filigree. I want nothing more than to rage about like a demon unleashed. To defy the moon and the stars and all the torments of an infinite sky.
But most of all I want to forget everything I’ve ever loved. Each of the immortals standing guard around me. My cursed uncle for bringing this blight upon our family. Nigel, for betraying us and leaving me to drown in a pool of my own blood.
But mostly I curse her. I want to forget her face. Her name. Her wit. Her laughter. How she made me hope and want and wish and feel. As far as I am concerned, Celine Rousseau died that night in Saint Louis Cathedral. Just like I did.
A true hero would find a way back to her. Would seek a path of redemption for his lost soul. A chance to stand once more in the light.
There is no such path. And I am no one’s hero. So I choose the way of destruction.
ÉMILIE
They were called Romeo spikes.
Beneath the light of the mother moon, they looked like iron crowns mounted close to the top of the narrow columns supporting the balcony. Pieces of twisted black metal—their barbs pointed heavenward—meant to deter unwanted intruders.
Émilie smiled to herself.
In truth, they weren’t meant for just any kind of unwanted intruder. Specifically, they’d been designed for Romeos on a mission to court their fair Juliets. Just imagine . . . a hot-blooded young man looking to scale the balcony, eager to win his young lady’s affections. Those spikes would catch him by the ballocks, literally. A gruesome, altogether fitting punishment for a city with a gruesome, haunted past.
In other words, Émilie found them utterly delightful.
She waited until the sounds of the last passersby faded in the distance. Until all that remained was the rustling of branches and the chirruping of cicadas. The symphony of an early March evening.
These spikes would not deter her. She was no foolish Romeo, and Juliet was a weed among the roses, especially when compared to some. Émilie gripped the slender column of sun-warmed metal and began her climb. Once she reached the first balcony, she crouched in the shadows behind the railing, the leaves of dripping ferns tickling the back of her neck and snagging her dark brown curls. Inside the home behind her, the scent of servants bustling about in preparation for tonight’s repast, the tang of their sweat both salty and sweet, wafted out toward her.
Taking care to make less noise than a ghost, Émilie climbed the next set of narrow iron columns toward the third floor of the structure. Again she waited in the shadows until she was certain she remained beyond notice. Then she stood and stared at the building across the way, studying it intently.
Two weeks had passed since the incident in Saint Louis Cathedral. According to reports, her younger brother, Sébastien—the only living heir to the Saint Germain line—had been grievously injured in the skirmish, his throat all but torn from his body. A week ago, gossip in the Quarter hinted that the monsignor had come and gone after administering last rites, though preparations for a street procession typical of a New Orleans funeral had yet to be made.
The entire situation made Émilie uneasy, a feeling she abhorred. She wanted her questions answered, so that she might proceed to the next phase of the plan. Which was why she’d taken to standing along the deserted balcony, watching Jacques’ from across the way. Hunting for any signs of her brother. Any possibility he might have survived his injuries.
After an hour passed, Émilie’s eyes tightened. Her arms crossed over her slender chest. It would have been impossible for Bastien to survive a near beheading by a vampire as strong as Nigel. No mere mortal could weather such a storm. Perhaps it would have been more poetic for Bastien to perish in a fire, but that was a fate Émilie did not wish on her worst enemy. Fire did not kill as one would expect. It was a slow death of smoke and choked screams.
Her fingers grazed the puckered skin along the side of her neck. Even the dark magic of being made into a she-wolf could not heal this kind of wound. Her resolve hardened.
Some injuries were not to the skin but to the soul.
No. Her brother could not have survived the attack she’d orchestrated with Nigel Fitzroy. And Nicodemus would rather die the final death than turn Sébastien into a vampire. The risk of her brother going mad was simply too great, especially given what had happened to both their parents. Not to mention the Fallen’s treaty with the Brotherhood. If her uncle brought another vampire into the city without first asking for Luca’s permission, there would be war.
Nicodemus could not risk war. That was a lesson he’d learned the last time. One that made him weak. Predictable. Full of fear. A shame her uncle still had yet to learn life’s greatest lesson: a creature without fear is a creature capable of anything and everything.
Movement caught Émilie’s eye from the uppermost floor of the building across the street. The blue velvet curtains drew back, revealing a figure she recognized in passing.
Odette Valmont.
Anger gripped at Émilie’s insides like an icy vise. She took in a draft of jasmine-scented air, willing herself calm. What a precious gift it would have been to count among her confidants a vampire as loyal as Odette. How much it would have assuaged Émilie’s mortal fears, to have such a formidable immortal nearby to protect her in life.
Perhaps if she’d had a guardian like Odette Valmont, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have risked herself to save her little brother from a fire. She wouldn’t have been trapped in his stead. She wouldn’t have had to forswear the family of her birth for the one she’d chosen in death.