The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(38)

I could kill him. Break his neck. Bleed him dry. It would be simple. Deserved. After all, he is the reason I walk this world bereft of light. Because of him, I lost everything. My very humanity, even.

I could do it. I could bring about his demise.

But his death at my hands would incur war and ruination to those around me. Would deepen the rift between the Fallen and the Brotherhood. Between my family and his. First I wish to see him suffer. I wish to see them all meet their maker and be sent to the fiery pit where they belong.

I pray you not judge me too harshly for this. I know these kinds of petty considerations are unbecoming of an immortal such as myself, but there is a thin line between justice and vengeance. That line is the edge of a blade.

One day I will plunge it into his soul.

The girl, however, did intrigue me. Not the one with the mild-mannered expression and the heart-shaped face. I know there are those who are drawn to people like her. They seek tranquility. A place to rest their heads.

I seek nothing of the sort. I have rested far too long.

But that girl . . . that girl with the unflinching stare and the knowing expression. She possesses the look of someone who has met Death on a field of battle and managed to live another day. I am intrigued by her. I am curious about the scars Death left behind. I want to know who she is. What she’s done.

What role she will play in this tale of woe.

My interest consumes me in a dangerous way, for demons like me are predisposed to obsession, and I do not have the time for any distractions. Once, years ago, my sister in the night lost herself chasing after an unremarkable human, trying to find answers to questions she should have known better than to ask.

I could not save her. The light of the moon betrayed me that evening. My heart still bears the wounds, years later. I should know better than to be consumed by curiosity. I should not care what this enchanting creature thinks. What she does, or what she feels.

And yet . . .

I must care. No matter how fragile she is—how delicately her life hangs in the balance—she is a tool to be used and discarded. A hammer intended for a very specific nail.

She will be the one in the end. The one who sends my enemy deep into the pits of Hell, where he belongs. I can see it, as true as I can sense the moon at my shoulder, high at its peak, its light as much a source of comfort as it is a source of pain.

My enemy is just as enthralled as I. Even more so because he desires her in actuality, not simply as a pawn in a grander scheme. The thought fills me with delight. Perhaps I have finally found something of his with which to toy. Something to make him squirm. To take from him for everything he—and his kind—have taken from me.

For never was a story of more woe.

Soon he will know what it feels like to be unmade.





A SILHOUETTE IN A DREAM




T’es une allumeuse, Celine Rousseau.”

You’re a tease, Celine Rousseau.

Rivers, rivers, rivers of blood. The smell of warm copper and salt. The gentle swirl of her thoughts as her focus escaped her, as she began slowly drowning in her own mind.

This was the way the dream always started.

“T’as supplié pour mon baiser, n’est-ce pas?”

You’ve been begging for me, haven’t you?

His harsh whisper beside her ear. The feeling of his clammy hand against her skin, his palm slicked with sweat. The sickening twist of her stomach.

He’d been the younger brother of one of the atelier’s best clients. A wealthy wastrel, used to having whatever—and whomever—he wanted. Accustomed to spending his father’s money as though he alone had earned every franc. He’d stared at Celine for the last three months, a greedy light in his gaze. It had unnerved her then, but she’d known better than to anger him by drawing attention to it.

Weeks later, she still recalled how his hands did not seem like the hands of gentleman, for they were callused and worn. In truth, nothing about him—despite his breeding and his wealth—indicated he was a gentleman. His hands were roughened by horseback riding. Indeed, he was one of the finest riders in his elite circle of friends.

With these hands, he’d offered to soothe her. Offered to bring her something warm to drink. Asked if he could keep her company. Celine had not known what to do when he’d come to the door of the atelier long after dusk, his fine cloak about his shoulders and his breath reeking of wine. She’d asked him to return home, but he’d been insistent, barreling into the workshop as though he owned it.

In her dream, Celine observed the scene from above, as though the conscious part of her had separated from her body in sleep. She witnessed the events unfold with punishing slowness. Watched herself make mistake after mistake, as though God Himself wished to teach her a lesson.

A dull thud sounded in her ears.

Her striped chambray dress tore from her shoulder when the young man tried to stop her from fleeing. Everything after that was a haze. Celine counted herself lucky that he’d barely managed to take hold of her skirts before her fingers had flailed about, scrabbling for anything with which to defend herself.

The candelabra had not been a choice. It had been the best weapon she could grasp.

Celine often wondered—in moments to herself—if she’d meant to kill him. Surely she could have struck him using less force. Surely she did not have to aim for the side of his head. Surely she could have prevented his death.