The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(50)

As they walked, Celine’s thoughts wound through her mind.

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.





HIVER, 1872

CATHéDRALE SAINT-LOUIS, ROI-DE-FRANCE

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA



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 darkness, without a home to call our own. Rootless. Untethered. Alone.

For our elders’ crimes, we were cursed to walk in the shadows 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 codgers. 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 control 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.

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 vengeance.

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.





WORDS ARE WEAPONS




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 approving 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 conquered 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 monotone—“you’re standing on a half-built hotel along the coast of Louisiana. You’re nowhere near the top of the world.”