The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(53)

Tension raked across Bastien’s shoulders. With a subtle twist of his neck, he forced his muscles to relax. It had been almost a year since unremitting anger had taken hold of Bastien when he thought of his parents’ untimely demise. Of all things, he wished it wasn’t a whimpering Ashton Albert to serve as a reminder of what he’d lost.

Yet another reason to relish this weasel’s comeuppance.

It was just as well. Bastien supposed he could make do with the sight of Jay Ballon Albert’s elder son dangling horizontally over a metal platform, eight stories above New Orleans.

A burst of feminine laughter barreled into the night. Hortense took hold of Ash’s polished boots and spun the boy around once more, the uncut jewels in her massive rings flashing through the darkness, her ebon skin radiant against the velvet sky. When the pulley suspending Ash above the platform creaked, he cried out, begging for reprieve.

“Dis-le plus fort, mon cher,” Hortense cooed. “I can’t hear you.”

Boone laughed heartily, his cherubic features filled with delight. At the building’s edge, Jae twirled his mother-of-pearl dagger between his fingertips, his black hair coiling in the breeze.

Hortense’s sister, Madeleine, rolled her eyes. Near the hem of her cloak—stricken silent by fear—sat Art, who proceeded to vomit on the platform a second time, his chest heaving, his face soiled by snot and tears.

“Wha-what do you want?” Ash wailed.

Bastien intended to answer him. Eventually.

“Oy, Bastien,” Nigel said, his Cockney accent gruff, his expression severe. “Don’t descend to his level, gov. S’unbecoming of an honorable leader.”

Bastien snorted. “Which fool said I was honorable? Depravity has no bounds.”

“Amen to that,” Boone interjected in an exaggerated drawl.

Grunting, Nigel adjusted the ties of his cloak. “S’enough.” He sliced a hand through the air. Arjun shifted closer, his lips wrapped around a smoldering cheroot, his expression one of shared agreement.

Bastien studied them in amused silence. Like Odette and Jae, Nigel Fitzroy had been at his side from the beginning, Boone, Hortense, and Madeleine following soon thereafter. Arjun Desai had arrived to New Orleans less than a year ago, but he’d joined their ranks quickly, becoming much more than a mere colleague or acquaintance. Bastien prized the counsel of these seven strange individuals above most things, though he would only admit it under extreme duress. Thumbscrews, boiling oil, and the like.

“I really should find some new friends,” Bastien mused.

Arjun exhaled a plume of blue-grey smoke. “If you can afford it.” His hazel eyes glittered with amusement.

“Spoken like the bloody maharajah himself.” Nigel guffawed.

Annoyance flashed across Arjun’s face. “In many of your beloved Crown’s circles, a maharajah is no better than a mongrel.”

“I would never—”

“Dogs and Indians not allowed, Master Fitzroy. Right at the entrance to your beloved Astoria.”

Anger darkened Nigel’s features. “If it had been left to me, none o’ that tosh would’ve happened. I know better, just as I know my betters.”

“A benevolent imperialist,” Arjun said around another cloud of smoke. “How refreshing.”

A feeble cry cut through the night, returning their attention to the matter at hand. Bastien gripped Ash by the rope around his waist, bringing an end to the slow torment of spinning in a circle. “I’m telling you this because I suspect you didn’t know,” he began in a conversational tone. “My mother was a quadroon, a free woman of color. Those associates your father couldn’t be seen working alongside? They are me. They are my family.” He paused, dropping his voice to a whisper. “No one insults my family.”

“I didn’t intend to—”

“Shut your mouth, you miserable swine,” Boone interrupted. “God is speaking.”

Bastien silenced him with a look. Then turned back to Ash. “Such a shame. I was going to share a bottle of wine with you, Ashton. Now . . . you’ll have to partake in a meal with those who prefer a very different kind of drink.”

When Bastien finished speaking, the tension in the air pulled taut like a string about to snap. Ash blinked away his tears, forcing himself to focus. Whatever he saw in the faces around him caused his lips to quiver and his shoulders to shake.

Bastien knew what he saw. What Art saw. What Phoebus had hidden from in the precious moments prior. Demons. Creatures of blood and darkness.

Death, made flesh.

Bastien’s family, for better or for worse.

Art heaved again beside Madeleine’s feet, choking as he struggled to calm himself. Bastien glanced at Arjun, sharing a wordless conversation. The next instant, Arjun reached for Art’s wrist. The boy slumped forward a moment later, granted a blessed pardon.

Tears streamed sideways down Ash’s face. “All I said was—”

Bastien stepped back. Cocked his revolver. Took aim.

“Please!” Ash begged. A suspicious stain darkened the front of his trousers, the acrid smell of urine suffusing about him. “I’ll give you whatever you want. I won’t say anything. I’ll forget this ever—”

“No,” Bastien said. “Never forget this as long as you live. Words are weapons. And nothing else matters when the devil has you by the balls.” He fired a single shot.