The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(76)

Another disconcerting sight. Everywhere Celine looked, something sinister sprang to life. She thought about waiting until the sun rose to return to sleep. Until the rays of white-gold light seeped onto her silken sheets. The sight of dawn should bring with it a measure of peace.

Why did Celine not feel as if it would?

Her head sank into the sumptuous pillow, her body restless, the eyes at the foot of her bed taunting.

Disturbed by the sense of being watched while she slept, Celine drew the wine-red curtains around the bed and swallowed herself in the comfort of darkness.





HIVER, 1872





RUE BIENVILLE


NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA



From my deserted street corner, I watch the expensive curtains on the uppermost floor of the Hotel Dumaine shift to one side. The face of a stunning young woman with sharp green eyes and hair the color of spilled ink peers through the opening. Only to vanish in the next breath, the heavy damask falling back into place.

I smile.

Fitting that they would take her to Nicodemus’ rooms. A chamber suited for a Sun King, replete with a garish display of wealth, the kind to which he has grown accustomed over the years. An homage to Versailles at its best. Or at its worst, depending on one’s perspective.

No matter. Nicodemus is rarely there now. He knows better than to come to New Orleans and tempt his fate. He has lost much in the last few years.

But I have lost more. And there is still much for us both to lose. Memories and hopes, wishes for a future that can never be replaced once it is gone. By now, Nicodemus has undoubtedly been summoned from the safety of his New York lair in response to the rash of recent murders in New Orleans. He will return to the city soon, just as I have foreseen.

Precisely in time for my final performance.

Satisfaction winds through my limbs, causing me to drop my guard for a moment. All is unfolding according to plan. I relish this twinkle of time before I allow the rage to collect in my chest and color my vision. Then I breathe deeply of the briny air. Let the dampness fill my lungs as my heightened senses stretch, soaking in every detail in my vicinity. A horse nearby with an aching tooth, smelling of blood and sweet decay. Crumbs of rye bread swirling about in the gutter, their perfume sour and pungent. A dead rat lingering in the corner of a nearby sewer, the maggots on it wriggling beneath a beam of moonlight.

And—just around the bend—the beating of hearts. One old. Two young. If I had to guess, the younger ones are engaged in an act of lust, their hearts racing in tandem with their sighs.

The old heart thuds slowly. Steadily. Beating toward its inexorable end.

Another creature of the night draws close. My muscles tense and my teeth lengthen on instinct, like the claws of a cat. I re-assure myself when I realize it is a familiar scent. One I need not fear.

I continue breathing deeply until my shoulders fall. Then I look once more to the top floor of the Dumaine. Another haunt I know well . . . down to its secret doors and hidden passageways.

Not long ago, I visited these rooms under cover of night, taking in the world of my enemies, knowing I would face them all soon. I even chose to lie upon Nicodemus’ bed and admire his collection of books, the shelves of which crown the towering space like a glittering tiara. I pushed the ladders along their oiled casters and marveled at the gleaming motions before pocketing one of my favorite tomes, a first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. Pity I missed the chance to bid my beloved Alexandre a final farewell.

Contentment ripples across my skin at the wash of memories.

Nicodemus’ bedchamber is a fitting place to leave my next mark.

I linger in my delicious reverie along my street corner, a pleasant hum forming behind my lips. A song from a brighter, happier time.

A beggar passes by, her hands outstretched for an alm, her shawl a tattered rag flapping in the breeze. Her heart thumps in a recognizable pattern. The old soul I sensed moments ago. I reach into my pocket to offer her everything I possess, a small fortune by anyone’s standards.

I have no need of money. What I need, I take. Currency is not important to a creature like me. I do not seek to rest beneath a golden canopy or bathe in a roomful of polished marble.

I seek only to survive.

No. That is a lie. I wish to thrive. To see those who would bring an end to my existence die a slow, agonizing death. After they witness everything they value crumple to pieces before them.

It is only fitting.

“Bless you,” the beggar woman says, a sibilant sound whistling from between her handful of teeth.

“May the Lord keep you,” I reply with a smile.

My voice catches her off guard. I’m unsurprised by this. Its rich music lulls mortals closer in a way that never ceases to amuse me. It helps greatly in salving the path toward their inevitable demise. In a way, I would argue we are among the most perfect of predators. We mime the mannerisms of our prey. We walk among them, unknown and unseen. By the time they realize they are caught in our web, it is far too late. The transformation is the click of a tumbler, the turn of a handle.

The end of a life. Here one moment. Gone the next.

There is only one other kind of creature that rivals us in such a way. Or perhaps two, though I find most woodland folk genuinely annoying, with all their talk of glamour and promises. With their gleeful tales of tricking mortals into making disastrous bargains. Why would I have need of anyone’s firstborn child? A mewling infant is a nuisance, not a reward. And only true monsters would make meals of such a thing.