The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(10)

Nicodemus is one of the few remaining vampires to witness the events of the Banishment, the time in which vampires and werewolves were exiled from the Wyld’s Winter Court for these transgressions. Forced to cede their holdings to the Summer Court of the Sylvan Vale.

“Jae,” Nicodemus says, his tone weary, “that’s enough.”

Jae restores his blades with two quick flicks of his wrists. It rankles me how quickly he obeys, his affect cool, as if he were about to remark on the weather. My uncle looks to me, expecting me to behave in kind.

“Bastien,” he says. “You will do as your maker commands, in this and in all things.” Though his tone brooks no reproach, I sense another test. Another round in the proverbial ring.

I was small as a child. More comfortable around books and music than I was around people. In an attempt to teach me to stand tall in a crowded room, my uncle paid for me to train with New Orleans’ best pugilist. Despite my protests, I learned to box. To feint. To dodge. To take hits and dole them out in equal measure.

I have not entered a ring in years, but my uncle has traded figurative jabs with me since I was a boy. If I obey without hesitation, I am a sheep, like Jae. A creature meant only to serve. If I resist, I am a child throwing a tantrum. A wriggling worm who knows nothing of respect.

The terms of this battle change like the seasons, without warning.

It is an impossible fight. One I usually lose.

Perhaps it is because only moments ago Jae accused me of being afraid. Perhaps it is because I don’t give a damn about the consequences. Perhaps I only wish to trade more jabs, until my opponent cries mea culpa, his blood staining my fists.

I laugh, the sound bounding into the coffered ceiling.

Something akin to approval glints in Nicodemus’ gaze. My uncle disdains any hint of weakness. At least I have not failed in that respect. My brothers and sisters exchange glances. Raise eyebrows. Bite back their retorts.

Before the strains of my laughter die down, I attack.





BASTIEN





Bedlam erupts the instant my fist cracks against the side of Jae’s jaw.

Our resident assassin is so stunned that it takes him a second to react. But only a second. He dodges before I manage to land my right hook. When Boone and Madeleine attempt to intervene, Nicodemus stays them in their tracks.

The next breath, Jae winds away from me, grabbing the back of my bloodstained frock coat. He yanks it over my head, attempting to disorient me. With a twist, I relinquish the garment and aim a series of punches at his midsection. There is no time for me to marvel at the quickness of my reflexes. At the inhuman strength in every strike. Even before I make contact, Jae flips through the air—thumbing his nose at gravity—then veers toward me until we crash onto the plush Persian carpet. I blink and his arm is around my neck, his knee pressed into my spine.

It is over in less than five seconds. I consider grappling. Instead I laugh again like a madman.

The next moment, Toussaint erupts from the darkness, his fangs shining, his aim precise.

Hortense blurs in the snake’s path, positioning herself in front of Jae, her eyes wide with warning. “Non,” she commands. “Tu ne vas pas lui faire mal.”

Toussaint coils back with a resentful hiss.

I always suspected that damned serpent loved Hortense more than he loved me.

My uncle steps forward, his expression unreadable, his eyes glittering. The scene before me is almost comical. My clothes are covered in dried blood, the remnants of my white masquerade costume a mockery of everything that followed. My face is pressed into a silk carpet that cost more than most men earn in a year of honest work. A vampire holds me in a vise. A giant snake thinks to avenge my honor.

Last night, I loved and lived. Tonight, I dance in a ring with Death.

My emotions roll through me once more, punishing in their severity. Near impossible to control. Like tongues of fire licking at pools of kerosene.

“Get off me,” I demand in a low voice, struggling to maintain my composure. Again Jae waits for my uncle’s permission, ever the sheep in need of a shepherd.

The instant Jae eases his grip on me, I elbow him away, refusing Odette’s assistance as I rise to my feet. I take a deep breath, hating the force of habit. How the air filling my lungs no longer calms me. “What did Celine give you in exchange for turning me?” I ask my uncle.

He says nothing.

My hands flex with rage, unsettling in its potency. “I already know what you did. I want to hear you say it. What price did you exact from the girl I loved in life?” My words stab through the darkness with vicious precision, causing both Odette and Arjun to wince.

“Good,” Nicodemus says. “You are angry. Let the anger console you. I hope it one day grants you purpose.”

Madeleine frowns as if she wishes to say something. Jae glances her way and shakes his head. They’re all sheep. Every last one of them.

“But you will need to hone it first,” Nicodemus continues. “At present, it is the anger of a spoiled boy, not of a man.” His smile is derisive. “Are you angry you were not permitted to die on your own terms, Sébastien?” He scoffs. “Who among us is granted such a bounty? It was Celine Rousseau’s choice to make a deal with me. Her sacrifice granted you the power to overcome death. She deserves your gratitude, just as I deserve your respect.”

Bitter laughter rushes past my lips. “Don’t think to evade my question, Monsieur le Comte.” I move toward him in a fluid motion, my face a hairsbreadth from his. “What did Celine give you?”