The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(15)

There is no such path. And I am no one’s hero. So I choose the way of destruction.





éMILIE





They were called Romeo spikes.

Beneath the light of the mother moon, they looked like iron crowns mounted close to the top of the narrow columns supporting the balcony. Pieces of twisted black metal—their barbs pointed heavenward—meant to deter unwanted intruders.

émilie smiled to herself.

In truth, they weren’t meant for just any kind of unwanted intruder. Specifically, they’d been designed for Romeos on a mission to court their fair Juliets. Just imagine . . . a hot-blooded young man looking to scale the balcony, eager to win his young lady’s affections. Those spikes would catch him by the ballocks, literally. A gruesome, altogether fitting punishment for a city with a gruesome, haunted past.

In other words, émilie found them utterly delightful.

She waited until the sounds of the last passersby faded in the distance. Until all that remained was the rustling of branches and the chirruping of cicadas. The symphony of an early March evening.

These spikes would not deter her. She was no foolish Romeo, and Juliet was a weed among the roses, especially when compared to some. émilie gripped the slender column of sun-warmed metal and began her climb. Once she reached the first balcony, she crouched in the shadows behind the railing, the leaves of dripping ferns tickling the back of her neck and snagging her dark brown curls. Inside the home behind her, the scent of servants bustling about in preparation for tonight’s repast, the tang of their sweat both salty and sweet, wafted out toward her.

Taking care to make less noise than a ghost, émilie climbed the next set of narrow iron columns toward the third floor of the structure. Again she waited in the shadows until she was certain she remained beyond notice. Then she stood and stared at the building across the way, studying it intently.

Two weeks had passed since the incident in Saint Louis Cathedral. According to reports, her younger brother, Sébastien—the only living heir to the Saint Germain line—had been grievously injured in the skirmish, his throat all but torn from his body. A week ago, gossip in the Quarter hinted that the monsignor had come and gone after administering last rites, though preparations for a street procession typical of a New Orleans funeral had yet to be made.

The entire situation made émilie uneasy, a feeling she abhorred. She wanted her questions answered, so that she might proceed to the next phase of the plan. Which was why she’d taken to standing along the deserted balcony, watching Jacques’ from across the way. Hunting for any signs of her brother. Any possibility he might have survived his injuries.

After an hour passed, émilie’s eyes tightened. Her arms crossed over her slender chest. It would have been impossible for Bastien to survive a near beheading by a vampire as strong as Nigel. No mere mortal could weather such a storm. Perhaps it would have been more poetic for Bastien to perish in a fire, but that was a fate émilie did not wish on her worst enemy. Fire did not kill as one would expect. It was a slow death of smoke and choked screams.

Her fingers grazed the puckered skin along the side of her neck. Even the dark magic of being made into a she-wolf could not heal this kind of wound. Her resolve hardened.

Some injuries were not to the skin but to the soul.

No. Her brother could not have survived the attack she’d orchestrated with Nigel Fitzroy. And Nicodemus would rather die the final death than turn Sébastien into a vampire. The risk of her brother going mad was simply too great, especially given what had happened to both their parents. Not to mention the Fallen’s treaty with the Brotherhood. If her uncle brought another vampire into the city without first asking for Luca’s permission, there would be war.

Nicodemus could not risk war. That was a lesson he’d learned the last time. One that made him weak. Predictable. Full of fear. A shame her uncle still had yet to learn life’s greatest lesson: a creature without fear is a creature capable of anything and everything.

Movement caught émilie’s eye from the uppermost floor of the building across the street. The blue velvet curtains drew back, revealing a figure she recognized in passing.

Odette Valmont.

Anger gripped at émilie’s insides like an icy vise. She took in a draft of jasmine-scented air, willing herself calm. What a precious gift it would have been to count among her confidants a vampire as loyal as Odette. How much it would have assuaged émilie’s mortal fears, to have such a formidable immortal nearby to protect her in life.

Perhaps if she’d had a guardian like Odette Valmont, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have risked herself to save her little brother from a fire. She wouldn’t have been trapped in his stead. She wouldn’t have had to forswear the family of her birth for the one she’d chosen in death.

Sébastien didn’t deserve such devotion. He’d done nothing to merit it, save being born beneath a lucky star.

For nigh on a decade, émilie’s little brother had taken for granted Odette’s protection and loyalty. The service of so many vampires at his beck and call. Bastien had everything émilie had ever wanted for herself: loyalty; the best education money could provide; a future filled with promise. A chance to rule his uncle’s kingdom, though he claimed never to have desired it.

Fitting. For he certainly didn’t deserve it.