The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(18)

Jae considered standing to deliver yet another lecture, but a tawny young woman with pointed ears and a nose turned upward at the tip—likely the offspring of a mortal and some kind of dokkaebi—frolicked past him, plump grapes falling from her slender fingers to stain the priceless carpet by her bare feet. A gaunt warlock followed in her shadow, stooping to retrieve the trampled fruit, licking his fingers with a dangerous gleam in his purple eyes.

Jae’s nostrils flared. He’d had just about his fill of these unwanted guests. True, the Saint Germain family often provided refuge for the magical folk in the city. The exiles, the half bloods, the warlocks and their hollow-eyed acolytes. Better they all gather beneath the auspices of the Fallen than seek succor with the Brotherhood.

But this unending display of depravity was beyond the pale. A single month ago, it had been nothing more than subdued nights of gaming and gambling. A few drinks passed among friends. Magical business negotiated amid hushed laughter and the occasional clink of glasses.

At present, the scene before Jae rivaled an event hosted by Dionysus himself. Discarded decanters and broken crystal littered the floor, alongside articles of rumpled clothing and the occasional apple core or orange peel. Red wine dripped from a narrow sideboard, the dark liquid staining the cool Carrara marble like dried blood. Hot air collected near the coffered mahogany ceiling, mixing with the blue-grey smoke of opium and the suspiciously sweet tinge of absinthe.

Droplets of champagne showered Jae’s shoulders as a dark-skinned young man Jae had never seen before uncorked another bottle. Half its contents sprayed around the room, staining the paneled walls and trickling from the corner of a priceless painting Nicodemus had acquired in Madrid two months ago.

Jae leaned back in the chamber’s most uncomfortable chair and continued to glare at Bastien, who lounged along the far wall on a chaise covered in navy silk, champagne dripping from his short black hair, a goblet of warmed blood and absinthe dangling from his fingertips.

A half-dressed kobold, banished from the Wyld for selling empty wishes to unsuspecting mortals, and a giggling spriggan wearing a laurel crown were sprawled on the floor beside Toussaint’s pile of coiled scales, inebriated past the point of reason. At Bastien’s back, a passel of admirers—two half sprites, a boy with the white hair of a phouka, and a girl with the telltale fox eyes of a gumiho—loitered in a semicircle around the chaise, exchanging expressions of open hunger.

Little fools. They knew what Bastien was. What a vampire could do. All guests of La Cour des Lions were required to know the truth, per Bastien’s orders. What happened to their memories afterward was not his concern. Only that they enter the space aware of the danger present. They knew what a newborn vampire was capable of doing. And still they clambered for Bastien’s notice.

The carved wood at Jae’s back creaked as he shifted forward, his gaze murderous. This chair was indeed exceedingly uncomfortable, but he favored it because it did not match its appearance. Its curved backing and plush silk cushions—dyed a deep rose—looked inviting. But beneath the surface, it was lumpy and misshapen. If Jae sat on it long enough, the chestnut frame would dig into his lower back and behind his knees. Still he refused to give it up or replace it. He thought it a fitting perch for a killer like him. One who did not match his appearance.

“Have y’all started this evening’s festivities without me? How uncharitable.” Boone came to rest on the padded arm of Jae’s chair, his cravat undone, his cherubic blond curls in disarray. “Who are we drinking tonight?” He leered, and the smudge of blood beside his mouth made it appear even more sadistic.

Jae said nothing. He merely looked up at Boone. Then back down to where Boone sat. Boone stood at once, his wicked grin spreading even wider. “Eleven billion apologies,” he drawled in his thick Charlestonian accent. “Sometimes I forget how much you love this shitty old chair.”

Jae remained silent. Boone lifted a shoulder and turned toward Arjun, who was seated on a nearby divan, a crystal tumbler swirling in his right hand. The half fey took a practiced swig of the amber liquor.

“So”—Boone clapped his hands—“what do we have planned for this evening?”

“Bourbon.” Arjun tilted his glass, studying its cut facets through the lens of his monocle. “The good, strong kind. Full proof.”

“From where?”

“Kentucky, of course.”

“A foolproof way to my heart.” Boone stretched an empty glass Arjun’s way.

With a cultured laugh, the ethereal poured Boone a splash of liquor. He knew better than to offer any to Jae.

Some vampires enjoyed the taste of spirits. It did nothing to satiate their thirst for blood, but many immortals relished the sensation of the burning liquid sliding down their throats. If they consumed enough, sometimes a pleasantly disorienting feeling would settle on their limbs for a short period of time.

Jae could not afford to be less than sharp at all hours of the day and night. He glanced down at the countless scars on the back of his right hand, gleaming white in the lamplight. A memory rose to the forefront of his thoughts. Of that terrible night a warlock in Hunan province had trapped Jae and tortured him with a silver blade in an attempt to gain information about Nicodemus. That night, Jae had almost succumbed to the Death of a Thousand Cuts. Once he managed to escape, it took him a full year to regain his strength.

An evil light entered his gaze. The following year, Jae enacted his own particular brand of revenge on the warlock. He still relished the memory of Mo Gwai’s blood smearing his face and dripping down the walls of the cave. The way the warlock’s screams echoed around Jae like a twisted symphony.