The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(22)

Nicodemus pauses again. Turns toward me. “Is something wrong?”

Another unspoken challenge.

I think for no more than an instant. “No.” My shoulders roll back. “Please continue.” I indicate with an outstretched hand.

A knowing smile curves up Nicodemus’ face. “When the last ruler of the Otherworld perished without an heir to the Horned Throne, two prominent families began vying for the crown. One was a family of blood drinkers, the other a family of enchantresses.”

I listen and wait, though the cries and the blood in the distance beckon me forward like a bee drawn to nectar.

“The vampires were shrewd.” Nicodemus looks through me, lost in thought. “They had managed to acquire immense wealth over the centuries. Land and crops, as well as the most desirable source of wealth in both the mortal world and the Otherworld: gemstones, buried deep within a mountain of ice.” He inhales, taking in the scents around him. “The vampires believed themselves to be invincible, for they were almost impossible to kill or catch unawares. They blurred through space and time, and the dark magic in their blood healed their injuries with the speed of quicksilver. Indeed only a perfectly aimed blow to the chest or to the throat with a blade fashioned of solid silver could render them completely defenseless.”

The tumult along the horizon turns feral, the air filling with bloodlust. Nicodemus treks toward it once more, the light from crude torches dancing through the dripping Spanish moss. “By contrast,” he says over his shoulder, “the enchantresses controlled all forms of elemental magic, which was no mean feat in itself. Wielders of such gifts had become scarcer with each passing generation. Nowadays the birth of an elemental enchantress warrants a celebration. Some channel fire. Others manipulate water or air or make the earth tremble beneath their feet. The enchantresses believed this rare magic made them powerful, for it inured them to the creatures of the Otherworld. Water fed crops. Fire forged metal. But more than anything, this magic gave these enchantresses knowledge. The magical folk throughout the land turned to these women, for their wisdom enabled them to create weapons and fashion armor from solid pieces of silver. Gave them the ability to conquer instead of be conquered.”

I shift closer to my uncle as I listen, like a street urchin following a food cart along Rue Bourbon.

“A war was fought between the vampires and the enchantresses for control of the Horned Throne,” Nicodemus says. “The wolves and the goblins and most of the night-dwelling creatures sided with the vampires, while those who basked in sunlight fought alongside the enchantresses.” His expression turned contemplative. “Many lives were lost. After half a century of bloodshed, a victor had yet to emerge. Wearied by all the death and destruction, the heads of these two families agreed to a stalemate. The land was split in two halves, the wintry Sylvan Wyld to be ruled by the vampires, and the summery Sylvan Vale by the enchantresses.

“For a time, they lived in peace. Until the blood drinkers began carving a foothold for themselves in the mortal world.” A gleam enters his eye. “They began with small things. Silly wishes. Simple fortune-telling. Gemstones too trifling to be of any real value, but worth their weight in gold to the foolish humans who vied for them. The wolves—shifters who had risen in the ranks to become the guardians of the Wyld—built businesses throughout the mortal world, creating a wider market for magical wares in cities like New Orleans, Jaipur, Dublin, Luxor, Hanseong, and Angkor—cities where the veil between worlds has always been its thinnest. Cities our kind is destined to rule.” His gaze sharpens. “It was during this time that my maker shared the dark gift with me. Impressed by my business acumen, he made me a vampire and took me with him to the Wyld, where I lived for fifty mortal years . . . until the Banishment.”

He says nothing more as we weave through the trees. The howls grow louder, the scent of violence lengthening my fangs, my blood turning hotter with each step. We stride closer to the circle of torch fire, around which is gathered an assortment of creatures I have never before seen in my life. In the center of this odd assembly is a rudimentary boxing ring, the mud tamped with clumps of filthy sawdust.

I take in a long breath.

“Gut him like a fish,” a one-eyed goblin shouts, his clawed fists punching through the air.

The strange fragrance mixed with the blood and the sweat makes sense as I peruse the two men in the ring. One is inhumanly tall, his dark face stretched thin. The other is stocky and barrel-chested, his stance like that of a goat, his legs bowing outward at the thighs. The stumps of two malformed horns protrude from his mass of scarlet hair.

I scan the crowd further, and what I see confirms my suspicions.

Most of the creatures who have gathered in the swamp for a night of spectacle are half bloods. The children or grandchildren of mortal-and-immortal couplings. Ones who lack the magic to maintain a glamour, which would help conceal their true natures from mankind. This must be the reason they are forced to gather in darkness, far from the lights of civilization.

The fighting turns fierce as the half giant picks up the half puck and shoves him through the mud. Bare-chested, he slides into a group of men along the sidelines who topple over like chess pieces, vulgar invectives hurled into the night sky. The puck swipes away the tufts of bloodied sawdust from his bearded face before charging at the giant, his hands like clubs as they pummel his opponent’s thin face.

“Rip his horns off, you useless sack of bones!” an elderly man with the grizzled jaw of a shifter growls through the crowd. “I won’t lose my hard-earned coin again, goddamn you.”