The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(23)

My uncle’s eyes shine like gold as he watches the half giant spit a mouthful of teeth into the muck.

I want to ask him why we are here. But I know all too well.

The fighting continues as a rusted dagger is tossed into the ring. Both the half giant and the half puck lunge for it, the fighting descending into chaos.

“When the enchantresses discovered what the blood drinkers were doing—the wealth and influence the vampires were amassing—they bided their time,” Nicodemus continues, his tone conversational, despite the calls for violence rising around us.

I listen, my eyes glazed, my lips pursed.

He tilts his head toward me. “Instead of instigating an outright rebellion, the enchantresses began spreading lies about the blood drinkers. How the vampires had turned their backs on our world, favoring that of the mortals. Eventually they claimed we preferred mortals outright because humans were easier to control, for they treated us like royalty. Revered us like gods.” His sneer is laced with bitterness. “And everyone knows that is what a vampire craves most . . . to be loved above all.” He turns toward me, his expression fierce. “Tell me, Sébastien, what is the most elegant weapon in the world?”

I answer without thinking, my eyes locked on his. “Love.”

“A wise guess.” He nods. “But no. It is fear. With it, you can send armies to their deaths and rule a kingdom on high.” A smile coils up his face. “With enough fear, you can stoke hatred until it becomes a wildfire, burning everything that stands in your way.”

Shouts of triumph echo in my periphery. I turn just as the half giant yanks the rusty dagger from between the ribs of the half puck, who bellows, blood gushing from the wound.

My uncle’s fangs shine in the torchlight, his irises blackening. “Wielding this most elegant of weapons, the enchantresses declared that the blood drinkers belonged in the mortal world, if they yearned for the love of such wretched creatures so desperately.” He stops to applaud when the puck collapses into the sawdust, chest heaving. Money changes hands around the ring, the shouts turning even more feral. A brawl erupts to our right, sweaty bodies squelching through the mire.

Nicodemus ignores the tumult, flicking mud from his shoulders. “Then the leader of the enchantresses—the Lady of the Vale—uncovered information she knew could ruin us. A vampire had offered to sell a powerful human the gift of immortality, for an exorbitant price. For the chance to rule the kingdom he desired more than anything,” he whispers, his eyes leached of all light. “A most grievous offense. Immortality is a gift to be granted to the most deserving, not bartered about like chattel. It didn’t take long before the whole of the Otherworld united to exile vampires from the Sylvan Wyld, along with the traitorous wolves who’d protected us for centuries. Our guardian dogs,” he says, hurling the words through the air like an epithet.

A squat man with a belly round as the moon marches into the center of the sawdust ring, stamping the ground flat as he walks. He raises his arms, spreading them wide, beseeching the crowd to fall silent. “And now”—he pauses for dramatic effect, his oiled mustache twitching—“we come to the match you’ve all been waiting for.”

My fists curl at my sides. I am no fool.

“For the glory of his kind and a hefty stake in the winnings, our very own undefeated Cambion of the Swamp has been challenged by an outsider,” the portly man continues, “in a match for the ages!”

The crowd parts behind him as a tall young man with arms like cannon barrels makes his way into the center of the ring. His eyes are black with lines of yellow through their centers, his hair flame red, his skin the color of sour milk. Instead of fingers, his hands end in sharpened claws that gleam like polished jet in the torch fire.

I eye my uncle, rage scalding my throat, fear gripping at my insides.

“And his challenger?” the announcer continues with a flourish. “An elegant blood drinker from the very heart of the Vieux Carré!” he crows. Jeers of disdain echo in the wake of his cry.

Nicodemus turns to me, a look of supreme pleasure on his face.

I glare at him sidelong. “I refuse to—”

“This is your first lesson,” he interrupts with a dismissive wave. “My maker was Mehmed, Lord of the Sylvan Wyld. It is your family who was forced to cede their territory. It is your royal blood that was declared fallen. Exiled from its home, despite having ruled the Wyld for almost five hundred years. We lost everything. We are the only immortals cursed to kill in order to create more of our kind. Damned to darkness for all eternity.”

The cheers grow louder around us, the taunts like the swipe of talons against my skin.

My uncle takes me by the shoulders, his fangs curling snakelike from his mouth. “I did not want to believe there might be a purpose to your mortal death. To the end of my line in the world of mankind. But now I know the truth. You will take everything back for us, Sébastien. You will return us to our rightful place on the Horned Throne. This is only the beginning. Show them how powerful you are. Make them fear you.”

Then he pushes me into the ring.





BASTIEN





There is no time for me to think or argue.

The instant I set foot in the ring, Cambion charges at me, his yellow pupils like vertical slits. I blur to one side before his claws slice through the air a hairsbreadth from where I once stood. My mind is a jumble of thoughts, none of them coherent, all of them cloaked in fury.