The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(25)

Good, my uncle says. Drink, my son. Drink. Lose yourself in this creature’s memories. Let his life become yours.

I close my eyes, ready to drown in thoughts of blood and fury.

But it is not images of violence I see in Cambion’s memories.

It is a woman with tiger eyes and a kind smile. One who brings him food and sings him songs in a language I do not recognize. It is the memory of his mother, who hid her son from his angry, drunken father. Of a tired woman who bore the scars of her husband’s rage so that her child would not be subjected to it. I watch as she teaches a younger, smaller Cambion to control his shifts. To fight only when it is necessary. To protect.

Through his eyes, I see her succumb to a wasting disease. I listen as she tells him, with her dying breath, how much she loves him. How he should seek out his great-aunt Alia or her friend Sunan the Immortal Unmaker, if ever he has need of guidance.

I watch her funeral in Cambion’s memories, his sight dampened by tears and despair. The way the flames licked at his mother’s body from atop the pyre, deep in the swamp. I witness him search and search for another family. Another place to call home. I take note of all the people who shunned him, both in the mortal world and among the half bloods. For he is not one of them, and he never will be. These worlds that turned their backs on Cambion for being half of one thing and not enough of the other.

Through the eyes of the beast, I see the humanity.

I blink, a tremor running down my spine, the heat of his blood boiling beneath my skin.

Stop when his heartbeat slows, my uncle says. Only then can you ensure his death without losing yourself to it. If your mind is lost in the wasteland of death, it is difficult to return.

Struggling to subdue Cambion’s thoughts, I take another draft. A trail of something wet glides down one of my cheeks. When I avert my gaze, I catch sight of the coquí inked above my left wrist, the design symbolizing my father’s Taíno heritage. My arms shake, my fingers turning white as they clutch Cambion’s shoulders in a twisted approximation of an embrace.

He loved his mother as I loved mine.

He searched for another family as I searched for mine.

Neither of our parents wanted this life for us.

My body trembles. I stop drinking, letting Cambion fall to the ground. His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe, the stripes fading from his skin, his hair turning flame red once more. Black ichor stains his fingertips when his claws retract.

I know he will live.

“What are you doing?” my uncle demands aloud.

I whirl toward him, my vision blurring along the edges, blood tears trickling down my cheeks. The cuts on my forearm ooze, the smell strange. Noxious.

“I don’t want this,” I rasp.

“What?” He steps toward me, anger sharpening the angles of his profile. His gaze flicks to my open wounds, his golden eyes widening. My injuries should have healed by now.

I sway unsteady on my feet and blink hard.

“This life you wish for me to lead,” I say through the cries for blood swelling through the crowd around us. “Take it back. I don’t want it. Take all of it back,” I yell to the heavens. “I want no part of this.”

Then I fall to the ground, wrapped in a warm blanket of darkness.





CELINE





It was too soon for Celine to be wandering the streets of New Orleans on this late March evening. Every corner she turned—every footfall she heard over her shoulder—caused a tremor to unfurl down her spine.

Celine stopped midstride. Lifted her chin. Straightened her back.

She was tired of letting fear rule her every waking moment. It was Good Friday. Almost six weeks had passed since she’d been kidnapped by the now-infamous Crescent City killer. Forty days and nights since the evening she’d sustained multiple injuries, tied atop the altar in Saint Louis Cathedral. Contusions to the head, a nasty gash in the side of her neck, three broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder.

Everyone said it was a miracle she’d survived. A blessing that her head injuries prevented her from recalling anything in the way of details. How the entire night seemed shrouded in shadows, candlelight and incense wavering through her mind.

“Celine?” a patient voice inquired from beside her.

Michael Grimaldi. The youngest detective of the New Orleans Metropolitan Police, he was also the one who’d rescued Celine from the clutches of a murdering madman. In the ensuing tumult, Michael had shot Celine’s unknown attacker in the face. For these actions, he’d been crowned the Crescent City’s newest hero. Wherever Michael went, glances of appreciation followed. Men shook his hand. Women gazed at him covetously. Twice this evening, Celine had been sent murderous glares by some of the young ladies strolling past them. A fact that had not gone unnoticed by Celine’s attractive escort, though he appeared to pay them no mind.

“Are you all right?” Michael asked, concern lacing his tone.

Celine tossed her ebony curls and aimed a smile his way. “I’m fine. I was just momentarily . . . disoriented. But the feeling has passed,” she finished in a hurry, looping her arm through his, angry young ladies be damned.

Michael studied her for a beat. She could see him considering whether or not to press the matter. Truth be told, there had been several instances in the last few weeks when spells of dizziness had overcome Celine. Twice she’d stumbled over nothing or found herself lost in a flash of feeling, caught up in a strange memory. The last time, Michael had been there to catch her, as if Celine were some fainthearted milquetoast. A character from a penny dreadful, destined to die.