The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(31)

It would be a victory to savor when Michael was drawn into their world. A world from which Luca endeavored to spare his cousin for the whole of the young detective’s life. Though the blood of the wolf ran through Michael’s veins, he managed to evade the curse bestowed on his kind by the Banishment. He had not yet turned, nor was there much chance of him turning. If things continued in this fashion, Michael could live his entire life removed from this world of dark magic.

émilie had no intention of keeping Michael removed, especially after what she’d learned. True, it was unfair to the boy. But boys like him played with fire, and when they did, other people burned.

Now that the tables were turned, should it be any different?

Delicious to think Nicodemus Saint Germain’s heir and the youngest cousin of Luca Grimaldi could be set on a path of mutual destruction. The events that were sure to follow would be delightful to witness and exploit.

But first . . . but first . . . émilie had much to consider.

Unlike vampires, there were three ways for a wolf to be made.

The first was to be the immediate heir to the legacy. The eldest remaining male of the bloodline, which was how Luca had inherited the role, following the death of his father during the last war with the Fallen. Indeed, Luca’s father had only earned the position a handful of years prior, after Michael’s father had perished in battle.

The second way to be turned was to be bitten by a wolf. This was the way émilie had become a member of the pack. It was risky and painful, for the mortal in question had to forfeit their human life in order to undergo the change. Many succumbed to their wounds or died during the agony of their first full moon.

It was a risk émilie had gladly undertaken. Fire was necessary to forge a weapon of steel.

The last and most heinous of all ways to become a wolf was to kill a member of your own family within the bloodline. Often the wolves who were turned in such a manner were shunned. Hunted by the rest of the pack for daring to murder one of their own.

émilie tilted her head toward the sky.

How . . . thrilling a prospect.

And in the ensuing chaos, if a star were to rise from behind the shadow of a waning moon, who would hesitate to gaze upon its light?

émilie la Loup had plans. Plans upon plans. And it was time for her to execute, in more ways than one.

Perhaps she would start with a wedding.





BASTIEN





I cannot sleep, so I do not dream.

Perhaps it is impossible for a vampire as troubled as I am to dream. Perhaps such a thing is the purview of the living: to envision a life apart from reality. To hope for something better and richer than the wretched now.

I lie awake in my four-poster bed, the velvet curtains drawn. I stare at the golden lion medallion situated in the tufted canopy above me, my thoughts taking shape in the darkness like shadows coming to life.

Without warning, I sit up.

Sunan the Immortal Unmaker.

If I returned to the swamp and asked to speak with Cambion, what might happen?

Dark laughter rumbles from my chest.

I bested the tiger-beast in the ring using nothing more than sheer luck. I shamed him in front of his peers. In front of those he considered family. Cambion of the Swamp would not look kindly upon me, despite my sparing his life. It was clear the moment the portly master of ceremonies announced our bout that those who dwelled in the depths of the swamp had nothing but disdain for the vampires who ruled from their gilded thrones in the city.

But the wanting inside me continues to grow each day.

I want to learn more about this Sunan. Does magic like this even exist? Would it truly be possible for me to return the dark gift that made me a vampire? What would be the cost?

Is it possible to be human again?

These things plague me. Gnaw at my insides. Or maybe they are only distractions.

Maybe these are the kinds of dreams permitted me now. A chance to once again walk unencumbered in the sun. To go to Celine. To win her heart once more. To find a way to return her stolen memories. Or work to earn her love a second, a third, a thousandth time.

Love is a strange beast. It is not so different from fear. Both make us feel uncertain and on edge. Uncomfortable in our own skins. Hot and cold at the same time.

But only one of them is drawn from hope.

I think about what drew me to Celine in the first place. It would be a lie to say I wasn’t struck by her beauty. But the Crescent City has the loveliest young débutantes in the whole of the South. Belles of every proverbial ball. The last few years, my uncle has made several pointed introductions to daughters of important men throughout Louisiana. Each young woman was accomplished and articulate, spoke several languages, and understood her supposed place. Perhaps that is why I found none of them appealing.

I don’t want someone who understands and accepts the world she is given. I want someone who expects more. Who fights for it and isn’t afraid to dirty her sleeves in the process.

I want a girl like Celine Rousseau. No, not like her. I want her. The want consumes me.

Again I laugh into the darkness.

Such selfish thoughts. Even in my waking dreams, I think only of what I want.

My thoughts return to Sunan. If an unmaker such as he—or she—exists, there might be something about it in the written lore. The old library in the heart of the Vieux Carré contains many of the best-known accounts of fey creatures this side of the Mississippi. Additionally there is a bokor on Dumaine with a famous collection of mystical tomes. Alas, this particular voodoo priest would be unlikely to lend them to a vampire, as he is known to serve good mystères rather than evil.