The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(42)

Nicodemus faces all those present, his attention fixed on the immortals who have formed a protective ring around me. Still I have not managed to say a word. I am too haunted by the things Celine said. The harsh truths Kassamir revealed.

What I am has no bearing on who I become. It is the kind of thing Celine would have enjoyed debating.

I almost smile at this thought.

Without warning, Nicodemus heaves a nearby tea table into the air, knocking everything from its surface. Muted screams follow the sound of breaking glass and smashed china.

“Do you think this is a game?” my uncle says, his eyes black, his fangs extending from his mouth. With another flick of an arm, he slams a priceless Ming vase from its pedestal, watching as mortals and immortals alike shrink away from his fury. “How long do you intend to waste the gift given to you, Sébastien? How long do you plan to languish about like a spoiled child?”

Because he expects a reply, I remain silent.

All at once, Nicodemus straightens. Smiles. Rounds out the rich tone of his voice. When he speaks, it is layered with the weight of his magic. “All our guests will forget what has transpired here in the last twenty minutes. Not a word of it will be breathed beyond these walls.”

The hum of his directive passes through my bones. I see the faces of the ethereals and the goblins and the witches and the halflings present smooth into looks of supreme ease. The next instant, low laughter and conversation resumes as if nothing of import has occurred.

It is powerful magic. The kind a mortal girl like Celine should not be able to thwart.

Nicodemus looks at me. “This?” He glances about the room, glowering at the absinthe and the opium, the bare flesh writhing in the shadows. “This ends tonight,” he whispers. “Your time of rebellion has ended. I forbid you from burying yourself in such base amusements. From tomorrow, you will work with me to make the future I envision for you a reality.” He grabs me by the lapel, pulling me closer. “Ever since you were a boy, I hoped to grant you a position of power in the mortal world. A senator perhaps. At the very least a statesman of repute. I had dreams for you. You were to be the culmination of my work on the mortal plane. A respectable man of wealth and influence. Through you, I would establish a dynasty worthy of its name.” His fingers twist through the linen fabric of my shirt. “I thought I had lost that chance when you became a vampire. It will not be taken from me again. You will do as your maker commands and return our family to its rightful place on the Horned Throne.”

I consider refusing, for no other reason than the pleasure it brings me to defy him. For the chance to retain control of something in my life. A life that is not a given, even for an immortal. A love that was never anyone’s to take.

What I am now should have no bearing on what I become.

Conviction rises in my blood as I stare at my uncle. For the first time since I woke as a vampire, purpose flows through my veins. I do not have to be the demon I was made to be. I can choose my own path. Build my own future.

A future that would be easier to construct if I no longer waste energy defying Nicodemus.

It is never too late to chase the better version of myself.

I will do as my uncle asks, in name only. I will play the game he wishes me to play. I will become a master at it. And in the meantime, I will work to make the life I want a reality. If I have to move heaven and earth—if I have to find my lost soul buried in a treacherous underworld—I will undo what has been done to me. What has been done to Celine.

I will find a way to unmake my future.

And once Celine learns the truth, I will do whatever she asks, even if she tells me to walk away and never lay eyes on her again.

This is what it means to live. To choose a path and face the consequences.

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” I say, letting my posture fall to one of resignation. “I have taken the gift you gave me for granted. My ingratitude is shameful. Tell me what must be done, and I will do it.”

Surprise flashes across Nicodemus’ face. He releases me. Settles back on his heels and nods. He is about to reply, but then his eyes swirl to black, a vicious hiss emanating from his mouth.

I turn, a familiar scent curling into my nostrils. Acrid, like overripe fruit.

Michael Grimaldi stands at the top of the stairs. Though he is not a wolf, the smell of his blood is tainted with magic. He glares at me, an unfathomable expression on his face. “I had to see it again for myself,” he says. “I . . . thought you had died, Sébastien. Everyone said you had died.”

I smile without showing my teeth. “And were you gladdened to hear it?”

“No.” His lips form a tight line. “But I was not surprised.”

“If I had died, Michael,” I drawl, “I would expect nothing less than the most overblown funeral parade this city has ever seen.”

“No one has heard from you in weeks.” Michael shakes his head, still in disbelief.

“And it would have remained that way, had you not been foolish enough to bring Celine Rousseau to this establishment,” Nicodemus interjects.

“You clearly do not understand the first thing about Celine,” Michael says to my uncle in a cool tone. “Once she settles her mind on something, there is little anyone can do to dissuade her.” He looks back at me, his eyes narrowing. “Did you honestly think becoming a vampire was a solution?”

I raise a flippant shoulder. “It wasn’t my solution.”