The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(44)

* * *





I keep my head down as we make our way through the Vieux Carré, my Panama hat pulled low on my brow. My eyes flit from side to side. Ever since we encountered Celine and Michael walking along Royale last week, I’ve become aware of my own recklessness.

At any given time, we could be confronted by a member of the Brotherhood.

If we were, what would I do?

Run like the wind, I suppose. If I were to stay, it would be in defense of someone else. After what happened in the swamps with Cambion, I have no interest in an altercation of any kind. Violence seems to bring out the worst of my inclinations.

“Do you know how to fight?” I ask Arjun as we make the final turn onto Rue Dauphine.

“I boxed at university,” he says. “And I’m fairly proficient with a bagh nakh.”

“Which is what?”

“If it ever comes down to it, you’ll see.”

I glance at his tailored, immaculate ensemble. “You’re carrying a weapon on you now?” My brows rise in disbelief.

“That’s what the ladies say, anyway.”

“Fucking hell,” I mutter as he laughs.

A pair of young women stroll beside us arm in arm. Once they pass, we pause before a nondescript blue door to our right, the sign above it swaying in a soft breeze. Lettered in gold across its surface is the single word PARFUM.

An intoxicating array of scents surrounds the slender building: rose water, oud, peonies, tonka bean, sandalwood, and vanilla. Another layer of fragrance lies deeper beneath it, something headier, spicier. Herbs and burning incense. Melting wax and a trace of blood.

The bell above the blue door rings when Arjun pushes it open.

The shop itself is long and narrow, like many of the small apothecaries in the heart of the French Quarter. Along the wall to our left are endless rows of shelves, many of them covered by tiny bottles of perfume, followed by stacks of scented soap and sachets of dried flowers. On a small stool to the left sits a young lady with skin the color of porcelain, a matching parasol artfully arranged beside her flowered skirts. Her inner forearm is exposed so that a shopgirl can test the sillage of different fragrances. The veins in her wrists pulse in time with the beat of her heart.

If only she knew that, to a vampire like me, this is the most delectable perfume of all.

I look away and swallow. After nearly two months, the desire for blood still trumps almost everything else. It’s made me wary of hunting without the buffer of one of my siblings.

“Bonne nuit, gentlemen.” The shopgirl conducting the fragrance test stands. “How may I help you?”

When I step into the gaslight, recognition flares in her burnished face, a scowl forming around her mouth. “Sébastien Saint Germain,” she says, a groove etched between her delicately arched brows.

My eyes go wide. “Eloise?”

She moves toward us, her patterned skirts in hand. The intricate scarf around her head is styled in the same fashion as her mother’s, the points folded into triangles.

Eloise gestures with her chin, beckoning us toward the back of the shop. We slip through the curtains into darkness, and she pivots in place, her irritation plain. “So it’s true, then?” she asks. “You’ve become the very thing that killed your mother.”

Something glitters in Arjun’s hazel eyes. “Is that really necess—”

“Cállate, fey boy,” Eloise interrupts. “You’re in my home now.”

Irritation filters through my chest, but I force amusement to settle in its place. “I can see not much has changed since we were children, Ellie.”

“Don’t call me that.” She whirls back toward me. “You lost the chance to call me that when your family stopped associating with us ten years ago, despite all we’ve done for your kind throughout the decades.”

I take a step back, unsettled by her hostility. “I was under the impression my kind would be welcomed here tonight. If that is not the case, then—”

“I have no issues with your kind. My quarrel is with you alone. Just because my mother welcomes you does not mean I am pleased to see your ridiculous face.” Disgust curls Eloise’s upper lip.

“You despise the sight of me that much?”

“Claro, though you’re even more beautiful now than you were as a child. It’s frankly disgusting. No man should have eyelashes like that. It’s obscene.”

Arjun laughs, and Eloise aims her ire at him. “You should be ashamed,” she says, crossing her arms. “Are you not of the Sylvan Vale? What are you doing working in service to a Saint Germain?”

The ethereal blanches at her accusation. It is rare to see unchecked emotion on Arjun’s face. “I like his style,” he says.

“Meaning he pays well. And I suppose—”

“Eloise,” another voice emanates from the staircase near the far corner of the poorly lit space. “Es suficiente.”

“Sí, mamá,” Eloise replies without turning around.

Valeria Henri glides closer, her right hand brushing across her daughter’s shoulder in a soothing gesture. She smells of fresh-cut herbs and vegetables, her dark skin luminous in the dim light. “After so many years, it’s good to see you, Sébas.”

Only Valeria and my mother ever called me Sébas. It’s like a blow to the chest to hear it.