The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(45)

With a smirk, Valeria glances at her daughter. “And rest assured that a part of Eloise is pleased to see you, too.”

Eloise harrumphs.

“You have the look of your father even more than you did when you were a boy,” Valeria says. Then she glances toward Arjun. “And who is your friend?” Her chestnut eyes narrow in consideration. “A halfling of the Vale? Muy interesante.”

Arjun straightens. “Well, I would characterize our association as more of a—”

“Yes,” I interrupt. “He is my friend.”

Valeria nods. “Hold your friends close,” she says, “for you never know when they might be taken from you, as your mother was from me.” Her voice trails off, lost in memory. “Sígueme.” She turns toward the stairs and gestures for us to follow her. With a scalding glare, Eloise marches to the front of the shop to finish helping her customer select a fragrance.

On the second floor of the building is a room I have not seen in ten years. The kitchen in the center of the open space has not changed much since then. Sprigs of thyme, rosemary, lavender, and oregano hang above a long wooden table marred by nicks and deep scratches. Pots and pans are stacked on oak shelving along the far wall, beneath a row of ancient books, their spines all but crumbling to dust. The air here feels cooler and freer, much like the second floor of Jacques’. Imbued with unseen magic.

“Your uncle informs me you have need of a fétiche,” Valeria says as she steps behind the long wooden table and begins clearing its surface.

I nod.

Her lips purse. “It’s been over seven weeks since you were turned. Why have you waited so long to see me?”

The blunt way she speaks reminds me of my mother. It’s part of the reason I avoided her after I lost my family. It unsettled me to be around an approximation of my mother, as if I were seeking a substitute for the real thing.

Valeria Henri and Philomène Saint Germain grew up together in the heart of the Vieux Carré. When they were children, they learned to practice Santería from Valeria’s aunt and attended Mass together every Wednesday and Sunday. It was Valeria who introduced my mother to my father. Given what happened, I wonder if she regrets it.

After my sister, émilie, perished in a fire, my uncle found a set of paw prints in the ashes behind the charred structure. Though I confessed to being the cause of the inadvertent blaze, no one listened to me. Nicodemus and the rest of my family were eager to blame the wolves for my sister’s death. From a desire for vengeance, my mother demanded that my uncle turn her into a vampire so that she could fight in the war to come. The change drove her to madness. Soon she became obsessed with finding a cure. Of being unmade. She met the sun less than six months later.

My father’s grief consumed him not long after that. When Nicodemus refused to turn him, my father took me to Haiti in search of another vampire. Overcome with loss and drunk on the blood of innocents, he met the same fate as my mother the following year.

“Lost in your thoughts again, are you, Sébas? Just like when you were a child.” Valeria laughs. “Ruminate a while longer, but I expect an answer to my earlier question. It wounds my soul that you have not come to visit me once in ten years. Your mother would be ashamed.”

I want to say something poignant. Something Odette would say. A poetic turn of phrase that would excuse a decade of cowardice. But I’m certain Valeria would see through it, just as my mother always did. “I wasn’t ready,” I say simply.

“Claro.” She nods. “There will always be pain for what you have lost, and it is a weight, becoming what you have become.” Valeria holds out her right hand. “What do you plan to use as a talisman?”

Without a word, I remove the signet ring from the smallest finger of my left hand. Embossed on its surface is the symbol of La Cour des Lions: a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion.

Valeria takes it from me. Inspects it. Closes her eyes. “This object holds a great deal of emotion,” she says, her thumb brushing across the markings. “Fondness, loyalty . . . rage.” Her eyes flash open. “I sense your uncle in this ring.” For the first time, annoyance tinges her words. “The item you choose as your fétiche will follow you for the rest of time. It will be the only way you can stand in the light of the sun. Should you lose or misplace it, another can never be made.”

“I understand,” I say.

“And still you would not like to choose something else? Something . . . un poco menos maldito?”

“I think a cursed ring is an appropriate choice, given its purpose.”

“Very well.” A small sigh escapes Valeria’s lips. One of resignation. Then she reaches into her sleeve and withdraws a thin blade of solid silver.

I react as any vampire would in the presence of that kind of weapon. The kind that can cause us bodily harm. I flash backward with a low hiss.

Valeria snorts. “When you let fear rule your actions, you remind me so much of your father. What was it Rafa used to say? Act first and apologize later.” She rolls her eyes heavenward.

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to prove her point. The desire to let the worst of my nature rule my actions. Arjun was right. Fear and anger are indeed two sides of the same coin.

“No?” Valeria shakes her head and tsks. “Perhaps you are less like Rafael Ferrer than I thought.” She turns the handle of the blade to me at the same time she slides an empty ceramic bowl across the nicked wooden table. “I need nine drops of fresh blood. No more. No less.”