The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(46)

My skin burns as I slice open the tip of my index finger. Because the dagger is solid silver, the cut does not heal right away, the blood flowing past the wound, carried by the same dark magic that moves it through my body. I count out nine drops, letting them collect in the center of the glazed bowl. Valeria promptly whisks it away and turns her back on us while she works. “Bite your tongue and press it to the wound,” she directs from over her shoulder. “It will heal faster.”

Arjun watches in fascination as the cut seals shut on my finger, the sound like a paintbrush across canvas. Though he assumes a posture of nonchalance, it is obvious how captivated he is to witness Valeria work. An enchantress like her—one with old fey blood in her veins—is a rarity in the mortal world. Valeria’s ancestor in the Sylvan Vale practiced elemental magic, her gifts granted to her by the earth itself.

“I lament that this has been your fate, Sébas,” Valeria says as she pours another tincture into the ceramic bowl. Black smoke coils from inside it, sparks flying as she crushes dried leaves into the mixture with a granite pestle. “Your mother—”

“I’m aware she would have been displeased,” I interrupt. “Given the situation, I’m not sure she would have chosen my death, however.” Irony lances through me. Only a few weeks ago, I told Odette I would have preferred dying the final death to becoming a vampire.

Valeria sniffs. “She would have wanted you to be happy.”

“Is that all?” I joke morosely.

Her eyes closed, Valeria inhales with care. When she exhales, a slew of unintelligible words trails through the cool night air. Then she drops my signet ring into the bowl and rests it along the windowsill, a beam of moonlight shining down on the feather of black smoke coiling from its center.

Arjun shifts closer, his interest plain. “I’ve never seen an earth enchantress work magic.”

“This is not the magic of the Sylvan Vale,” Valeria says as she pours water from a pitcher into a basin and washes her hands. “This is the magic of my mother’s people. We are not simply born into it. It must be taught, and one must have faith in order to control it.” She brings a covered platter toward the middle of the long table and rests it beside a pile of chopped vegetables.

Then Valeria begins dredging raw meat in a bowl of flour.

Despite his curiosity, Arjun recoils from the slabs of pink flesh.

“The key to a perfect gumbo,” Valeria says, “is that you must first season and lightly brown the gator. If you don’t season it well, you’ll be like a Puritan serving up a plate of sand.” She laughs to herself. “Now, the Huguenots . . . at least they knew how to make a sauce.” With deft motions, she continues dredging thin slices of gator meat. “Sébas’ friend . . . do you have a name?”

“Arjun.” He clears his throat. “Arjun Desai.”

“And does your name have a meaning?” Valeria asks.

A sheepish expression flares across his face. “It means ‘shining lord.’”

“Your mother must have expected great things of you.”

“My father named me.”

Valeria grunts in amusement. “Claro.” She laughs. “And does our Shining Lord know what the Trinity is?”

“The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Arjun replies.

“Wrong,” Valeria says. “Our trinity is onions, celery, and bell pepper.” With a flourish, she lights the flame on the nearby iron stove and proceeds to melt a mound of churned butter into a pan. “I know this food doesn’t appeal to your kind, Sébas, but I’m hoping you and your friend will share a meal with us. Food is one of the celebrations of life. The farther we dwell from the living, the more the darkness takes root.” She looks to Arjun as she sprinkles spoonfuls of flour on the melted butter to create a roux. “I’m told ethereals of the Vale enjoy food, even in the mortal world.”

“Food is indeed a great passion in my life,” Arjun says.

“Good. You will have some of my gumbo.”

“Eh . . .” Arjun clears his throat again. “I don’t, erm, I don’t eat meat.”

Valeria stops stirring. Blinks once. Twice. “Then what do you eat?”

“Vegetables. Beans. Pulses. Lots of rice. Cheese.”

“Interesting. And how do you prepare these dishes?”

He smiles. “Not unlike gumbo, actually. My father cooked with at least eight different spices in any given dish.”

“And you know how to do this?” Valeria’s brows arch with approval.

Arjun’s head tilts from side to side as if in consideration. “More or less,” he says.

“Then you will teach me.” Valeria nods with satisfaction. “In return, I will show you how to do a simple earth spell of your choosing.”

“Done,” Arjun agrees with a grin.

She smiles back at him. “Now, Sébas, it is time for you to apologize for not coming to see me once in ten years.”

I almost laugh. Then I realize she is serious. Her stare is dead-eyed and unflinching.

I clear my throat. “Lo siento, Tía Valeria.”

“I visit your mother’s crypt every year for her birthday. I leave flowers and tell her about my life. Sometimes Eloise accompanies me.” Valeria stirs the roux, waiting for it to darken to a rich brown color. “I’ve never seen you there. Not once.”