The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(51)

Boone, Jae, and Hortense surround Arjun and me in a protective circle, their backs to one another. I stand, blood dripping from one arm, my vision swirling into focus. Power threads through my veins. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced in life or in death. As if everything around me has narrowed, converging on a single point.

Destroy or be destroyed.

I am a Saint Germain. I choose to destroy. Maybe it is not a choice at all.

By my count, the wolves have lost a third of their number. At least four more are severely injured, one of them partially blinded. They come to the same conclusion I do the next instant. Snarling while they collect their dead, they vow wordless retribution as they slink back into the darkness.

We stand in silence for at least a minute, waiting to see if they will return.

Gruff laughter rolls from Hortense’s throat, her beautiful face filled with delight as she gulps in the night air. She is in her element, her face covered in blood, her fangs coated with crimson.

Boone laughs with her, his arms stained up to the elbows like a butcher’s.

Jae has not moved in the last two minutes. He stands like a statue, his gaze focused on the path before him in morbid meditation.

With my good arm, I reach down to help Arjun to his feet. When the ethereal struggles to stand, I remove the torn jacket from my shoulders and press the fabric against the dripping wounds on his neck to stanch the flow.

His smile is weak, his stance unsteady. “I slowed your escape. You should have left me behind. I would have left you behind.”

“Fucking liar,” I mutter as I hold him upright.

“It’s not a lie,” Arjun says, his expression grave. “Ethereals are taught from an early age to fend for themselves.”

“As I said to Valeria, you’re my friend. A part of our family. I would never leave you behind.”

He says nothing in response, but falters as he tries to take a step forward on his own.

“Arjun is badly injured,” I say to Hortense, Jae, and Boone. “Where is Madeleine?” She is the best healer among us.

“In the past, Le Pacte liked to set traps,” Hortense says, using the French name for the Brotherhood. “So my sister and Odette stayed behind to guard Nicodemus.” She licks blood from her fingertips as she turns toward me.

“I’ll carry Arjun home,” Boone says, taking hold of the ethereal’s uninjured arm.

“Like hell you will,” Arjun croaks, his face pale. “I’ll carry myself, thank you very much.”

“Don’t be a damned fool, little fey brother.” Boone grins. “Besides, I don’t mind spilling a little blood of the Vale.” They begin leaving the cemetery, Arjun’s protests fading with each step.

When he looks at me over his shoulder, his smile is one of gratitude. One of promise.

I linger in their lengthening shadows, pausing to gaze at my hands. The puncture marks around my wrist have healed, though the skin there is lighter than normal. All around me are signs of a vicious struggle, blood splashed across the stones beneath my feet and the slabs of marble at my back.

The thrill of battle begins to wane, and my features turn bleak. Hortense stands beside me. She rests a palm on my shoulder.

“Are you ready for this war, Sébastien?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I would avoid it if I could.”

She frowns. “You would?”

“Blood begets more blood. I don’t relish the thought of harm coming to anyone I love.”

Her lips thin into a line, her displeasure evident.

I take her hand, realizing she seeks reassurance, not resignation. “But if these wolves want a war, they shall have it. That is my promise to them. And to you.”

A smile ghosts across Hortense’s face. “Précisément.”





CELINE





The Devereux mansion stood stalwart on Saint Charles Avenue, one of the most moneyed addresses in New Orleans’ Garden District. Last week—a mere day after Philippa Montrose had accepted Phoebus Devereux’s proposal of marriage—the brick exterior had been whitewashed, the shutters painted a fashionable shade of dark green. Porches enclosed all three of the home’s elegant stories, offset by white latticework and intricate wrought iron. Vines of powdery blue wisteria snaked up one side of the impressive edifice. Flames danced in rows of small iron torches, winding around the lane leading up to the home’s entrance.

It was a perfect spring evening for an engagement party.

Pippa was radiant, dressed in a beautiful gown of wispy organza, her blue sash a match for the blue fire in her eyes. Her blond hair was piled on her head, demure curls framing her heart-shaped face like a golden halo. She lingered on the arm of a rather bookish-looking young man, his smudged spectacles sliding down his nose, his flashy cravat overpowering his otherwise unremarkable face.

“She looks happy,” Celine said to Michael as they made their way up the lane into the mansion’s immense back garden, where two long tables were set with Limoges porcelain and pressed linen, sparkling crystal and glowing candles in brass holders.

“It’s a happy time in life,” he replied, pulling her arm through his. “She’s found her match.”

Celine quirked her lips.

“You disagree?” Michael lowered his voice.

She shook her head. “Pippa always said how important it was for her to find a husband.”