The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(6)

Odette tilted the woman’s chin back so she could meet her gaze. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered, allowing the dark gift to weave through her words and imbue them with soothing magic. The woman’s panicked eyes softened at the edges. “I promise you won’t remember a thing,” Odette crooned, steadying her in an embrace.

“Who—who are you?” the woman breathed.

“Who are you?”

The woman’s eyelashes fluttered as if she were on the cusp of falling asleep. “Francine,” she said. “Francine Hofstadter.”

“Bonsoir, Madame Hofstadter.” Odette shifted her hand from beside Francine’s mouth so she might cup her jaw. She paused to study her warm brown eyes. “You remind me of my mother, beautiful Francine.”

“What is her name?”

A thin smile twisted Odette’s lips. “Louise d’Armagnac.”

“Such a lovely name,” Francine drawled. “So lovely . . . just like you.”

“She was a duchess.”

“Are you a duchess?”

“Perhaps I might have been.” Odette stroked an index finger along Francine’s chin. “But my mother likely would have objected. She would never have relinquished the title, not without a fight. You might say she . . . lost her head for it.”

“I’m—sorry,” Francine said, her body going lax in Odette’s arms. “It sounds like she didn’t love you as a mother should.”

“Oh, she did. Of that I am quite certain.” Amusement rounded Odette’s tones. “She just loved herself more. For that, I have no objections. My mother is a hero to me. Until the bitter end, she remained true.”

“But how could she love herself more, when she has a daughter like you? That’s not right.” Francine mirrored Odette’s gesture, bringing her right hand to frame Odette’s face. “I wish I had a daughter. I could have loved her. I could have loved you.” She marveled, her eyes twinkling like pools of water. “Perhaps . . . I do love you.”

“Who doesn’t, ma chérie?” Odette wove Francine’s fingers through hers. Brought their joined palms toward her lips. “I love you, too,” she whispered into Francine’s warm, vanilla-scented skin.

Before Francine could blink, Odette sank her teeth into the delicate flesh along Francine’s wrist. A gasp punctured the night air, but Francine did not struggle. Her limbs went languorous. Dangerously soft. Odette breathed through her nose as she took in another hot draft of blood. Her eyes flashed closed. Images wavered through her mind. Francine’s memories. Her entire life story, colored by countless remembrances, which—Odette knew—could be unreliable, even among the most earnest of mortals.

People tended to recall things not as they were but as they wished them to be.

A memory of a birthday celebration when Francine had been a young girl, praline icing smeared across her lips. The death of a beloved grandmother, Francine following the funeral carriage down a wide lane in the Garden District, a lace parasol filtering the hot light of the sun. A wedding to a boy she’d believed to be her one true love. Years later, another man who’d dashed that belief to smithereens.

Between these vignettes, Odette saw glimpses of a possible future. Of a son who visited each year at Christmas, along with his wife who wished to be anywhere else. Of a distant husband who died clutching his chest, and of twilight years spent in regret.

It broke what remained of Odette’s heart. This life that once held such promise.

No matter. This woman’s fate was not her concern.

Through it all, Francine remained the heroine of her own story. It was as it should be. At the very least, every mortal should be the hero of that particular tale.

But the best heroes possessed flaws. And the best mortals never forgot that fact.

She drank deeply, letting Francine fall back in her embrace, like a lover overcome with emotion.

Unlike Odette’s second sight, this ability to glimpse behind the curtain of a victim’s life was one shared among all blood drinkers in possession of the dark gift. As such, Odette never drank from men. It was too intimate for her, the action of entering the mind of her prey. Once, when she’d been a newborn vampire herself, she’d thought to drink from a man who killed others for sport. She’d thought it fitting, to let him meet his match in her.

But the man’s memories were violent. He had delighted in the horrors he committed. The images flickering through Odette’s mind had knotted in her throat, choking her, burning her from the inside out.

That night, she’d sworn never to enter a man’s mind again.

Men were the worst kind of heroes. Riddled with flaws they refused to see.

The instant Odette felt Francine’s heartbeat begin to slow, she pulled back. It would not do to drown in Francine’s death. Many a vampire had lost their minds in that slip of darkness between worlds.

Odette licked her lips, the motions languid. Then she pressed her thumb to the puncture wounds along Francine’s wrist, waiting for the flow of blood to stanch. “As soon as we part,” she said, “you will forget what happened tonight. I will never haunt your dreams. You will return home and spend tomorrow resting, for a critter has bitten you and made you feel a bit piqued. Ask your family to prepare steak and spinach for you.” With care, Odette folded the cuff of Francine’s sleeve over the wounds. “When you walk these streets alone at night, walk with your head high, even if you believe death might be around the corner.” Her grin was like the curved edge of a blade. “It is the only way to live, lovely Francine.”