The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(60)

“Haven’t you heard?” I hold up my left hand. My fétiche flashes from the smallest finger. “Not even the sun can hurt me anymore.”

Arjun shakes his head. “If you’re not fussed about it, then I won’t be.” He closes his eyes and presses his right palm to the silver surface. Ripples pulse around his fingertips, like small waves spreading across a pond. Once they reach the brass frame, the entire mirror shudders, the ripples reverberating back on themselves. For a moment, Arjun keeps his eyes closed, his lips moving soundlessly as if in prayer.

The mirror stills all at once.

“Off we go,” Arjun says, and he walks through the liquid surface without a glance back.

Another twinge of apprehension cuts through me with the sharpness of a newly honed blade. But I fix my shoulders and push my left foot through. The sensation that follows is curious. Surprisingly cold, especially since I am no longer affected by such things. The cold is absorbed through my clothing to my skin before it starts to burn like acid. Quickly—before I can talk myself out of it—I press through. The mirror resists me for a moment, though it drew Arjun in like a pool of warm water. Almost as quickly, it spits me out the other side as if it were disgusted by the taste of me.

When I land, it is against a rise of hot sand. Silken grains sift across my skin, leaving a trace of glittering residue wherever they touch. Hot air blasts around me, followed by a rush of scent and sound. To my vampire sensibilities, it is almost too much. As if I’ve stepped from the bliss of utter silence into a world of total chaos.

“Graceful, as always,” Arjun jokes from where he stands over me, his amusement plain.

I straighten and begin looking around.

The mirror has transported us to an umber desert. A brilliant blue sky stretches above us, the horizon at my back wavering in the heat like a mirage. We stand in the middle of a bustling thoroughfare. Shrieking children, bartering townspeople, and the occasional clang of a cowbell reverberate around me. To my right, a man dressed in a long tunic stokes a small fire beneath an immense domed pot. He splashes oil into its center and begins calling out to those around him, who gather like bees drawn to honey.

I dust the sand from my frock coat before shrugging out of it entirely. Arjun has already begun rolling his shirtsleeves. Bedlam erupts around us in bursts, but it does not seem to bother the masses of people milling nearby. A cacophony of sound—clips of a language I’ve never heard—mixes with the bleating of goats and the rumbling of rickshaws, along with the shouts of other street vendors and the warnings of those nearby.

Bright colors flit across my periphery. Women with burnished skin, bearing immense parcels atop their heads, balance their burdens like magic as they weave through the crowd, the ends of their thin shawls trailing behind them. The smell of spiced tea wafts from a trio of elderly men seated on wooden boxes around a makeshift table.

When a young boy darts past Arjun, trips in his haste, and nearly sprawls to the ground, Arjun catches him. The boy yells with outrage, to which Arjun replies in the same tongue. They exchange words, the syllables clipped and rapid. The boy begins to smile halfway through the spat, his expression turning sheepish.

Realization dawns on me, though I should know better than to be surprised by anything in life or in death.

“Are we in the East Indies?” I shout over the din, my English blaring through the crowd like a foghorn.

Arjun laughs. “Welcome to Rajasthan. Specifically an area just on the outskirts of Jaipur.”

“And you speak this language?”

“I speak Hindi and a bit of Marwari. It’s enough for me to get by while I’m here. In the major cities, it’s easier to find people who speak English. You have the British Crown to thank for that,” he gibes in a humorless tone. He begins weaving through the crowd with purpose, threading between tight spaces at a leisurely pace.

My senses are inundated. It takes a great deal of effort for me to subdue my need to react, to stop myself from moving too quickly or gazing every which way. The smell of the food and the spices catches my attention more than anything else. It’s perhaps even more intricate and layered than the cuisine of New Orleans.

Arjun pauses beside a burnished street vendor, who hands him a paper cone filled with a thick liquid tinged a pale orange hue. I move closer to avoid being struck by a donkey hauling a cart as Arjun takes a long sip.

He breathes in deeply. “It’s been too long since I was last here.” The distinct smell of saffron suffuses the air around him.

“And why is that, especially if it’s as easy as stepping through a mirror?”

“It isn’t easy, old chap,” he muses. “It’s never easy for me to make this journey.” He takes another long swallow of his drink. “Would you like to try some?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a saffron lassi. Made with cool yogurt and honey. The best thing on a hot day.”

“I wish such things still appealed to me.” I stare at his drink wistfully.

“I’ve heard it does for some vampires. Occasionally Odette will ask for some fruit. Her favorite things are pomegranates and mangoes. Is there something you still crave?”

“The blood dripping from a rare steak.”

He laughs. “I can’t help you with that. Especially not here. Cows are sacred in this part of the world. If you so much as insult one or step in its path, beware.” Though his tone is lighthearted, his attention flits behind me for an instant, the corners of his eyes tightening.