The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(62)

Arjun waits for me, his wavy hair dripping, his features serene.

“Don’t take another step, you filthy leech,” a voice barks from behind us.

When I wipe the salty water from my eyes, fury sets in.

A beautiful woman waits along the pristine beach, her long white gown offset by the grove of swaying palm trees at her back, the fronds an unnatural shade of dark blue, the bark resembling shards of sharpened copper. Around her brow is a coronet of pearls. In the distance behind her, the sun hangs high, its white rays glowing with angelic menace.

“Assemble,” she says softly.

A semicircle of grey-cloaked warriors, bearing spears of gleaming alabaster, step forward, brandishing their weapons, aiming their blades straight at my heart.





BASTIEN





It is the same as always.

Whenever unmitigated fury takes root in me, my blood turns to ice. If these bastards think to strike me down, it will not be without a fight. I advance, my fingers clawed at my sides, my fangs lengthening. Though I am outmatched by more than ten of these grey-cloaked soldiers, I will not wait for them to make the first move.

Melodic laughter chimes through the air.

“Stand down, Sébastien,” she says. “No one is here to harm you.”

I halt, but I do not let down my guard. “Forgive me for misunderstanding.” Sarcasm drips from each of my words. “But I’ve never been cornered by twelve fey warriors wearing solid silver cuirasses and brandishing alabaster spears.”

“Oh, you didn’t misunderstand.” Her lovely eyes twinkle. “I wanted you to be afraid. Those weapons are not merely made of alabaster.”

“I am not afraid.” I glance at the blades. They are also tipped in silver. Intended to strike a lethal blow.

Her smile resembles a scythe. “Then you’re a fool.”

I say nothing for a moment. Without warning, I blur forward in a rush, snagging the smallest of the grey-cloaked warriors and hauling her backward, my fangs bared above the skin along her neck. Her wrist rotates in my grasp until the spear falls from her fingers into the glittering sand.

“Let us pass, or I’ll tear out her throat,” I say in a calm manner.

Arjun sputters. “Good God, man, what are you—”

More bell-like laughter emanates from the woman dressed in layers of white spider-silk. “I doubt that. You are not made of that kind of mettle, Sébastien Saint Germain.”

Anger threads through my veins. If she knows who I am, then she should also know better than that. Staring at her, I bend the warrior’s neck to one side and sink the tips of my fangs just beneath the skin of her ear. She tenses on instinct, the other grey-cloaked warriors stepping forward in outrage.

I taste the warrior’s blood on my tongue. It is sweet. Sweeter than any blood I’ve ever known. Filled with longing and flickers of sun-swept memory. For a breath of time, I want nothing more than to drink her dry. To prove my mettle. My worth as a Saint Germain.

A slender black brow curving into her forehead, the woman in white raises a staying hand to her warriors. She is no longer smiling.

Like my uncle, she is testing me.

I know what Nicodemus would do. He would kill the warrior. Make a show of her death, damn the consequences.

Instead I draw back, taking only a taste. “Stand down,” I say softly, echoing the woman in white’s earlier directive. Perhaps it is rash what I have done. But she wanted to establish control. I’ve learned in my short time as an immortal that it is best for control to be met with chaos.

Now she will know better than to test me.

The fey woman steps forward, and the air around her shimmers. It’s impossible to guess her age, just as it is with Ifan, the full-blooded fey warrior who guards the entrance to my uncle’s chambers at the Hotel Dumaine. She could be twenty. She could be two thousand years old. Her features are similar to those of Jae, her skin pale, her hair hanging past her waist in ripples of darkest black. All her fingers and toes are festooned with thin chains of silver set with pearls. Her lips are stained the color of dried blood. The way she walks—the way the remaining cloaked warriors move around her, their gazes watchful—tells me she is important.

Her gaze is trained on me. “Release my guard, and you have my word no harm will come to either of you. For the time being.”

I linger for a beat. Then shove the fey warrior forward. She spins in place, her fists clenched at her sides, her nostrils flaring. Quicker than lightning, she takes hold of her spear and spins it through the air with the grace of a master, before leveling its tip at my face.

A declaration and a promise. This warrior chose not to fight back.

“Why have you brought this blood drinker to our shores, Arjun Desai?” the woman in white asks, her face expressionless.

“Because he asked me to bring him, in full knowledge of the risk to himself.” I can hear Arjun’s heart thrashing in his chest, but he does not falter in his response.

She cants her head his way. “Are you in the habit of taking orders from a member of the Fallen?” She tsks. “Riya would be loath to hear it. Our kind does not choose a position of subservience when it comes to nightdwellers.”

“Yes, but the nightdwellers possess a vast trove of wealth.” Arjun grins, but it does not touch his eyes. “And perhaps my mother would be less inclined to render judgment if she knew I was taking more than my fair share of it.”