The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(66)

Celine swallowed. Any young woman should be thrilled to have Michael Grimaldi vying for her affections. If lasting love was a choice, maybe Celine could choose to love him as Pippa had chosen to love Phoebus.

Perhaps she should keep her fairy tales where they belonged, in books.

Michael brushed a kiss across her forehead. Then on the tip of her nose. Then—ever the gentleman—he took his time as he drew closer, giving Celine every opportunity to stop him from doing what she knew he’d been wanting to do for a long while.

She didn’t say no. There was no reason to say no.

Michael kissed her, his eyes closed. His lips were soft. Warm. Gentle. Celine leaned into his kiss. Waited for her eyes to fall shut. They didn’t. She could feel her brain continuing to work, even as Michael wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into an embrace.

The kiss seemed to go on for a long while.

An image rose to the forefront of Celine’s mind, unbidden. Of another kiss. One in which time seemed to stand still, only to speed forward in a sudden rush. As if a single kiss were both a moment and a lifetime. Forever, in the blink of an eye.

She forced her eyes closed just before Michael pulled away. He left a final lingering kiss on her lips before stepping back. Celine smiled at him, her thoughts in turmoil.

As if the holes in her memory were mirrored by the holes in her heart.





BASTIEN





On a typical evening, I sink my teeth into the neck of my victim, and nothing else matters. For a breath of time, it’s as if the rest of the world fades into oblivion. I am no longer a creature of darkness, longing for my lost humanity. There is no Brotherhood. There is no Nigel.

There is no Jae.

But this is not a typical evening. The plans I’ve set in motion since meeting the Lady of the Vale two days ago are far from ordinary. Our trap has been laid. The mark is one of our own.

This will not be a welcome victory.

I drink deeper, and my victim’s thoughts invade my mind like a stack of lithographs flipped into motion. As I suspected, this man lived a sordid life. I chose him for this exact reason when I spotted him yesterday, just after nightfall. I followed him for hours, waiting to see if he could redeem himself in my eyes.

The faster his memories flit through my mind, the more convinced I am that I have chosen well.

For years my victim has been leading orphan boys and homeless street urchins to their twisted fates. The sailors along the dock call it being shanghaied. He offers his victims food and drink laced with laudanum. Waits until they are lulled into a drug-addled sleep. When the boys wake, they are already out to sea. Forced to work the rigging and swab the decks until they are no longer of any use, all while he pockets the proceeds of their indentured servitude.

Many argue this is another form of slavery. I cannot speak to that. I have lived a life of favored fortune, despite the color of my skin. The conversations I’ve shared with Kassamir—who was taken from his parents as a child thirty years ago and sold to another plantation outside New Orleans—merely scratch the surface of his pain.

Kassamir never saw his parents again, even after the war ended.

I think of that fact as I drink deeper, gripping my victim by the shoulders. I think of all those boys and girls who will likely never see their homes or their families again. It doesn’t matter if some of them were orphans. Every child deserves a place of refuge. A place to feel safe.

The more I drink, the more distorted the images become. They darken as if they’ve fallen into the path of a shadow. As I watch the man’s vicious life unfold, my grasp tightens. My hands move from his shoulders to either side of his head. I feel his heartbeat begin to slow.

“Bastien,” Boone says from behind me, a warning note in his voice. “He’s dying.”

I ignore him. I drink more. The man’s hands—which have hung limply at his sides for the last few minutes—begin to flail. He tries to strike me, but I am drowning. Drowning in all the violence he has committed. Drowning in his salvation.

“Sébastien.” This admonishment comes from Jae, who blurs to my side and takes hold of my shoulder. “That is enough.” His fingers dig into my arm.

I draw back. Then, at the exact moment Jae relaxes his grasp, I twist my hands in opposite directions, snapping my victim’s neck.

Blood drips down my chin. I meet Jae’s gaze. My expression is mirrored in his. I look murderous. Demonic. The whites of my eyes are gone. My ears have sharpened into points. My fangs are stained and gleaming.

A dark part of me—the soulless part—relishes it.

Without a word, Jae directs me to follow him. I carry the body of my victim across the rooftops of my city until we reach a pauper’s cemetery, where I leave him to bake for several months in an empty chamber in the stifling Louisiana sun.

The water table in our city is high. Too high to bury our dead in the ground. It was a lesson the first imperialists learned when the coffins of the dead rose from the earth following a heavy storm, the rotting corpses clogging the city streets. After the Catholic Church took hold of New Orleans, something had to be done. The Holy See did not permit the burning of its dead.

But they granted a special dispensation for the Crescent City. The coffins of our dead are placed in brick mausoleums aboveground. In the tropical heat, these spaces turn into ovens. Over the span of a year, the bodies are slowly burned, until nothing remains but ash. One year and a day later, the bricks around the entrance are removed, and the ashes of its former occupants are swept aside into a caveau at the base of the crypt. In this way, entire generations of families share the same burial space.