The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(77)

Celine’s fingers balled into fists at her sides. More than anything, she wanted to look to Bastien for reassurance. But it would be a mistake, for more than one reason. That night at her shop three evenings ago, Bastien had made it abundantly clear that, while he’d once cared for her, she was to have no expectations of him. There could be no future between the daughter of a fairy enchantress and a demon of the night. Beings at odds with each other for millennia.

It was why Celine had gone to Michael yesterday. Why she told him she wanted to build a future together once she returned from Atlanta. Still she could feel the warmth of his arms enveloping her. The way his breath had washed across her forehead just before they kissed.

Celine had made her decision. The safety of love over the thrill of the unknown.

Inhaling with care, Celine stole a glance in Bastien’s direction. His eyes found hers in less than an instant. Heat washed across her skin. Not the warmth of safety but the flash of utter awareness. A spark threatening to burst into flame. She shuttered her gaze, her nails digging into her palms.

A mistake. One she could no longer afford to make.

It mattered too much. To both of them.

From behind the grove of palm trees with blue fronds and copper bark, several cloaked figures approached, their alabaster spears glinting in the over-bright sun. Celine took a step back, her green eyes wide. Almost wild. Even from a distance, she could tell they were not entirely human. Their ears were pointed, their features angular. Sharp. Similar to a rendering of elves she’d once seen in a book. All but one of them stood taller than most men and women. Though they remained expressionless, an air of danger lurked about them. A suggestion of menace.

The smallest of their ranks stepped forward, her grey cloak falling from her head onto her shoulders, revealing a slight young woman who appeared similar in age to Celine, with eyes and hair the color of ebony and skin a sun-kissed bronze.

To Celine’s right, Arjun breathed a sigh of relief. As if he had been expecting someone else and was grateful to see this young woman instead.

“Marceline Rousseau,” the grey-cloaked warrior said, her voice like a wind chime.

Celine took a tentative step forward.

“You will come with us,” the girl in grey continued.

Again Celine looked toward Bastien. “Do you trust them?”

“No,” he replied without turning her way, his eyes glittering.

The fey warrior snorted. “If you don’t trust me, Marceline Rousseau, then trust that the blood drinker will die the final death before he allows any harm to befall you.”

“Beyond my trust in others, I trust myself.” Celine moved closer to the leader of the assembled warriors. “And I will not take kindly to anyone who attempts to deceive me.”

Something shifted in the warrior’s cold gaze. A glint of approval. She nodded and pivoted in place, those at her back waiting for her to pass.

Celine steeled herself before she followed, Arjun and Bastien flanking her. She almost stumbled when a vine wrapped around one of the long copper tree trunks burst into bloom, the centers of the flowers beaming a warm light, casting hazy shadows around them. As if rays of sun had been dipped in molten gold.

They trudged through the first grove of tall palm trees. The sand before them soon gave way to moss, which muffled their footsteps and brought the sounds of the burgeoning forest to life. Notes of fresh-tilled earth mixed with the citrus and metal in the air.

A member of the grey-cloaked warriors turned to ensure their progress, the tip of his alabaster spear brushing against a low-hanging branch. The leaves rustled, the sound crisp and clear. High above, the drone of winged insects hummed in Celine’s ears. When one of the creatures flew lower, Celine gasped. It was larger than her head, its wings like hammered silver, its eyes iridescent green. Startled by the wasplike thing, Celine’s foot slid in a pile of loam, the hem of her salmon-colored skirts kicking up pearlescent dust.

They arrived before a curtain of shimmering vines, which parted as the leader of the grey-cloaked warriors drew near. While they made their way through a long tunnel of curling leaves, Celine glanced to either side and saw branches ripple and pulse as if they were part of a beating heart. Once, she could swear she saw a satyr caught in their embrace, a muffled scream on its lips. But before she could blink, the image was swallowed once more by the burrow of shifting vines.

Celine coughed to ward away a fresh wave of panic. She could not seem to clear the sudden tightness from her throat. The feeling intensified with each step. She attempted to take a deep breath. Failed. Terror took hold of her heart when she realized she was struggling for air.

Bastien reached for her from behind, his fingers closing on her forearm. For a moment, Celine resisted the urge to lean back against him, her chest rising and falling at a rapid pace.

Arjun stepped closer. “She can’t breathe.” He yelled for the grey-cloaked leader.

“What are you doing to her?” Bastien demanded in a low voice, his tone resonating with menace.

“The feeling shall pass soon,” the leader of the fey warriors said. “The air here is much thinner than it is in the mortal realm. It will improve once we emerge in Lady Silla’s court. Not to worry; this is simply a deterrent. If an unwanted mortal wished to sneak into the court of the Vale, such a thing would stop them from crossing our borders.”

Celine almost choked. It appeared the summer fey were rather inhospitable.