The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(78)

A minute later, the sensation began to fade. Once they reached the end of the tunnel, Arjun bent toward her ear as if he wished to tell her a secret. He said nothing. He placed one hand on Bastien’s shoulder and the other on Celine’s. Though the wordless exchange lasted no more than the blink of an eye, Celine understood his warning.

They were treading into a world of danger. The world of Celine’s mother.

They could not afford to be separated.

As they emerged from the tunnel of leaves, the blaring white sun sliced down on Celine’s skin. Beside her, Bastien recoiled on instinct, his left hand—the one with the gold signet ring—clenched tightly.

The grove of trees before them formed an immense circle, the branches above like a bower of knitted leaves, creating a vaulted canopy a hundred feet high. It reminded Celine of a cathedral, both in appearance and in feeling. Colorful songbirds flitted to and fro. A narrow carpet of emerald clovers paved the path, leading to a throne made of bleached birch wood. A sunburst rested in its center, carved from a block of solid gold.

Celine’s steps faltered when the slender woman seated upon the throne stood in a lithe motion. Even from a distance, Celine felt her immense power. She reached for Bastien’s hand. He threaded his fingers through hers.

A soft murmur began to ripple through the gathered crowd. Celine glanced about, uncertainty tripping in her chest. Everywhere she looked, she was confronted by sights that challenged her sense of reason. Tall, willowy figures dressed in gossamer silk, with sashes of hammered gold and hair in an array of colorful hues flowing down their backs. Pointed ears. Cold affects. Cutting cheekbones. Bejeweled fingers and immense goblets. Occasionally she noticed creatures with horns or green skin or transparent wings.

When one of the horned creatures growled at Bastien, its fangs bared in warning, Bastien loosened his grip on Celine’s hand. She realized then that most of this courtly assemblage disliked the sight of her linked with the tall blood drinker at her side.

For that reason alone, Celine tightened her grip on Bastien’s fingers. Lifted her chin.

The slim figure standing before the throne took a single step down from her marble dais. Then she smiled at Celine, her expression one of unabashed warmth. The beauty radiating from her face caused Celine to stop short.

The woman’s hair was black and long, not unlike her own. It had been arranged in a loose braid over one shoulder, wound with thin vines of tiny glowing leaves. Atop her brow was a pearl coronet. Her gown was liquid silver, her shoulders trimmed in white fox fur. An artist had enhanced her pale skin with gleaming powder and stained her lips a vibrant red, similar to the color of fresh blood.

When the woman stepped closer, her arms outstretched, Celine gasped, distant memories sharpening in her mind.

This was the Lady of the Vale. Celine’s mother.

“Welcome, my daughter,” the woman said, her voice like a lilting melody. The birds overhead warbled in response, the sunlight glittering brightly. “You don’t know how much I’ve longed to see you.”

Celine stood rigid on the carpet of emerald clovers, Bastien at her side. A low hum of awareness began to gather in the air about her. Her vision started to distort. She struggled to find a point of reason. Something that made sense in this world of searing sunlight.

What she found was . . . anger. A raw, seething kind of anger, masking a hollow pain.

Celine’s body shook. “Is it true, then?” she demanded, shocked by the unchecked wrath in her own tone.

Murmurs rippled through the throng of fey gathered beneath the lacy canopy. Celine’s disrespect did not sit well with them. The immense wasps hovering above began to settle on lower branches, their iridescent eyes gleaming.

“Is what true?” The Lady of the Vale’s smile grew, her expression serene.

“Did you choose to leave your daughter behind in the mortal world?” Celine continued without flinching. “Did you let her think you were dead for fourteen years?”

The regal woman took the last step down from the marble dais, its veins shot through with flecks of gold. They shimmered with the weight of her bare footsteps. She glided closer, all the while studying Celine, her gaze flitting from her head to her toes.

Then, instead of replying, she began to sing. From the first note, the trembling in Celine’s limbs intensified. Her fingers fell from Bastien’s. Tears trailed down her cheeks. It was a melody that had haunted her for years. One sung in a language she could never seem to place.

Familiar. Filled with unmistakable love.

The last note echoed through the air, unfolding into the treetops above. “I did not want to leave you,” the Lady of the Vale said softly. “I regretted it every day.” She came closer, her arms extended once more. “Please . . . forgive me.”

“Mother?” Celine sobbed, her heart cracking in her chest like a dam about to burst.

“Aga,” her mother replied, her hands outstretched. “My child.”

Before Celine could stop herself, she raced into the Lady of the Vale’s arms.

It was like waking from a nightmare. The anguish remained, but beyond it lay hope. The promise of a rising dawn. Celine knew this hope would not erase her anger, nor would it silence the questions burning within her. But the fact that she could hold her mother now—that her mother could return her embrace—was a gift in its own right.

Her mother brushed her long, slender fingers across Celine’s cheek, wiping away her tears. As Celine considered her mother’s inhuman features—the pointed ears, the sharp cheekbones, the eyes that glittered like onyx—she became aware of an obvious fact. One she had failed to consider at first blush.