The Damned Read online

  If her brother had indeed been turned, he would be confined to the darkness. The evening following the events in the cathedral two weeks ago, Émilie had posted werewolves along the streets near Valeria Henri’s parfumerie, the only place in all of Louisiana where Bastien could obtain a fétiche, a talisman fashioned to protect him from the light of the sun.

  At no time did her brother venture anywhere near the shop.

  Everything told Émilie that her plan had been met with success. Her uncle no longer had an heir upon whom to bestow his legacy. He’d been undone by the hand of the niece he’d dismissed at his own peril.

  Then why had Nicodemus failed to inter Sébastien’s bones in the family crypt? And why did Émilie still feel so uneasy?

  If Luca knew what she had done, he would tell her she had nothing to fear. Her erstwhile lover would say that her uncle knew better than to violate their treaty. But Émilie could not tell him. Not yet. He might agree that it was past time for her to wreak her revenge, but he would disagree with her methods. And he would be angry at her for provoking the Fallen after a decade of peace, putting the Brotherhood at risk.

  In any case, what was done was done. Though Nicodemus possessed many faults, she’d never known him to defy his own twisted principles. Indeed he’d watched her burn with his own eyes, not once lifting a hand to save her. He’d stood silent the night her father had been executed. Though a single tear had slid down his cheek when Émilie’s mother, Philomène, succumbed to the sun, he’d not stopped her from surrendering to the final death.

  Émilie wanted to believe that Nicodemus had not turned Sébastien into a vampire.

  But exceptions had been made for her brother before.

  And until Émilie could stand before Bastien’s grave beneath the hot New Orleans sun—until she knew he was moldering within the stone mausoleum, his body left to burn in the heat to come—this feeling of unease would not leave her.

  So she would return again tomorrow night. And the night after.

  Until the last of her questions was answered.

  ODETTE

  The scene before Odette was a cheerful one.

  Three young women were framed in a shop window, the glow of the late-afternoon sun gilding everything it touched. Muffled laughter filled the air, followed by the unwrapping of parcels, brown paper flung to all corners of the sparsely decorated space. Occasionally a corgi puppy with a high-pitched bark would snag a bit of loose string or discarded wrapping, only to fling it into the air with a joyous yip.

  The petite blond girl with the heart-shaped face and the bright blue eyes—one Philippa Montrose, by name—had assumed the position of authority, hands perched on her hips and a determined set to her brow, while the unfamiliar girl with the copper skin and rich brunette hair hummed to herself as she moved efficiently behind the makeshift counter, taking stock of unboxed ribbons and skeins of colorful fabric. Though both young women stayed busy, they managed to keep watchful eyes on the pale figure seated in the corner, a tired smile on her bruised face.

  Odette sighed to herself as she watched the tableau unfold from beneath the shadow of an awning across the street.

  Celine had much improved in the week since Odette came in secret to check on her. But the lovely young woman had lost even more weight, her curves shrinking further into nothingness. She still moved with care, wincing every so often, the wound on the side of her neck held together by neat stitches, her right arm bound in a sling.

  “It’s only been two weeks,” a male voice said from behind Odette’s shoulder. “Give it some time.” Shin Jaehyuk came to stand beside her. “Despite appearances, she is healing. Humans are more resilient than we like to believe.”

  “Was it you who asked after Celine at the hospital last week?” she murmured.

  He said nothing.

  Odette smirked at him. “I was told an unnamed gentleman made inquiries regarding Mademoiselle Rousseau’s health.” Though amusement tinged her voice, her sable eyes were kind. “I would not have expected such a display of concern for a mere mortal, Jaehyuk-ah.”

  “She means a great deal to Bastien.” The knuckles on Jae’s left hand turned white. “And Nigel never should have been able to do what he did, to either of them.”

  Odette swallowed, guilt gnawing at her insides. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Nonetheless.” He inhaled. “Is she sleeping better?”

  “She still has nightmares. The orderly at the hospital told me she woke up screaming at least every other night before she was discharged three days ago.”

  Jae frowned. “Nicodemus personally glamoured her. The girl should not be haunted by memories of her ordeal.”

  “I’ve heard of men on the battlefield who lost a leg or an arm and still felt the ghost of their limb haunting them after the fact.” Odette stared as Celine stood to help Pippa with an unwieldy parcel, only to be soundly criticized by her friend for daring to do so much as lift a finger. “Perhaps she lost too much,” she finished.

  They both turned as a young boy darted between them, rustling Odette’s organdy skirts and the hem of Jae’s greatcoat as he passed. A peal of silvery laughter fell from the boy’s lips, his friends chasing after his heels. Across the way, the humming brunette inside the shop peered outside to witness the commotion.

  “We should go before anyone takes note of our interest,” Jae murmured.

  “One minute more.”

  His expression softened. “Of course. However long you wish.”

  Odette arched a brow. “Careful, mon chat grincheux. One of these days, I might accuse you of sentimentality.”

  “It isn’t for her benefit that I wait.”

  “Is that so?” she teased.

  He stared down at the scars on the backs of his hands. “Do you remember the night I went to find Mo Gwai?”

  Odette nodded, her expression somber.

  “You said you would scour the earth with me. Burn the warlock to dust for what he did,” Jae continued. “Because I was your brother.”

  Odette nodded again, a lump gathering in her throat.

  “Celine Rousseau mattered to you.” He paused. “You are my sister, Odette Valmont. Until the end of time.”

  Without a word, Odette reached across the space between them and took his hand. He flinched, but threaded his scarred fingers through hers. A gesture so uncharacteristic of Shin Jaehyuk that it touched Odette in the place her heart used to beat, the magic of the dark gift moving the blood through her chest.

  “Do you ever wish you could take something back?” she asked as they resumed watching the three young women in their quest to set up shop. “Something you regretted.”

  “An immortal life is too long to dwell in regret.”

  “I welcomed Celine into our world.” Odette sighed. “Perhaps if I had not, none of this would have happened.”

  “Perhaps. But it was the girl’s choice to relinquish her memories.”

  “Was it?” she asked quietly. “Bastien said he would have preferred the true death.”

  “He is yet a boy. A man does not hide from his fears. He faces them.”

  “I wish I could make him a boy again.”

  “You wish to unmake him, then.” Jae’s voice was harsh.

  “Haven’t you ever wished to be unmade? To return to simpler, easier times?”

  “No.” He met her gaze, the light in his dark eyes fierce. “Because then I never would have found my family. My purpose. To me, that is worth a hundred thousand cuts and every piece of my lost soul.”

  Odette squeezed his hand. “See?” she said. “So sentimental.”

  The suggestion of a grin ghosted across Jae’s lips. Then—arm in arm—they walked from their street corner into the comfort of the growing darkness.

  JAE

  Shin Jaehyuk glowered at his charge from across the room.


  Correction. No longer his charge. Now his brother in blood.

  Sébastien Saint Germain. The Court of the Lions’ newest vampire, barely a month young.

  A pity corporal punishment was frowned upon between their siblings. Jae could think of none more deserving of it.

  As if Bastien could hear Jae’s thoughts, a surly smile curved up one side of the young vampire’s face, his eyes half-lidded. Glazed with debauchery. He stroked his index finger beneath Toussaint’s chin, as the cursed serpent lashed his tail back and forth like the pendulum on a clock before settling into a coil of scales by Bastien’s feet.

  Jae considered standing to deliver yet another lecture, but a tawny young woman with pointed ears and a nose turned upward at the tip—likely the offspring of a mortal and some kind of dokkaebi—frolicked past him, plump grapes falling from her slender fingers to stain the priceless carpet by her bare feet. A gaunt warlock followed in her shadow, stooping to retrieve the trampled fruit, licking his fingers with a dangerous gleam in his purple eyes.

  Jae’s nostrils flared. He’d had just about his fill of these unwanted guests. True, the Saint Germain family often provided refuge for the magical folk in the city. The exiles, the half bloods, the warlocks and their hollow-eyed acolytes. Better they all gather beneath the auspices of the Fallen than seek succor with the Brotherhood.

  But this unending display of depravity was beyond the pale. A single month ago, it had been nothing more than subdued nights of gaming and gambling. A few drinks passed among friends. Magical business negotiated amid hushed laughter and the occasional clink of glasses.

  At present, the scene before Jae rivaled an event hosted by Dionysus himself. Discarded decanters and broken crystal littered the floor, alongside articles of rumpled clothing and the occasional apple core or orange peel. Red wine dripped from a narrow sideboard, the dark liquid staining the cool Carrara marble like dried blood. Hot air collected near the coffered mahogany ceiling, mixing with the blue-grey smoke of opium and the suspiciously sweet tinge of absinthe.

  Droplets of champagne showered Jae’s shoulders as a dark-skinned young man Jae had never seen before uncorked another bottle. Half its contents sprayed around the room, staining the paneled walls and trickling from the corner of a priceless painting Nicodemus had acquired in Madrid two months ago.

  Jae leaned back in the chamber’s most uncomfortable chair and continued to glare at Bastien, who lounged along the far wall on a chaise covered in navy silk, champagne dripping from his short black hair, a goblet of warmed blood and absinthe dangling from his fingertips.

  A half-dressed kobold, banished from the Wyld for selling empty wishes to unsuspecting mortals, and a giggling spriggan wearing a laurel crown were sprawled on the floor beside Toussaint’s pile of coiled scales, inebriated past the point of reason. At Bastien’s back, a passel of admirers—two half sprites, a boy with the white hair of a phouka, and a girl with the telltale fox eyes of a gumiho—loitered in a semicircle around the chaise, exchanging expressions of open hunger.

  Little fools. They knew what Bastien was. What a vampire could do. All guests of La Cour des Lions were required to know the truth, per Bastien’s orders. What happened to their memories afterward was not his concern. Only that they enter the space aware of the danger present. They knew what a newborn vampire was capable of doing. And still they clambered for Bastien’s notice.

  The carved wood at Jae’s back creaked as he shifted forward, his gaze murderous. This chair was indeed exceedingly uncomfortable, but he favored it because it did not match its appearance. Its curved backing and plush silk cushions—dyed a deep rose—looked inviting. But beneath the surface, it was lumpy and misshapen. If Jae sat on it long enough, the chestnut frame would dig into his lower back and behind his knees. Still he refused to give it up or replace it. He thought it a fitting perch for a killer like him. One who did not match his appearance.

  “Have y’all started this evening’s festivities without me? How uncharitable.” Boone came to rest on the padded arm of Jae’s chair, his cravat undone, his cherubic blond curls in disarray. “Who are we drinking tonight?” He leered, and the smudge of blood beside his mouth made it appear even more sadistic.

  Jae said nothing. He merely looked up at Boone. Then back down to where Boone sat. Boone stood at once, his wicked grin spreading even wider. “Eleven billion apologies,” he drawled in his thick Charlestonian accent. “Sometimes I forget how much you love this shitty old chair.”

  Jae remained silent. Boone lifted a shoulder and turned toward Arjun, who was seated on a nearby divan, a crystal tumbler swirling in his right hand. The half fey took a practiced swig of the amber liquor.

  “So”—Boone clapped his hands—“what do we have planned for this evening?”

  “Bourbon.” Arjun tilted his glass, studying its cut facets through the lens of his monocle. “The good, strong kind. Full proof.”

  “From where?”

  “Kentucky, of course.”

  “A foolproof way to my heart.” Boone stretched an empty glass Arjun’s way.

  With a cultured laugh, the ethereal poured Boone a splash of liquor. He knew better than to offer any to Jae.

  Some vampires enjoyed the taste of spirits. It did nothing to satiate their thirst for blood, but many immortals relished the sensation of the burning liquid sliding down their throats. If they consumed enough, sometimes a pleasantly disorienting feeling would settle on their limbs for a short period of time.

  Jae could not afford to be less than sharp at all hours of the day and night. He glanced down at the countless scars on the back of his right hand, gleaming white in the lamplight. A memory rose to the forefront of his thoughts. Of that terrible night a warlock in Hunan province had trapped Jae and tortured him with a silver blade in an attempt to gain information about Nicodemus. That night, Jae had almost succumbed to the Death of a Thousand Cuts. Once he managed to escape, it took him a full year to regain his strength.

  An evil light entered his gaze. The following year, Jae enacted his own particular brand of revenge on the warlock. He still relished the memory of Mo Gwai’s blood smearing his face and dripping down the walls of the cave. The way the warlock’s screams echoed around Jae like a twisted symphony.

  Alcohol dulled Jae’s senses. And he would never again fall prey to even a moment of weakness.

  Odette sidled toward the center of the room. She rested a gloved hand beneath her chin and examined the two vampires and the ethereal seated around the filigreed tea table. “Would you look at this pickle party . . .” Her eyes flicked left and right. “Where are Hortense and Madeleine?”

  “Madeleine is with Nicodemus,” Arjun replied, studying the way the light from the oil lamp caramelized the liquor in his cut-crystal glass.

  “Hortense is probably on the roof, singing to the moon,” Boone said.

  Odette’s attention drifted toward the back of the chamber. Lines of consternation settled on her brow. Jae did not need to guess what troubled her. In the month since Bastien had been turned, she’d spent more time than even Jae trying to temper the worst of the newborn vampire’s proclivities. His fervent desire to drown all trace of his humanity in vice and sin.

  No matter how much Jae and Odette attempted to sway Bastien from this path, the young vampire refused to heed their advice. Nothing would change tonight, of that Jae could be certain. At present, there was too much magic—too many unpredictable elements—in this room. It made Jae more uncomfortable than he cared to admit. Set his fangs on edge.

  A loud cough emanated from behind him. “Is any esteemed gentleman interested in making some extra coin for barely an hour’s worth of work?” a shockingly tall young man asked, his long arms open wide, like a hawker of stolen wares.

  Jae’s hands turned into fists.

  Nathaniel Villiers.

  “What is that greasy machaar doing here?” Arjun swor
e before tossing back the rest of his drink.

  Villiers had been forbidden entry to La Cour des Lions six months ago. A half giant with a penchant for half-baked schemes, he’d tried to bribe Boone into selling him vampire blood, which supposedly granted its consumers lucid dreams when mixed with a precise amount of peyote. The concoction had become an increasingly valuable commodity in European circles, and Villiers had obvious designs on the American market.

  “His mother was an honorable woman. The best giantess of my limited acquaintance,” Boone said with a disdainful sniff. “She’d unleash every ice bolt in the Sylvan Wyld on him if she knew what he’s become.”

  Her eyes glittering with malice, Odette rested her arms akimbo. “Who allowed the overgrown scamp entry tonight?”

  “Two guesses.” Boone tipped his head toward Bastien’s makeshift throne.

  With a groan, Odette tossed up her hands in despair.

  Jae sat back, his cheeks hollowing.

  What could possess Bastien to grant Villiers admittance? Worse than that, it looked like the overgrown scamp in question arrived with a familiar trio of warlocks from Atlanta. Ones who routinely bamboozled the young scions of wealthy Southern families into “donating” a goodly sum of their inheritances to nonexistent charitable organizations.

  Jae couldn’t decide what he hated more. Warlocks. Or Atlanta.

  “Since when did we start letting their kind in here?” Boone said as he stared at the scheming warlocks, a muscle jumping beside the cleft in his chin.

  “Two guesses,” Jae retorted before the door near the back of the room blew open as if a storm had entered the building. The next second, Hortense de Morny glided across the threshold, her arms wrapped in a cloud of cream-colored voile and her ivory skirts swirling about her. She stopped short when she saw Villiers. Inclined her head to one side.

  “Non,” she said with a toss of her curls. “Je n’ai pas assez faim pour ça.” Then she plopped down on the other end of the couch and reached for Arjun’s glass. After a sniff of its contents, she wrinkled her nose and looked about, her gaze settling on a carafe of blood and absinthe warming above a tea candle, positioned to Jae’s right.