The Damned Read online

  As if Michael could sense Celine’s mounting agitation, he nodded, and they resumed their evening stroll down Rue Royale.

  Celine looked about, letting the hustle and bustle of the busy thoroughfare calm the tempest in her mind. Though it was past dusk, families still milled about, stopping to peruse the offerings in the shop windows, chat with acquaintances, or dip into bakeries to snag a box of warm pralines or a paper sack of hot beignets. The early spring air carried the scent of melting butter and magnolia blossoms. A carriage trundled past, its canopy trimmed in delicate white fringe.

  “It’s my favorite street in all of the Vieux Carré,” Michael remarked, his pale, almost colorless eyes sliding down the lane, pausing to note every detail, as Celine had come to expect from him.

  “It is a beautiful sight to behold,” Celine agreed. “Everywhere I look, I see something lovely.” Along with the suggestion of something sinister, she thought.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Lovely is precisely the right word.” The tenor of his voice dropped, turning almost husky.

  Dread coursed through Celine’s body. She glanced in Michael’s direction and realized he was still studying her intently. Her pulse thudded in her veins, more from trepidation than excitement. It wasn’t the first time he’d gazed at her like that. With a spark of hope alighting his handsome face.

  “Thank you for being so persistent,” Celine blurted.

  A furrow formed above his brow. “You’re welcome?”

  “You know what I mean.” She waved her gloved hand about like a ninny. “I appreciate you inviting me on a stroll every night, especially after I refused you all those times.” Celine realized what she was saying as she said it. “I mean . . . well, putain de merde,” she swore. “Never mind.”

  Michael laughed. The way the sound rumbled off his lips was . . . pleasant. Even though her memory was worse than that of a mayfly, she seemed to recall he didn’t laugh that often.

  And it was nice when he did.

  Warmth flooded Celine’s cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she muttered.

  “The swearing or the bit about repeatedly refusing my invitations?”

  “Both?”

  His laughter continued. “I like that you’re no longer careful about what you say to me or how you say it.”

  Celine frowned. She knew Michael meant it as a compliment, but it nonetheless reminded her how much she’d lost that night at Saint Louis Cathedral. Indeed there were times she felt she’d misplaced intrinsic pieces of herself.

  Exasperation clung to her like a rain-soaked cloak.

  Enough of this nonsense. She was here tonight, safe, in the company of a fine young gentleman who’d saved her life, at great peril to his own. Celine should be thankful to have forgotten the ordeal, thereby escaping the horrors that would have darkened her days and haunted her nights for Lord knows how long.

  It was just . . . she should recall something of what happened to her, should she not?

  The sorts of injuries she’d sustained were not commonplace. The scars on her neck were still pink and puckered. Her chest smarted anytime she took a deep breath, as if a slender blade had been shoved between her ribs.

  When Celine was twelve, she’d burned herself pulling a loaf of bread from the iron stove in her family’s flat. She bore the scar of that awful morning to this day: a thin red line on the back of her left hand, near her wrist. It served as a constant reminder to proceed with caution around fire of any sort.

  She would not have learned that lesson, save for that scar.

  “How was your first full week working at the new shop?” Michael asked in a conversational tone.

  Celine brightened, thankful for the change in subject. “I have to admit it’s been a welcome distraction. And it’s wonderful to see everything come together so brilliantly.”

  “Well, it was an excellent idea to bring Parisian fashion to New Orleans, especially for the everyday woman.” Michael grinned, admiration warming his expression. “You are to be commended in all respects.”

  “I appreciate your praise, but the truth is, I could not have managed it without Pippa’s and Antonia’s help. What they’ve accomplished in the last few weeks is nothing short of a miracle.” As Celine spoke, she and Michael passed a millinery, the shopkeeper tipping his hat at them. “And of course none of this would be possible without Mademoiselle Valmont’s generous patronage.”

  A frown shaded Michael’s face, there and gone in an instant. “Have you spoken at all with your mysterious benefactress?”

  “She has corresponded with me via letters, and promises to visit as soon as she returns from Charleston.”

  They strolled half a block farther before Michael replied, his tawny features lost in thought. Celine could see him weighing his words in the same manner with which he adjusted his stride to match hers. Calculated, yet concerned.

  “Do you have any . . . recollections of Miss Valmont, prior to the ordeal?” His question was careful. Far too careful to be posed out of mere curiosity.

  Celine contemplated asking him why. Michael never seemed pleased whenever anyone mentioned the dress shop’s silent investor. “I know I designed a masquerade costume for Mademoiselle Valmont, but I’m still unable to recall most of our interactions. And nothing worthy of note, beyond her being fashionable and funny and richer than King Midas.” She tamped down a wave of frustration. “Nevertheless, I’m glad she liked my work enough to support our venture. She was also the one who put me in contact last week with my newest employee, Eloise Henri, who has been a godsend when it comes to managing the finances.” She forced herself to grin. “I balance books as well as I bake cakes, which is to say not at all.”

  “Eloise . . . Henri?” Michael quirked his mouth to one side.

  “Yes, do you know her?”

  He paused, then shook his head.

  He’s lying, Celine thought, taken aback by the realization. It was unlike Michael to be anything less than forthright. Sometimes he offered his unsolicited opinion to his own detriment.

  She considered him sidelong. “Why are you—”

  “Do you trust Miss Valmont, Celine?” Michael interrupted.

  “Should I not?”

  “I just think it would be better if you didn’t rely on someone so . . . mysterious.”

  “Michael, do you know something about her that should give me pause?”

  Another hesitation. “No.” He brushed his free hand over his wavy dark hair, mussing it.

  He was lying again, and it irked Celine enough to respond uncharitably. “Don’t worry yourself over it. I won’t be relying on anyone for long. With Mademoiselle Valmont’s vouching for us and Eloise’s head for numbers, the bank has extended the shop an excellent line of credit, despite Pippa’s concerns they would not wish to support a business helmed solely by women.” Her laughter was bitter. “Perish the thought of lending money to any member of the fairer sex!”

  Michael cleared his throat. “I suppose it is unusual.”

  “But as a man, how would you know?”

  He blinked, but not before Celine saw the hurt in his eyes. A wave of regret spread through her chest. What was she doing? Of all people, Michael did not deserve her spite. From the minute Celine had woken in the hospital bed, he’d been there, attending to her every need, reading to her to keep her company, and bringing her bowls of his grandmother’s delicious soup.

  Celine halted beneath a shop awning. Michael paused alongside her, ever patient. Steady, like the mast of a ship in a storm. “That was unkind of me. I’m sorry, Michael. You are the last person who should be subjected to the worst of my moods.”

  “You know I don’t mind.” His tone was gentle. “You’ve been through an awful ordeal. I count myself lucky that you’re here with me tonight, hale and hearty.”

  Celine swallowed. Nodded. “Maybe a guardian ang
el is watching over me, which would be a nice change of pace,” she said, attempting to joke, her free hand fidgeting with the folds of her ruby-red skirts. It was odd. She’d never had a penchant for fiddling with things before, but she’d noticed herself doing it more and more in the last few weeks. As if her fingers searched for something to hold. Something to anchor her, like she was a boat unmoored, set adrift.

  Again, Michael seemed to sense her mood without Celine having to say a word. He gripped the hand she had wound around his arm as they resumed their stroll. “At the risk of sounding ridiculous, please know I am here if ever you have need of me. No matter the hour or the circumstance.”

  “I know, Michael. I know.” Celine should say more. She should tell him she would not be alive if he hadn’t come to save her. That her gratitude knew no bounds. That she wished she were ready to return his feelings, in all ways.

  But it would be wrong to let Michael believe she wanted what he wanted. At least at this time. It was just too soon after . . . everything.

  So instead Celine offered him a smile. His arm brushed against hers as he drew even closer, heat flooding his gaze. A tingling sensation raced down her spine, followed by a flare of surprise. Perhaps this was the attraction she had been waiting to feel. That thrill of being desired by the one she desired. Of seeing and being seen.

  The tingling sensation unfolded in her stomach. It warmed and spread. And then something gripped her heart, stealing the breath from her body.

  An image flashed before her eyes. A pool of blood stretching around the hem of her black taffeta skirts. Her fingers stained crimson, gripping a lifeless hand, a signet ring glistening on a gentleman’s finger, blood marring its etched gold surface.

  Save him. Please. Save him.

  Celine could hear herself screaming. She stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk, causing the people at her back to mutter beneath their breaths as they skirted around her. She closed her eyes. A shudder drew the blades of her shoulders together.

  “Celine?” Michael held a steadying arm about her waist. Celine stumbled, her pulse racing in her temples. The smell of incense and melting candlewax wound through her nostrils. Fear raked its icy hand across her skin.

  Save him. Please. Do we have a deal?

  “Celine.” Michael pulled her close.

  Her eyes fluttered open, her chin tilting up. Michael wrapped both arms around her, his touch—his warmth—unfaltering. Lines marred his forehead, his eyes glittering with worry.

  “Are you all right?” he whispered.

  “I think . . .” She hardened her voice to ward away the tremble. “I think I should return home now.”

  Michael nodded without question, tucking her protectively beneath his arm before leading them away.

  Celine’s head pounded, her fingers pressed to her temple. Her vision blurred along the edges, then caught on the wheels of a carriage as it splashed through a nearby puddle. The water silvered, then darkened, and for a beat of time, Celine saw a pair of steel-grey eyes rippling across its surface. Then they vanished like smoke in the wind.

  Michael steadied her. Grounded her. With his help, Celine hurried down the lane.

  What was happening? To whom was she begging?

  And who was the faceless boy with the bloody ring?

  A soothing voice warmed through her mind, its accent foreign. Deep. It bid her to relax. Lulled her, like a song sung from a mother’s lips. She allowed it to settle around her thoughts, her pulse starting to unwind.

  She welcomed it. Anything was better than these sharp stabs of agonizing fear.

  Wasn’t it?

  BASTIEN

  There is a moment that forever marks your life as before and after.

  For a vampire, I suppose this moment is obvious. But I do not wish to be defined by the loss of my humanity, any more than I wish to be defined by the countless faces I am forced to wear each day. The face of the obedient son. The benevolent brother. The cool-headed leader. The vengeful vampire. The lost soul. The forgotten lover.

  The trouble with wearing so many faces is that you forget which one is real.

  I’d rather my life be defined by the things I should have done. The words I should have spoken. The moments I should have savored. The lives I should have protected.

  I should have walked away from the ring that night in the swamp two weeks ago, just like I should have turned away the instant I saw Celine walking along the opposite side of Rue Royale.

  But I hungered for more of her, even from a distance.

  I knew it was Celine the moment before I noticed the flash of her brilliant red dress. The night I first saw her months ago, I was struck by a line from a poem Boone often recites in the glow of a full moon:

  She walks in beauty, like the night . . .

  At the time, I found it ridiculous. Idiotic to think of poetry when confronted with a pretty face. Poetry was the stuff of foolish fancy. And I was not a fool.

  I think of that poem often now. In my delirium after the fight with Cambion in the swamp, the last two lines ran through my head in an endless refrain:

  A mind at peace with all below, / A heart whose love is innocent!

  I am neither at peace nor innocent, no matter how much I may wish it. Such things are the demesne of mortals, not of demons. In moments to myself, I still feel the inky poison from Cambion’s claws burn beneath my skin. It would have killed a human within seconds. Perhaps I should feel gratitude that it did no more than incapacitate me for a single evening.

  Jae takes hold of my left arm in an ironlike grip. “Bastien.” It is a low warning.

  I know he has seen Celine strolling toward us on the opposite side of the street, her arm looped through that of my childhood friend Michael Grimaldi.

  Boone draws closer, grinning like a shark, his eyes bright. “Let’s visit Jackson Square and ogle the silly tourists playing the Minister’s Cat.” He jostles my shoulder with his. “We can save those murderous looks for fairer game.”

  I shake them both off, my eyes locked on the pair striding ever closer.

  Jae stands before me, blocking my view. “If you don’t leave, I will have to remove you by force.”

  “Try,” I whisper, stepping closer. “Since I feel I’m owed at least this moment of grace.” I echo Odette’s words from the night I was first turned.

  Another moment. And another. My life is reduced to nothing but these stolen moments.

  Boone crowds us. “If Bastien stays to the shadows, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him seeing her from a distance.”

  Jae glowers at him. I use the distraction to slip into a nearby space between two narrow buildings. When Jae and Boone shift into position behind me, I tilt my Panama hat lower on my brow and continue watching Celine and Michael walk down Royale.

  At first, it is not anger I feel. Rather it is a singular kind of pain. One lanced by amusement. I stole a kiss from the girl Michael fancied, those many years ago at cotillion. Fitting that I should stand by and watch as he steals the heart of the only girl I’ve ever loved.

  Michael speaks to Celine as if they share a secret. In return, she offers him a smile, and even from a distance, I can see how much it lightens his soul. He leans closer, and the demon inside me wants to take him apart like a clock, piece by piece, cog by cog. It is the same demon that almost killed Cambion in the swamp. The one my uncle wants to take control, no matter how much I might wish to be rid of it once and for all.

  Michael’s fingers flex at his sides as they struggle to overcome an unspoken emotion.

  Only a fool would deny the obvious.

  Michael Grimaldi is in love with Celine Rousseau. It is in every word he speaks, every glance he spares, every tilt of his head toward hers.

  I swallow the anger, the tendons in my knuckles pulled tight.

  Though I have been forged in fury
, I have no right to dwell in it.

  I need to unmake this anger. To unmake who I have become. To seek out Sunan the Immortal Unmaker, whose name has haunted me since I first heard it in Cambion’s thoughts.

  An immortal unmaker. One who could return me to my mortal form. The idea of such power taunts me, as it did my mother.

  The irony of this is not lost on me.

  Michael and Celine walk past us on the opposite side of the street. The instant she steps into my direct sight line, Celine stops. Appears to sway as if she might faint. I realize I have moved into the lamplight like a moth drawn to a killing flame when Jae takes hold of my shoulder, returning me to darkness.

  “Sébastien.” Though Jae’s voice is firm, there is sympathy in the way he says my name.

  I don’t care. I tug at his grasp until he is forced to restrain me.

  Something is wrong with Celine. I can see it in Michael’s eyes. In the way he has to hold her upright, as if she were some kind of delicate flower. A feeling I know Celine would despise.

  I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth, the muscles in my chest straining against Jae’s iron grasp. Celine tells Michael she wishes to return home. I turn to follow them, unconcerned with everything around me.

  Boone takes hold of my other shoulder. “I’ll make sure she is safely ensconced in her home.” His grip hardens. “You should remain here with Jae.”

  I know he is right. Instead I spin about, my nostrils flaring. “I’ll be damned if—”

  “This is not a suggestion, Sébastien,” Boone interrupts. “Under no circumstances are you to learn where Celine lives. This is not about what you need. This is about her protection.” Lines etch across his forehead. “For God’s sake, think with your head and not your heart, brother. Her memories of you are lost. You are no longer of her world. What could you hope to bring her now but pain and misery?”

  The rage turns bitter in my throat. I say nothing, only glare at him, my anguish a yoke around my neck.