by Renee Ahdieh
Celine didn’t pause to dry her face. She returned to the canopied bed and drew the covers to her chin, letting the wetness soak through the sheets, cooling her heated skin.
Her gaze settled above the large fireplace parallel to the foot of the four-poster bed.
It had been cut from a solid block of Italian marble, the screen before it fashioned of meshed iron and gold. Hanging above the tiered ledge was a portrait of a young man of no more than twenty-five, a devilish whorl of black hair falling across his forehead and the knowing glint of a pirate in his eyes. Though his coloring was much fairer than Bastien’s—and his face possessed a distinctly European bent—Celine could detect a vague resemblance, most especially in the cut of his jaw. In the unmistakable arrogance of his amber gaze.
A gold skeleton key rested in his palm, a crimson ribbon dangling from a loop at its end. A young man of obvious means, who possessed the key to countless doors.
How droll.
But the most striking thing about the portrait was its palette. The subject’s skin and features had all been rendered in believable tones, but everything else stretched the notion. The shadows were too bright a blue, the edges a blur, the corners splashed with ochre paint as if the artist had been on the cusp of madness.
Celine stared at the painting for a time. Then closed her eyes. She felt as if she were being watched. As if the portrait’s gaze followed her, like the stories of the Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece, the Mona Lisa. She decided to focus on the taper beside her head, which dripped wax down its brass holder in steady streams, until the gleaming candelabra appeared as if it were weeping.
Another disconcerting sight. Everywhere Celine looked, something sinister sprang to life. She thought about waiting until the sun rose to return to sleep. Until the rays of white-gold light seeped onto her silken sheets. The sight of dawn should bring with it a measure of peace.
Why did Celine not feel as if it would?
Her head sank into the sumptuous pillow, her body restless, the eyes at the foot of her bed taunting.
Disturbed by the sense of being watched while she slept, Celine drew the wine-red curtains around the bed and swallowed herself in the comfort of darkness.
HIVER, 1872
RUE BIENVILLE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
From my deserted street corner, I watch the expensive curtains on the uppermost floor of the Hotel Dumaine shift to one side. The face of a stunning young woman with sharp green eyes and hair the color of spilled ink peers through the opening. Only to vanish in the next breath, the heavy damask falling back into place.
I smile.
Fitting that they would take her to Nicodemus’ rooms. A chamber suited for a Sun King, replete with a garish display of wealth, the kind to which he has grown accustomed over the years. An homage to Versailles at its best. Or at its worst, depending on one’s perspective.
No matter. Nicodemus is rarely there now. He knows better than to come to New Orleans and tempt his fate. He has lost much in the last few years.
But I have lost more. And there is still much for us both to lose. Memories and hopes, wishes for a future that can never be replaced once it is gone. By now, Nicodemus has undoubtedly been summoned from the safety of his New York lair in response to the rash of recent murders in New Orleans. He will return to the city soon, just as I have foreseen.
Precisely in time for my final performance.
Satisfaction winds through my limbs, causing me to drop my guard for a moment. All is unfolding according to plan. I relish this twinkle of time before I allow the rage to collect in my chest and color my vision. Then I breathe deeply of the briny air. Let the dampness fill my lungs as my heightened senses stretch, soaking in every detail in my vicinity. A horse nearby with an aching tooth, smelling of blood and sweet decay. Crumbs of rye bread swirling about in the gutter, their perfume sour and pungent. A dead rat lingering in the corner of a nearby sewer, the maggots on it wriggling beneath a beam of moonlight.
And—just around the bend—the beating of hearts. One old. Two young. If I had to guess, the younger ones are engaged in an act of lust, their hearts racing in tandem with their sighs.
The old heart thuds slowly. Steadily. Beating toward its inexorable end.
Another creature of the night draws close. My muscles tense and my teeth lengthen on instinct, like the claws of a cat. I re-assure myself when I realize it is a familiar scent. One I need not fear.
I continue breathing deeply until my shoulders fall. Then I look once more to the top floor of the Dumaine. Another haunt I know well . . . down to its secret doors and hidden passageways.
Not long ago, I visited these rooms under cover of night, taking in the world of my enemies, knowing I would face them all soon. I even chose to lie upon Nicodemus’ bed and admire his collection of books, the shelves of which crown the towering space like a glittering tiara. I pushed the ladders along their oiled casters and marveled at the gleaming motions before pocketing one of my favorite tomes, a first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. Pity I missed the chance to bid my beloved Alexandre a final farewell.
Contentment ripples across my skin at the wash of memories.
Nicodemus’ bedchamber is a fitting place to leave my next mark.
I linger in my delicious reverie along my street corner, a pleasant hum forming behind my lips. A song from a brighter, happier time.
A beggar passes by, her hands outstretched for an alm, her shawl a tattered rag flapping in the breeze. Her heart thumps in a recognizable pattern. The old soul I sensed moments ago. I reach into my pocket to offer her everything I possess, a small fortune by anyone’s standards.
I have no need of money. What I need, I take. Currency is not important to a creature like me. I do not seek to rest beneath a golden canopy or bathe in a roomful of polished marble.
I seek only to survive.
No. That is a lie. I wish to thrive. To see those who would bring an end to my existence die a slow, agonizing death. After they witness everything they value crumple to pieces before them.
It is only fitting.
“Bless you,” the beggar woman says, a sibilant sound whistling from between her handful of teeth.
“May the Lord keep you,” I reply with a smile.
My voice catches her off guard. I’m unsurprised by this. Its rich music lulls mortals closer in a way that never ceases to amuse me. It helps greatly in salving the path toward their inevitable demise. In a way, I would argue we are among the most perfect of predators. We mime the mannerisms of our prey. We walk among them, unknown and unseen. By the time they realize they are caught in our web, it is far too late. The transformation is the click of a tumbler, the turn of a handle.
The end of a life. Here one moment. Gone the next.
There is only one other kind of creature that rivals us in such a way. Or perhaps two, though I find most woodland folk genuinely annoying, with all their talk of glamour and promises. With their gleeful tales of tricking mortals into making disastrous bargains. Why would I have need of anyone’s firstborn child? A mewling infant is a nuisance, not a reward. And only true monsters would make meals of such a thing.
Besides that, I do not bargain with lesser beings. I take. After which I make the necessary amends, so that I might one day thrive. It is a blessing to even hope for such a future, given the stains of our past.
I remember the last time I watched a vampire die.
She was a vampire I loved beyond words, though I knew I should not, for I realized it would amount to nothing but heartbreak. But when one finds a kindred spirit, how is it possible to turn away? These connections are so rare, even for immortals. For me, they are the food of life.
I watched as they threw Marin into a narrow pit. Those in my coterie bore witness from the sidelines as cloaked sentries. I buried my affection for her deep behind my heart. Locked it t
ightly in my chest, so that none of our ranks would know how much I loved a creature who flouted our rules and treated the gifts given to her as nothing more than tokens of appreciation from a dark god.
It was one of the things I appreciated most about her. Marin never took herself too seriously.
After they threw her in the pit, it took a moment for her to regain her bearings. Only a moment. She realized where she was the instant she looked up.
I remember seeing her face as the knowledge passed through her, thankful she could not discern me from the shadows.
She was terrified. Her eyes turned to stone, leached of all light.
But she laughed. Defiant to the end.
She called out to us, knowing we stood on the fringes under cover of darkness, safe in our self-righteousness. Secure in the cloak of our shared hatred.
Marin hurled terrible names in our direction. Demanded to know what we sought to prove by putting an end to her existence.
I call it an existence because—to this day—I do not believe what she lived was a life. Hunting under cover of night. In constant war with beasts of the Otherworld. In constant worry about whom to call friend and whom to call foe. It was not a life because Marin never longed for anything more. She was complacent. She learned nothing in all her years.
And in the end, this complacency failed her. She should have betrayed me before I betrayed her. She never should have been my friend. I never should have loved her. It brought me nothing but pain in the end. The reminder of her skin, soft and hard all at once, like velvet and steel. The taste of her lips upon mine, ever so bittersweet.
But no matter. That is a story for a different night.
Not long after Marin was thrown into the pit, the sun began to shift over the opening of the narrow chasm, slipping in place of the waning moonlight. We all watched in silence while its rays streamed toward the stone floor. We listened as Marin laughed louder, pressing her body against the stacked stones of the cylindrical chamber.
She cried for help in the last moments. Screamed through her laughter, begging for a reprieve. Howling for rescue, her song a broken melody.
Her shrieks haunted me for years. The smell of her flesh as it burned is a memory that still turns my stomach, and not much can do that anymore. Alas, fire will never be my friend. In the years that followed, I hardened myself to such sights. These punishments were necessary if my kind intended to survive. If we meant to establish our place in this world.
After Marin’s death, her coven scattered to the far corners of the earth. Every so often I would hear tales of one of its ranks stalking one of ours in retaliation.
A fool’s errand. True vengeance does not happen in a moment. It happens over time. The careful doling out of chips, the assiduous display of self-control. When I reap what I have sown, it will be in safety. It will be a breath to savor. And I will be far away when it finally comes.
I turn from my lovely street corner, moving toward a narrow alleyway shrouded in thick darkness. A place in which my kind have thrived for centuries, across all the continents of the world.
I sense a familiar presence though it moves without sound. I wait until it draws near. Close enough that I am the only one to hear his words.
“Master,” he says, his eyes glowing like embers in the night, “I did as you asked.”
I nod, my features cool. Aloof. Even through the layers of darkness, it is impossible to miss the adoration in his gaze. The almost feverish desire to garner my approval. “And the girl?” I continue.
“She is no longer welcome at the convent.” He practically vibrates with the pleasure of delivering this news.
Irritating how much he craves my affection. Like a dog begging for its master’s touch. “Good,” I say. “And the Court?”
Amusement tinges his words. “They know of her plight. A member of their thieving ranks was sent to her rescue.”
Delicious. It will make my vengeance that much sweeter. “Does he know?”
My faithful servant draws closer, the scruff on his youthful chin shadowing his inhuman speed. “I assume as much. The Valmont creature will undoubtedly tell him. She angers me, master. I wish to silence her now, more than ever. I wish to silence them all for what they stole from us.”
“The girl is incidental, as are the rest. The usurper alone matters.”
Silence swallows us for a breath. “Master?” he says, his voice tentative. “What is the meaning behind the Carthaginian symbols you’ve instructed me to leave?”
“It is the mark of my kind. Its deeper meaning need not concern you.” I keep my tone flat, my rejoinder final.
When my servant shifts back in frustration, his motions send a whiff of dried blood in my direction. Immortal blood. I narrow my gaze at him. “What caused you injury?”
“She—attacked me, master.”
I smirk at him. “You allowed a witless human girl to get the better of you?”
“I did not expect her to be so . . . fearless.”
“I told you already; she has met Death and lived to tell the tale. Of course she would be capable of causing you harm. You are lucky the blade was not made of silver.”
“Yes, master,” he grumbles. “Is there anything else you need of me?”
I sense his irritation. He did not wish for me to learn of his wound. Even endeavored to conceal it by changing his shirt. More than his need for revenge, this one’s pride will be his undoing. His desire to be noticed. To be deemed the savior who resurrected his fellow demons of the night—those of us banished from the Sylvan Wyld—back to their rightful place among the wintry stars.
But Lazarus was no savior, and this pathetic quim is no concern of mine. They are all expendable. Each a means to my end.
“Master?” he presses. “Is there any other service you require?”
“Not at this time.” I pause. “No. That isn’t true. I wish for you to take a bath.”
“Master?”
His puzzlement vexes me. “You may have changed your garments, but still you reek of death. They will smell it on you before they set eyes on you.” I resort to my greatest asset. The power to hold lesser beings in my thrall, with nothing more than my words. “This is your next lesson: if you wish to command respect and rise above your ranks, you must be better than your brethren. Far more cunning. Your life was stolen from you, and you have been relegated to a place of servitude far too long. But you are not a servant. You have at hand the tools to be king of this jungle. A means to bridge the divide . . . and save us all.” I let my voice fade with significance, my features high in their regard.
“A lion,” he breathes, his eyes luminous in their glory.
I nod. “But you must never forget. All the world’s a stage.”
“And all the men and women merely players,” he finishes with a flourish.
I direct him to leave with a jerk of my chin. He bows before dissolving into the darkness, his steps light with his success.
Insignificant fool.
He is eager to please me. Eager to assume the usurper’s role and settle into a position of power. It is why I singled him out not long ago. For I am also eager to take from my enemy what has been taken from me. To have him know what it feels like to have a love lost and a trust broken.
Briefly I recall the moment the betrayal tore through my soul. The realization hollowed me, the way a scorching of one’s essence is wont to do. It took years for me to collect the embers. To remake of myself something whole. After that trying time, I no longer felt sorrow for what I had lost. I only felt anger. Hatred.
Now I feel vengeance. It tastes sweet. Sweeter than all the blood and death I could ever hope to swallow.
One man in his time plays many parts.
They thought there was no reason to fear me. That I had scattered to the winds, like ashes from an urn. They sought to steal my birthright
and install a false king upon the throne.
They were wrong.
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S SOIRÉE
No. —B
Bastien had refused to meet with Celine. The insufferable cad hadn’t even bothered to display the barest measure of civility in his response.
The first five times she read his note—his initial scrawled larger than life along the bottom of the page—rage had coursed through her veins. She’d resorted to pacing across the plush carpet of her borrowed bedchambers, seething with fury.
Then—on the sixth reading—she’d composed herself. Settled her expression.
Rage was a moment. He would regret this forever.
Coolly and calmly, Celine made plans. She sent a note to Odette via the hotel’s courier, who passed along Odette’s immediate reply, informing her of Bastien’s plans for the evening.
He would be attending the Midsummer Night’s soirée hosted by a member of the Twelfth Night Revelers. The same party Celine had declined to attend when Odette had invited her at dinner only a few days ago.
That particular evening, it had not served a purpose.
But today was a different story. Celine intended for this event to serve several purposes, all in her favor. Indeed, she would frequent every ridiculous carnival function in the foreseeable future—even the blasted masquerade ball itself—if it meant rooting out the perpetrator of these ghastly crimes, which were now occurring around her once a week.
Her plan tonight was twofold: to gain answers to her many questions from the lion himself, and to inform the killer that Celine Rousseau was not going to tuck tail and run.
That she planned to stay and fight.
She took time to make herself ready. It didn’t matter that she had less than a single afternoon to procure a costume. Another quick message to Odette secured Celine a dress borrowed from a family who owed the Court “a barrelful of money.”
The resulting gown did not fit Celine well, but she spent the latter part of the day remaking it to suit the occasion, an outdoor event held alongside a manse in the wealthiest lane of the Garden District. To be sure, it was in poor taste for Celine to be attending a party of any kind, mere days after she’d been cast out of the convent.
