The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  It sounded like the roar of a beast. Like the howl of a barely leashed creature relishing the spoils of his hunt. Its echo shook the very ground beneath Celine.

  No. Evil did not look the way she’d imagined it would.

  It looked far worse. It was hate wrapped in the guise of a friend.

  Celine fought back a tide of anguish, despondency settling around her, its shadow closing in.

  Before it could take root, she lurched to her feet and began to run. Her teeth chattering in her skull, she grabbed hold of the first pew, using it to propel her down the aisle toward the doors, expecting Nigel to stop her at any moment. Her bound hands itched to retrieve the dagger at her side. Itched to defend herself. To drive the silver deep into the place his heart used to be.

  But once she unsheathed the blade, she would have only a single chance to use it.

  Now was not that time.

  Soft laughter trailed behind Celine, its echo searing through her soul. She could not stop to question why Nigel wasn’t chasing her. There was no time to idle in curiosity. Choking back the rising bile, Celine continued racing down the aisle, her body taxed by every footstep.

  Why was she so goddamned weak?

  The doors to the cathedral stood sentinel less than ten paces away. All that mattered now was escape.

  A rush of air gusted past Celine, her sight blurring from the breeze. She blinked, a cry of astonishment escaping her lips.

  Nigel was standing before the cathedral doors. Only a second before, he’d been at the opposite end of the church.

  Her senses dazed, Celine stumbled to a halt, grasping a pew to steady herself. “How?” She despised the way her voice trembled. “What are you?”

  A beat passed in awful silence. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “I thought you’d never ask.” His words were lethal in their calm.

  Nigel began to change. His eyes darkened to black, the color spreading like a drop of ink through water. His features sharpened, the tips of his ears tapering to points.

  Celine gripped the pew in her hands, swallowing her cries. Nigel’s teeth had begun to lengthen, his canines resembling those of a wolf, gleaming like daggers in the low light of the tapers.

  Panic gripped Celine’s stomach. Acid collected on her tongue, its sharpness washing down her throat. She took a step backward, her heart hurling against her chest, demanding to be set free.

  Then Nigel blurred toward her. One moment he was ten paces away. The next he loomed a hairsbreadth before Celine, as if he’d manipulated the air around him, like a ghost or a spirit or a demon of the night.

  Celine clasped her bound hands before her, as if she were in prayer. She leaned against the pew, struggling to hold herself upright. Hoping her perceived weakness would grant her an opportunity to draw the dagger from its sheath at her hip.

  “Ask me again what I am.” The scruff on Nigel’s chin gleamed like molten copper, his eyes chips of obsidian.

  Celine could not respond. Nor could she look away.

  With a soft laugh, Nigel grabbed her wrists in an iron vise, pulling her against his chest. Then he leaned forward and licked the wound on her neck. Celine choked back a scream. When he tilted his head to the cathedral’s rafters—to the brilliant frescoes of angels overcoming their demon brethren—his tongue was stained crimson with her blood. A sound of supreme satisfaction rose from his throat.

  As if he found her blood delicious. As if he relished in meals of human blood.

  Vampire.

  A brutal shriek burst from Celine’s lips. She tried to free her hands from her bonds so that she might grab the dagger at her hip, but Nigel laughed at her once more, reveling in her struggle. Toying with her as if she were nothing but a plaything.

  “That’s enough, Nigel.”

  The vicious admonition came from Celine’s back. To the right side of the altar.

  An air of triumph filled the space when Nigel glanced over her shoulder. He whipped Celine around, his skin vibrating with anticipation.

  As if this had been his plan all along.

  Bastien walked down the aisle toward them, his revolver trained on Nigel, his expression hewn from ice.

  Nigel wrapped an arm about her waist, pulling Celine toward him, as if she were both a possession and a shield. Amusement tinged his voice. “The reckless Romeo has finally come to rescue his foolish Juliet. Tell me, Lord Lion, does our keeper know you’re here?” His black eyes narrowed to slits. “What will Nicodemus say when he realizes you’ve risked his legacy for the life of a mortal girl?”

  Bastien ignored him. “He won’t harm you again, Celine,” he said, his tone even, his words soft. “Not if he wishes to see another moon.”

  Nigel’s arm tightened around her waist, drawing her back against the cool marble of his chest. “Don’t lie to your love, Sébastien,” he said. “For I haven’t had my fill, and her blood tastes sweeter than sun-warmed honey.”

  The beat of her heart thudding in her ears, Celine nodded to Bastien, her bound hands inching toward her pocket.

  With a subtle shake of his head, Bastien took a step forward, his thumb cocking the hammer of his revolver. “Your quarrel isn’t with her. Let Celine go, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Perhaps all I want is to drain her dry before your eyes. To watch you live the rest of your short, godforsaken life as the Ghost.”

  The tips of Celine’s fingers grazed the edge of her pocket, her breaths quickening in her throat.

  Bastien’s lips pursed together, something flashing in the depths of his eyes. “Don’t waste a winning hand on such foolishness. No one goes to all this trouble for something so small and petty. I know we can make a deal.” His smile was cold. Unforgiving. “Name your terms.”

  “You are in no position to make demands. Put down your gun, Bastien,” Nigel said. “And perhaps I’ll agree to deal in good faith.”

  “Fuck your good faith.” Bastien’s smile widened. “Let her go. Now.” He took another step forward.

  “Aim true.” Nigel’s icy fingers wrapped around Celine’s neck, sending a shiver between her shoulder blades. “You may succeed in wounding me, but not before I rip the veins from her throat.”

  Celine’s fingers closed around the handle of the silver dagger.

  Before any of them could make another move, Nigel lifted Celine off her feet as if she weighed no more than a feather. Then he sank his teeth into her neck. Terror raked its sharp claws across Celine, the pain almost blinding her as she struggled to wrench his auburn hair from his scalp, her fingers flailing against a wall of stone.

  “Enough!” Bastien commanded. For the first time, Celine sensed fear in his voice. “Let her go, and I’ll put down my revolver.”

  Nigel licked his lips before he replied. “Drop it first.”

  Bastien said nothing. He disengaged the bolt on his revolver, though he did not lower it.

  “Do it now, or I’ll finish her off,” Nigel taunted. “It won’t take much. She has so little left to give. Her heart slows with each passing moment.”

  “Bastien,” Celine whispered, letting her posture cave in on itself, hoping Nigel would mistake the gesture for helplessness. The same kind of helplessness her attacker had expected that night in the atelier.

  But Celine Rousseau was not helpless. While there was still breath left in her body, she intended to fight. Nigel would not escape this church unscathed. She swore it to the heavens.

  Trembling uncontrollably, Celine eyed Bastien sidelong, her fingers brushing across her right hip. “Bastien, please,” she repeated, as if she were begging him to save her.

  Though Bastien winced, he nodded once. Letting her know he understood her unspoken directive.

  “It appears we are at an impasse, Sébastien,” Nigel said. “What do you propose we do now? Fight to the death like civilized monsters?” He ca
ught a trickle of blood dripping from Celine’s neck and brought it to his mouth. “Some of us are better monsters.”

  “Some of us are better men.” Bastien’s fingers tightened around his revolver. Then he pointed its barrel toward the floor.

  Nigel began lowering Celine to her feet. Dropping his guard. She waited for the instant her toes found purchase. Prepared herself to stab him in the throat, just as she’d been instructed to do the night Bastien gave her the dagger. All the while, Celine continued trembling, as if fear had found refuge in her bones. As if she were the pathetic little lamb Nigel had expected all along.

  She was no lamb. She was a lion.

  Bastien set down his revolver. Unfolded to standing as Nigel released Celine.

  The next instant, the vampire blurred toward Bastien in a frenzy, his fangs tearing into Bastien’s throat.

  Celine hurled herself at Nigel’s back, the dagger in her hand. Her fury past the point of reason, Celine stabbed Nigel at the base of his head and the side of his neck, over and over again, a snarl on her lips.

  With an inhuman roar, the vampire whipped around, dark blood spurting from his wounds. He flung Celine through the air, her shoulders slamming into the edge of the pews, knocking the wind from her lungs and cracking something in her ribs.

  Nigel staggered, the silver blade embedded in the side of his throat. Rage contorting his face, he stalked toward Celine, blood gushing down his body, his hands outstretched.

  A breeze raced through the nave, the sound of beating wings trailing in its shadow. Then something grabbed Nigel, snatching him from sight, the shrieks of a wounded beast fading into the darkness.

  Her body all but broken, Celine struggled to her feet, seeking a point of clarity beyond the pain. A sharp sensation radiated through her chest, her vision swimming as she looked forward. Bastien leaned against a wide column of marble, one hand pressed beneath his ear, a strange expression in his eyes.

  He stumbled to his knees.

  Then Celine saw the cascade of crimson dripping from his neck.

  “Bastien.” She rushed toward him, catching him before he struck the stone floor. Crouching by his side, Celine pressed her bound hands atop his, trying to stanch the gaping wound at his throat. Blood oozed from between their fingertips, flowing fast and hot, like a river bursting through fissures in a dam.

  Several brushes of air gathered on all sides of them. Celine did not have to look to know who was there. The rest of the Court had arrived, not a moment too soon.

  Bastien opened his mouth, the light in his gaze fierce. He tried to speak, but a trail of blood streamed from his mouth.

  “Don’t talk.” Celine held him close. “You’re going to be fine. Nicodemus will be here soon. Hold on to your strength.” She placed pressure on his wound until the tips of her fingers turned white, but Bastien’s blood only flowed faster, its warmth soaking through to her skin.

  A small smile curved his lips. With his other hand, he gripped her fingers tightly.

  In his eyes, Celine saw a sky filled with stars.

  She saw a boy who would die for her, just as she would kill for him.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Celine repeated, her words tremulous, tears trickling from the tip of her nose. “It won’t end like this. I know it won’t. I haven’t even told you I’m falling in love with you.” Someone was weeping softly behind them. “Damn it, don’t cry,” she yelled over her shoulder. “There’s nothing to cry about. He’s going to be fine. We are all going to leave here together. And I will love Bastien until the last star falls from the sky.” Her voice broke. “Where is Nicodemus?” Celine shouted, her words resonating with imperiousness. “Find him at once.”

  The goddess within her smiled a sad smile.

  And Bastien’s eyes fell shut, his hand coming to rest on the floor beside Celine’s feet.

  MANY PATHS TO HAPPINESS

  Nicodemus Saint Germain stood over the dying body of his nephew.

  The last surviving member of his line. The sole reason for his existence. Everything he’d striven for his entire mortal life—his legacy—was draining onto a church floor before his very eyes.

  Fitting. For he’d destroyed hundreds of lives over the centuries. So many deaths. So much loss.

  There would always be a reckoning. Time had taught Nicodemus that inescapable truth.

  “Please,” Celine begged, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutched his nephew’s head to her chest, blood pooling in a widening circle around them. “Save him.”

  The weight on Nicodemus’ soul had already begun to settle. “No,” he said simply. Brokenly. It had been the same after he’d lost Bastien’s sister, Émilie. After their parents had paid for Nicodemus’ greatest mistake.

  “I refuse to accept that,” Celine shouted. “Do something. Don’t let him die.”

  To his right and left, Nicodemus felt his immortal children stirring. Boone openly wept. Farther away, Jae stared at a point of nothingness, his features wan, his fingers stained by the evidence of Nigel’s final reckoning. A cloud of anger surrounded Hortense, Madeleine swiping a lone tear from beneath her sister’s chin. Along the periphery, Odette inched forward as if to subvert his orders, her sable eyes wide. “Stop,” Nicodemus commanded. They all straightened like soldiers. “I will not be defied in my wishes. Sébastien was always meant to live and die as a mortal. Nothing is worth the price of this curse,” he said, his tone firm. “I swore to myself I would never turn a member of my human family into a bloodthirsty monster.”

  “It’s worth any price in the world if Bastien lives,” Celine pleaded.

  A hard light shone in Nicodemus’ eyes. “Sébastien has already proven he is too weak for this life. He did not heed my warnings when he fell in love with a mortal girl, and now his life is forfeit. If he were one of us, it would be the same. Our enemies would exploit these weaknesses. And there would always be something left for him to lose.”

  “Then protect him. Make him stronger. Just save him,” she cried.

  Nicodemus stared down at the cursed girl. The cause of his nephew’s undoing. He knew Celine loved Sébastien. Could see the truth of it in her haunted gaze. And it left him cold. Bleak. Unfeeling. “I stayed away so my enemies would not be drawn to Sébastien. So they would not be tempted. I surrounded him with my immortal children so that they would always protect him. I sacrificed everything I loved to keep him safe.” Nicodemus inhaled, a knot of pain taking shape around the emptiness in his heart. “My family has always been my weakness. And now my enemies have destroyed me with it.” He shook his head. “Love is an affliction to our kind. I will not remake Bastien only to watch him fall prey to it again. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Celine whispered. “What can I say that will make you save him?”

  “Nothing. Whatever we are in our human lives becomes magnified by immortality. What Bastien loves now will be an even greater weakness.” Nicodemus studied Celine, watching his words shatter her last hope. “Forget all this, child. Live your life apart from this wretched world.” An approximation of sympathy laced his features. Nicodemus turned toward his immortal children, ready to take leave. To sit with his grief, pondering all he had lost tonight. To flee this cursed city forever.

  “What if I promised to forget Bastien?” Celine said from behind him.

  Nicodemus did not move.

  She stumbled to her feet in a rustle of black taffeta, the wound at her neck filling the air with an intoxicating scent. “You told me you could help me forget. That Bastien would respect my choice. If I forgot him—if I was no longer a weakness—would you save him?”

  Nicodemus took a step toward the doors of the cathedral.

  “You said there were many paths to happiness,” she continued. “If I can choose a different one, will you not do the same?”

  He stopped. Turned to look at Marcelin
e Rousseau over his shoulder. Her hands were still bound, her body covered in blood, a great deal of it her own. Still the girl refused to capitulate. A part of Nicodemus admired her stubbornness. Her unwillingness to fold in the face of such odds.

  His gaze fell on his nephew’s battered body. On the last signs of life lingering within. Sighing in defeat, Nicodemus looked away.

  “Bastien is the last of your kin. Are you ready to walk this earth alone?” Celine yelled. “Because I would rather lose him forever than watch him die.”

  Nicodemus met the eyes of his immortal children. Saw the weight of his loss reflected in their faces.

  No. It is not meant to be.

  He straightened and began walking away.

  “Nicodemus!” Celine screamed, the anguish in her voice soaring to the rafters above. “Nicodemus Saint Germain!”

  Again Nicodemus stopped, the echo of his family’s name circling beneath the frescoed ceilings of the cathedral, the sound of her pain stirring the shreds of his heart. Bringing it back to life.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  LOVE IS NOT LOVE

  The first of my people hailed from Carthage.

  From a time when blood reigned supreme. When monsters and mercenaries ruled the known world. This was the beginning of the Brotherhood.

  Not much has changed since then.

  I stand along the pier, gazing toward the waters of the Mississippi, at peace for the first time in a decade.

  When I first heard the news that Sébastien Saint Germain had been struck a fatal blow in the skirmish at the cathedral, strange pangs coiled through my chest. I know now it was the last vestiges of my weak human heart finally dying so that I might embrace the better, stronger version of myself.