by Renee Ahdieh
“Pour me a glass, mon chaton,” Hortense chimed, extending an empty tumbler Jae’s way. “It’s the least you can do, after all.” Her aura seemed to simmer, like steam rising from a kettle.
Jae almost did as he was told. His arm stretched of its own volition before he caught himself and sent Hortense a frown.
She grinned like a lynx, her brows arching, the empty glass still dangling from her hand.
Jae hated how much Hortense resembled Madeleine in appearance, though the two sisters could not in truth be more different. Hortense had taken advantage of these physical similarities on countless occasions, cajoling Jae into doing her bidding with a simple bat of her eyelashes and an imploring expression.
Guilt was a powerful motivator, after all.
Odette rapped the back of Hortense’s hand like a schoolmarm. “That’s not for you.”
“Strike me again at your own peril, sorcière blanche,” Hortense said. With a glance toward the back of the room, she snorted once, a finger winding through a dark curl. “Anyway, you have enough problems maintenant.” She indicated Bastien with her chin. “Keep feeding him like a god at a banquet, and he’ll never learn how to fend for himself. It’s time he learned our ways. A whole month has passed.”
“Everything is still new to him,” Odette protested. “I want Bastien to learn how to survive on his own just as much as any of us, but—”
“You want the ne’er-do-well to learn how to survive?” Boone said, his voice low. “Then stop pampering him like a babe in swaddling.”
Outrage cut lines across Odette’s forehead. “I don’t pamper him!”
Jae braced his elbows on his knees and peered at her through his long black hair.
Odette’s features flushed, the blood she’d recently consumed warming her cheeks. “Your opinion was not wanted, chat grincheux.”
“I said nothing.” Jae sniffed.
“And you cut nonetheless.”
Boone snorted. “Perhaps he meant only to scratch.”
Odette stood in a flurry of pastel silk. “Go back to glowering at nothing, grumpy cat,” she said to Jae. “And spare us your pithy retorts, Lord Hellhound.” She aimed a withering glance at Boone.
Hortense’s laughter bounded into the smoke-filled ceiling. Another breeze coiled through the room, accompanied by the scent of French lavender and iron gall ink. Jae breathed in the familiar perfume—steeling himself—before acknowledging the Court’s newest arrival. When he turned, his eyes met the unmatched stare of Madeleine de Morny. The warmth he found there vanished the next instant. Jae cleared his throat. Looked away.
Some things could not be changed, even after more than a century.
Jae searched around him for a distraction. Fool that he was.
Sébastien Saint Germain had descended lower in his makeshift throne, a single booted foot resting on one of the chaise’s arms, his wrinkled white shirt slowly being unbuttoned by a girl whose grandmother had been a celebrated nymph of the Sylvan Vale before she was banished by its ruler, the infamous Lady of the Vale, for reasons still unknown.
Just last week, the girl—Jessamine was her name—had set her sights on the nephew of Nicodemus Saint Germain, a target unattainable to her a month prior. Nicodemus would not have permitted his only living heir to dally in the open with any young woman unless she hailed from the uppermost echelons of New Orleans society. But times—and circumstances—had changed. Bastien was no longer mortal, so the chance of siring a son to carry on the Saint Germain line was gone, along with most of their maker’s most cherished dreams.
In short, Bastien was no longer bound by anyone’s expectations. Even his own.
Distaste curled in the back of Jae’s throat as Jessamine straddled Bastien, hitching her skirts in one pale hand and resting the slender fingers of the other on his bronze chest, over the place his heart used to beat.
Bastien said nothing. Did nothing. Only watched her, his eyes narrowed, his pupils black.
Jessamine loosened the ties on the front of her blue linen dress and lowered her bodice, her features sly. Then she drew a finger from the top of one exposed breast to the side of her slender neck, her head canting to one side, as if to offer him a taste. Bastien pushed her chin upward with his thumb, his fingers twining through her auburn hair. Then he leaned forward, the tip of his nose trailing along her collarbone.
Without a second thought, Jae crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Jessamine by the wrist. She shrieked in feigned protest when Jae hauled her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a feather. “Be gone from here,” he demanded, anger sharpening his accent. “While you still breathe.”
“I think not, vampire,” Jessamine replied primly. “Do you have any idea who I am? My grandmother was among the gentry of the Sylvan Vale’s Summer Court, my mother an ethereal of the highest order. Sébastien invited me as his special guest. If he wishes for me to remain at his side, then—”
“Stay at your own peril, you silly little bloodsac.” He pulled her closer. “But I promise you this: if he doesn’t kill you, I will. To a vampire, there is nothing sweeter than the blood of the Vale.”
The color drained from Jessamine’s pretty face, her grandmother’s aquamarine eyes blinking like those of a cornered rabbit. Without a word, she straightened her bodice and fled down the curved staircase toward the bustling restaurant below.
“Get up.”
Jae turned in place at the sound of this voice. The voice of their maker. The voice they were bound by blood to obey. Nicodemus stood before Bastien, who continued to sprawl on his chaise and sip from his macabre goblet as if nothing of import had transpired.
“Get up,” Nicodemus repeated, his voice going softer. Dangerously so.
Jae worried Bastien would continue defying Nicodemus, as he had everyone else for the past month. Instead, Bastien raised his goblet in salute and drained it before setting it down, his movements like a drop of honey on a cold December’s eve. Then he stood to his full height, his unbuttoned shirt hanging off one shoulder, the signet ring on his right hand glinting in the lamplight.
“As my maker commands,” Bastien said with an icy grin.
Nicodemus studied him in silence for the span of a breath. “Collect your coat and hat.”
Bastien pursed his lips, his jaw rippling.
Nicodemus matched him, toe to toe. “Tonight you will learn who you are meant to be.”
BASTIEN
Beyond the city lies a swamp that stretches as far as the eye can see.
It is almost impossible for a horse or carriage to travel freely here. The mud is too high, the road too unpredictable. For centuries, this natural barrier has protected New Orleans from intruders, much like the waters of the Mississippi.
I have not wandered into the swamp since I was a boy. The last time I remember trudging through the muck and mire was the day my best friend, Michael Grimaldi, and I hatched a plan to lay traps for bullfrogs. Later that afternoon, I was forced to race back to his cousin Luca’s house in the Marigny, so we could save Michael from a mudslide. At eleven years old, I was too small and wiry to pull him out by myself, and I knew I couldn’t ask Boone or Odette for help, since I’d lied to them about where I was going and what I was doing.
Madeleine would have refused to save Michael simply because he was a cursed Grimaldi. Hortense would have laughed at me for even asking. And Jae? I couldn’t stomach another curt lecture from the ghoul-eyed demon. So I decided to eat crow and ask Luca for help. By the time we returned, Michael was buried waist-deep in mud, scared out of his wits that a gator would find him and make a feast of his bones.
Once we freed Michael, Luca forbade us from being friends. His words should have frightened me. After all, Luca was in line to lead the Brotherhood one day. At eighteen, he was almost six and a half feet tall, his arms like tree trunks and his voice like thunder.
&nb
sp; I decided I would show fear if Michael showed fear first. Since he didn’t look the least bit worried, we continued to defy both our families. Until another fall evening four years later, when Michael found me kissing the girl he’d admired for months at our cotillion ball.
Not my finest moment, I’ll admit.
My foot slides through a pile of leaves and sludge as I continue following my uncle through the dark swamp, listening to the groaning, muttering creatures gather around me, trying to decide whether I am food or foe.
I should have apologized to Michael that night. Instead I argued with him. Portrayed myself as a victim, of all things.
She kissed me first.
It doesn’t matter! Where do your loyalties lie, Bastien? I should have known better than to trust a thieving Saint Germain.
It isn’t my fault she prefers me to you, Grimaldi. Who wouldn’t?
I wince, recalling the way the blood drained from Michael’s face when I said that. How my fingers tugged through my hair, the only indication of the guilt roiling in my gut. I remember how he never again confided in me. How we both retreated into ourselves. The following morning, I cut my hair short and have worn it that way ever since.
I lost more than a friend that night. I lost a brother. It doesn’t matter how Michael retaliated in the years to come, attempting to undermine me. How he rose to the top of our class as I won every award for marksmanship and horseback riding, each trying to best the other.
One day, they will all see through you, Sébastien. And no amount of money or influence will stand in the way of them knowing what it’s taken me too many years to realize. You are nothing without your uncle. Nothing.
Even now, Michael’s words scratch open wounds that will never heal.
I should have told him that kiss at cotillion was my fault and mine alone. I knew better. I thought he would forgive my rapscallion ways, as he always had before. I was wrong.
But I will burn in Hell before I ever admit it now, especially to a sanctimonious Grimaldi.
“Do you know why we are called the Fallen?” Nicodemus comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the watery wasteland, tearing me from my reverie.
When I was mortal, I would have weighed my response before making it. Since I have nothing to lose now, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’ve never known a modest vampire, so I can only assume it has to do with Lucifer being a fallen angel.”
Nicodemus turns in place. It rankles me how he still manages to look regal, even though his dark trousers and his walking stick are covered in mud. “That would be the prevailing thought, yes.” His lips form a thin line. “But it is not the sole reason.”
I wait.
He resumes his walk, his strides purposeful. “A thousand years ago, the Sylvan Vale and the Sylvan Wyld were not separate,” he begins, the words barely audible to the human ear. Like the susurration of an insect. “They were part of a whole. A place with a name we no longer speak out of anguish, ruled by a king and a queen, who sat on a horned throne. An otherworld mortals sang about in nursery rhymes and poets wrote about in sonnets. Tír na nÓg, Fairyland, Asgard, the Valley of the Moon—all sorts of whimsical names were bestowed on it over the centuries.” I hear the smile in his voice. “But for those who lived there, it is simply called home.” Unmistakable melancholy softens his tone.
I say nothing, though I desperately wish to hear more. My uncle has never spoken of his past in anything more than generalities. I recall a time when my sister, Émilie, begged Nicodemus to tell her what the mysterious Otherworld was like before vampires and wolves were exiled during the Banishment. To describe the castles carved from ice and the forests of never-ending night. He denied her request, his laughter distant. Almost cruel.
It is in her memory that I refuse to beg my uncle to continue.
Nicodemus trudges surefooted through the darkness, toward a band of warm light flickering in the distance. We pass a grove of twisted tupelo trees, and a turkey vulture cocks his head at me from his perch on a skeletal branch, his beady eyes unblinking. To my right, gators nestle in the marshes and bullfrogs croak a dissonant melody.
Everywhere I look, I see the watchful eyes of predators. The sting of insects, the flurry of tongues lashing through the air like bolts of lightning, followed by the crunch of wings or the snapping of jaws. Strangely I feel at home here. As if I, too, am a predator of this age-old swamp.
Perhaps I am. Perhaps this wasteland seeks to swallow me whole.
I welcome it.
The scent of mortal blood curls into my nostrils, causing me to halt midstride. Distant human shouts bleed through the cacophony of sound. As I step closer, they sharpen into curse words and barks of encouragement.
I remain silent, though the smell of warm, coppery salt grips my throat, the hunger pounding in my veins. My eyes narrow. Something about the scent is . . . different. Like warm honey instead of melting sugar.
Nicodemus pauses again. Turns toward me. “Is something wrong?”
Another unspoken challenge.
I think for no more than an instant. “No.” My shoulders roll back. “Please continue.” I indicate with an outstretched hand.
A knowing smile curves up Nicodemus’ face. “When the last ruler of the Otherworld perished without an heir to the Horned Throne, two prominent families began vying for the crown. One was a family of blood drinkers, the other a family of enchantresses.”
I listen and wait, though the cries and the blood in the distance beckon me forward like a bee drawn to nectar.
“The vampires were shrewd.” Nicodemus looks through me, lost in thought. “They had managed to acquire immense wealth over the centuries. Land and crops, as well as the most desirable source of wealth in both the mortal world and the Otherworld: gemstones, buried deep within a mountain of ice.” He inhales, taking in the scents around him. “The vampires believed themselves to be invincible, for they were almost impossible to kill or catch unawares. They blurred through space and time, and the dark magic in their blood healed their injuries with the speed of quicksilver. Indeed only a perfectly aimed blow to the chest or to the throat with a blade fashioned of solid silver could render them completely defenseless.”
The tumult along the horizon turns feral, the air filling with bloodlust. Nicodemus treks toward it once more, the light from crude torches dancing through the dripping Spanish moss. “By contrast,” he says over his shoulder, “the enchantresses controlled all forms of elemental magic, which was no mean feat in itself. Wielders of such gifts had become scarcer with each passing generation. Nowadays the birth of an elemental enchantress warrants a celebration. Some channel fire. Others manipulate water or air or make the earth tremble beneath their feet. The enchantresses believed this rare magic made them powerful, for it inured them to the creatures of the Otherworld. Water fed crops. Fire forged metal. But more than anything, this magic gave these enchantresses knowledge. The magical folk throughout the land turned to these women, for their wisdom enabled them to create weapons and fashion armor from solid pieces of silver. Gave them the ability to conquer instead of be conquered.”
I shift closer to my uncle as I listen, like a street urchin following a food cart along Rue Bourbon.
“A war was fought between the vampires and the enchantresses for control of the Horned Throne,” Nicodemus says. “The wolves and the goblins and most of the night-dwelling creatures sided with the vampires, while those who basked in sunlight fought alongside the enchantresses.” His expression turned contemplative. “Many lives were lost. After half a century of bloodshed, a victor had yet to emerge. Wearied by all the death and destruction, the heads of these two families agreed to a stalemate. The land was split in two halves, the wintry Sylvan Wyld to be ruled by the vampires, and the summery Sylvan Vale by the enchantresses.
“For a time, they lived in peace. Until the blood drinkers began carving a foothold
for themselves in the mortal world.” A gleam enters his eye. “They began with small things. Silly wishes. Simple fortune-telling. Gemstones too trifling to be of any real value, but worth their weight in gold to the foolish humans who vied for them. The wolves—shifters who had risen in the ranks to become the guardians of the Wyld—built businesses throughout the mortal world, creating a wider market for magical wares in cities like New Orleans, Jaipur, Dublin, Luxor, Hanseong, and Angkor—cities where the veil between worlds has always been its thinnest. Cities our kind is destined to rule.” His gaze sharpens. “It was during this time that my maker shared the dark gift with me. Impressed by my business acumen, he made me a vampire and took me with him to the Wyld, where I lived for fifty mortal years . . . until the Banishment.”
He says nothing more as we weave through the trees. The howls grow louder, the scent of violence lengthening my fangs, my blood turning hotter with each step. We stride closer to the circle of torch fire, around which is gathered an assortment of creatures I have never before seen in my life. In the center of this odd assembly is a rudimentary boxing ring, the mud tamped with clumps of filthy sawdust.
I take in a long breath.
“Gut him like a fish,” a one-eyed goblin shouts, his clawed fists punching through the air.
The strange fragrance mixed with the blood and the sweat makes sense as I peruse the two men in the ring. One is inhumanly tall, his dark face stretched thin. The other is stocky and barrel-chested, his stance like that of a goat, his legs bowing outward at the thighs. The stumps of two malformed horns protrude from his mass of scarlet hair.
I scan the crowd further, and what I see confirms my suspicions.
Most of the creatures who have gathered in the swamp for a night of spectacle are half bloods. The children or grandchildren of mortal-and-immortal couplings. Ones who lack the magic to maintain a glamour, which would help conceal their true natures from mankind. This must be the reason they are forced to gather in darkness, far from the lights of civilization.
