The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  “Claro.” She nods. “There will always be pain for what you have lost, and it is a weight, becoming what you have become.” Valeria holds out her right hand. “What do you plan to use as a talisman?”

  Without a word, I remove the signet ring from the smallest finger of my left hand. Embossed on its surface is the symbol of La Cour des Lions: a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion.

  Valeria takes it from me. Inspects it. Closes her eyes. “This object holds a great deal of emotion,” she says, her thumb brushing across the markings. “Fondness, loyalty . . . rage.” Her eyes flash open. “I sense your uncle in this ring.” For the first time, annoyance tinges her words. “The item you choose as your fétiche will follow you for the rest of time. It will be the only way you can stand in the light of the sun. Should you lose or misplace it, another can never be made.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  “And still you would not like to choose something else? Something . . . un poco menos maldito?”

  “I think a cursed ring is an appropriate choice, given its purpose.”

  “Very well.” A small sigh escapes Valeria’s lips. One of resignation. Then she reaches into her sleeve and withdraws a thin blade of solid silver.

  I react as any vampire would in the presence of that kind of weapon. The kind that can cause us bodily harm. I flash backward with a low hiss.

  Valeria snorts. “When you let fear rule your actions, you remind me so much of your father. What was it Rafa used to say? Act first and apologize later.” She rolls her eyes heavenward.

  I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to prove her point. The desire to let the worst of my nature rule my actions. Arjun was right. Fear and anger are indeed two sides of the same coin.

  “No?” Valeria shakes her head and tsks. “Perhaps you are less like Rafael Ferrer than I thought.” She turns the handle of the blade to me at the same time she slides an empty ceramic bowl across the nicked wooden table. “I need nine drops of fresh blood. No more. No less.”

  My skin burns as I slice open the tip of my index finger. Because the dagger is solid silver, the cut does not heal right away, the blood flowing past the wound, carried by the same dark magic that moves it through my body. I count out nine drops, letting them collect in the center of the glazed bowl. Valeria promptly whisks it away and turns her back on us while she works. “Bite your tongue and press it to the wound,” she directs from over her shoulder. “It will heal faster.”

  Arjun watches in fascination as the cut seals shut on my finger, the sound like a paintbrush across canvas. Though he assumes a posture of nonchalance, it is obvious how captivated he is to witness Valeria work. An enchantress like her—one with old fey blood in her veins—is a rarity in the mortal world. Valeria’s ancestor in the Sylvan Vale practiced elemental magic, her gifts granted to her by the earth itself.

  “I lament that this has been your fate, Sébas,” Valeria says as she pours another tincture into the ceramic bowl. Black smoke coils from inside it, sparks flying as she crushes dried leaves into the mixture with a granite pestle. “Your mother—”

  “I’m aware she would have been displeased,” I interrupt. “Given the situation, I’m not sure she would have chosen my death, however.” Irony lances through me. Only a few weeks ago, I told Odette I would have preferred dying the final death to becoming a vampire.

  Valeria sniffs. “She would have wanted you to be happy.”

  “Is that all?” I joke morosely.

  Her eyes closed, Valeria inhales with care. When she exhales, a slew of unintelligible words trails through the cool night air. Then she drops my signet ring into the bowl and rests it along the windowsill, a beam of moonlight shining down on the feather of black smoke coiling from its center.

  Arjun shifts closer, his interest plain. “I’ve never seen an earth enchantress work magic.”

  “This is not the magic of the Sylvan Vale,” Valeria says as she pours water from a pitcher into a basin and washes her hands. “This is the magic of my mother’s people. We are not simply born into it. It must be taught, and one must have faith in order to control it.” She brings a covered platter toward the middle of the long table and rests it beside a pile of chopped vegetables.

  Then Valeria begins dredging raw meat in a bowl of flour.

  Despite his curiosity, Arjun recoils from the slabs of pink flesh.

  “The key to a perfect gumbo,” Valeria says, “is that you must first season and lightly brown the gator. If you don’t season it well, you’ll be like a Puritan serving up a plate of sand.” She laughs to herself. “Now, the Huguenots . . . at least they knew how to make a sauce.” With deft motions, she continues dredging thin slices of gator meat. “Sébas’ friend . . . do you have a name?”

  “Arjun.” He clears his throat. “Arjun Desai.”

  “And does your name have a meaning?” Valeria asks.

  A sheepish expression flares across his face. “It means ‘shining lord.’”

  “Your mother must have expected great things of you.”

  “My father named me.”

  Valeria grunts in amusement. “Claro.” She laughs. “And does our Shining Lord know what the Trinity is?”

  “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Arjun replies.

  “Wrong,” Valeria says. “Our trinity is onions, celery, and bell pepper.” With a flourish, she lights the flame on the nearby iron stove and proceeds to melt a mound of churned butter into a pan. “I know this food doesn’t appeal to your kind, Sébas, but I’m hoping you and your friend will share a meal with us. Food is one of the celebrations of life. The farther we dwell from the living, the more the darkness takes root.” She looks to Arjun as she sprinkles spoonfuls of flour on the melted butter to create a roux. “I’m told ethereals of the Vale enjoy food, even in the mortal world.”

  “Food is indeed a great passion in my life,” Arjun says.

  “Good. You will have some of my gumbo.”

  “Eh . . .” Arjun clears his throat again. “I don’t, erm, I don’t eat meat.”

  Valeria stops stirring. Blinks once. Twice. “Then what do you eat?”

  “Vegetables. Beans. Pulses. Lots of rice. Cheese.”

  “Interesting. And how do you prepare these dishes?”

  He smiles. “Not unlike gumbo, actually. My father cooked with at least eight different spices in any given dish.”

  “And you know how to do this?” Valeria’s brows arch with approval.

  Arjun’s head tilts from side to side as if in consideration. “More or less,” he says.

  “Then you will teach me.” Valeria nods with satisfaction. “In return, I will show you how to do a simple earth spell of your choosing.”

  “Done,” Arjun agrees with a grin.

  She smiles back at him. “Now, Sébas, it is time for you to apologize for not coming to see me once in ten years.”

  I almost laugh. Then I realize she is serious. Her stare is dead-eyed and unflinching.

  I clear my throat. “Lo siento, Tía Valeria.”

  “I visit your mother’s crypt every year for her birthday. I leave flowers and tell her about my life. Sometimes Eloise accompanies me.” Valeria stirs the roux, waiting for it to darken to a rich brown color. “I’ve never seen you there. Not once.”

  “It’s because I never go.” There is no purpose in lying to her. Any discomfort I may feel is my own fault.

  “Why?”

  I do not answer.

  “Philomène’s forty-seventh birthday is in a few months. You will go with me this year.” She pauses. “Your mother liked gardenias. Bring them with you.”

  I nod. “I promise I will.”

  “Good. Promises mean something to his kind.” She nods to Arjun. “I expect the halfling to hold you to it. Now that is done, and we won’t speak of it again.”

 
; The nutty smell of browned butter and flour suffuses the air. Though mortal food holds little appeal for me, I cannot help but appreciate the fragrance. The memories it brings. As I look around, my gaze falls on the row of ancient books stacked above the pans along the wall.

  A thought takes shape in my mind. “Tía Valeria?” I ask.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you ever read about a warlock or a witch named Sunan?” Beside me, I hear Arjun groan.

  She pauses in her stirring, her expression wary. “Why do you ask?”

  I push my lips forward, mulling my response while I glare at Arjun. “It’s a name I’ve come across in my reading recently.”

  “Ay, you’re an awful mentiroso.” Valeria snorts. “You need to learn to lie better.”

  “I said the same thing,” Arjun says. “The damned snake is a better liar than he is.”

  They share a laugh while I scowl at them.

  “What do you really wish to know, Sébas?” Valeria asks. “Are you asking about who Sunan is or what he can do?”

  He. Sunan is a man. That is a detail I did not have prior to this evening.

  “Does he even exist?” I press.

  Valeria mixes the trinity into the roux and continues stirring. “As far as I know, he lives deep in the ice forests of the Sylvan Wyld, where he has resided for eight hundred years.”

  “And”—I struggle to contain my eagerness—“what kind of magic can Sunan perform?”

  Sympathy ripples across Valeria’s face. “You are asking if he can unmake you.”

  It’s useless for me to deny it. I nod once.

  “Why do you wish to be unmade?” she asks. “Is it for your benefit, or for the benefit of someone else? And don’t lie to me, boy. I will know.”

  I want to lie, nonetheless. But I want to know the truth more. “It’s both,” I admit. “I lost someone I loved when I became a vampire.”

  “Do you fear being alone?”

  “No.” I think of the things Kassamir said to me that night at Jacques’. “I fear a life without meaning.”

  “You think this Sunan will help you find it?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “But if there is even a chance to regain a piece of my humanity, I believe I have to try.”

  She hums in understanding. “I do not know if Sunan of the Wyld still exists or if the tales about his power to unmake immortals are true. Alas, you must take your request to him in person. He has not crossed a portal into the human world for more than half a century.”

  My excitement vanishes like the flame of a doused candle. “Vampires are forbidden from using a tare like that to enter the Winter Court of the Sylvan Wyld.”

  “They are,” Valeria agrees. “But there is no such law against traveling to the Summer Court of the Vale.” She pauses for effect. “And what you do once you’ve entered the fey realm is up to you. Enough power and influence—enough sway with those in control—can get a vampire far, I’m told.”

  “And how would you suggest I go about such an endeavor?”

  Valeria looks at Arjun. “That is a better question for your friend, the Shining Lord of the Vale.”

  Arjun’s hazel eyes are as round as those of an owl. “You’re both daft. I can’t bring a bloody vampire into the Summer Court.”

  “You’ve traveled between the worlds, haven’t you?” Valeria asks. “You know which tares will take you to the Sylvan Vale?”

  “Yes.” He hesitates. “But it would be the height of foolishness for me to accompany a vampire.”

  “I am not their enemy,” I say. “I have no desire to cause those in the Vale any trouble.”

  Arjun’s laughter is dark and dry. “You are Nicodemus Saint Germain’s direct descendant. It was your family who led the charge against the enchantresses of the Vale. They’ll smell you the second you cross through the tare.”

  My mind sifts through other possibilities. “What if I made them a promise? Offered them something of value?”

  “You sound like your uncle.” Arjun’s cheeks hollow. “And not one of you has the first understanding of the Sylvan Vale. You think vampires are cruel? That wolves are quick to start a fight? At least you know who your enemies are, old chap. My mother is a huntress. One of the chosen few in the gentry who serves the Lady of the Vale directly. The Sylvan Vale is the kind of place where a smiling water nymph will offer you a fistful of gold with one hand and slice open your throat with the other. Where a hob will feed you a crust of bread that turns you into dust at their feet . . . upon which they will then delightedly dance.”

  “Are you not welcomed there, as one of their own?” Valeria asks.

  Arjun frowns before responding. “I can’t pretend I was ever welcomed among my mother’s kind. They . . . tolerate ethereals because we are the only mixed bloods that retain immortality, as a result of being the offspring of pureblooded fey gentry and human pairings. In the Vale, many of us become playthings of the court. It is a life not unlike that of halflings in the mortal realm, who often seek out the protection of a vampire or a wolf or a warlock in order to stay alive.” He takes a deep breath. “It is not the kind of life I would wish on anyone I loved. Which is why I will never have children of my own.”

  Valeria tsks. “At least you have the choice to sire children. At least your heart still beats in your chest.” She sighs. “To me, these are the cruelest punishments placed on blood drinkers. That the heart of a vampire no longer beats. That the only way they can create more of their kind is to take the life of another.” Her words fade to silence as she ladles stock over the wilting vegetables.

  These are matters I have never considered. There was never a time in my mortal life where I pondered having children of my own. Such concerns are not pressing to most eighteen-year-old boys of my acquaintance. Now that it is no longer an option . . . I don’t know whether it is something I would have wanted.

  I say nothing while Arjun studies me sidelong. I can sense his apprehension. His worry that I will be angry with him for refusing to take me to the Vale. Perhaps he thinks I will continue behaving like my uncle, tossing threats at any perceived problem.

  He is right about one thing. I am angry. I am always angry. But my anger is not with him.

  And Arjun is not the only ethereal in existence.

  Valeria turns toward us, her hands on her hips. “Our Shining Lord will not help his friend make his way to the Vale, then?”

  “No.” Arjun pauses. “I will not.”

  Valeria nods. “That is your choice. And we must accept our friends’ choices, Sébas,” she says to me. “A friend in truth is not there to serve you, despite what your uncle might have to say on the matter.”

  “I never knew how much you disliked Nicodemus,” I say.

  “What is there to like?” She sneers. “He is the worst kind of man and an even worse immortal.”

  I press my lips together.

  “Despite all his power, Nicodemus is small and petty. Not once have I seen him apologize for anything,” she clarifies. “A man who will not take responsibility for his actions is no man I wish to know.” Her gaze pierces into mine. “Have a care that you don’t follow in his footsteps.”

  I say nothing. I simply listen. It is the second night that I’ve witnessed someone worthy of respect take my uncle to task. First Kassamir. Now Valeria. For so many years I wanted nothing more than to be like him. To have that kind of power and influence.

  For the first time in my life, I wonder if I have valued the wrong thing. Maybe my uncle’s brand of power is not real power at all. And if that is true, then what should I have prized in those around me?

  What is the measure of a good man?

  Valeria reaches for the ceramic bowl along the windowsill. The ring she retrieves from inside glows softly, as if it has taken in the light of the moon itself. Before she hands
it to me, she turns it over in her palm, her expression somber. “Your fétiche will work from tomorrow. It will protect you and you alone. Keep it safe.” When I reach for it, she pulls back. “I expect you to honor the wishes of those who care about you, Sébas. Avoiding the past will no longer be tolerated. Your mother understood the difference between loyalty and love. The next time you see me, I want you to tell me if you have learned what that is.” With a sly smile, she leans closer. “And your next apology will be better than the last one.”

  I nod as I take the fétiche from her. The gold feels cool to the touch.

  “Protect and be protected,” Valeria says.

  “Thank you, Tía Valeria.” I wrap her hands in mine. “I will try to do better.”

  “Yes, Sébas. I believe you will.”

  BASTIEN

  It is long past midnight when we leave Valeria’s shop. Late enough that most of the streets of the Vieux Carré are deserted, the sky above casting the world below in tones of indigo and ebony.

  We cross the cobblestoned streets in silence. Despite his many protests, Arjun carries a linen-wrapped parcel of bread and gumbo.

  He brandishes it with exasperation. “I’m flabbergasted by why it’s so difficult for you Yanks to understand that I don’t eat meat. It’s like you think I’m committing a cardinal sin. Let me ask you this: Did those slabs of alligator flesh actually appeal to you at one point?” He shudders. “It’s a dead animal, for God’s sake.”

  I laugh. “If Valeria heard you call her a Yank, she would unhinge her jaw and swallow you whole.”

  His mouth hangs ajar. “She didn’t support the rebel cause, did she?”

  “Of course not. But it’s not as if any Yank would care about granting a woman like her the rights afforded to men.”

  Arjun grunts in agreement. “God save the queen,” he says, his tone sarcastic.

  I look upward. A fleece of clouds wraps around the moon, darkening the path before us. Still I feel like I’m seeing things clearly for the first time. My entire life, I thought everyone revered my uncle. He moved about in all kinds of circles as if he were born to rule. Whenever there was a problem, he appeared to have a solution. He offered me the guidance of a father and the wisdom of an elder all while presiding over a court of powerful immortals. Nicodemus was everything I wanted to be.