The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  That time, the gentleman offered her a fond smile. “I apologize, mademoiselle, but we are closing our doors soon. What you ask is simply impossible.”

  “Improbable perhaps. But not impossible. I will wait outside all night if need be. It is a sad state of affairs when a girl must resort to threats in order to be given the attention she is due.” She folded her ungloved hands in her lap. “If I’m outside all night, I hope it weighs on your conscience.”

  “Rather uncompromising of you, mademoiselle,” he said.

  “Hmmm. Rather like looking in the mirror, I’d wager.”

  His laughter was rich. Unexpected. Familiar.

  Celine blinked. Took to her feet. “Do I know who you are, monsieur?”

  “You do.” He nodded. “I am Kassamir.”

  Her teeth clenched in frustration. How much had she lost? How much would she give to have these missing pieces returned to her? “I apologize for not recognizing you, Kassamir. I’ve recently—”

  “I know, mademoiselle.” His sympathy was unmistakable. “I know of your troubles.”

  “Kassamir,” she repeated, her features twisting in the wake of his kindness. “I . . . can’t continue like this, with such glaring holes in my memory. You helped me before. Please help me again.”

  He took a deep breath. “You wish for my help even though it may not gain you the peace you seek?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I . . . need to know the truth.”

  Kassamir nodded again. “Wait here a moment.”

  Five minutes passed. The girl with the broom motioned for Celine to make herself comfortable. Celine accepted the offer and returned to her seat. After another fifteen minutes passed, the remaining workers had all but completed their evening chores. Celine watched them dim the gas lanterns and draw the drapes closed, her annoyance on the rise, her foot tapping against the newly mopped floors.

  Soon she was left alone in the large room, shrouded in near darkness. Celine considered leaving, but if she failed to wait a mere hour after making threats to loiter all night, she would never be able to show her face at Jacques’ again.

  “What are you doing here?” a deep and sonorous voice asked, its echo trailing from the ceiling. Celine’s vision strained until she could almost see a figure resembling a living shadow gliding down the stairs.

  “I—I was hoping you would tell me.” Celine hated that she’d stammered. Hated that she’d betrayed herself in such a simple manner. She stood, her silk skirts swishing with the movement.

  “And what if I told you this was the wrong place to have hope?” he continued.

  “I would tell you to go to the devil.”

  He paused in his slow descent, his silhouette coming into focus. “What if—”

  “I swear to God, if you say you’re the devil, I will scream.”

  “What will you do after that?”

  “Start breaking things.”

  Laughter rumbled from his chest. Even from a distance, it caused a shiver to pass between Celine’s shoulder blades. “Of course you would,” he murmured, his voice like silken sin.

  Bastien came to stand in front of her, moving like smoke from a candle flame, a giant serpent slithering in his shadow. He wore no cravat or jacket. His waistcoat was fashioned of simple charcoal silk, his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. When he placed his hands in the pockets of his trousers, it was like watching a statue come to life. An ache spread through Celine’s chest. Even in low lighting, he was striking. Beautiful enough to cause her pain.

  Celine took a step back when the snake at his heels hissed before vanishing into the darkness beneath the winding staircase.

  “What do you want, Mademoiselle Rousseau?” Bastien asked.

  She cleared her throat. “I came here because everyone is lying to me, and I’m tired of it.”

  He lowered his head. Peered at her through his sooty eyelashes. “And you expect me to tell you the truth?”

  “You may not tell me the truth, but I shall know it regardless.”

  “Despite my better judgment, I’m intrigued. How will you know?”

  “Because your eyes don’t match your words.”

  Bastien leaned back on his heels. “And what do my eyes tell you, Mademoiselle Rousseau?”

  Celine swallowed. It was like peering down the barrel of a gun. “You may say you want me to leave. But your eyes are begging me to stay.”

  She could swear on her soul that a flicker of dismay passed across his face. Then his expression hardened into one of ice. “Go home, mademoiselle. Fall asleep in your warm bed. Dream your ridiculous dreams.” He turned to leave.

  Desperation drew Celine closer. “You won’t like my dreams.”

  He paused, glancing at her over one shoulder. “Why is that?”

  “You haunt them.” She took another step. “You haunt me.”

  “Fitting. My family used to call me the Ghost.” He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Bastien.” Celine’s voice shook. “Please. Don’t walk away from me.”

  He stopped short, his back to her, his fingers flexing at his sides.

  “Please,” she said again in a broken whisper. “Help me.”

  “I can’t help you, mademoiselle.”

  “You can. You can tell me what happened.”

  Bastien turned around, his gaze hooded, his expression detached. “You don’t need someone to tell you what happened. You already know. You were attacked by a madman. You almost died. The most I can offer you beyond that is this: the man who attacked you did so because he hated me.” He spoke as if he were delivering a medical diagnosis, completely devoid of emotion. “It is my fault you almost died. Learn from your past mistakes so that you don’t make them again.” He began to leave.

  “No.” Desperation clutched Celine’s heart. Bastien wasn’t going to help her. He wasn’t going to offer her a way to regain what she had lost. Despite what she’d suspected, her pain did not seem to matter to him. “If you’re the reason I almost died, then you owe me an explanation,” she demanded.

  “I owe you nothing.”

  “I want my memories back.”

  His lips pushed forward as if to taunt her. “Your memories are not mine to give.”

  “At least answer my questions. That much you can do for me.”

  Bastien waited in cold silence.

  “Did I . . . love you?” Celine asked.

  He said nothing in response. The beat of her heart thundered in her ears.

  “Did you love me?” she pressed, hating how much she craved his answer.

  “You’re asking the wrong questions.”

  Her treacherous fingers ached to reach for him. “It doesn’t matter what I ask, since you refuse to answer me.” She twisted her hands in the folds of her skirts.

  “If you want an answer, ask a better question.”

  “I don’t want to play these games with you.” It was a risk, but Celine closed the distance between them without warning, moving far too close for polite company. In response, Bastien took half a step back before he stopped himself.

  “If you don’t want to play games, then what is this?” he asked, looking down.

  She stood tall. Unwavering. “A test.”

  “I hate tests.” He matched her, toe to toe.

  Some part of Celine knew they’d done this dance before. Knew how much Bastien despised ceding ground to anyone.

  When he gazed at her like that, Celine thought she might catch flame. Bastien leaned closer, as if he might kiss her. Stopped a hairsbreadth from her face. “Go home, Celine,” he whispered, his words a cool brush across her ear. “Don’t come back here again.”

  Celine snared his forearm before he could leave. The touch of her bare skin to his sent a jolt of awareness through her body. Bastien wren
ched free as if he’d been scalded. Nearly stumbled before he caught himself. As if he were the one who should be afraid of her.

  As if she had been haunting him this entire time, too.

  Celine’s mouth fell open in amazement. She’d been wrong before. She did matter to him. Mattered more than he would dare to admit.

  “It’s guilt, isn’t it?” she asked. “You are racked with guilt.”

  He said nothing. Only stared at her, his chest rising and falling in time with her pulse.

  “I’ll absolve you of your guilt,” she said. “I’ll do as you ask and never come here again.”

  “What do you want in return?”

  “Just one thing.”

  Bastien kept silent.

  “It won’t cost you a penny, nor will it involve anyone but you,” Celine continued. “And it can be granted in a moment.”

  He pursed his lips in consideration. “You won’t say what it is?”

  “Not before you agree to do as I ask.”

  “You swear never to seek me out again.”

  She nodded. “Do you agree?”

  Another beat passed in weighted silence. Then he nodded.

  Celine did not waste time. “I want you to kiss me.”

  She expected him to be angry. To refuse outright. Instead he took a careful breath, as if he were making a study of the air around her. An emotion Celine could not identify rippled across his face. Then Bastien took her chin in his hand and leaned forward.

  The closer he came, the faster her pulse raced. He smelled of leather and bergamot, mixed with something strange. Something cold and bracing, like a winter frost. The stillness around them grew, the silence becoming a low hum. She closed her eyes and angled her face toward his.

  Bastien pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

  When he pulled away, Celine threw her arms around his neck and slanted her lips to his.

  It wasn’t what she’d expected. Her memories weren’t returned to her in a flash, as if she’d woken from a dreamless sleep. This was not that kind of fairy tale.

  But Celine knew, the instant they kissed.

  She’d wanted to free the chains around her mind.

  Instead this kiss unlocked her, body and soul.

  Bastien surrendered as Celine melted against him. The next instant his hands framed either side of her face. He couldn’t break away from this any more than she could.

  This was as inevitable as death.

  “Celine,” Bastien whispered into her skin, sending a delicious thrill down her spine. His fingers threaded through her hair, her curls loosening at his touch. Celine brushed her tongue across his lower lip, and Bastien deepened the kiss, one of his hands sliding to the small of her back. Celine didn’t realize they’d moved until they ran into the edge of a table.

  Bastien lifted her onto the polished oak, trailing kisses down the side of her neck. Celine knew he could feel the way her pulse raced through her veins. The way she bowed into his touch. He shuddered when she pulled him even closer, her fingers shifting to the buttons of his shirt.

  Celine turned her head and arched into Bastien. His grip tightened on her hips as he stepped between her thighs.

  Then he stopped moving, his face buried along her collarbone, ragged breaths flying from his mouth.

  “Bastien?” Celine asked.

  He did not move.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, the words breathless.

  He pulled away from her in a blur, faster than she could blink. It took Celine a moment to regain her bearings. To realize how close they’d come to complete indecency. Her bodice was askew, her breasts spilling over the top of her silk dress. Once her feet touched the floor, Celine stood on unsteady legs.

  “Bastien?” she repeated. “What’s wrong?”

  He did not turn around. “I gave you what you wanted,” he said. “Never come here again.”

  Then he made his way up the stairs, never once looking back.

  PIPPA

  This was a ghastly mistake. The kind of mistake worthy of a cautionary tale.

  Here lies Philippa Montrose, a girl who knew better.

  It was certainly poor form for an engaged woman to be standing in a deserted back alley behind a dining establishment. But it wasn’t just the where of things that mattered. It was the why. The who. And the how.

  Hours after attending her own engagement party, Pippa stood in the darkness outside of Jacques’, hoping to speak to a young man. A young man who was not her intended.

  As far as Pippa was concerned, she had no choice in the matter. Her friend was in danger. When Pippa had returned less than half an hour ago to the pied-à-terre she shared with Celine, her friend was nowhere to be found.

  So Pippa had made her way to Jacques’, hoping to speak with Sébastien Saint Germain. To beg him to do something so that Celine would stay safe. Would stay far away from these . . . odd creatures. For if Pippa could be certain of one thing, it was that they were not human.

  She’d discovered this truth in the days following Celine’s attack. Not once had Pippa pressed for answers, but she’d seen enough to know they were not what they appeared to be. Human beings did not move as they did, as if they were shrouded in smoke. Nor had she ever encountered so many faultlessly beautiful men and women in her entire life. Lastly, they never seemed to eat or need rest or appear the slightest bit tired. Often they blinked as if it were an afterthought.

  Pippa fretted to herself, wringing her hands as if they’d been soaked by a rain shower.

  If Sébastien Saint Germain refused to speak to her tonight, she would have to seek out his uncle, and she dreaded the thought. His uncle frightened Pippa greatly. Whatever dark magic he wielded—whatever powers he used to shield Celine from the worst of her memories—none of it was working. Not anymore.

  Even more pressing was the fact that Pippa could no longer maintain this charade. It had been taxing enough concealing the truth from her best friend, but the entire time, Pippa had believed it was for the best. No one should be forced to relive the details of such an ordeal. Pippa should know. It had taken her years to find a measure of peace after all she’d suffered as a child in Yorkshire.

  These last few weeks, many worries kept Pippa up at night. She’d listened to Celine cry out in her sleep, and she’d tossed and turned in her own bed, thinking she might have made a mistake. Was it right to take someone’s memories from them, even if it spared that person pain?

  Pippa had experienced a great deal of pain in her past. One could argue that pain had taught her valuable lessons. Her expression hardened. She didn’t want Celine to suffer pain in order to learn about life. No one who loved someone as she loved Celine would ever wish such memories upon another.

  The door at Pippa’s back creaked open. She spun in place, the words already forming on her tongue, only to die the next instant.

  “Why are you here?” she said at once, aware of how peevish she sounded.

  Arjun Desai—the Court of the Lions’ smarmy solicitor—smiled at her without showing his teeth. “You’re not even the slightest bit pleased to see me?”

  Pippa crossed her arms. “I asked to speak with Bastien.”

  “Bastien is . . . indisposed at the moment. I was sent here in his stead.” Arjun crossed his arms as well, mocking her with every movement. “How may I help you tonight, Miss Montrose?” His head tilted to one side. “Was this not the evening of your engagement party?” He made a show of searching his pockets, then brushed his fingers through his unruly black hair. “Dash it all, I forgot my hat. Otherwise I would tip it in salute to your lifetime of happiness.”

  “You’re coarse and conceited, sir,” Pippa said in a cool tone. “And this conversation has gone on long enough. If Bastien is unavailable, then I’d like to speak with”—she grimaced—“his uncle.”

  Arjun laugh
ed. “You really are serious, aren’t you, pet?”

  “I am not now nor have I ever been your pet, Mr. Desai. If you refuse to help me, then—”

  He held up his arm to keep her from leaving. “Nicodemus is not going to speak with you. Your best bet is to tell me what you want.”

  Pippa harrumphed. Then began toying with the golden cross around her neck. “I came to tell you that Celine is starting to remember. And that I can no longer keep your secrets.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.” Arjun removed his monocle and began cleaning the lens with a silk handkerchief.

  “Then why am I speaking with you, sir?” Pippa placed her fists on her hips. “I never should have agreed to keep the truth from Celine that night in the hospital, even if we all thought it was the best way to protect her. I have lied repeatedly to someone I love, and it was wrong of me—wrong of us all—to be complicit in what happened to her memories.”

  “She asked to have those memories taken from her, Philippa,” Arjun interjected gently.

  “Nonetheless, it was wrong of Count Saint Germain to take them from her.” She sniffed. “And don’t ever call me Philippa.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s what my mother called me.”

  “You’ll have to tell me that story sometime.”

  “Not on your life, Mr. Desai.” Pippa gathered her skirts in hand. “I’ve said what I came to say. Please deliver my message to whoever needs to hear it.”

  Arjun offered her a curt bow. “As you wish.”

  Pippa hesitated. “I wish I believed you would do as I asked.”

  “If wishes were fairies.”

  “Then at the very least they’d keep their promises.” Pippa bit her lower lip. “We’re . . . toying with people’s lives, you know. It was a mistake to think a lie—however well intentioned—was better than the truth.”

  “Sometimes a lie is all we have,” Arjun said. “And I promise to deliver your message to Bastien.”

  “Can I take you at your word?”

  “Mademoiselle, I am the only man on these premises who can be taken precisely at his word.” He grinned. “Congratulations on your engagement.”