The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  “You sound as if you’re offering condolences for my dead cat.”

  “You have a cat?” Amusement tugged at his features. “And marriage is a death, is it not? Death of freedom, death of dreams, death of—”

  “You’re insufferable. Good evening, Mr. Desai.”

  “Good evening, Miss Montrose.”

  BASTIEN

  I pause, my right foot hovering above the staircase landing. For the first time since I committed to this course of action, trepidation settles onto my skin.

  “In case I forget to tell you later, or something . . . unfortunate happens, thank you for changing your mind and agreeing to take me to the Vale,” I say under my breath. Then I follow Arjun up the flight of steps.

  “I owe you a life debt. And I despise being indebted to anyone,” he throws over his shoulder. “But don’t thank me yet. You still haven’t met my mother.”

  I almost laugh. The ethereal’s sense of humor is razor sharp, as usual. We pass the second landing of the building toward the next staircase. Behind the nearest door, I overhear the angry mutterings of an elderly woman.

  “Don’t mind the honorable Madam Buncombe,” Arjun says. “She and her one friend are hampered in life by rather large chips on their shoulders when it comes to”—he drops his voice to a whisper—“foreigners and their blasphemous ways.” He waves at the bolted door. “Afternoon, Mrs. Buncombe!” he shouts as he continues marching up the stairs.

  I grin to myself at the sound of her outraged spluttering.

  We pause before the entrance to the fourth-floor pied-à-terre, a space Arjun has shared with Jae since the former’s arrival to New Orleans a little more than a year ago. When I lean against the doorjamb, the faint glow of the wards spelled into the wooden frame flashes twice, and a burning sensation spreads across my skin. I pull away before the protective magic has a chance to take root in my bones. These wards are almost as intricate as the ones around my uncle’s private chamber in the penthouse of the Hotel Dumaine. Likely the work of Nicodemus’ favorite warlock in Baton Rouge.

  “Are you certain you want to do this?” Arjun asks for the fifth time this afternoon. “It could end quite badly.”

  Again trepidation ripples through me. “I appreciate the concern for my welfare.” I set my jaw. “But I have no intention of changing my mind.”

  “The concern is for myself, as I am in fact a bit more . . . breakable than you.” Arjun sends a caustic glance my way while he unlocks the door, but there’s a note of humor in his expression. “I still don’t understand why you feel a compulsion to make this journey. This Sunan character may not even exist. Truth be told, I don’t mind you as a vampire. You were a disaster those first few weeks, but now that you’ve seemed to calm down a bit, you’re not so terrible.”

  “I thank you for that vote of confidence.”

  “You’re quite welcome. As they say, a broken clock is right twice a day.”

  I follow him into the small, neatly appointed space. Along one plaster wall hang tapestries and scrolls of black-and-white calligraphy, paying homage to Arjun’s Maharashtrian heritage and Jae’s childhood in Hanseong. A simple wooden table with two chairs sits in the center of the main room, a bookshelf situated close by. The only thing that seems amiss is the large mirror positioned against the far wall, near the back of the flat. It’s old and tarnished, its frame fashioned of ornate brass.

  Arjun pauses beside me, his gaze settled on the strange mirror in question. “A stroke of luck that Jae’s profession necessitated one of these spelled silvers. They’re quite uncommon and extraordinarily expensive. They’re also the best way to travel through the earthly realm.”

  I recall our conversation several nights ago with Valeria Henri. “Is this not a tare?” I should have asked this question then, but pride is a difficult beast to conquer. Especially the pride of a Saint Germain.

  Arjun shakes his head. “A tare is a portal directly to the Otherworld. This is merely a stepping-stone.” He turns to me. “Have you told your uncle what you intend to do?”

  I make my way to the mirror to buy myself some time. “For most of my life, I’ve admired my uncle, even when I disagreed with him. But I’ve always known this life—the life of an immortal—isn’t what my mother wanted for me. It’s the reason my uncle refused to turn my sister, even after she begged him to do it. Before my mother succumbed to the bloodthirst, she used to say we are given one lifetime. In that one lifetime, we have countless chances to become the best version of ourselves. Each day presents another chance.” I stare at my reflection in the mottled surface.

  Arjun crosses his arms, his monocle flickering with the movement. “I guess that means no.”

  “I did not tell Nicodemus what I intend to do.” I raise a shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  He sighs. “No, you’re not.” His right hand rakes through his hair.

  “Nicodemus has lived many lifetimes. I wonder if he’s ever felt like he’s become a better version of himself. Or if it’s even possible when time isn’t a consideration.” I pivot toward Arjun. “You asked me not long ago why I wanted to do this. I have part of an answer. I want to find Sunan because I wish to become a better version of myself, and I believe that returning to my mortal form will make this possible. Is that a good enough answer?”

  “No,” Arjun says, his voice weary. “But I suppose it will have to do.” He comes to stand beside me. “I should warn you—this silver is not meant to transport your kind. I don’t know how it will react to you or how you will react to it.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” I hold up my left hand. My fétiche flashes from the smallest finger. “Not even the sun can hurt me anymore.”

  Arjun shakes his head. “If you’re not fussed about it, then I won’t be.” He closes his eyes and presses his right palm to the silver surface. Ripples pulse around his fingertips, like small waves spreading across a pond. Once they reach the brass frame, the entire mirror shudders, the ripples reverberating back on themselves. For a moment, Arjun keeps his eyes closed, his lips moving soundlessly as if in prayer.

  The mirror stills all at once.

  “Off we go,” Arjun says, and he walks through the liquid surface without a glance back.

  Another twinge of apprehension cuts through me with the sharpness of a newly honed blade. But I fix my shoulders and push my left foot through. The sensation that follows is curious. Surprisingly cold, especially since I am no longer affected by such things. The cold is absorbed through my clothing to my skin before it starts to burn like acid. Quickly—before I can talk myself out of it—I press through. The mirror resists me for a moment, though it drew Arjun in like a pool of warm water. Almost as quickly, it spits me out the other side as if it were disgusted by the taste of me.

  When I land, it is against a rise of hot sand. Silken grains sift across my skin, leaving a trace of glittering residue wherever they touch. Hot air blasts around me, followed by a rush of scent and sound. To my vampire sensibilities, it is almost too much. As if I’ve stepped from the bliss of utter silence into a world of total chaos.

  “Graceful, as always,” Arjun jokes from where he stands over me, his amusement plain.

  I straighten and begin looking around.

  The mirror has transported us to an umber desert. A brilliant blue sky stretches above us, the horizon at my back wavering in the heat like a mirage. We stand in the middle of a bustling thoroughfare. Shrieking children, bartering townspeople, and the occasional clang of a cowbell reverberate around me. To my right, a man dressed in a long tunic stokes a small fire beneath an immense domed pot. He splashes oil into its center and begins calling out to those around him, who gather like bees drawn to honey.

  I dust the sand from my frock coat before shrugging out of it entirely. Arjun has already begun rolling his shirtsleeves. Bedlam erupts around us in bursts, but it does not seem to bother the masses of people mil
ling nearby. A cacophony of sound—clips of a language I’ve never heard—mixes with the bleating of goats and the rumbling of rickshaws, along with the shouts of other street vendors and the warnings of those nearby.

  Bright colors flit across my periphery. Women with burnished skin, bearing immense parcels atop their heads, balance their burdens like magic as they weave through the crowd, the ends of their thin shawls trailing behind them. The smell of spiced tea wafts from a trio of elderly men seated on wooden boxes around a makeshift table.

  When a young boy darts past Arjun, trips in his haste, and nearly sprawls to the ground, Arjun catches him. The boy yells with outrage, to which Arjun replies in the same tongue. They exchange words, the syllables clipped and rapid. The boy begins to smile halfway through the spat, his expression turning sheepish.

  Realization dawns on me, though I should know better than to be surprised by anything in life or in death.

  “Are we in the East Indies?” I shout over the din, my English blaring through the crowd like a foghorn.

  Arjun laughs. “Welcome to Rajasthan. Specifically an area just on the outskirts of Jaipur.”

  “And you speak this language?”

  “I speak Hindi and a bit of Marwari. It’s enough for me to get by while I’m here. In the major cities, it’s easier to find people who speak English. You have the British Crown to thank for that,” he gibes in a humorless tone. He begins weaving through the crowd with purpose, threading between tight spaces at a leisurely pace.

  My senses are inundated. It takes a great deal of effort for me to subdue my need to react, to stop myself from moving too quickly or gazing every which way. The smell of the food and the spices catches my attention more than anything else. It’s perhaps even more intricate and layered than the cuisine of New Orleans.

  Arjun pauses beside a burnished street vendor, who hands him a paper cone filled with a thick liquid tinged a pale orange hue. I move closer to avoid being struck by a donkey hauling a cart as Arjun takes a long sip.

  He breathes in deeply. “It’s been too long since I was last here.” The distinct smell of saffron suffuses the air around him.

  “And why is that, especially if it’s as easy as stepping through a mirror?”

  “It isn’t easy, old chap,” he muses. “It’s never easy for me to make this journey.” He takes another long swallow of his drink. “Would you like to try some?”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a saffron lassi. Made with cool yogurt and honey. The best thing on a hot day.”

  “I wish such things still appealed to me.” I stare at his drink wistfully.

  “I’ve heard it does for some vampires. Occasionally Odette will ask for some fruit. Her favorite things are pomegranates and mangoes. Is there something you still crave?”

  “The blood dripping from a rare steak.”

  He laughs. “I can’t help you with that. Especially not here. Cows are sacred in this part of the world. If you so much as insult one or step in its path, beware.” Though his tone is lighthearted, his attention flits behind me for an instant, the corners of his eyes tightening.

  Someone—or something—is making him uncomfortable. It would be foolish for me to press the matter out in the open. “Why isn’t it easy for you to be here?” I ask, my words equally lighthearted, my senses alert.

  He drops his voice to below a whisper, his smile easygoing. “The last three times I traveled to Rajasthan, I was stalked less than an hour after passing through the mirror. It will be only a matter of time before they try to stop me.”

  “They?” I step closer.

  He waves his right hand as if bored. Then takes a final swallow of his drink, crushing the paper cone in his fist. “Not a moment to waste, then.” With a clap of both hands, he begins strolling at a rapid pace in the opposite direction.

  I follow him, my gait uneasy. “Are we running away?” I ask through gritted teeth.

  “Is that in conflict with your Saint Germain sensibilities?” He grins.

  “If someone here has been threatening you, I wish to put an end to it.”

  His strides lengthen. “I don’t like to engage with these jackanapeses, if I can avoid it. Fey circles are small, especially in the Vale. You never know when you might be fighting someone in your own family. And with my family, you’d then be accused of striking a member of the gentry. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.” His pace quickens as he cuts through a small square with a well in its center, a queue wrapping around it, each person waiting a turn to refill a pitcher or a drum or a skein of waxed fabric. To my right, I catch a glimpse of a figure in a hooded grey cloak.

  We continue moving at a brisk pace for several more blocks until we reach a section of town less traversed. Behind stacked stone walls lie larger, more intricate structures several stories high. Signs of wealth are evident in the manicured gardens and the decorated walls with their carved bricks and imposing scrollwork.

  Arjun’s steps falter as we round a bend alongside an embellished fountain, a wrought-iron gate wrapped around it.

  “Impressive,” I say.

  Arjun mutters, “It’s not being guarded. The gate is wide-open.”

  “Does that present a problem?”

  “It’s usually guarded.” He glides closer. In the same instant, blurs of motion gather along either side of us. “Can you believe this fountain is actually powered by the flow of the nearby river?” he remarks.

  I arch a brow. “Fascinating.” The fine hairs on my arms stand on end, the muscles working in my jaw.

  We are being followed. Surrounded. Cornered.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Arjun grins in a lighthearted fashion, then flicks his gaze toward the fountain with unmistakable intent.

  I blink. Does he expect us to—

  “Now!” Arjun breaks into a run, aiming straight for the open gate, toward the center of the fountain. Around me, hooded shapes converge. I blur toward the water, balking for an instant when I see Arjun dive beneath its surface without the slightest hesitation. Since I have no idea what might happen if I linger, I take a deep breath on instinct and jump in headfirst.

  The water is warm. As warm as the air around us. It’s the first time since I’ve become a vampire that I’ve had a chance to swim. My lungs are tight, clinging to the vestiges of their humanity, but I no longer need air. I open my eyes and realize the fountain is much deeper than it appeared at first glance. Perhaps twenty feet. Arjun is halfway down, swimming like a shark toward the bottom. I follow, marveling at how well my instincts adjust to an airless environment. I claw toward Arjun, who waits for me before reaching his right hand toward the silty floor. The second he does, the sand seems to draw him in. He does not appear the least bit bothered, so I reach for the silt with my own fingers.

  The second they touch the sand, my fétiche begins to slide off my finger. I ball my hand into a fist, panic gripping through to my spine. It’s broad daylight outside. Even with the deep water, the rays of sun manage to filter through unimpeded. If my ring is taken from me, there is no chance for me to find shelter before being set aflame.

  Both my mother and father burned in the light of the sun, my father as payment for his sins, my mother because she believed there was no other choice. When she met the sun, my uncle did not let me watch. He pulled me to him, refusing to let go, though I screamed into his waistcoat, demanding to be set free.

  I have no desire to die as my parents did.

  The quicksand pulls me through to my shoulder. On instinct, I resist when it closes around my chest and throat. But I watch Arjun let the sand take him, swallowing him whole. A flare of doubt catches in my throat. What if he’s been leading me to my inevitable demise all along? What if I follow him and my fétiche is ripped from my hand entirely, my death a veritable certainty once I fall to the other side?

  What will I find on this other side
?

  I close my eyes and let the magic take hold. Darkness surrounds me the second the quicksand surrounds my face. It’s like being drawn into an endless void.

  The next instant I spill into a patch of sunlight brighter than any I’ve ever witnessed before. I’m blinded for the span of a breath, my arm coming up to shield my face.

  We land on a glittering shore, waves lapping at our feet. I take a deep breath of the strange air. It smells warm and thick. Like hot tea mixed with molasses and anise. My wet hands rake through packed sand. When I stand, my skin shines as if it’s been brushed with diamond dust.

  Arjun waits for me, his wavy hair dripping, his features serene.

  “Don’t take another step, you filthy leech,” a voice barks from behind us.

  When I wipe the salty water from my eyes, fury sets in.

  A beautiful woman waits along the pristine beach, her long white gown offset by the grove of swaying palm trees at her back, the fronds an unnatural shade of dark blue, the bark resembling shards of sharpened copper. Around her brow is a coronet of pearls. In the distance behind her, the sun hangs high, its white rays glowing with angelic menace.

  “Assemble,” she says softly.

  A semicircle of grey-cloaked warriors, bearing spears of gleaming alabaster, step forward, brandishing their weapons, aiming their blades straight at my heart.

  BASTIEN

  It is the same as always.

  Whenever unmitigated fury takes root in me, my blood turns to ice. If these bastards think to strike me down, it will not be without a fight. I advance, my fingers clawed at my sides, my fangs lengthening. Though I am outmatched by more than ten of these grey-cloaked soldiers, I will not wait for them to make the first move.

  Melodic laughter chimes through the air.

  “Stand down, Sébastien,” she says. “No one is here to harm you.”

  I halt, but I do not let down my guard. “Forgive me for misunderstanding.” Sarcasm drips from each of my words. “But I’ve never been cornered by twelve fey warriors wearing solid silver cuirasses and brandishing alabaster spears.”