The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  Celine toyed with telling him how much she despised being sheltered from the truth, no matter how dark it might be. But she didn’t know if Michael would understand. He did not seem like the kind of young man who found beauty in darkness, as Celine often did. He seemed like the type who always looked to the light. “I feel as if I’m missing so much of myself,” she said. “It makes me feel . . . broken. As if I will never be whole again, no matter what I do.”

  Michael stopped walking. Turned toward her and took both her palms in his. Slowly, carefully, he brought her right hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to it. “You are not broken, Celine. Not at all.” He paused. “And if it is important for you to remember everything that happened, perhaps we should speak to someone about it.”

  “Another doctor?”

  “I will make inquiries.” A determined look formed on Michael’s brow, as if he already had in mind the right person to ask.

  Though she doubted it would make a difference, his conviction settled some of the turmoil lingering in Celine. Michael had done that for her from the day she woke up in the hospital over two months ago. Her sense of misgiving was ever present, but at least when Michael was with her, she didn’t feel quite as lost.

  A part of her wanted to recoil from the sentiment. She hadn’t always been this way. Hadn’t always needed someone beside her to feel safe. After losing her mother at an early age, Celine had learned the value of self-reliance. Now she resented its loss.

  “I wish we both had answers,” Celine murmured over their joined hands. “I wish I could uncover the truth of what happened to your cousin.”

  “And I wish what happened to you had not happened,” Michael said. “I wish I could erase its truth.”

  When Celine looked up, he was watching her with a new kind of tenderness. He’d been so careful the last few weeks. Never once had Michael pushed her to return his obvious affections or caused her to feel uncomfortable.

  But something had changed tonight. Celine could tell in the way he looked at her. The spark of something she’d never seen in his pale eyes.

  His gaze steady on hers, Michael leaned forward. “I hope I might always be there to keep you safe. That is . . . if you’ll have me.”

  Celine swallowed. Any young woman should be thrilled to have Michael Grimaldi vying for her affections. If lasting love was a choice, maybe Celine could choose to love him as Pippa had chosen to love Phoebus.

  Perhaps she should keep her fairy tales where they belonged, in books.

  Michael brushed a kiss across her forehead. Then on the tip of her nose. Then—ever the gentleman—he took his time as he drew closer, giving Celine every opportunity to stop him from doing what she knew he’d been wanting to do for a long while.

  She didn’t say no. There was no reason to say no.

  Michael kissed her, his eyes closed. His lips were soft. Warm. Gentle. Celine leaned into his kiss. Waited for her eyes to fall shut. They didn’t. She could feel her brain continuing to work, even as Michael wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into an embrace.

  The kiss seemed to go on for a long while.

  An image rose to the forefront of Celine’s mind, unbidden. Of another kiss. One in which time seemed to stand still, only to speed forward in a sudden rush. As if a single kiss were both a moment and a lifetime. Forever, in the blink of an eye.

  She forced her eyes closed just before Michael pulled away. He left a final lingering kiss on her lips before stepping back. Celine smiled at him, her thoughts in turmoil.

  As if the holes in her memory were mirrored by the holes in her heart.

  BASTIEN

  On a typical evening, I sink my teeth into the neck of my victim, and nothing else matters. For a breath of time, it’s as if the rest of the world fades into oblivion. I am no longer a creature of darkness, longing for my lost humanity. There is no Brotherhood. There is no Nigel.

  There is no Jae.

  But this is not a typical evening. The plans I’ve set in motion since meeting the Lady of the Vale two days ago are far from ordinary. Our trap has been laid. The mark is one of our own.

  This will not be a welcome victory.

  I drink deeper, and my victim’s thoughts invade my mind like a stack of lithographs flipped into motion. As I suspected, this man lived a sordid life. I chose him for this exact reason when I spotted him yesterday, just after nightfall. I followed him for hours, waiting to see if he could redeem himself in my eyes.

  The faster his memories flit through my mind, the more convinced I am that I have chosen well.

  For years my victim has been leading orphan boys and homeless street urchins to their twisted fates. The sailors along the dock call it being shanghaied. He offers his victims food and drink laced with laudanum. Waits until they are lulled into a drug-addled sleep. When the boys wake, they are already out to sea. Forced to work the rigging and swab the decks until they are no longer of any use, all while he pockets the proceeds of their indentured servitude.

  Many argue this is another form of slavery. I cannot speak to that. I have lived a life of favored fortune, despite the color of my skin. The conversations I’ve shared with Kassamir—who was taken from his parents as a child thirty years ago and sold to another plantation outside New Orleans—merely scratch the surface of his pain.

  Kassamir never saw his parents again, even after the war ended.

  I think of that fact as I drink deeper, gripping my victim by the shoulders. I think of all those boys and girls who will likely never see their homes or their families again. It doesn’t matter if some of them were orphans. Every child deserves a place of refuge. A place to feel safe.

  The more I drink, the more distorted the images become. They darken as if they’ve fallen into the path of a shadow. As I watch the man’s vicious life unfold, my grasp tightens. My hands move from his shoulders to either side of his head. I feel his heartbeat begin to slow.

  “Bastien,” Boone says from behind me, a warning note in his voice. “He’s dying.”

  I ignore him. I drink more. The man’s hands—which have hung limply at his sides for the last few minutes—begin to flail. He tries to strike me, but I am drowning. Drowning in all the violence he has committed. Drowning in his salvation.

  “Sébastien.” This admonishment comes from Jae, who blurs to my side and takes hold of my shoulder. “That is enough.” His fingers dig into my arm.

  I draw back. Then, at the exact moment Jae relaxes his grasp, I twist my hands in opposite directions, snapping my victim’s neck.

  Blood drips down my chin. I meet Jae’s gaze. My expression is mirrored in his. I look murderous. Demonic. The whites of my eyes are gone. My ears have sharpened into points. My fangs are stained and gleaming.

  A dark part of me—the soulless part—relishes it.

  Without a word, Jae directs me to follow him. I carry the body of my victim across the rooftops of my city until we reach a pauper’s cemetery, where I leave him to bake for several months in an empty chamber in the stifling Louisiana sun.

  The water table in our city is high. Too high to bury our dead in the ground. It was a lesson the first imperialists learned when the coffins of the dead rose from the earth following a heavy storm, the rotting corpses clogging the city streets. After the Catholic Church took hold of New Orleans, something had to be done. The Holy See did not permit the burning of its dead.

  But they granted a special dispensation for the Crescent City. The coffins of our dead are placed in brick mausoleums aboveground. In the tropical heat, these spaces turn into ovens. Over the span of a year, the bodies are slowly burned, until nothing remains but ash. One year and a day later, the bricks around the entrance are removed, and the ashes of its former occupants are swept aside into a caveau at the base of the crypt. In this way, entire generations of families share the same burial space.

  Never was there
a better place for a murderer to hide a body.

  Never was there a better place to set the stage for a trap.

  * * *

  “I still don’t know why you hold this place so dear in your heart,” I say to Boone.

  He, Jae, and I stand side by side on the walkway outside one of New Orleans’ most infamous bawdy houses. Its stucco façade is simple. Unadorned. Even its exterior is painted an uninspiring shade of grey. Unusual on a street peppered by structures in light pink and cheerful green and pale blue.

  Jae frowns as Boone knocks on the door in a specific pattern. “I have no intention of accompanying you inside this sort of establishment.”

  “Ever the monk,” Boone teases, his tone flippant.

  He is playing his role well. But I expected nothing less. It is why he was chosen.

  “Nor do I see reason in paying for any woman’s favor,” Jae continues.

  “Isn’t that what happens all the time, though?” Boone arches a brow. “A boy needs a wife. His mama and papa want his marriage to bring the family more wealth and clout. So they find a girl with a hefty dowry or an inheritance.” He snaps his fingers. “Or do you only object when a woman is the one to decide the terms?”

  “If you think all the women in this establishment had a say when it came to their lot in life, I’ll eat my hat,” I interject. “A choice under the barrel of a gun is not a choice at all.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Boone agrees. His grin is wide. Toothless. “But far be it from me to deprive them of their living.” He winks. “Join me for a drink, gentlemen. I promise to behave . . . for at least an hour.”

  Jae’s frown deepens. I appreciate Boone in this moment more than words. It’s as if he’d been given a playwright’s script. A necessary ruse when dealing with an immortal like Shin Jaehyuk. One likely to smell our trap from several miles away.

  It cannot be helped. Such intrigues are necessary. We need to catch Jae unawares while on the town, far from the familiarity of Jacques’ or the sanctuary of his heavily warded abode.

  “No. As usual, I will not be partaking in your evening festivities.” Jae looks to me. “If you wish to stay with Boone, I will not object.”

  I shake my head, my expression subdued. “I took a life tonight, despite my best efforts. My evening has been eventful enough.” I tip my Panama hat at Boone. “Give the ladies my regards, Casanova.”

  “I certainly shall.” Boone nods with a devilish wink.

  As intended, Jae and I are left alone.

  We take our leave, strolling along Rampart toward the waterfront, closer to both Jacques’ and the flat Jae shares with Arjun. As we near the turn onto Royale, I pause as if I’ve suddenly remembered something.

  Jae stops beside me and glances my way.

  “Damn it all,” I mutter.

  He waits for me to explain before he reacts, in typical Jae fashion.

  I sigh. “It doesn’t concern you. Nor have I any wish to place my troubles on your shoulders.” Jae is both a simple man and a complicated vampire. His curiosity will be sure to get the better of him.

  Most battles are won or lost before they are ever fought.

  “What is it?” he says.

  “Nothing of import.” I take a step as if I plan to resume our prior path. “I’ll handle it tomorrow, if there’s still time.”

  Jae stands firm. “Sébastien.”

  I turn in place. “Nicodemus wanted me to check on a shipment of malted barley bound for a Kentucky distillery. I promised I would bring proof of its arrival to him before sunrise.” I shrug. “I can attend to it later, just before dawn.”

  “It’s not safe for you to travel anywhere in this city alone. Not with the Brotherhood on the prowl.” Jae pivots toward the docks. “I’ll go there with you.”

  I snort. “I doubt any of our furry friends will be lying in wait on the off chance I decide to take an evening stroll beside the sugar shed. Don’t trouble yourself. I can take Odette with me tomorrow. You know how much she loves to watch the sun rise.”

  “It isn’t a trouble.” When Jae proceeds in the direction of the sugar sheds, I take a measured breath and follow in his footsteps.

  Checkmate.

  Four blocks later we arrive at the long wooden building that houses many different types of refined sugar and molasses before they make their way up the Mississippi into the heartland.

  “Which berth?” Jae asks.

  I place my hands in my trouser pockets. “Forty-seven.”

  We wander down the yard and stop at a series of sliding wooden doors, not unlike those of an immense barn. A cat screeches as I yank one of them open.

  Jae does not enter. He pauses at the doorstep, his black hair falling into his face.

  Though I understand his reticence, I feign ignorance. “Jae?”

  “No one is guarding the stores.”

  Dark laughter emanates from beside burlap sacks of sugar. “You are the best among us for a reason,” Madeleine says as she steps from the shadows.

  It is no accident that I’ve asked for Madeleine to be the one to spring this trap. She unmoors Jae, as she has for decades. Whatever past they share makes Jae doubt his present.

  And preying on doubt is the key to ensnaring a predator.

  “What are you doing here?” Jae rasps, the tendons in his neck straining with awareness.

  “It’s time we had a discussion, Jaehyuk-ah,” Madeleine says softly.

  He whirls in place. But her distraction has served its purpose.

  Before Jae has a chance to flee, Arjun grabs him by the wrist, freezing the assassin where he stands.

  Exactly as we planned.

  JAE

  The instant Arjun’s hand touched Jae’s wrist, Jae knew all was lost.

  The last time he’d been bested like this was long ago in Hunan Province, when the warlock Mo Gwai had tortured him for a month in a cavern deep beneath the earth. Jae would bear the scars of that ordeal for the rest of his immortal life. In a way, he was grateful for them. They served as a constant reminder of his greatest failure.

  That time in the cavern had been the beginning of the end for Jae. The darkest nights of his memory. A time when revenge had consumed him like tinder in a blaze. It wasn’t until the smoke cleared that Jae had realized the depths of his failure.

  The true price of his retribution.

  To make his revenge possible, Jae had struck a bargain with the Lady of the Vale. The consequences mattered not to him. Only the outcome. And now these consequences had come home to rear their heads.

  A fitting end to a chain of events set in motion so long ago.

  Jae stared at his found family. The ones he’d come to value more than life itself. Even though Arjun’s touch froze Jae where he stood, it still left him in possession of his faculties. He could see, hear, taste, and smell with the heightened senses of a vampire. Humans were usually rendered completely unconscious by Arjun’s gift. Perhaps, given the circumstances, Jae would have preferred that.

  No. He deserved their anger. Their heartbreak. Their judgment.

  “Hurry,” Arjun said, his hazel eyes wide, his jaw clenched. “Jae is strong. He won’t remain immobile for long. And I’d rather not be here if and when he breaks free.”

  Despair choked like bile in Jae’s throat. As soon as the magic wore off, his brothers and sisters expected to meet the full breadth of his fury. They were no doubt counting on that. Emotions made even the best warrior weak. Made them unable to see past their own desires.

  Jae knew this truth better than most. Revenge had blinded him to all else. Even after he exacted punishment on Mo Gwai—even after he relished his enemy’s final screams—it had been a hollow victory. The peace Jae fought to achieve was nothing more than an illusion, gone with the fruit of his dark purpose.

  Madeleine stepped into his sight line
, her brown eyes haunted, her cheeks hollow. More than anything, Jae wished he could turn away from this face. He could not look at her. He did not want to look at her. The pain in his chest was too great, like the weight of a thousand worlds pressing down upon him.

  A century ago, Jae would have given anything to see the light in her eyes. The way her smile turned up the rest of her features, tilting them toward the sky. Jae willed Madeleine to avert her gaze. But she was Madeleine. She would never do what he wanted. Only what he needed.

  Bastien moved beside her, his expression detached. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out you were in league with the Lady of the Vale?” His voice was like ice cleaving off a mountain. “Did you think we would not discover the breadth of your duplicity? I suppose I should no longer be surprised by such a betrayal, especially after Nigel.”

  “You will answer for this, Shin Jaehyuk.” Madeleine stumbled over the words, her lower lip quavering. So uncharacteristic of her. “Comment as-tu pu faire cela?”

  How could you do this?

  For years, Jae had nursed the belief Madeleine might understand. After all, she’d surrendered everything for the sake of Hortense, who would have died of disease if Nicodemus had refused to turn her. For the sake of her family, Madeleine renounced her affections for Jae. Nicodemus had not wanted his best assassin to form an earthly attachment.

  So she relinquished her love. Jae had not protested. He should have fought for her. Should have argued with Nicodemus. But revenge so consumed him that even Madeleine did not matter. When he realized the error of his ways, it was too late.

  Sensation returned to the tips of Jae’s fingers and toes, yet he did not move. Not yet.

  His brothers and sisters were not the only ones capable of setting a trap.

  Arjun stood behind him, ready to freeze Jae once more, should he attack. They expected Jae to strike with his usual swiftness. Even Jae had to admit it was the best way for him to escape. Strike hard and fast and true. If he injured one of them enough to distract the others, he could buy himself the chance to flee into the night and make his way back to the mirror in his flat. From there, he could travel to Lady Silla and inform her of the recent happenings.