The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  Her mother gave the ring to Celine. “As soon as you wish to return, twist the gem in the center of the ring three times to the right and three times to the left. A tare will form that will bring you directly to this court. After all”—she smiled with open affection—“this is where you belong.”

  Celine placed the ring on her finger. Then she embraced her mother. “Thank you, Umma.”

  Surprise flickered across the Lady of the Vale’s lovely face. But she took her daughter in her arms and pulled her close. “Never forget how much your umma loves you.”

  “I’ll return soon,” Celine said. “I promise.”

  “I know you will.”

  THE LADY OF THE VALE

  As soon as her daughter and the damned blood drinker left court, escorted by Yuri, Lady Silla called for Riya. She beckoned her general close, until her most trusted huntress was the only one to hear what she had to say.

  The leader of the Grey Cloaks nodded. When she stepped back to carry out her lady’s orders, a cold smile tugged at the corners of Lady Silla’s mouth.

  After all, she had not attained the height of power in the Summer Court by anything less than sheer cunning. And she would not lose this power to anyone. Much less to the heir of the vampire she hated most in this world. The vampire who’d taken more from her than any other enemy still in existence.

  Lady Silla would know.

  All her other enemies had perished by her own two hands.

  BASTIEN

  We return to a world of ash and smoke. A world of fire.

  It is June in New Orleans. Though it is sunset, the air swelters around us, the smell of the sea sharp. Almost two months of mortal time have passed in the five days we spent in the Otherworld. Though Arjun warned us this would happen, it is still difficult for me to believe.

  But not as difficult to comprehend as the sight before me now.

  Jacques’—the place I have called home for ten years—has been burned to the ground, along with two other buildings along the same block. All that is left are piles of smoldering rubble. Half a chimney. Stacks of broken bricks. The occasional flash of melted brass. Remnants of my uncle’s marble chess set.

  I wander through the remains of my home, Celine standing silent beside me, the sun descending at her back. Passersby pause to take in the scene, their jaws agape, their tongues clicking against the roofs of their mouths.

  Such a shame. Their whispers carry through the air, clear as a church bell. Sometimes I am grateful for my heightened senses. Tonight is not one of those times.

  Celine sidesteps a pile of red bricks and moves alongside me. She glances about, her green eyes brilliant. Like emerald beacons shining through the darkness.

  “Do you know who might have done this?” she whispers, taking my hand.

  “I have a—” I snarl as movement resonates in the darkness behind us. A pile of bricks collapses in a puff of smoke. I pull Celine behind me, a low hiss emanating from my throat.

  “Bastien.”

  My shoulders fall at once. From behind the blackened chimney, Odette emerges, her face devoid of emotion. She is dressed like a man in mourning. In her hand is a felted top hat. Across her waist is the chain of the gold pocket watch that once belonged to my father. She must have saved it from the fire for me.

  I take her hand and yank her into an embrace. Celine draws us both close. In our arms, Odette’s body sags. I hear a single sob.

  “Was it the Brotherhood?” I say.

  Odette nods against my shoulder.

  “Was anyone injured?” Celine asks.

  Odette pulls away, her gloved hand swiping at the blood tears trickling down her cheeks. She shakes her head. “Nicodemus wasn’t here. He was in New York. The rest of us—including all the mortals who worked here—managed to escape before the blaze consumed the building.” Her smile is bleak. “Even Toussaint made it out unscathed, though the poor little snake refuses to come into the light, no matter the enticement.”

  Rage riots through me, hot and fast. All at once it turns to ice in my veins. I think back on the fire that took my sister, Émilie, from me. The Brotherhood should know better than to do such a thing to my family. “And Jae?” I ask softly.

  “Madeleine freed him from his silver prison.” Her sad smile widens, her eyes tremulous. “We haven’t seen him since, though I suspect he is still in the city. Our family has taken refuge at the Hotel Dumaine. Ifan has made certain none but we are allowed access.”

  “Why would the Brotherhood do such a thing?” Celine asks, her voice breaking.

  “Both the Fallen and the Brotherhood have been searching for a reason to strike out at each other for the last decade,” I say. “If it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else.” I glide forward, kicking aside a brick and watching half of it disintegrate to dust. Determination takes root in my bones. I stand tall, my eyes blazing. “All that matters is that none of our family was harmed. Jacques’ can be rebuilt. But I refuse to lose someone else I love.”

  Odette nods, her gloved hands—the fingertips stained pink with blood tears—slipping into her pockets. “I come here every night. Perhaps it’s because I keep hoping I’ll find something in the rubble.” She sniffs. “Or perhaps it is merely an excuse.”

  “And the Brotherhood?”

  Odette looks around. “They must see this as retaliation for the death of Antonio Grimaldi that night in the cemetery.”

  “Have they attacked since then?” I press.

  She shakes her head. “None of their ranks have been seen since the fire.” Her nostrils flare. “Believe me, we’ve looked.”

  My eyes scan the rubble, taking note of anything unusual. But all I see are the burned tapestries, the piles of fine linen blackened by smoke, the shards of glass glittering in the twilit moon.

  Celine pauses before the remains of a crystal chandelier, the brass partially melted, the crystals covered with soot. Her smile is wistful. “The first time I saw this place, I thought it was magic.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “It felt like I’d crossed into another world.”

  Odette rests her head on Celine’s shoulder, her sable hair shining. “And you did, mon amie,” she said. “And I’m happy to see your memories have returned.” She glances my way and extends her right arm. In her hand is my father’s gold pocket watch.

  “Thank you, Odette,” I say as I take it from her. “I would have mourned its loss.”

  “I did not go back for it,” Odette says. “Jae did. He left it with the front desk at the Hotel Dumaine.”

  I nod once, a knot gathering in my throat. Despite what Jae has done, he will always be my brother. I pause to pry open the lid of the watch with my thumb. It has not been wound for an age. The times I wore it in recent years, it was merely a decoration. On the inside, I read the inscription:

  IL Y A TOUJOURS DU TEMPS POUR L’AMOUR.

  —PHILOMÈNE

  There is always time for love.

  My mother gifted this to my father on their wedding day. I close the watch and place it in my trouser pocket, the knot in my throat pulling taut.

  “It was unpardonable of you both to be gone so long,” Odette says, her fingers lacing through Celine’s.

  I move closer to them, my eyes continuing to scan the ashes of our former home. For an instant, I think I hear whispers of tinkling glass and catch a glimmer of silver service dishes. Of Kassamir clapping his hands, the servers standing at attention like soldiers.

  “If you could do it over again,” I say to Celine, “knowing what you know now, would you have crossed the threshold of Jacques’?”

  She takes a sharp breath. “A wise woman would say no. But I can’t regret it, because this is the life I chose. It is mine and no one else’s.”

  “Even if Celine hadn’t crossed that threshold,” Odette says, “I think
she would have found her way to us. She was as inevitable as the dawn.”

  I take a breath of the soot-tinged air. The heat of a New Orleans summer evening has begun to thicken around us, the cicadas droning in the trees. As I step over another pile of rubble, my foot brushes a stack of discarded paper. “Far be it from me to—” I stop short, the air knocked from my lungs.

  “Bastien?” Odette blurs toward me, her eyes like sharpened daggers.

  I say nothing as I stare at the ground. At the sheaves of scattered paper, their corners curling upward. At the unmarred sheet in the center, anchored by a white marble rook.

  A piece of my uncle’s chess set.

  The rook. A carrion bird that feasts on the dead. A word synonymous with swindling.

  Celine reaches for the piece of pristine paper. I do nothing as she stands, her expression quizzical. She unfolds the note.

  “‘Mon petit lion,’” she reads, “‘our family left me to burn. Consider the favor returned.’” She pauses, her eyes going wide. “‘If you ever wish to see our uncle again, find us on the Crown Jewel of the Mississippi. Yours in life and in death, Émilie.’” Shock settles on her face. “Émilie?” she breathes. “Isn’t that your—”

  “Sister,” I say, the world beginning to spin around me. I take the letter from Celine, the blood roaring through my body. “My sister,” I mutter as I reread the note. “My sister.”

  Mon petit lion. My little lion. I hated that nickname. Only Émilie called me that.

  Odette’s shoulders shake with incredulity. “Comment est-ce possible?”

  I stare out at the remains of my fire-ravaged home, a flurry of images aligning in my mind. Everything that has happened to us in the last few months shifts. Nothing seems random. It all has a purpose. The murders along the docks close to Jacques’, attributed to Nigel. The attack on Celine at Saint Louis Cathedral. How surprised we all were to know that our lanky, card-loving brother, Nigel Fitzroy, had been the mastermind behind it all.

  Perhaps it was not surprise. Perhaps it was disbelief.

  The rook. A swindling carrion bird.

  “My uncle loves chess,” I say, the words ashen on my tongue. “He’s been a student of it for centuries.”

  “He told me that once,” Celine says, “at the masquerade ball.”

  “I never play with him, and he never asks me to play with him. It was something he did with Émilie. She was a prodigy, even at a young age. But still she only beat him once. It was the week before she died . . .” My voice fades into silence.

  Odette’s hands fly to her mouth. “Mon Dieu,” she whispers. And I know she understands.

  “Bastien, what happened?” Celine asks. “You never told me how she died.”

  “It was my fault,” I say, my voice hollow. “As a child, I enjoyed playing with sunlight. Creating prisms with the crystals I found throughout the house. I would collect these pieces of glass, even from the chandeliers. In the bright heat of the afternoon, I would stack them until a pattern of rainbows formed along the wall. My father would reproach me for it. He kept saying I would start a fire one day. But I didn’t listen, and no one enforced the rules with me. Even as a boy, I was coddled and given everything I could ever want.

  “That afternoon, I left my collection of crystals on my bed upstairs after arranging them just so. Then I went down to the kitchen to bother Émilie. When I returned to my room, a blanket in the corner was smoldering. A small fire had been lit. I was young and afraid of getting in trouble, so I threw the smoldering blanket into my closet and shut the door. You can guess what happened after that. I couldn’t see. I was scared. So I ran to a hall closet upstairs and hid.” I close my eyes, remembering how I’d started to choke. How I’d struggled to see or call out to anyone. “Émilie was the one who ran up the stairs, through the blaze. By the time she found me, the fire had consumed the second-floor landing.” I stop, feeling almost human as I recall that moment. That feeling of powerlessness. “I don’t remember much of what happened next. I was told she wrapped me in a blanket and pushed me out the window so that I could land in the center of a sheet the fire brigade was holding. She never made it out.”

  I say nothing for a time, and then a dark burst of laughter flies from my lips. “They never found a body. The fire brigade said it was likely the heat of the blaze had consumed all traces of my sister. For weeks, I hoped someone had rescued her. Found her. I begged my uncle and both my parents to check all the hospitals. To ask all the doctors. I didn’t believe she was dead. I thought if she was dead, I would have known it. There would be some kind of proof. A body, a feeling of loss. I was so sure she was still alive. The only thing my parents did was collect all our belongings and move across the city. They knew—even though no one told me—that we were being targeted by Nicodemus’ enemies. Not long after that, my mother was turned into a vampire. That fire—the one I caused that day—was the beginning of the end for my family.”

  “Ce n’est pas possible,” Odette mutters to herself. “Émilie . . . is alive?”

  Anguish tugs at the corners of Celine’s mouth. “If she’s alive, why would she turn on her own family?”

  “I don’t know. She seems to believe Nicodemus left her to die, though I can’t imagine what would cause her to think that.” My expression hardens. “But I intend to ask her why.”

  Odette grips me by the wrist. “And you will not be alone when you do.”

  I nod and crumple my sister’s note in my fist.

  MICHAEL

  Across the way, on the second floor of a deserted pied-à-terre, Michael Grimaldi watched the trio depart from the charred ruins of Jacques’. He waited until they moved out of sight. Then he stood from his chair, his heart pounding like the beat of a drum.

  He’d expected to see Odette Valmont. She came here each night just after sundown. Only to leave after kicking through the rubble, as if she expected to uncover something she’d missed in the days prior.

  But Michael had not expected to see the girl he loved . . . with the boyhood friend who’d betrayed him so many years ago.

  Sébastien Saint Germain.

  Michael bit back the bitter taste in his mouth, his arms shaking. Bastien and Celine had disappeared more than seven weeks ago. Not once had they been sighted in the days since. Most of the other officers in the New Orleans Metropolitan Police believed the two young lovers had left the city to elope.

  Michael alone argued with them. Insisted that these officers continue to be stationed around Jacques’ and the Hotel Dumaine. Not once had he thought it possible for Celine to do such a thing as leave without a word. The day before she vanished, she’d told Michael she wanted to build a life together. That she wanted to be with him. She’d meant it. Of that Michael was certain.

  If something had happened to Celine, it had been done against her will.

  At first Michael’s superiors humored him. They allowed him to place officers around all the establishments frequented by the members of La Cour des Lions. After a month passed without any sightings or any new clues, they’d quietly pulled back their resources, against Michael’s renewed protests.

  Even after the fire at Jacques’ last week, Michael had been unable to convince his fellow officers that something was afoot. Not so privately, many of his colleagues had asserted that he was no more than a jilted lover, incapable of accepting the obvious fact that the girl he loved had fallen for another man.

  Michael thought he might go mad.

  If Luca were here, Luca would have believed him. Michael’s cousin was due to return from his European honeymoon any day now. And just because Celine had appeared alive and safe in the company of Sébastien Saint Germain did not mean that she’d turned her back on Michael. It was possible Odette Valmont had helped keep her trapped all this time. Perhaps Celine was still their prisoner, yearning to be set free.

  His fists clenched at his sides. No
matter what, he would clear his name of this despicable stain. He was not a jilted lover. Nor was he a cuckolded fool. If Bastien had taken Celine away against her will, the fiend would pay for it. And if . . . if Celine had chosen the bloodthirsty bastard over Michael, he would not turn his cheek and wait for the other slap.

  No. He would be the one to decide what happened next.

  Michael moved from the shadows of the abandoned flat and onto the darkened street. With haste, he began striding toward police headquarters in Jackson Square. He needed to send for a recruit so that they could follow Bastien, Celine, and Odette to Hotel Dumaine, where the rest of their fallen court of vampires lurked.

  After all, there was a reason Michael Grimaldi had been chosen as the city’s youngest police detective. And he would not allow his instincts to be ignored any longer.

  II

  Along the nearby street corner, a gentleman in a bowler hat watched Celine Rousseau, Sébastien Saint Germain, and an unidentified young man leave the destroyed building that had once housed the city’s best-known dining establishment. He cracked his knuckles and smoothed his immaculate mustache. Then he removed his notebook. Jotted down his observations. And began striding toward the Hotel Dumaine.

  Soon he would have all the information his client needed.

  Soon he would be able to serve justice on a murderess.

  ÉMILIE

  Émilie had often dreamed of the sight before her now. All around the boat deck, her brother and sister wolves from Texas, from Arkansas, from Kansas, from Oklahoma, from Georgia, from the Carolinas were gathered. Here they all stood, ready to listen. Ready to learn.

  Ready to unite.