by Renee Ahdieh
Nicodemus Saint Germain. The oldest, most powerful vampire in the American South.
Her brother shouted like a demon possessed. Screams of outrage rang through the throng of vampires present. Still Émilie did not turn away from her uncle’s demise. She watched him fall to his knees, the signet ring striking the deck with a metallic ping.
Soon he was nothing more than a pile of ash.
Émilie looked at the young man who had once been her brother. Saw the hate ripple across his face, his fingers intertwined with those of his half-fey love. Snarls ripped from Boone Ravenel’s chest.
A grin tugged at the edges of Émilie’s mouth. She gazed at Celine. “Leave now, or face your—”
The shot that rang out next surprised her. Almost as much as the bullet that tore into her shoulder, nearly knocking her off her feet. The resulting burn caused her to gasp in pain. Typical bullets did not do that.
Which meant this bullet had been tipped in silver by someone who knew what they were.
MICHAEL
He’d taken the shot despite the consequences, out of worry for Celine. Though he knew it meant he was firing upon one of his own. But Michael Grimaldi had watched for long enough. He thought it would give him satisfaction to see the end of Nicodemus Saint Germain.
The reality was the complete opposite.
The next instant, Michael dispatched his fellow officers of the Metropolitan Police. They mounted the railing of the riverboat, their whistles blowing in the dawn light. For an instant, everyone on the deck—the werewolves Michael had known from childhood, his own cousin, the vampires in the Court of the Lions—did not move. Then pandemonium erupted.
Michael had thought the presence of the police would deter the violence from escalating.
He was wrong.
The most powerful of the wolves, those able to transform in daylight, quickly changed shape, their clothes ripping to shreds, their growls tearing through the crowd. Several vampires blurred along the edges of the deck. It was impossible to know who struck first, but a wolf yelped, its jaw torn from its mooring. Its body fell to the deck, lifeless. The next instant, cries of rage littered the dawn sky.
For a moment, Michael’s fellow officers froze in shock, unsure of what to do.
Who was their enemy in this fight?
A shrill whistle blared from the opposite end of the deck as an officer fired at a wolf charging toward him. The next instant, the rest of the police force took aim, two of them moving to protect Celine and the other women close by.
Though Michael carried a revolver loaded with solid silver bullets, he tore the dagger from his side, refusing to fire again on one of his own. But he did not hesitate to fire a warning shot at Jae’s head when the vampire moved toward Luca, who fought back to back with his new wife. Neither had shifted into their animal forms, though Michael knew Luca was powerful enough to do so at any time of day.
Those who could not shift fled to the other side of the riverboat. The rest of the wolves attacked at random, their lack of organization obvious. Luca yelled over the din, trying his best to rally those who remained to his side.
Bastien and Odette stood before Celine, knocking any wolf that charged out of the way. Michael did not miss how Bastien avoided using lethal force. When Celine shouted, Bastien turned in place in the same moment two wolves descended on Odette, knocking her from her feet. One wolf buried its fangs in Odette’s throat.
Bastien hurled himself against the wolf’s side, knocking the second attacking wolf away from Odette with a swipe of his arm. Michael watched as the wolf slid backward, then moved to attack Celine, who held a pistol and a knife in each of her hands. She fired, and the wolf dodged the shot just as Boone came to her aid.
From nowhere, the werewolf Michael shot—the girl Luca had recently married—stepped into the light, her expression one of triumph.
“Celine!” Bastien shouted as Celine brandished her silver dagger and heaved it with all her might at Luca’s wife, the blade sinking into the werewolf’s shoulder. The girl sent Celine a savage smile before grabbing her by the throat.
Without a second thought, Michael shoved aside the officer and the wolf in his path. He rested his pistol on his forearm and fired at Luca’s bride. Unlike the first time, he shot to kill.
His cousin stepped between them.
Michael’s silver bullet hit Luca square in the chest.
BASTIEN
My sister’s scream pierces the chaos. Its echo rises into a sky on fire, the sun rising at her back.
Émilie falls to her knees beside Luca’s lifeless body, blood slipping down her arms from injuries to her neck and shoulder. She looks as she sounds. Like a wounded creature. An animal for whom nothing matters but putting an end to the pain.
I feel the pull of her anguish. I take a step forward, then stop myself. It seems unreal that I should see her once more, alive and whole. Has it really been a single night since I received her note? After years without her, a part of me still has trouble believing the sight before me. The boy in me wants to run to her, embrace her, soothe the lines of agony on her brow, just as she’d done for me on more than one occasion.
But the man I am becoming knows better.
I think of my uncle’s final directive. The one Nicodemus shared with me just before he met the sun, his unspoken words ringing through my head, maker to immortal child.
Do not let them win, Sébastien. Take back the Horned Throne. Fix what has been broken.
Be better than I was.
I stand still, watching Émilie shriek at those around her, tears coursing down her cheeks, her arms cradling Luca’s head, his blood soaking through the front of her dress, mingling with that of her own wounds. For a breath of time, no one on board moves, save for the restless stirring of those succumbing to their own injuries.
I understand the pain of her loss. It is the type of pain I knew in the wake of our parents’ deaths. In the wake of my sister’s death. And I want nothing more than to comfort her. But Émilie isn’t the sister I knew. Anger has filled her with hate. Anger has driven the course of her life. It has made her strong. Proud. It has left her alone.
She is more like my uncle than she will ever know.
My sister catches my gaze. She cradles Luca’s head to her breast and lifts her chin.
“Help me,” she says beseechingly. “Brother.”
I take a step. Stop myself, uncertain yet again. Untrusting of what I see. What I feel.
“Sébastien,” she implores. “Please.”
Several members of Luca’s pack move forward. Before I can make a decision, Odette glides toward Émilie, her hands raised, her intentions clear—only to help. Her face is wan, her expression subdued. The wound along her neck from the wolf who attacked her has barely begun to heal.
There is such kindness in Odette. Out of us all, her dead heart feels keenly for those around her. It’s what drives her to fight for the ones she loves with such fierceness. She knew Émilie as a child. There is sorrow on her face at watching someone she once cared for suffer before her very eyes.
I swallow around the tightness in my throat. Steel myself to help, despite my misgivings. Celine takes a hesitant step, her head quirked at a tentative angle. Odette crouches beside Émilie as my sister extricates the blade from where it is buried in her shoulder. With utmost caution, Odette moves to press a hand to Émilie’s wound, reaching for something with which to fashion a tourniquet.
She never sees the dagger in Émilie’s hand slice toward the side of her injured neck. A flash of metal. A stunned silence. A jubilant cry.
“Odette!” Celine screams.
For a dreaded moment, I fail to understand what has happened. I only see Odette fall to one knee, a look of surprise across her brow. Then she folds over like an accordion, her throat cut through to the bone, a torrent of crimson cascading like a waterfall toward t
he sun-warmed deck beside her feet.
I blur into movement. The next instant, the fingers of my right hand are wrapped around my sister’s neck, my left hand ripping the glistening silver blade from her grasp. She meets my gaze, her face devoid of emotion, her eyes like chips of ice.
Behind me, I hear a flurry of motion. I listen as Jae curses once and Boone wails. As Madeleine yanks Odette’s slumped figure away from everyone else. I know without seeing that Odette’s body will soon begin to dry like a husk, then blow away, like discarded bits of paper. Even if we call Ifan now and promise him an exorbitant price, there is little chance he could save her. Outrage scalds through my blood, washing everything in crimson tones. I try to tamp down my fury. Try to silence my need for retribution. Blood for blood. My pound of flesh.
“Why?” My vision swims. My voice is dry. Brittle.
“Because I could,” Émilie says.
“No. That’s not enough of a reason. Why?”
“It’s the reason I choose to give.” She wraps her bloody fingers around my wrist. “Are you angry, mon petit lion?”
I say nothing.
A corner of her mouth kicks up. “Do what Uncle Nico taught you to do.”
I swallow, my fingers tightening around her throat.
“Take your revenge, little brother. Today I’ve taken much from you. Take this. You’ve earned it.” Her smile widens, her teeth pressed together, flashing like ivory. Low growls emanate from behind her, the pack hoping to rally behind its new alpha.
I study her in silence, trying to find a point of clarity through a haze of sadness. Why does she want me to kill her? Is it simply because she wants to ensure the rivalry between the Fallen and the Brotherhood will ignite anew?
What happens next is subtle. A blink and I might have missed it.
Émilie flinches.
My rage abates, a tide retreating from the shore.
“Regret?” I say softly. “For what?”
Her upper lip curls into the beginning of a snarl. “Regret is for fools.” Her laughter is like dried leaves caught in a twist of wind. “Do it. Lash out. If you don’t, I’ll destroy everything you love.” Émilie looks behind my shoulder. I do not need to guess where she has turned her attention. “The half blood is next.”
The rage flows to my fingertips once more. I can take the blade in my hand and sever her head from her neck, just as she’s done to Odette. Bury the knife in her heart, all the way to the hilt, twisting it deeper than her betrayal. The demon in me is delighted at the prospect. My bloodlust longs for the satisfaction.
Unshed tears glimmer in Émilie’s eyes, but she blinks them back, her teeth bared.
“Bastien.” Celine’s voice comes from behind me. “Don’t.”
It isn’t what I am. It is who I hope to become.
Be better than I was.
I think about my uncle, who used violence for centuries to protect the ones he loved. I think about Sunan, and the promise I held so close to my chest, of finding a way to be unmade.
Maybe this is my unmaking. Not from a demon to a man. But into a better version of myself.
I drop my hand from Émilie’s throat and step aside.
I will not stand in the path of an unstoppable force. That is the way of disaster. The way of Death. Power isn’t about deciding who lives or dies. It is having the strength to walk away.
“Madeleine and Boone,” I say through clenched teeth. “Take Odette to Ifan.”
“It’s too late,” Madeleine says through her tears. “She is gone, my dearest. We must—”
“Take her. Now,” I command, my tone weary.
When Émilie lunges at me once more, she is immediately restrained by Jae. The wolves in the shadows stir, preparing to resume what they started, despite their losses.
I sense their hesitation before I see it. I know that—without a leader—they will be hard-pressed to rally together. Before they have a chance to regroup, I let my voice carry across the deck. “Make a single move, and I’ll ensure that the Brotherhood dies here and now.”
The growls grow louder.
“Do as I ask, and I’ll let you leave to bury your dead and mourn,” I continue. “This”—I glance about—“is not the way forward.”
Boone’s nostrils flare. “She killed Odette, Bastien. Someone must answer for that. She cannot be allowed to find her way back to us or lead any more of her kind against us. That is foolish.”
Jae’s attention settles on me. “There is another way. I can take her to Lady Silla and ask that she be banished to the Wastelands.”
I consider this a moment before I nod in agreement.
“And what if she is able to escape? What if she seeks another way to wreak her revenge?” Madeleine says.
Jae’s eyes flash. “You know what must be done. An alpha that cannot run at the head of its pack is an alpha no more.”
A sharp spate of laughter fills the air. “They turn to you, little brother, to lead in the absence of our uncle. Set the right example,” Émilie says, her tone jeering.
I inhale deeply. Then I nod at Jae. “Do it.”
The next instant, Jae cuts off Émilie’s left hand at the wrist.
BASTIEN
Celine and I are the last to make our way back to the Hotel Dumaine.
I know both of us are stalling. Neither of us wishes to cross the threshold and discover that Odette is lost to us forever.
“Do you think there’s any chance?” Celine asks as we pause half a block away from the entrance to the hotel.
I know there isn’t. Her blood loss was too great, the wound too deep. “Maybe,” I say.
“Perhaps if I speak to my mother,” Celine says. “If I make her a promise.”
“If there’s anything to be learned from our time in the Vale, it’s the danger of too many promises.” I catch her hand in mine and pull her close.
Her voice wavers in my shoulder. “I’ll make any promise if it means Odette will live.”
I hold her tighter. Then I feel her stiffen against me. My nostrils flare as the scent of gunpowder is carried on the wind. I turn at once.
A man with an elegant mustache stands several paces away, a bowler hat in hand. His eyes are narrowed, his posture ramrod straight. In a second I recognize that he must have served in the military.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” he says, his accent unmistakably French. “I am Agent Boucher of the French National Gendarmerie in Paris.”
I move in front of her, my gaze locked on his.
“I represent the Marquis de Fénelon,” he continues.
Celine gasps behind my back, her fingers digging into my shoulder.
Agent Boucher sniffs. “He is quite certain you can tell him what happened to his son, François.” He takes a step forward. “I have in my hand a notice that you are to accompany me back to Paris for questioning.”
“No,” Celine whispers. Her hands shake.
It is all I need to hear. In a ripple of movement, I grab the French police officer and drag him into the alley beside the hotel. He struggles, but my arms close around his throat, choking the life out of him.
“Bastien,” Celine says, tears streaming down her face. “Please don’t kill him.”
“He’s here to take you to Paris. They will hang you for murdering that boy, Celine.”
“If you kill him, the marquis will simply send someone else.” Her voice trembles. “I need to disappear. I need to wait until he gives up.”
I tighten my grip.
“Stop,” Celine cries, her fingers on my arm. She holds up the hand with the gold ring her mother gifted her. “I’ll return to the Sylvan Vale. Leave him here. Let him go.”
I stare at her, my fangs lengthening. The demon within me taking control.
“Come with me,” she says.
EPILOGUE
The Grimaldi family had a bloody past.
From the time the first Antonio Grimaldi ruled his village six hundred years ago in the heart of Sicily to the moment Michael’s great-grandfather boarded a ship bound for the New World, theirs was a path lined with bodies. As with their archenemies, werewolves were made in blood. A bite from a werewolf often resulted in death, which was why it was rarely attempted among their ranks. The risk was too great. The Grimaldis had learned this truth the hard way. It wasn’t enough to be born into a family of wolves. You had to forge your own path. One surefire way of ensuring the change was sinister in construct: take the life of one of your own. A wolf for a wolf.
Like Michael had taken Luca’s life. Even though it had been by mistake. The cost of the magic was clear.
One must die so the other may live.
It began with the shifting of the clouds.
Michael had known to expect it. Nevertheless the first ripple down his spine set his teeth on edge. A pang unfolded in his chest. He bowed his head, noting the sudden race of his pulse. The way every tendon in his arms stretched, his neck lengthened, his chin tilted toward the moon.
He stared at it. Studied its mottled surface, his skin bathing in its cool light. Blood rushed through his veins. His face turned hot. Though he fought it—a sad attempt to cling to the vestiges of his humanity—Michael fell to his knees, his hands reaching for the soft loam before him, his fingers curling into the soil.
He was changing. He was becoming. Never again would he be what he once was.
The truth rattled through his bones. He yelled and no one was there to hear it. He’d made certain of that when he’d slogged his way to the heart of the bayou, far from his fellow man, knowing he would emerge an altogether different kind of creature.
His yells became snarls. His fingers sharpened into claws. The four chambers of his heart burst in his chest, his veins filling with liquid fire. He remembered being a boy of ten, jealous of Luca, who’d taken the life of his own father at his father’s behest. It had been a mercy killing. Luca’s father had been injured in the Brotherhood’s war with the Fallen. Moments away from his own death, he’d given Luca a pistol. Told him what to do.
