The Beautiful (ARC)

by Renee Ahdieh

  With an inhuman roar, the vampire whipped around, dark

  blood spurting from his wounds. He flung Celine through

  the air, her shoulders slamming into the edge of the pews,

  knocking the wind from her lungs and cracking something in

  her ribs.

  Nigel staggered, the silver blade embedded in the side of

  his throat. Rage contorting his face, he stalked toward Celine,

  blood gushing down his body, his hands outstretched.

  A breeze raced through the nave, the sound of beating wings

  trailing in its shadow. Then something grabbed Nigel, snatch-

  ing him from sight, the shrieks of a wounded beast fading into

  the darkness.

  Her body all but broken, Celine struggled to her feet, seeking

  a point of clarity beyond the pain. A sharp sensation radiated

  through her chest, her vision swimming as she looked forward.

  Bastien leaned against a wide column of marble, one hand

  pressed beneath his ear, a strange expression in his eyes.

  He stumbled to his knees.

  Then Celine saw the cascade of crimson dripping from his

  neck.

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  “Bastien.” She rushed toward him, catching him before he struck the stone floor. Crouching by his side, Celine pressed

  her bound hands atop his, trying to stanch the gaping wound at

  his throat. Blood oozed from between their fingertips, flowing

  fast and hot, like a river bursting through fissures in a dam.

  Several brushes of air gathered on all sides of them. Celine

  did not have to look to know who was there. The rest of the

  Court had arrived, not a moment too soon.

  Bastien opened his mouth, the light in his gaze fierce. He

  tried to speak, but a trail of blood streamed from his mouth.

  “Don’t talk.” Celine held him close. “You’re going to be fine.

  Nicodemus will be here soon. Hold on to your strength.” She

  placed pressure on his wound until the tips of her fingers turned white, but Bastien’s blood only flowed faster, its warmth soaking through to her skin.

  A small smile curved his lips. With his other hand, he gripped

  her fingers tightly.

  In his eyes, Celine saw a sky filled with stars.

  She saw a boy who would die for her, just as she would kill

  for him.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Celine repeated, her words tremu-

  lous, tears trickling from the tip of her nose. “It won’t end like this. I know it won’t. I haven’t even told you I’m falling in love with you.” Someone was weeping softly behind them. “Damn

  it, don’t cry,” she yelled over her shoulder. “There’s nothing to cry about. He’s going to be fine. We are all going to leave here

  together. And I will love Bastien until the last star falls from

  the sky.” Her voice broke. “Where is Nicodemus?” Celine

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  shouted, her words resonating with imperiousness. “Find him at once.”

  The goddess within her smiled a sad smile.

  And Bastien’s eyes fell shut, his hand coming to rest on the

  floor beside Celine’s feet.

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  Many Paths to Happiness

  i

  Nicodemus Saint Germain stood over the dying body of

  his nephew.

  The last surviving member of his line. The sole reason for his

  existence. Everything he’d striven for his entire mortal life—his legacy—was draining onto a church floor before his very eyes.

  Fitting. For he’d destroyed hundreds of lives over the centu-

  ries. So many deaths. So much loss.

  There would always be a reckoning. Time had taught Nicode-

  mus that inescapable truth.

  “Please,” Celine begged, tears streaming down her cheeks as

  she clutched his nephew’s head to her chest, blood pooling in a

  widening circle around them. “Save him.”

  The weight on Nicodemus’ soul had already begun to settle.

  “No,” he said simply. Brokenly. It had been the same after he’d

  lost Bastien’s sister, Émilie. After their parents had paid for

  Nicodemus’ greatest mistake.

  “I refuse to accept that,” Celine shouted. “Do something.

  Don’t let him die.”

  To his right and left, Nicodemus felt his immortal children

  stirring. Boone openly wept. Farther away, Jae stared at a point

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  of nothingness, his features wan, his fingers stained by the evidence of Nigel’s final reckoning. A cloud of anger surrounded

  Hortense, Madeleine swiping a lone tear from beneath her

  sister’s chin. Along the periphery, Odette inched forward as if

  to subvert his orders, her sable eyes wide. “Stop,” Nicodemus

  commanded. They all straightened like soldiers. “I will not be

  defied in my wishes. Sébastien was always meant to live and die

  as a mortal. Nothing is worth the price of this curse,” he said,

  his tone firm. “I swore to myself I would never turn a member

  of my human family into a bloodthirsty monster.”

  “It’s worth any price in the world if Bastien lives,” Celine

  pleaded.

  A hard light shone in Nicodemus’ eyes. “Sébastien has al-

  ready proven he is too weak for this life. He did not heed my

  warnings when he fell in love with a mortal girl, and now his

  life is forfeit. If he were one of us, it would be the same. Our enemies would exploit these weaknesses. And there would always

  be something left for him to lose.”

  “Then protect him. Make him stronger. Just save him,” she cried.

  Nicodemus stared down at the cursed girl. The cause of his

  nephew’s undoing. He knew Celine loved Sébastien. Could see

  the truth of it in her haunted gaze. And it left him cold. Bleak.

  Unfeeling. “I stayed away so my enemies would not be drawn

  to Sébastien. So they would not be tempted. I surrounded

  him with my immortal children so that they would always

  protect him. I sacrificed everything I loved to keep him safe.”

  Nicodemus inhaled, a knot of pain taking shape around

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  the emptiness in his heart. “My family has always been my weakness. And now my enemies have destroyed me with it.”

  He shook his head. “Love is an affliction to our kind. I will not remake Bastien only to watch him fall prey to it again. I’m

  sorry.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Celine whispered. “What can

  I say that will make you save him?”

  “Nothing. Whatever we are in our human lives becomes

  magnified by immortality. What Bastien loves now will be an

  even greater weakness.” Nicodemus studied Celine, watch-

  ing his words shatter her last hope. “Forget all this, child. Live your life apart from this wretched world.” An approximation of

  sympathy laced his features. Nicodemus turned toward his

  immortal children, ready to take leave. To sit with his grief,

  pondering all he had lost tonight. To flee this cursed city

/>   forever.

  “What if I promised to forget Bastien?” Celine said from

  behind him.

  Nicodemus did not move.

  She stumbled to her feet in a rustle of black taffeta, the wound

  at her neck filling the air with an intoxicating scent. “You told me you could help me forget. That Bastien would respect my

  choice. If I forgot him—if I was no longer a weakness—would

  you save him?”

  Nicodemus took a step toward the doors of the cathedral.

  “You said there were many paths to happiness,” she continued.

  “If I can choose a different one, will you not do the same?”

  He stopped. Turned to look at Marceline Rousseau over

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  his shoulder. Her hands were still bound, her body covered in blood, a great deal of it her own. Still the girl refused to

  capitulate. A part of Nicodemus admired her stubbornness.

  Her unwillingness to fold in the face of such odds.

  His gaze fell on his nephew’s battered body. On the last signs

  of life lingering within. Sighing in defeat, Nicodemus looked

  away.

  “Bastien is the last of your kin. Are you ready to walk this

  earth alone?” Celine yelled. “Because I would rather lose him

  forever than watch him die.”

  Nicodemus met the eyes of his immortal children. Saw the

  weight of his loss reflected in their faces.

  No. It is not meant to be.

  He straightened and began walking away.

  “Nicodemus!” Celine screamed, the anguish in her voice soar-

  ing to the rafters above. “Nicodemus Saint Germain!”

  Again Nicodemus stopped, the echo of his family’s name

  circling beneath the frescoed ceilings of the cathedral, the

  sound of her pain stirring the shreds of his heart. Bringing it

  back to life.

  “Do we have a deal?”

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  Love Is Not Love

  i

  The first of my people hailed from Carthage.

  From a time when blood reigned supreme. When mon-

  sters and mercenaries ruled the known world. This was the

  beginning of the Brotherhood.

  Not much has changed since then.

  I stand along the pier, gazing toward the waters of the Missis-

  sippi, at peace for the first time in a decade.

  When I first heard the news that Sébastien Saint Germain

  had been struck a fatal blow in the skirmish at the cathedral,

  strange pangs coiled through my chest. I know now it was the

  last vestiges of my weak human heart finally dying so that I

  might embrace the better, stronger version of myself.

  There is no chance Nicodemus will have turned Bastien.

  Not when he refused me ten years ago.

  Amusing how tethered to his morals the great Nicodemus

  Saint Germain can be. Especially considering all the death

  and destruction he has wrought over the centuries. Bastien

  was the last living scion of the Saint Germain line. Now the

  one thing this four-hundred-year-old leech fought to protect

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  above all is gone. His purpose has been taken from him, as mine was taken from me.

  I have dismantled his legacy.

  And it is sweet. The kind of sweetness that overshadows the

  bitterness, consuming it whole.

  For I once loved Bastien more than I loved myself. I even gave

  my human life for his.

  My beautiful little brother.

  But my loyalties lie elsewhere now. With the creatures who

  offered me the gift Uncle Nico refused to grant me ten years

  ago. With the true immortal beasts of the Otherworld. The

  same ones the vampires have always cast aside, to be used as

  watchdogs and fed the scraps from their dinner table. Treated

  as nothing more than fodder in a centuries-long war with the

  Sylvan Vale.

  But no matter, that is a tale for another time.

  Once I walked among the Fallen. Saw them as family.

  But I am no longer a Saint Germain. I do not need to mourn

  the death of my brother. He was complicit in my uncle’s mis-

  deeds. His impetuousness brought about my mother’s death

  those many years ago. Bastien is the reason no one sought to

  save me, a mere girl, destined to become nothing.

  My thoughts linger on Celine Rousseau. A formidable quarry,

  I will admit. She was close to uncovering the truth of what I

  have become.

  But close counts only in cannon fire and horseshoes.

  It was something my father used to say.

  I move from my spot along the pier, slinking toward the shad-

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  ows beneath it, comfortable in my skin for the first time in ages.

  The stars twinkle with abandon, oblivious to how they exist by

  the grace of the moon. But I am aware. She is our mother in all

  ways.

  Luca will be waiting for me, as he always did, even when we

  were children. Beneath the silver light of our mother moon, we

  will run free together. Our families may have been mortal en-

  emies in life, but it doesn’t matter now. For I am among his

  kind. One of them. A member of the Brotherhood, evermore.

  And Luca will always love me, as he has for over a decade.

  I love him, too. In my own way. Just as I loved Marin.

  Beneath the dock, the change begins. The magic burns

  through my bloodstream, sending shudders down my spine.

  My fingers curl into claws, my fangs lengthen, my long hair

  twists and reshapes.

  And I become who I was always meant to be.

  Émilie le Loup, an immortal wolf howling at the moon.

  Ready for whatever may come.

  j

  Celine opened her eyes with a start, as if she’d fallen from a

  tower in her dreams. Her body felt battered and sluggish, like

  the hull of a ship after a summer storm. A cloud hovered over

  her mind, causing everything around her to appear filtered as

  if through a haze.

  She cleared her throat with a weak cough.

  Immediately a figure moved to her side. “Celine.”

  It sounded like the voice Celine wanted to hear. But different.

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  In her dreams, it had been different. “Michael.” His name cracked on her tongue. She cleared her throat again, realizing

  how dry it was. How long she must have slept.

  “Do you want some water?” he asked.

  “Please.” Celine drank from the cup Michael held to her lips.

  Every movement he made was slow. Careful. Unmistakably

  tender.

  Celine blinked hard, but the film clung stalwart to the edges

  of her vision. “What happened to your nose?” Her brow fur-

  rowed. “Did someone hit you?”

  Annoyance flickered across Michael’s bruised face. “I’m fine.”

  “Is Pippa all right?”

  “Pippa is fine. Everyone is . . . fine.”

  “What happened?” She swall
owed. “I can’t remember how I

  got here.”

  Michael nodded. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

  “It—feels like there are holes in my memory.”

  “That’s normal after all that happened.” Michael shifted a

  hand to cover hers. “Later, I promise we can piece everything

  together. But now you should rest.”

  Celine swallowed again, trying to banish the taste of metal

  and herbs from her tongue. She fell back against the pillows,

  the ache in her side causing her to cringe. “Thank you, Michael.

  It’s comforting to know you are here with me.”

  “Where else would I be?” He squeezed her hand, his pale eyes

  warm. The openness in his expression soothed her. As if he had

  nothing he wished to hide from her, ever again.

  Perhaps Celine had been wrong to discount his affections

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  as she had in the past. Michael Grimaldi had always felt like a piece of a puzzle that simply wouldn’t fit.

  Today? Something felt . . . different.

  Michael continued speaking. “Pippa left less than half an hour

  ago to get some sleep.” He smiled to himself. “She’ll be furi-

  ous when she discovers you woke in her absence.” He turned

  toward the door, his strides long. Capable. Quick. “I’ll send

  for her soon.”

  Celine sat up, her body screaming in protest. “Please don’t

  leave. Not yet.” She didn’t know the reason, but she didn’t want

  to be alone.

  He curved a sardonic brow at her. Then reached for the

  wooden chair at the end of her hospital bed. “I’m simply mov-

  ing closer.”

  With a grateful sigh, Celine sank into the pillows once more.

  She looked around. The cover strewn across her bed resem-

  bled the shawl she’d last seen on Nonna’s shoulders. A vase

  of cheerful yellow flowers rested on a worn table beside her.

  At the foot of her bed was a small, well-worn tome. “What is

  that?”

  Michael paused while he sat. “It’s a collection of Shake-

  speare’s sonnets. I’ve been reading them for research.” An awk-

  ward smile tugged at his face. “A girl with a soul of iron told me I should write her a poem.”

  Celine blinked, the memory returning to her, indistinct at

  first, then slowly taking shape. When Michael reached out to

  grasp her hand again, she hesitated a moment, wishing the rest

  of her mind would clear of all its clutter. Wishing she could fill