us—on all these immortal night-dwellers—many names: wode; wearh; dhampyr; moroi; undead; revenant; lycanthrope; alukah; vardalak; lamia.
The name the locals of New Orleans often use is vampire, no matter that it is a bit of a misnomer, as not all of us survive solely on the blood of others. To the Brotherhood, the name is an insult. To the Fallen, it is a badge of honor. As with many things, its origins lie in the Old World. In a time of perpetual darkness and war, when those in power drank the blood of their foes and impaled the conquered on wooden pikes driven deep into the mud.
The title was granted to night-dwellers by superstitious codgers. Sad beings who believed such demons could be thwarted by cloves of garlic or sprinkles of holy water. By whispered prayers and flashing mirrors, wooden stakes and blessed crosses.
Utterly laughable. Nothing contrived by man could ever control such beings.
Creatures of the Otherworld have enjoyed propagating such notions, as it keeps our victims enthralled with the belief that their gods can save them. Fey beings—both light and dark—have always enjoyed toying with the minds of men in such a fashion.
There is only one thing that can destroy a vampire.
The light of the sun.
And there is only one thing that can subdue it.
Pure silver.
But ultimately these details don’t matter.
What matters is how I feel now. How those I hold dear have felt for centuries. How we’ve managed to endure.
Even more important is what I plan to do. It is no longer enough to ruin my enemy and dismantle everything he’s built over the years. He took me from my family. Stole the very breath from my lungs. I will hurt him as he and his kind have hurt me. With a love lost and a trust broken.
With justice finally done.
Many would say this story is not about justice. It is about vengeance.
To me, there is simply no difference.
Tonight I will test my suspicions. I will see if the girl matters, as I’ve come to suspect.
Before dawn breaks, I will know the scars Death left on her soul.
WORDS ARE WEAPONS
I’m standing at the top of the world!” Ashton Albert—elder son of the shipping magnate Jay Ballon Albert—crowed into the deep purple skyline. “And I like what I see.”
His voice sounded smug in its drunkenness. Despicably self-assured.
Bastien hated it, though he sent the arrogant weasel an approving smile as he stared up into a fleece of clouds.
Ashton’s younger brother, Arthur (a shitcan in his own right), elbowed his way onto the steel scaffolding, standing perilously close to the edge for a seventeen-year-old boy recently conquered by drink. “Make room for me, Ash. I want to see what it feels like to stand on top of the world.”
“Technically”—Phoebus Devereux, youngest grandson of New Orleans’ current mayor, interjected in a nasally monotone—“you’re standing on a half-built hotel along the coast of Louisiana. You’re nowhere near the top of the world.”
Bastien wanted to laugh. Instead he grimaced. He could swear he’d seen Phoebus adjust his spectacles while speaking. Like a gazelle who’d limped onto the Serengeti at the exact moment the lions decided to feed. Ash and Art would not be kind to him for this transgression.
“Shut your sniveling mouth, you little rat,” Ash yelled over his shoulder.
“No one cares what you have to say,” Art echoed like the good little sycophant he’d been raised to be.
Bastien crossed his arms and leaned against a steel column. He took a moment to check his pulse, pressing two fingers of his left hand against the side of his throat. Though he desperately wanted to take these spoiled bastards to task (or at least imagine what it would feel like to do so), he held his tongue and allowed the scene to unfold.
Bastien hated this bullshit.
That raised the question: why was he here at all?
His lips pushed forward, his eyes panning across the silhouette of New Orleans.
Because Sébastien Saint Germain loved money. In his nearly nineteen years, he’d discovered there were only two things he loved more: his family and his city. Money made all manner of grievances disappear. It erased sins and paved pathways into palaces of power and influence. It made what had been impossible, possible.
It was the greatest lesson his dead parents had ever taught him. With money, you could buy anything and everything. Even a way to save your own life.
It was a shame his parents hadn’t learned that lesson in time to spare themselves.