The Damned - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,19

had she been granted the chance. But such a position was never meant for her. It was only ever intended for the favored son. Everything was for Bastien. In the end, her very life had been given in exchange for his.

For more than ten years, Émilie had kept her distance. Watched and waited to see what her brother would make of himself. As she traveled the world, she’d read the reports Luca passed along to her, and they stoked her anger. Hardened her bitterness.

Sébastien was destined to become everything Émilie despised in their uncle. A man concerned first and foremost with money and influence, all the while taking for granted his family and the myriad opportunities afforded to him.

Émilie’s brow furrowed while watching Odette’s lovely silhouette move about the opulent chamber. The sable-haired girl turned toward the window, her expression sad. Troubled.

A smile turned up the corners of Émilie’s lips.

She would be happy to comfort the beautiful leech. Mollify her concerns. Smooth any ruffled feathers. Just before tearing out her swanlike throat.

A moment later, the resident assassin of La Cour des Lions moved into Émilie’s sight line, just over Odette’s shoulder.

Émilie’s amusement faded. Shin Jaehyuk worried her. The research Luca’s contact in Crete had done in the bowels of the Brotherhood’s Greek archives indicated that the assassin from the Far East posed a significant threat. He was skilled in all types of blades, yet knew how to kill in countless ways, using nothing but his two hands. Already three different factions of wolves had tried to dispatch Jae, only to have their packs wiped out in return, the masked assassin vanishing without a trace. If Jae were to learn of Émilie’s involvement in Bastien’s death—and that the Brotherhood provided her refuge—no treaty would spare them from his wrath.

Émilie continued watching Odette and Jae, the jealousy a yawning pit in her stomach.

She forced her shoulders back. Stretched her neck from side to side.

Jealousy was a petty emotion. Powerful people did not succumb to it.

Instead they leveled the field.

She scanned the three floors of the structure, as she had for the last week. Still no sign of Bastien. No trace of a reckless newborn anywhere in the vicinity of Jacques’. No bodies in need of disposal in the dead of night. No cadre of immortal creatures waiting in the wings, ready to teach Bastien their soulless, blood-drinking ways.

If her brother had indeed been turned, he would be confined to the darkness. The evening following the events in the cathedral two weeks ago, Émilie had posted werewolves along the streets near Valeria Henri’s parfumerie, the only place in all of Louisiana where Bastien could obtain a fétiche, a talisman fashioned to protect him from the light of the sun.

At no time did her brother venture anywhere near the shop.

Everything told Émilie that her plan had been met with success. Her uncle no longer had an heir upon whom to bestow his legacy. He’d been undone by the hand of the niece he’d dismissed at his own peril.

Then why had Nicodemus failed to inter Sébastien’s bones in the family crypt? And why did Émilie still feel so uneasy?

If Luca knew what she had done, he would tell her she had nothing to fear. Her erstwhile lover would say that her uncle knew better than to violate their treaty. But Émilie could not tell him. Not yet. He might agree that it was past time for her to wreak her revenge, but he would disagree with her methods. And he would be angry at her for provoking the Fallen after a decade of peace, putting the Brotherhood at risk.

In any case, what was done was done. Though Nicodemus possessed many faults, she’d never known him to defy his own twisted principles. Indeed he’d watched her burn with his own eyes, not once lifting a hand to save her. He’d stood silent the night her father had been executed. Though a single tear had slid down his cheek when Émilie’s mother, Philomène, succumbed to the sun, he’d not stopped her from surrendering to the final death.

Émilie wanted to believe that Nicodemus had not turned Sébastien into a vampire.

But exceptions had been made for her brother before.

And until Émilie could stand before Bastien’s grave beneath the hot New Orleans sun—until she knew he was moldering within the stone mausoleum, his body left to burn in the heat to come—this feeling of unease would not leave her.

So she would return again tomorrow night. And the night after.

Until the