of our parents wanted this life for us.
My body trembles. I stop drinking, letting Cambion fall to the ground. His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe, the stripes fading from his skin, his hair turning flame red once more. Black ichor stains his fingertips when his claws retract.
I know he will live.
“What are you doing?” my uncle demands aloud.
I whirl toward him, my vision blurring along the edges, blood tears trickling down my cheeks. The cuts on my forearm ooze, the smell strange. Noxious.
“I don’t want this,” I rasp.
“What?” He steps toward me, anger sharpening the angles of his profile. His gaze flicks to my open wounds, his golden eyes widening. My injuries should have healed by now.
I sway unsteady on my feet and blink hard.
“This life you wish for me to lead,” I say through the cries for blood swelling through the crowd around us. “Take it back. I don’t want it. Take all of it back,” I yell to the heavens. “I want no part of this.”
Then I fall to the ground, wrapped in a warm blanket of darkness.
CELINE
It was too soon for Celine to be wandering the streets of New Orleans on this late March evening. Every corner she turned—every footfall she heard over her shoulder—caused a tremor to unfurl down her spine.
Celine stopped midstride. Lifted her chin. Straightened her back.
She was tired of letting fear rule her every waking moment. It was Good Friday. Almost six weeks had passed since she’d been kidnapped by the now-infamous Crescent City killer. Forty days and nights since the evening she’d sustained multiple injuries, tied atop the altar in Saint Louis Cathedral. Contusions to the head, a nasty gash in the side of her neck, three broken ribs, and a dislocated shoulder.
Everyone said it was a miracle she’d survived. A blessing that her head injuries prevented her from recalling anything in the way of details. How the entire night seemed shrouded in shadows, candlelight and incense wavering through her mind.
“Celine?” a patient voice inquired from beside her.
Michael Grimaldi. The youngest detective of the New Orleans Metropolitan Police, he was also the one who’d rescued Celine from the clutches of a murdering madman. In the ensuing tumult, Michael had shot Celine’s unknown attacker in the face. For these actions, he’d been crowned the Crescent City’s newest hero. Wherever Michael went, glances of appreciation followed. Men shook his hand. Women gazed at him covetously. Twice this evening, Celine had been sent murderous glares by some of the young ladies strolling past them. A fact that had not gone unnoticed by Celine’s attractive escort, though he appeared to pay them no mind.
“Are you all right?” Michael asked, concern lacing his tone.
Celine tossed her ebony curls and aimed a smile his way. “I’m fine. I was just momentarily . . . disoriented. But the feeling has passed,” she finished in a hurry, looping her arm through his, angry young ladies be damned.
Michael studied her for a beat. She could see him considering whether or not to press the matter. Truth be told, there had been several instances in the last few weeks when spells of dizziness had overcome Celine. Twice she’d stumbled over nothing or found herself lost in a flash of feeling, caught up in a strange memory. The last time, Michael had been there to catch her, as if Celine were some fainthearted milquetoast. A character from a penny dreadful, destined to die.
Infuriating. What kind of silly little fool couldn’t stay on her own two feet?
Just this afternoon, her friend Antonia had remarked on how romantic it was—to be caught mid-faint by the dashing young detective. The girl from Portugal hummed a love song to herself while arranging boxes of grosgrain ribbon in Celine’s new dress shop. Antonia’s behavior had irritated Celine beyond measure. But not nearly as much as her own inability to recall even the most insignificant detail from that night.
As if Michael could sense Celine’s mounting agitation, he nodded, and they resumed their evening stroll down Rue Royale.
Celine looked about, letting the hustle and bustle of the busy thoroughfare calm the tempest in her mind. Though it was past dusk, families still milled about, stopping to peruse the offerings in the shop windows, chat with acquaintances, or dip into bakeries to snag a box of warm pralines or a paper sack of hot beignets. The early spring air carried the scent of melting butter and magnolia blossoms. A carriage trundled past, its canopy trimmed in delicate white fringe.
“It’s