{"product_id":"the-damned-isbn-9781984812605","title":"The Damned","description":"\u003cb\u003eInstant \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling sequel to \u003ci\u003eThe Beautiful.\u003c\/i\u003e Now in paperback.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFollowing the events of \u003ci\u003eThe Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e, Sébastien Saint Germain is now cursed and forever changed. The treaty between the Fallen and the Brotherhood has been broken, and war between the immortals seems imminent. The price of loving Celine was costly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Celine has also paid a high price for loving Bastien. Still recovering from injuries sustained during a night she can't quite remember, her dreams are troubled. And she doesn't know she has inadvertently set into motion a chain of events that could lead to her demise and unveil a truth about herself she's not ready to learn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForces hiding in the shadows have been patiently waiting for this moment. And just as Bastien and Celine begin to uncover the danger around them, they learn their love could tear them apart. | \u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Damned\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Seventeen.com's Most Anticipated Pick for Summer 2020\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"\u003cb\u003eForbidden romance\u003c\/b\u003e and harsh consequences set up this \u003cb\u003ehighly anticipated sequel\u003c\/b\u003e that will leave you wanting so much more.\" —\u003ci\u003eSeventeen.com\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eExpansive worldbuilding\u003c\/b\u003e...romantic...steamy...\u003cb\u003eDecadent escapism\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eReviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eForbidden love, sultry romance\u003c\/b\u003e, and clashing immortal factions fill this sequel . . . [and] will keep readers engaged...For\u003cb\u003e fans of vampire love stories\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003cb\u003eI loved this book\u003c\/b\u003e. Beautiful, tortured Bastien…The \u003cb\u003estellar worldbuilding\u003c\/b\u003e\/the lurking presence of the Otherworld and V A M P I R E S. \u003cb\u003eA clear win\u003c\/b\u003e.” —Roshani Chokshi, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Gilded Wolves\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “\u003cb\u003eA worthy sequel\u003c\/b\u003e that builds upon the world set up in book one and \u003cb\u003etakes our characters to far darker places than before\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eCulturess\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Damned\u003c\/i\u003e continues the\u003cb\u003e thematic elegance and glamour\u003c\/b\u003e found in \u003ci\u003eThe Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e and manages to take it up another level . . . There is a \u003cb\u003edeep and seductive ambience \u003c\/b\u003ethat weaves throughout the story and leaves you feeling like you are reading the novel while lounging in a richly appointed New Orleans drawing room….The supernatural world that Ahdieh builds in this series is \u003cb\u003enothing short of fantastic\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Nerd Daily\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e, which kicks off a new series, returns the vampire novel to popular form, \u003cb\u003eevoking the style of Anne Rice\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003ebreathing fresh life\u003c\/b\u003e into the genre.” —\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It's true: \u003cb\u003eVampires are back\u003c\/b\u003e, and they're more \u003cb\u003eseductive\u003c\/b\u003e than ever.” —\u003ci\u003eBustle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ahdieh \u003cb\u003ebrings New Orleans vibrantly to life\u003c\/b\u003e, particularly when exploring the complicated racial and gender restrictions of high society through main and supporting characters of mixed-race origin. \u003cb\u003eSure to please\u003c\/b\u003e fans of the author and of the vampire-romance genre.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The first in a series, this mystery novel \u003cb\u003eshines\u003c\/b\u003e when it focuses on Celine and her struggle to fit into society while trying to be true to herself.” —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An \u003cb\u003eaction-packed\u003c\/b\u003e third act and a final reveal will have readers \u003cb\u003egrasping for the sequel\u003c\/b\u003e. . . Vampires never stay dead for long, and best-selling Ahdieh's approach—part homage to the classics, part fresh-eyed revitalization—will intrigue all but the most committed skeptics.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eDarkly glamorous\u003c\/b\u003e . . . \u003cb\u003eCompelling\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“An incredibly ornate, lush New Orleans; characters who imprint themselves on your memory forever; a story that is \u003cb\u003enail-biting and swoony and satisfying and tense ALL AT THE SAME TIME\u003c\/b\u003e. And of course . . . VAMPIRES.” —Sabaa Tahir, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eAn Ember in the Ashes\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It's \u003cb\u003eintoxicating\u003c\/b\u003e. \u003ci\u003eThe Beautiful\u003c\/i\u003e has that \u003cb\u003edecadent, slow-moving horror that feels like a dream slipping to nightmare\u003c\/b\u003e.” —Roshani Chokshi, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Gilded Wolves\u003c\/i\u003e | Renée Ahdieh is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. In her spare time, she likes to dance salsa and collect shoes. She is passionate about all kinds of curry, rescue dogs, and college basketball. The first few years of her life were spent in a high-rise in South Korea; consequently, Renée enjoys having her head in the clouds. She and her family live in Charlotte, North Carolina. She is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e and international bestselling author of the Wrath and the Dawn series, the Flame in the Mist series, and The Beautiful series. | \u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Awakening\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst there is nothing. Only silence. A sea of oblivion.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen flashes of memory take shape. Snippets of sound. The laughter of a loved one, the popping of wood sap in a fireplace, the smell of butter melting across fresh bread.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn image emerges from the chaos, sharpening with each second. A crying young woman—her eyes like emeralds, her hair like spilled ink—leans over him, clutching his bloodstained hand, pleading with him in muffled tones.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWho am I? \u003c\/i\u003ehe wonders.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDark amusement winds through him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe is nothing. No one. Nobody.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe scent of blood suffuses his nostrils, intoxicatingly sweet. Like lechosa from a fruit stand in San Juan, its juice dripping down his shirtsleeves.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe becomes hunger. Not a kind of hunger he’s ever known before, but an all-consuming void. A dull ache around his dead heart, a blast of bloodlust searing through his veins. It knifes through his stomach like the talons on a bird of prey. Rage builds in his chest. The desire to seek and destroy. To consume life. Let it fill the emptiness within him. Where there was once a sea of oblivion, there is now a canvas painted red, the color dripping like rain at his feet, setting his world aflame.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eMy city. My family. My love.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eWho am I?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrom the fires of his fury, a name emerges.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eBastien. My name is Sébastien Saint Germain.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eBastien\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI lie still, my body weightless. Immobile. It feels like I’m locked in a pitch-black room, unable to speak, choking on the smoke of my own folly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy uncle did this to me once when I was nine. My closest friend, Michael, and I had stolen a box of cigars hand-rolled by an elderly lady from Havana who worked on the corner of Burgundy and Saint Louis. When Uncle Nico caught us smoking them in the alley behind Jacques’, he sent Michael home, his voice deathly quiet. Filled with foreboding.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen my uncle locked me in a hall closet with the box of cigars and a tin of matches. He told me I could not leave until I finished every single one of them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat was the last time I ever smoked a cigar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt took me weeks to forgive Uncle Nico. Years to stomach the smell of burning tobacco anywhere in my vicinity. Half a lifetime to understand why he’d felt the need to teach that particular lesson.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI try to swallow this ghost of bile. I fail.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI know what Nicodemus has done. Though the memory is still unclear—fogged by the weakness of my dying body—I know he has made me into one of them. I am now a vampire, like my uncle before me. Like my mother before me, who faced the final death willingly, her lips stained red and a lifeless body in her arms.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI am a soulless son of Death, cursed to drink the blood of the living until the end of time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt sounds ridiculous even to me, a boy raised on the truth of monsters. Like a joke told by an unfunny aunt with a penchant for melodrama. A woman who cuts herself on her diamond bracelet and wails as drops of blood trickle onto her silken skirts.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike that, I am hunger once more. With each pang, I become less human. Less of what I once was and more of what I will forever be. A demon of want, who simply craves more, never to be sated.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhite-hot rage chases behind the bloodlust, igniting like a trail of saltpeter from a powder keg. I understand why Uncle Nico did this, though it will take many lifetimes for me to forgive him. Only the direst of circumstances would drive him to turn the last living member of his mortal family—the lone heir to the Saint Germain fortune—into a demon of the Otherworld.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis line has died with me, my human life reaching an all-too-sudden end. This choice must be one of last resort. A voice resonates in my mind. A feminine voice, its echoes tremulous.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003ePlease. Save him. What can I say that will make you save him? Do we have a deal?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen I realize who it is, what she must have done, I howl a silent howl, the sound ringing in the hollows of my lost soul. I cannot think about that now.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy failure will not let me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt is enough to know that I, Sébastien Saint Germain, eighteen-year-old son of a beggar and a thief, have been turned into a member of the Fallen. A race of blood drinkers banished from their rightful place in the Otherworld by their own greed. Creatures of the night embroiled in a centuries-long war with their archenemy, a brotherhood of werewolves.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI try to speak but fail, my throat tight, my eyelids sealed shut. After all, Death is a powerful foe to vanquish.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFine silk rustles by my ear, a scented breeze coiling through the air. Neroli oil and rose water. The unmistakable perfume of Odette Valmont, one of my dearest friends. For almost ten years, she was a protector in life. Now she is a sister in blood. A vampire, sired by the same maker.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy right thumb twitches in response to her nearness. Still I cannot speak or move freely. Still I am locked in a darkened room, with nothing but a box of cigars and a tin of matches, dread coursing through my veins, hunger tingling on my tongue.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA sigh escapes Odette’s lips. “He’s beginning to wake.” She pauses, pity seeping into her voice. “He’ll be furious.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs usual, Odette is not wrong. But there is comfort in my fury. Freedom in knowing I may soon seek release from my rage.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“And well he should be,” my uncle says. “This is the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. If he manages to survive the change, he will come to hate me . . . just as Nigel did.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eNigel.\u003c\/i\u003e The name alone rekindles my ire. Nigel Fitzroy, the reason for my untimely demise. He—along with Odette and four other members of my uncle’s vampire progeny— safeguarded me from Nicodemus Saint Germain’s enemies, chief among them those of the Brotherhood. For years Nigel bided his time. Cultivated his plan for revenge on the vampire who snatched him from his home and made him a demon of the night. Under the guise of loyalty, Nigel put into motion a series of events intended to destroy the thing Nicodemus prized most: his living legacy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’ve been betrayed before, just as I have betrayed others. It is the way of things when you live among capricious immortals and the many illusionists who hover nearby like flies. Only two years ago, my favorite pastime involved fleecing the Crescent City’s most notorious warlocks of their ill-gotten gains. The worst among their ilk were always so certain that a mere mortal could never best them. It gave me great pleasure to prove them wrong.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut I have never betrayed my family. And I had never been betrayed by a vampire sworn to protect me. Someone I loved as a brother. Memories waver through my mind. Images of laughter and a decade of loyalty. I want to shout and curse. Rail to the heavens, like a demon possessed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlas, I know how well God listens to the prayers of the damned.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’ll summon the others,” Odette murmurs. “When he wakes, he should see us all united.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Leave them be,” Nicodemus replies, “for we are not yet out of the woods.” For the first time, I sense a hint of distress in his words, there and gone in an instant. “More than a third of my immortal children did not survive the transformation. Many were lost in the first year to the foolishness of immortal youth. This . . . may not work.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It \u003ci\u003ewill\u003c\/i\u003e work,” Odette says without hesitation.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sébastien could succumb to madness, as his mother did,” Nicodemus says. “In her quest to be unmade, Philomène destroyed everything in her path, until there was nothing to be done but put an end to the terror.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“That is not Bastien’s fate.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Don’t be foolish. It very well could be.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette’s response is cool. “A risk you were willing to take.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“But a risk nonetheless. It was why I refused his sister when she asked me years ago to turn her.” He exhales. “In the end, we lost her to the fire all the same.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“We will not lose Bastien as we lost Émilie. Nor will he succumb to Philomène’s fate.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You speak with such surety, little oracle.” He pauses. “Has your second sight granted you this sense of conviction?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No. Years ago, I promised Bastien I would not look into his future. I have not forsaken my word. But I believe in my heart that hope will prevail. It . . . simply must.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDespite her seemingly unshakable faith, Odette’s worry is a palpable thing. I wish I could reach for her hand. Offer her words of reassurance. But still I am locked within myself, my anger overtaking all else. It turns to ash on my tongue, until all I am left with is \u003ci\u003ewant\u003c\/i\u003e. The need to be loved. To be sated. But most of all, the desire to destroy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNicodemus says nothing for a time. “We shall see. His wrath will be great, of that there can be no doubt. Sébastien never wanted to become one of us. He bore witness to the cost of the change at an early age.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy uncle knows me well. His world took my family from me. I think of my parents, who died years ago, trying to keep me safe. I think of my sister, who perished trying to protect me. I think of Celine, the girl I loved in life, who will not remember me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI have never betrayed anyone I love.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut never is a long time, when you have eternity to consider.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“He may also be grateful,” Odette says. “One day.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy uncle does not reply.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eOdette\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette Valmont leaned into the wind. Let it buffet her brunette curls about her face and whip her coattails into a frenzy. She reveled in the feeling of weightlessness as she stared down at Jackson Square, her right hand wrapped around the cool metal spire, her left boot dangling in the evening air.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Ah, it’s just you and me again, n’est-ce pas?” she joked to the metal crucifix mounted above her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe figure of Christ stared down at Odette in thoughtful silence.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette sighed. “Don’t fret, mon Sauveur. You know I hold your counsel in the highest esteem. It is not every day that a creature such as myself is fortunate enough to count you among her dearest friends.” She grinned.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePerhaps it was blasphemous for a demon of the night to address the Savior of mankind in such a familiar fashion. But Odette was in need of guidance, now more than ever.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’d like to think you hear my prayers,” she continued. “After all, when I was alive, I made it a point to attend Mass regularly.” She tilted her ear toward the cross. “What was that?” Laughter bubbled from her pale throat. “Mais oui, bien sûr! I knew it. You embraced the sinner. Of course you would welcome me with open arms.” Affection warmed her gaze. “It is why we will always be friends, until the bitter end.” She paused as if she were listening to a reply intended for her ears alone. “You’re too kind,” she said. “And I would never fault you for the sins of the men who have turned your pure words and generous deeds into instruments of power and control.” Once more, Odette whirled around the spire. “Forgive them, for they know not what they do!” she sang, her eyes squeezed shut, a gust of wind rushing toward her face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette took in the world of the Vieux Carré far below, her attention catching on the cameo pinned beneath her throat, the creamy ivory surrounded by a halo of bloodred rubies. Her fétiche, which served two purposes, much like the two sides of her life. It worked as a talisman to protect her from the light of the sun while also serving as an ever-present reminder of her past.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe sight of it sobered her. Along with the slew of remembrances gathering in its wake.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNew Orleans’ high society believed Odette Valmont to be the carefree sort of jeune fille who thrived in the company of others. A young lady whose greatest joy was standing center stage in a roomful of people, their gazes rapt.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“But who wouldn’t adore the attention?” Odette asked. “Am I to be faulted even for this most human of emotions? After all, beauty such as ours is meant to be admired!” It was one of the things that made vampires such dangerous predators: their beauté inégalée, as she liked to call it. With this unparalleled beauty, they drew their victims into a lasting embrace.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut not long after the appreciative sighs faded, Odette would don her favorite pair of buckskin trousers. She would climb the back of the cathedral under cover of night, her fingers and toes sure as they clawed their way up the center of the edifice to the tallest of the three spires, the dark gift coursing through her veins. Once she reached the tower’s apex, she would glory in the silence of solitude.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn the splendor of being alone, under the watchful eyes of her Savior.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt always struck her as odd, how people believed exciting things were bound to happen at parties with loud music, raucous laughter, and flowing champagne. This surety was what drew them to such events in the first place. Odette thought the most exciting space was the one within her own mind. Her imagination was usually much better than real life. With a few notable exceptions, of course.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike her first real kiss. The taste of spun sugar on Marie’s soft lips; Odette’s mortal heart racing in her chest. The way their hands trembled. The way their breaths quickened.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe turned toward the young man on the cross. The Son  of God.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Is my love a sin?” she asked him without flinching, as she had on countless other occasions. Again he gave her the same response. Odette nodded with satisfaction and repeated the mantra. “Your message was one of love. And hatred should never prevail over love.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOnce more, her memories wavered at the edges of her mind. She recalled her first brush with death, the day her father was led to the guillotine, jeers accompanying each of his steps. How he still wore his powdered wig, even when the blade fell. The slick sound of his blood splashing across the stones, which brought to mind her first kill, the night after welcoming her maker with open arms. The thrill of holding such godlike power in her grasp.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette’s fingers turned white around the metal spire. Contrary to popular opinion, she was no longer angry. Not at the bloodthirsty men and women who’d left her a shivering orphan. Not at her parents for being unable to fight back. Not at Nicodemus for stealing Odette away from the dregs of her former life. Not at Marie, who had broken Odette’s heart in the way of so many first loves.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Because of everything that happened, I’ve learned to love myself more,” she said. “And is that not the best gift any trial in life can give you? The power to love yourself today better than you did the day before.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette angled her chin into a violet sky spangled with stars. The clouds above shifted like feathers of mist in a passing breeze. Nigel used to say the skies over New Orleans were filled with the smoke of the city’s misdeeds. The lapses in judgment so often celebrated by the Vieux Carré’s well-heeled tourists, who helped make New Orleans one of the wealthiest cities in the entire country, despite the recent War Between the States. Whenever Nigel would sit down to share his most salacious bit of weekly gossip, his Cockney accent would deepen with prurience.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSomething clenched around Odette’s dead heart.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis time, she hesitated before glancing toward the metal cross in her periphery.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I know I have no business thinking of Nigel Fitzroy with anything resembling warmth,” she whispered. “He betrayed us.” She swallowed. “He betrayed \u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e.” Incredulity flared across her face. “To think this happened only one day ago. That the rising and setting of a single moon has changed all our lives in such an irrevocable fashion.” In that single night, Odette had lost a brother she’d loved for a decade to a bone-chilling kind of treachery. This loss was keenly felt, though she dared not mourn it in the open. To do so would be une erreur fatale, especially in Nicodemus’ presence. The loss of a traitor was no one’s loss at all.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd yet . . .\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe’d cried in her room this morning. She’d drawn the velvet curtains around her four-poster bed and let blood-tinged tears stain her ivory silk pillows. No one had seen hide nor hair of Boone all day. Jae arrived not long after sundown, his black hair wet, his expression somber. Upon returning to Jacques’, Hortense took to playing Bach cello suites at inhuman speed on her Stradivarius, while her sister, Madeleine, wrote in a leather-bound journal nearby. In short, every member of La Cour des Lions mourned in their own way.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn the surface, it had been business as usual. They exchanged stilted pleasantries. Acted as if nothing were amiss, none of them wishing to give voice to their anguish or breathe life into the worst of Nigel’s offenses, the proof of which was soon to follow.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNigel’s worst offense?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe loss of Sébastien’s soul. The unmaking of his humanity. Nigel might have betrayed them, but he had \u003ci\u003ekilled\u003c\/i\u003e Bastien. He’d torn out his throat in front of the only girl Bastien had ever loved.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette shivered, despite the fact that she hadn’t felt truly cold in decades. She let her vision glaze as it spanned across the square toward the glittering waters of the Mississippi. Past the twinkling ships along the horizon.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Should I tell them about my role in this sordid tale?” she asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe figure on the cross remained contemplative. Silent.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You would probably say honesty is the best policy.” Odette tucked a sable curl behind an ear. “But I would rather swallow a handful of nails than face Nicodemus’ wrath. And it was an \u003ci\u003ehonest \u003c\/i\u003emistake, so that should count for something, non?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAgain her Savior remained frustratingly quiet.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA mere hour before Bastien’s death, Odette had allowed him to strike out on his own, knowing full well that a killer nipped at their heels. She’d gone so far as to distract her immortal brethren so they would not waylay him in his task to find Celine, whose safety had been threatened moments prior.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShould she confess her role?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat would Nicodemus do to her once he found out?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe last vampire who dared to cross Nicodemus Saint Germain had had his fangs torn from his mouth.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette swallowed. Not necessarily a fate worse than death, but then again not exactly one to inspire honesty. It wasn’t that she feared pain. Even the idea of the final death did not frighten her. She’d born witness to the rise and fall of empires. Danced with a dauphin beneath the light of a full moon.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHers was a story worthy of being told.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s just . . . well, I \u003ci\u003elike\u003c\/i\u003e the way I look, damn it all!” She liked her smart nose and her impish smile. Missing fangs were sure to mar the effect. “I suppose at least I will not starve,” she mused. “That is the gift of family, among other things.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf gluttony and vanity made her evil, then tant pis. She’d been called worse things by worse creatures.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette reeled around the metal spire, the crucifix at its top creaking with the shift in weight. Gas lamps danced in the shadows below. Her vampiric senses flooded with the scent of a New Orleans spring evening. Sweet blossoms, sharp iron, sultry wind. The beating of hearts. The whicker of horses, the striking of hooves against pavers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDark beauty, all around her. Ripe for the taking.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA mournful sigh flew past Odette’s lips. She never should have permitted Bastien to go, even if Celine’s life did hang in the balance. Odette had known better. Where blood flowed, murder followed. She’d simply allowed sentiment to get the better of her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNever again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor years Odette had eschewed the use of her special gift, one unusual among immortals. The ability to foresee glimpses of another being’s future, with nothing more than the touch of her skin to theirs. She avoided it because she often saw flashes of misfortune in those rash enough to indulge their curiosity.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJust as she’d seen when Celine Rousseau asked her to look the day they first met.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHistory had taught Odette that informing a person of their impending doom did not exactly endear them to her. Often the individual in question would demand how they might avoid their fate. No matter how hard Odette tried to explain that her gift didn’t work like that—that she was not, in fact, a worker of miracles—they would continue pressing her to the point of exasperation. Twice she’d been accosted. Threatened with bodily harm, a knife flashed before her face, a revolver pointed at her chest.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe audacity!\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA bitter smile curled up one side of her face. The fools in question had met with fates befitting their folly. Jae, La Cour des Lions’ resident assassin, had helped her. He stalked those men through the darkness. Terrorized them for hours. Made sure their last moments were soaked in fear.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“They never suspected it was me who orchestrated their deaths,” she murmured.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOf course, knowing whether something unfortunate was going to happen was all well and good in theory. But what if that knowledge pertained to someone Odette loved? Bien sûr, she could push a friend out of the way if a carriage with a spooked horse was careening toward them. But it was rarely that simple.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor this and many other reasons, Odette lied when asked about what she’d seen in Celine’s future. Celine would indeed be the tamer of beasts, as Odette divulged. But Odette would never forget the muffled words that followed after, whispered in her ear like a wicked secret:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eOne must die so the other may live.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePutain de merde. Another ridiculous prophecy, the kind Odette hated for most of her immortal life. They were all unforgivably vague. Why couldn’t they just say what they meant? \u003ci\u003eThis connard will be killing this connard at this specific time and place. Here is how you might spare them this fate. Allons-y!\u003c\/i\u003e Would that be too much to ask?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTo whom did this prophecy refer? Celine and Bastien? Or Celine and someone else entirely? It was impossible to be certain. So, in Odette’s opinion, they were all better off not knowing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut Odette’s opinion had changed last night. Even if it caused her pain, she would help those dear to her avoid disaster.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer brow lined with determination, Odette looked to her silent guardian and made a promise. “I will set things right,” she swore. “Not for Bastien alone. But for\u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFailure of any kind had never sat well with her.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette wrapped her fingers tighter around the metal spire at the cathedral’s apex. “C’est assez,” she said. It was time for her to do as she’d been bidden. To sate her hunger before Bastien woke in truth, for Nicodemus would need all his children at full strength when that time came.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe could only guess what kind of newborn vampire Bastien would be. He’d been difficult as a boy, prone to outbursts in temper. Likely to resolve disagreements with his fists rather than with words. This tendency had caused his expulsion from the military academy at West Point, a position Nicodemus had labored for years to make possible. After all, the son of a quadroon and a Taíno did not sport the necessary pedigree for such a lofty institution.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf Bastien survived the change, Nicodemus believed he would be the strongest of his children, simply for the fact that they shared blood in both their lives, mortal and immortal. Blood sharing was like the flipping of a coin. On some occasions, a brilliant and powerful immortal would rise from its ashes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn others?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA murderous madman like Vlad Țepeș. Or Countess Elizabeth Báthory, who had bathed in the blood of her victims. Or Kato Danzo, who’d terrorized the skies on giant wings resembling those of a bat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette wanted to believe none of this spoke to what might become of Bastien’s \u003ci\u003echaracter\u003c\/i\u003e. Would he be bookish like Madeleine? Hedonistic like Hortense? Morose like Jae or playfully malicious like Boone?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Assez,” she announced to the night sky.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOdette let her attention drift across Jackson Square, her eyes flitting over the many through streets nearby, searching for a lone figure embarking on a solitary stroll. Her gaze locked on someone traveling past a flickering gas lamp along Rue de Chartres.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWithout hesitation, Odette bid her Savior farewell before letting go of the spire. She shut her eyes as she fell, relishing the rush of cool air and the wind whistling in her ears. Just as she was about to strike the pavers, her body curled on itself, tucking into a roll. She hit the ground with a muffled thud, her shoulder taking the brunt of the force, allowing her to spin to standing in the next breath. Straightening, she glanced about before thrusting her hands in the pockets of her buckskin trousers. She hummed as she sauntered down the dark lane known to locals as Pirates Alley. The words of “La Marseillaise” graced the night sky, the clip of her booted heels echoing through the darkness.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Allons! Enfants de la Patrie,”\u003c\/i\u003e Odette sang softly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe glided past the iron bars along which the famed pirate Jean Lafitte had been known to sell his ill-gotten gains in the earlier part of the century. Dark stained glass glinted in her periphery. Inside the church, Odette swore she could see the ghost of Père Antoine swinging his thurible, the smoke hazing about him. Or perhaps it was an apparition of the monk who’d resided beneath its cavernous roof a hundred years ago, often heard chanting the Kyrie on stormy evenings.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Le jour de gloire est arrivé,”\u003c\/i\u003e she continued singing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe stories of this haunted alleyway nestled in the heart of the Vieux Carré had always fascinated Odette. Much like the countless tales about this shining land known as America, they often cloaked the darkest parts of its history. In the case of New Orleans, they masked hundreds of years as a port city in the slave trade. The untold deaths of those who had lived and breathed and loved along\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Nancy Paulsen Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338550489317,"sku":"NP9781984812605","price":13.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984812605.jpg?v=1769572652","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-damned-isbn-9781984812605","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}