The Wicked Within (3 page)

“Leave her alone,” I said. “She’s just a kid.”

The witch’s head canted slowly in my direction, and for a long moment, he said nothing. “Unlike you, Violet is not afraid. She will know her destiny when the time comes. Question is, will you?”

T
HIRST STABBED HIM IN THE
gut. It was a tight, twisting pain, a cold burn that stole his breath and seared his insides. The soft glow of the streetlamps blended with the neon from storefront windows. Tourists and locals walked the car-less French Quarter street, their voices mingling with music and conversation from bars and restaurants.

Those tourists, those few hundred who’d been granted entrance to the Quarter for Mardi Gras season, had no idea what walked among them. If they knew their blood called to him, sang to him, a lure so strong and tempting . . . they never would have set foot past The Rim.

The dark street scene in front of him blurred. He veered off the sidewalk and met with a heavy iron gate. The brick tunnel beyond
the bars loomed black, but in the distance glowed an arched view of a dimly lit courtyard.

Dizziness made his view tilt. Just a small tilt, but enough to make him stumble as the hinges whined and the gate gave way. He fell inside, his knees and palms hitting hard against the brick pavers. The voodoo dolls and offerings tied to the gate’s bars fell all around him.

Tiny bodies. All around.

He laughed.

Bodies were littered in his wake. That’s what he was. Pure destruction.

He’d thought he was a freak before, being the child of a vampire and a warlock, but now the joke was on him. And the universe was a twisted bitch for sure.

Using the brick wall for support, he rose on shaky legs and stumbled into the courtyard. A sick, clammy sweat covered his skin. He knew he couldn’t control himself, knew if anyone crossed his path now, he’d kill them, suck them so dry they’d wither where they stood. He wouldn’t care who it was; it didn’t matter. It’d taste so good.

Tears rimmed his eyes and wet his lashes.

His body gave out and he fell. With effort, he rolled onto his back. The massive gray house loomed over him. It was the only place he could go, the only place where those he cared about would never, ever see him like this.

His muscles finally relaxed and his eyelids slid closed. He’d made
it. They wouldn’t see him. And more importantly, the monster inside him wouldn’t see them. . . .

The
tap, tap, tap
of heels on the stone pavers woke him.

The soft glow from the old lanterns on the courtyard walls burned his eyes, but then a shadow fell over him, and it didn’t hurt anymore.

“Bastian.” The sound of his name on his grandmother’s French-accented lips was so goddamn pleasing it made him want to puke all over her five-hundred-dollar shoes. “I knew you’d come.”

He tried to swallow but couldn’t. “I need—”

“I know what you need,
mon cher.
I know.”

Hands slipped beneath his armpits as two of his grandmother’s servants hauled him upright and dragged him into Arnaud House, the great French Quarter mansion he hated with a passion. God, he was going to dry-heave. His gut tightened with readiness. He forced down the first retch, biting on his tongue, his teeth sharp and cutting.

Warmth flowed into his mouth.

Oh. God.
His heartbeat sped up.
So good . . .

But somewhere in his mind, he knew it was wrong. Knew he was going crazy. Cannibalizing himself. Yeah, he’d reached the edge and just fell over into Fucked-Up Land.

They stopped moving. His grandmother appeared in front of him, grabbing his chin tightly. “You fool.” She glanced at the servants. “Hurry. Idiot has bitten his tongue.”

Sebastian was dimly aware of barked orders, echoing footsteps,
the smell of lemon furniture polish and the roses Josephine always kept in the house.

And then he was in a room, the mattress rising up to meet him as a plastic bag was pressed against his mouth.

The smell slammed him hard. Blood.

Blood.

Hell yes.

He sat up, grabbed it with both hands, and sank his fangs into the bag as his grandmother snorted in disgust. That first taste and he was lost in violent need. Lost in the taste, in the energy that slid down his throat. Nourishment. Beautiful, perfect . . . food.

He loved it. And despised it.

On and on he drank, one bag after another.

“No more, Bastian.”

The fourth bag was pulled from his hands, empty like the three others before it. He fell back onto the bed, heart pounding, breath labored. His skin no longer felt clammy, but electric and hot, burning away the haze and filling him with clarity.

His teeth clenched. His eyes stayed closed, but he could feel his grandmother’s gaze boring into him all the same. The last thing he wanted was to look at her. Josephine Arnaud. Head of the Arnaud family. Bloodborn vampire.

“We are Bloodborn,” she began in a haughty, all-too-familiar tone. “The truest and strongest of the vampire kind. Your father,
your friends . . . they have no understanding, no experience in our ways, Bastian. I knew sooner or later you would come home where you belong. You are Arnaud now. This is always who you were meant to be.”

He threw an arm over his face and laughed. She refused to see him for what he truly was. Not a child of two Bloodborn parents, but a halfling. Mistborn. His father, Michel, was a warlock, head of the Lamarliere family and, like Josephine, one of the nine ruling Novem elite. He hated the way she looked down at his father, even despised him, glad when Michel had disappeared ten years ago. What kind of sick person found happiness in a child losing a second parent so shortly after the first? But Josephine had been ecstatic. She’d thought he was all hers, to mold and groom. She conveniently disregarded the true nature of his birth and had called him one of her own.

He’d fought and rebelled against her for ten years, vowing never to become what she was.

And now look at him.

He’d never wanted to take blood, to lead this kind of life, to be an Arnaud. But he’d never been given a choice. Athena had seen to that. She’d forced his first taste of blood upon him, and after that, there was no turning back.

But he couldn’t blame Athena for the choices he made now. Tonight he’d skipped out on Ari and the kids. He wondered how long they’d waited before leaving for the bayou without him.

Guilt turned his blood-high sour.

If his father, Ari, the kids saw him as he’d been only moments ago . . . He’d lose them. He’d rather die than show them this side of him, the out-of-control side, the side that didn’t care. The predator. The killer.

“Bastian.” Josephine wanted his attention while she lectured him.

He let out an annoyed sigh, removed his arm from his face, and glared at her. “Go to hell.” Then he rolled over and gave her his back, knowing, despite how he felt about his grandmother and this place, he’d come back here to feed again and again.

D
URING OUR RETURN JOURNEY THROUGH
the labyrinth of the bayou, I eyed the ever-darkening sky with concern, tension keeping me ramrod straight. Twilight fell as the boat cleared the bayou and sped up the wide channel to the Mississippi, but I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until we were docked and on solid ground.

The four-mile hike back to our house was done in silence and absolute awareness of the darkness surrounding us. I took note of every sound, every smell, every strange feeling. And no matter what, we never stopped moving.

By the time we neared the house, my face was cold, my feet hurt, and my muscles were sore. Banging echoed through the neighborhood, the sound growing louder the closer we came to the Italianate mansion we called home.

Hammer on wood.

It had to be Crank, seeing as how she was the fixer of the bunch. She was the only one among us who wasn’t supernatural in some way, and the only one who could fix an engine or a busted pipe, or rig the electricity to work. If not for her, there would
be
no working fridge, no flushable toilet or running shower. We still had to boil drinking water, and parts of the mansion were rotting away and off-limits, but Crank was indispensable.

I pushed open the squeaky gate, ducked under the vines, and headed to the front door. Inside, Crank was sitting on the grand, curved staircase, replacing a broken board in one of the stairs. Dub sat a few steps above her, watching and slapping a long baguette into his palm as if it were a mighty stick. He glanced up as we filed through the door. “Any luck?” he yelled over the hammering.

“Long story,” I said tiredly.

Crank stopping hammering, lifted her head, and shoved her cabbie hat back from her forehead with her knuckles. Three nails dangled between her lips. Her head jerked in greeting. I returned her gesture with a smile, liking her capable, no-nonsense demeanor. Despite being twelve, Crank ran the mail for the Novem, taking correspondence in her old modified UPS truck across the Pontchartrain to Covington and picking up any incoming mail.

She was the first person I’d met from New 2. She’d picked
me up in Covington and gave me a place to stay while I looked for answers about my mother and my past.

“C’mon. Move,” Dub begged her, nudging her in the back with the baguette. Her frown made him sigh loudly and run a hand over his short blond Afro. “I’m
telling
you this thing is hard enough. C’mon. Let me try.”

Giving up, Crank rolled her eyes and handed Dub a nail, and we watched as he tried to drive it in with the baguette. The head of the nail stuck to the bread. He lifted it and shrugged. “A spike works too.”

“Told you.” Crank resumed her work as Dub slid down the banister. “We got food on the stove. Y’all hungry?”

Henri eyed the baguette. “Not if that’s your idea of supper.”

“Is it wrong of me to want to whack someone with this thing? I’m telling you, it’ll do some damage.”

Violet was already skipping into the kitchen, so I snatched the baguette from Dub’s hand and followed. “I’m starving.”

“Hey!” Dub leaped for it, but I held it high. I was still taller than him, but give him a few more years . . . Already his lanky preteen frame and wide shoulders hinted at the tall, substantial physique to come. With that suede-colored skin, those light eyes, and that blond hair—he was going to be striking. I laughed as he jumped and grabbed my arm, sending us crashing into the hall table.

“Mon Dieu,”
Henri muttered. “Children. Must I be the only mature one in this house?”

Dub and I paused at Henri’s words, then looked at each other and laughed—“Yes”—and resumed our game of keep-away.

Finally I showed mercy and let Dub have his weapon.

“Uh-huh.” He pointed the loaf at me. “You fear the smack-down. Don’t deny it. I know you know who I am.”

“You’re insane.” Shaking my head, I made for the kitchen and the large stainless-steel pot on the stove. The scent of oysters, tomatoes, and spices made my stomach growl. Steam rose from around the lid. As I got a spoon, the house suddenly became quiet. The entire time Dub and I had been goofing around, the hammering had continued. But now it stopped. No footsteps coming into the kitchen, no Crank. No noise at all.

I glanced over my shoulder. Henri stood by the table, a full bowl of stew in his hand, his attention on the archway. He, too, was listening. I met Dub’s stare. The humor was gone. His hand tightened around his baguette. Violet, however, sat at the table, nonchalantly sipping stew from her spoon.

I crept into the dining room, which opened to the foyer as Henri went through the other doorway, which led into the hallway.

An eerie scratching sounded outside the dining room window. Thuds echoed on the porch.

The doorknob rattled. My breath caught.
Damn it.
I ran for the foyer as the front door burst open. Creatures with hairless, leathery gray skin, gnarled limbs, and rows of sharp teeth flooded inside. At least seven of them. Athena’s minions. Her killers.

“Ari!” I swung around at the sound of Crank’s shout. Her hammer swung end over end, right for my head. I ducked. It swooshed over me and slammed into the skull of the minion by the door.

Holy shit.

Breathless, I swallowed, giving her a stunned look as one of the creatures caught me from behind. Its teeth sank into my shoulder. I screamed, the pain instant, but so was the anger. I reached back and grabbed its leathery head, threw my weight forward, and yanked it over me, slammed it against the floor, pulled my blade from its sheath, and stabbed it in the chest.

Its piercing shriek sent pain flowing through my eardrums. I removed the blade and went for the next one.

Flames burst in my peripheral vision. Dub had set one of the creatures on fire.

“Damn it, Dub! Not in the house!” Henri yelled as he fought.

“I know! It was an accident!” Dub beat the burning minion back through the front door with his baguette.

I took a hard shoulder to the gut as one of the minions charged. The force pushed the air from my lungs and rammed
me high into the drywall. The wall buckled with the impact. I held the creature’s bony head away as its jaw snapped inches from my face. Over its shoulder, I saw Violet stroll out of the kitchen, wipe her mouth, and then survey the scene. Calmly, she pulled down her mask and crawled on top of the entry table.

Pulling my leg up, I managed to get my foot in between me and the creature and shoved it off. As it flew back, Violet leaped from the table onto its back.

The River Witch’s words echoed in my mind.
Your day is coming, little one. Just like we talked about. Putting yourself in harm’s way can be a glorious thing.
Damn it. I yelled at her to move, pushing off the wall to intervene when Violet withdrew a dagger and plunged it into one side of the creature’s neck as she bit the other. It was savage and quick. And shocking.