A Beautiful Evil (2 page)

Bran set the bottle down, swiped a hand over his mouth, then leaned casually against the table in the corner to study me. “Now that we know your power stirs from fear and adrena line, we have something to work with. Don’t make me push you that far again. It’s . . . distasteful. Soon you’ll be able to control it without giving in to those unnecessary emotions. But”—he shrugged—“I suppose it’s a decent enough start for your first day of training.”

The bell rang.

And I just stood there staring at him, amazed by how he could sound so blasé after all that.

“We’ll work again tomorrow.” He nodded to the door. “Now get lost.”

I headed for my backpack on the floor by the door, my legs so weak I was surprised they even worked. My hand trembled as I grabbed the strap to my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and left the room the other students at Presby had dubbed The Dungeon.

I
LEFT
B
RAN’S WITH ONE GOAL IN MIND: TO GET OUT OF
P
RESBY
. I had one more class left, but it didn’t matter because I was done with the school and its crazy curriculum of normal and paranormal studies. At least for today.

My steps were quick, but not so quick as to attract attention. My head stayed down and I moved with a kind of reserved desperation. Bran’s way of bringing out my power had stripped all my defenses, leaving me shaken, exposed, and on the edge of reliving old hurts I’d rather forget. I felt wooden as I navigated the maze of students, then down the hall and through the tall double doors of the Presbytère.

Emerging from Presby’s shadowed arched gallery and into the sun was like stepping into a different world with an entirely different vibe.

The wide pedestrian street that ran in front of the school, St. Louis Cathedral, and the Cabildo was filled with outdoor vendors—florists, artists, fortune-tellers, and retailers with gobs of Mardi Gras beads and masks.

I crossed the pavement as a three-man jazz band began belting out a loud, energetic tune. The sun’s heat emanated from the bricks and stone, and a decent late-winter breeze blew in from the Mississippi, which was only a few hundred feet beyond Jackson Square. I couldn’t see the river, but the scent of the muddy water and Gulf coast was unmistakable.

I’d gone from the stuffy halls of Presby and into the beating heart of the French Quarter.

The grounds inside the square were the peaceful, contented part of the Quarter’s heart—an oasis of green grass and trees and secluded benches surrounded by the spikes of black iron fencing, and in the center the restored statue of a mounted Andrew Jackson.

I found a long bench in a quiet corner. The bushes behind me were contained by the fence separating the square from the street. A tree provided shade, and I was far enough off the brick path that no one would see my angry, frustrated tears.

They’d just see a sweat-soaked girl in dark clothes with strange white hair lying on the bench, arm covering her face.

Just a girl. Resting on a bench.

I’d had to wait three days before I could even start classes, and I’d spent most of that time pacing, biting my nails, getting very little sleep, and thinking of Violet and my father. I’d
wanted
this so badly I’d crashed the Novem’s Council of Nine meeting and demanded to attend Presby.

The thought made me laugh. I wanted to learn everything I could about Athena—how to find her, defeat her, and save those I loved. I wanted to be as prepared as possible. Yet there was that frustrated, highly impatient part of me that just wanted to say “screw it” and go in with guns blazing.

Only I didn’t know where to go.

My worries over Violet, my father, and my curse—which I’d yet to come to terms with—were eating away at me, and I was letting them; I was losing sight of my purpose, losing my focus.

My focus had to stay on Presby, on knowledge, training, and the secret library.

The Novem’s school was all inclusive—K–12 and a four-year private college, which took up not only the Presbytère building but also several of the buildings along both sides of St. Ann Street. All the Novem’s knowledge, all its resources, were right here. . . .

And I hated to admit it, but one of the biggest resources was Bran the Bastard.

I was pissed at him, pissed that he’d pushed me to my breaking point, to the very heart of what I feared most. But in the end, he’d been right to do it. He knew what he was doing, and even with only one training session under my belt, he was by far the best I’d ever trained with. I knew my anger was misplaced, knew it was really fear.

The one sliver of hope I had of defeating Athena was my curse, and yet . . . the idea of tapping into that
thing
inside me was horrifying.

I didn’t want it, and deep down I was terrified it would take over, that if I started messing with my power now, I’d become a monster before the curse fully manifested at twenty-one. That once I let the gorgon out, I’d never be able to control it.

I wanted to stay . . . me.

A sob caught in my throat as a wave of desolation hit me.

Just a girl on a bench
.

I laughed at that thought, sniffling and wiping my face with my arm. Yeah, just a girl—with a psychotic Greek goddess after her ass, a curse hanging over her head, and a father and a friend to rescue. . . .

After a while I pressed my palms against my eyelids, swallowing the worries and forcing the grief away with controlled inhales and exhales.

“First days don’t always go so well, do they?”

I lifted my hand and squinted. Michel Lamarliere, my legal guardian for the next six months, until I turned eighteen, stood in the grass regarding me with a kind expression in his gray eyes, his hands clasped behind his back. The guy had presence, an air about him that anyone with half a brain could sense. Power and knowledge seemed to cling to him. The swirling tattoo that wound up the side of his neck, ear, and temple only added to his image.

He definitely fit his role as one of the nine Novem heads and leader of the Lamarliere family of witches. Michel was something of a rarity in his world; power was usually passed down maternally in witch families, but every once in a while it passed to a male—Michel being one of them. Sebastian, his son, being another . . .

It was hard to look at Michel and not see Sebastian in the raven hair and stormy gray eyes. Even harder not to feel the uncomfortable mix of confusion and regret. Since Violet’s disappearance, Sebastian and I hadn’t really spoken at all. And after he’d seen firsthand what I’d eventually become . . . well, I was pretty sure whatever interest there might’ve been evaporated in an instant.

I sat up, removed my feet from the bench arm, and wiped my face. “I’m not sure any time in The Dungeon goes well, first day or not.”

“Ah. The Dungeon. That certainly explains things.” He gestured to the bench. “May I?”

I shrugged and slid over. “If you don’t mind the stench.”

“No one spends time training with Bran without working up a sweat. I take it he was rather hard on you.” Michel sat down.

“‘Brutal’ is probably a better word.” I stared at the grass. “He doesn’t waste any time, does he?”

“He does his job extremely well. ‘Failure’ is not in his vocabulary or in his heart. If your goal is to learn and learn quickly, then you have no better teacher on your side. Unless, of course, you count me. And since you ditched my class, you have no evidence but my word.”

I glanced at him and winced, realizing that the last class I skipped by coming out here was Michel’s. “Sorry.”

He tipped his face to the sky and closed his eyes. “It was an excuse to leave the confines of my classroom and enjoy the sunlight.” Since Michael had been a prisoner of Athena’s for a decade, I could see why he’d take any opportunity he could to be outside. “My teaching assistant needed time with the students anyway. Tomorrow I’ll see about switching your classes around. Bran’s should be the last class of the day.”

“Thanks.” Being able to bolt straight from The Dungeon would be nice. Though spending the entire school day dreading Bran’s class—not so nice. “So what’s his deal, anyway? I mean, I know he’s head of the Ramsey family and everything. . . .”

Michel straightened a bit and shifted his angle on the bench to face me better. “Some history in lieu of class, then. As I’m sure you already know, Bran is a demigod. The Ramseys are the descendants of Celtic gods and their human consorts. Bran is the great-grandson of the late war god Camulus, on his paternal side. Being a direct descendant makes him head of the family, which is quite large. Strengths, weaknesses, traits—they all run differently through each individual just as in any family tree. . . . Bran is blessed with many attributes from his godly ancestor.”

I snorted. “I can only imagine.”

“Not surprising he has a war god in his family tree, no?” Michel said with a small laugh. “Bran possesses great strength, speed, and agility, and a long life. He is a warrior at heart, a true chip off the old block, if you will.”

I shook my head in disbelief, thinking back on my old life, one that seemed so far away now even though I’d only been in New 2 for a short time. I never could’ve imagined that so much truth and unknown facts lay within myths and legends. Or that I was part of those myths.

But the reality of the supernatural wasn’t as surprising to me as it probably would’ve been to someone else outside of The Rim. Even as a kid I knew the paranormal existed, because I’d grown up with it, had witnessed it time and time again when I’d cut or dye my hair and it’d be back to the same length and color when I awoke the next day. The way my blue-green eyes were brighter than they should be. . . .

During the nights and slow hours, I let my mind wander and I processed the truth, as crazy as it was. But really, what other option did I have but to put one foot in front of the other? I wasn’t the type to give in to hysterics. The pain and abuse I’d suffered as a child—those experiences shaped me, made me able to handle everything I’d faced since. If I could deal with
that
and come out with my mind intact, I could deal with any paranormal shit that came my way.

“‘Demigod,’” Michel continued, “is perhaps not the correct term since there are no true half god, half humans left, to our knowledge, but we have used the term for so long that now it encompasses any descendant of the gods.”

“So why are demigods and shape-shifters lumped together when people refer to the Novem families?” I asked. The Novem consisted of three vampire families, three witch families, and three demigod/shape-shifter families. There were other families out there, but these nine were the ones who’d had the money and power to come together and buy New Orleans all those years ago.

“Oftentimes the words ‘shape-shifter’ and ‘demigod’ are interchangeable, as the ability to change forms is one of the gifts that can be passed down through a godly ancestor.” His eyebrow arched. “You would be learning some of this in my class had you come.”

I glanced over and shrugged, smiling. “Are they immortal? Is Bran?”

Michel shook his head. “No one is truly immortal, Ari. Long-lived, certainly, but even the gods can be killed. By rival gods or by”—he looked at me—“a god-killer like you. True immortality is, perhaps, mere myth.”

I laughed. All this
was
myth. Everything I’d learned about New 2 and the Novem, all of it was like jumping into the pages of
Bulfinch’s Mythology
. I rubbed both hands down my face.

“Feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland, I imagine?”

I sat back and stretched my legs out in front of me. “You have no idea.”

“Go home; get some rest. My family has seen to placing wards—protection spells—around that crumbling mansion you call a home, though I wish you would reconsider my offer. . . .”

“I like the GD and my crumbling home.”

He frowned, shaking his head like he couldn’t comprehend it. “My son says the same. Keep watch. Be on guard. You have your blade,” he said, nodding to the
blade strapped to my thigh. “And you have those assigned to shadow you.”

That was news to me. “What do you mean?”

“Protection. You won’t see them or hear them, but they will be there, guarding you. And that is not up for argument. Athena’s plan for you is unclear. I suspect she is giving you time to squirm, to worry over your friend and your father, and break you down mentally, but one never knows with her. Better to have you protected at all times.”

He patted my knee and got up. “Go home, Ari. Rest. Eat. Tomorrow will be another brutal day at Presby I’m sure.”

I rolled my eyes but gave him a parting smile, which faded slowly, along with his image, as my thoughts sobered. Nothing would be as brutal as facing Athena again. Presby was going to be a breeze compared to that.

Everyone knows what you are now.
Bran’s words echoed in my head.

The constant knocking rhythm of the streetcar on its tracks lulled me into a thoughtful state. I stared out the window as the car took me up St. Charles Avenue and into the Garden District.

From the moment I stopped in front of the Presbytère building this morning and watched the students hurrying inside, I noticed the quick glances, the recognition. They whispered in the halls, cast glances in study hall, in the cafeteria, but it wasn’t just the snow white hair or the unnatural-looking teal light to my eyes.