It is never a question whether or not someone will disappoint you. It is only ever a matter of when and how you allow them to. You’ll have to forgive my cynicism, but being reared in a household of remarkable liars and incorrigible opportunists has perhaps left a poor taste on my tongue for emotional attachments. It certainly sharpened my judge of character. That I was so fortunately blessed with our family’s devastating good looks would, as you could imagine, only exacerbate my trust issues, because as the old adage goes, one can never judge a book by its cover.

I only partially jest. Please do not mistake my sarcasm for any great deal of vanity. As a statement of fact, I do happen to be quite handsome, in the way that a pitcher flower is lovely and fragrant, even as it deceives and ensnares its prey. You see, my family is cursed. Naturally, in the interest of sparing another soul from having to experience the existential boredom elicited by hearing the tale of my ancestors and their short-sighted mistakes, I will impart only this: power comes at a price, influence comes with responsibility, and magic?

Magic does not solve problems. It trades them for others. That revelation was unquestionably the greatest disappointment of my admittedly short life.

I was thirteen when I came into my magic. A healthy lad, bright-eyed and quick-minded, who had not yet developed the frightening physical characteristics of the men in my family, I reveled in the innocent mischief I could cause in our little hamlet. I could sour cream with a glance, frighten the horses by making the ground tremble, and cause flames to burn in unnatural hues, all to the delight of my friends. I had many friends, then. As the youngest son of a wealthy landowner, I evaded many consequences for my childish games as well. I never knew my mother, and my father was killed when I was very young, leaving a nearly absent older brother as chief disciplinarian. But then, I was a “witch-child,” blessed with fiendish charm and the cunning to understand the workings of mortal minds, even then. I had a gift for manipulating the weak-willed well before the night my older brother showed me the measure of our potential, the night I watched, in awe and horror, as he bewitched the minds of the mob that had set fire to our manor, spelled them to violently turn on each other, and strange men in dark hoods spirited us away in the night to a new home, with new identities, and I was sworn to never speak of it again.

I never spoke of it. We traveled a great deal ever since, my brother and I, out of both caution and professional necessity. As I grew, it became harder to hide my true nature without the veil of magic, and no amount of calculated congeniality could outweigh the distrust and fear we encountered wherever we found ourselves. At sixteen, bones on my back, just beneath the surface of unmarred skin, finally gave way to small bat-like wings. Eyes the color of chocolate transformed to burning wells as azure and fathomless as sin, azure as my brothers’ own, and my fathers’, and his before. By eighteen winters, I lacked only the horns and the slight red cast to my complexion to complete the family’s fiendish visage. Ironically, it was this innocuous distinction that prompted my brother to finally reveal the source of our family’s magic, and why it was my destiny to be conscripted in the great “Shadow War.”

My name is Julian d’Archibauld Laveau. At present, you do not recall the name—great pains have been taken to ensure that you do not. But even now, the tides are shifting; even now, the pieces slide into place. Before long, you shall grow accustomed to the bouquet of it on your tongue, the velvet glide of it past the lips, dark and sweet as wine. And were you to make yourself my enemy, you too shall know the bitter taste of disappointment, of regret, the shame of foolishly placed trust, and the ghost-memory of my skin beneath it. Your sweet, foolish shame. Your sweet, foolish poison.


He keeps his composure under pressure. Suave and cool, he rarely raises his voice. His tastes are artistic, stylish, and tasteful, and just a bit irreverent. His nails are short, manicured and often painted black. Confident and sexy, he could be chief courtesan of the world’s most fabulous harem.

Julian (informally “Jules”) Laveau paints an image of cool nonchalance when it comes to most people and social situations. Standing just at six feet tall with dark hair, handsome features, and normally chocolate brown eyes that coldly assess his surroundings without giving away his thoughts, Jules might well be described as aloof, apathetic even. Though this perception might suit his purposes just fine, the truth is that behind those fiendishly good looks and that oh-so-smoldering gaze lies an ever active intellect, a mind so thirsty for knowledge and impatient with trivialities that the young man often casts people aside as though they were as irrelevant as yesterday's breakfast. In fact, Jules always seems just a bit distracted, as if his mind were considering some gravely important detail that none but himself can perceive, or perhaps, that he simply cannot be bothered to concern himself with matters he considers elementary.

And when he smiles from across the room, it's the smile of a man who knows something that you don't—a charming, infuriating, and perfect secret.

A self-made and largely self-educated business man, Jules ever seeks to live by his own rules, on his own terms. Some would say that he sets an unreasonably high standard of performance for himself, or that he is "compulsively competent." Jules would disagree with those people. His closest friends understand that he simply demands excellence out of life, and is willing to do what it takes to get it, the world be damned in the process. Love him or hate him, no one can question the young man's work ethic or his nigh supernatural understanding of the world's rules. To this end, he never forgets a true friend or foe, nor does he hesitate when using his considerable talent to uplift or destroy on behalf of his order...