The Beautiful Page 12

  Detective Grimaldi pivoted on his heel. “You reside at the convent?” He looked to Celine first for an answer. She held her tongue, refusing to reply, humiliation still rippling through her veins.

  “Yes,” Pippa answered, moving closer to Celine in solidarity. “We do.” She inhaled through her nose. “So does”—she swallowed—“so did Anabel.”

  “Anabel?” He cast Pippa a searching glance.

  “The young woman who perished tonight,” Celine offered in a quiet tone.

  Michael Grimaldi stared at her for a breath before nodding. “Then you knew this poor girl?”

  Celine balled her fists, her nails digging into her palms. “Yes. She is one of us. One of seven girls who recently took up residence at the convent. Her name is Anabel—” She turned to Pippa.

  “Stewart,” Pippa said, her voice cracking. “Anabel Stewart, from Edinburgh.”

  “I see,” the detective mused. “Did Miss Stewart accompany you here tonight?”

  Pippa eyed Celine sidelong. “Well—”

  “We didn’t know she followed us,” Celine said, her words filled with resignation. Now that Pippa had disclosed their associations, it was better they reveal everything at once, rather than prolong the matter by forcing him to wring from them every last drop of information.

  Though Celine would not have been unhappy to watch him struggle.

  Another bout of shame clawed up her throat. How could she be pleased to thwart the young detective charged with bringing about justice for Anabel? After all, Celine was partly to blame for what had happened tonight.

  The moment she’d pondered earlier—the moment in which she’d realized she was making the wrong choice—crushed her with its finality. Even then, she’d known she would regret her actions, though she never could have conceived of such a terrible outcome. Celine despised feeling this way. Like a cog in a wheel, powerless to her fate.

  Better to be anything else.

  To be a ghost in the night, commanding those around her without words.

  In that instant, Celine thought she had an inkling of what it must be like to be a monster. To commit monstrous deeds. To wish for monstrous things to come about.

  To revel in the dark.

  “Miss?” Detective Grimaldi said loudly, as if he’d tried to catch Celine’s attention several times already.

  She shook her head, forcing her raging thoughts to quiet.

  “Celine?” Pippa whispered beside her. “The detective asked you a question.” She reached for Celine’s hand and squeezed it, their wordless affirmation that each of them was not alone, no matter what happened. More than ever before, it strengthened them both.

  Detective Grimaldi studied Celine, his pale, almost colorless eyes unnerving in their focus. “Do you know why Miss Stewart followed you here without your knowledge?”

  “I am not privy to anyone’s real thoughts but my own, Detective Grimaldi.”

  “True.” He paused. “But perhaps”—he shifted closer, bearing down on Celine with his impressive height—“you would indulge me for just a moment.”

  Incredulity settled across Celine’s features. The brashness of this boy, to make requests of her after humiliating her so publicly! “Of course, Detective Grimaldi,” she said through clenched teeth. “I would be happy to oblige you.”

  “Charming,” he pronounced in a flat tone. The next breath, his expression grew stern. He stood even taller, an unspoken threat emanating from his broad chest. “I must insist you answer my questions honestly, without further delay, or I will be forced to use the full breadth of my office to—”

  “That’s enough, Michael.” Bastien’s words were a dangerous whisper.

  Finally, Celine seethed to herself. Lucifer had finally seen fit to extend his magnanimity her way.

  Bastien shouldered past Celine, stepping before Michael Grimaldi, standing much too close for comfort, matching him toe to toe.

  Detective Grimaldi eased back. A dark satisfaction coiled in Celine’s chest. How she longed for the ability to frighten someone with nothing more than her presence. To live in Bastien’s skin for just an hour. To know what it felt like to have that kind of power.

  “As Celine already said, neither she nor Miss Montrose was privy to Miss Stewart’s actual thoughts and could, therefore, only speculate about the latter’s reasons for following them,” Bastien continued in a measured tone. “Any further questioning on your part insinuates that the lady is withholding the truth.”

  The detective nodded once. “Which is simply a kinder way to say the lady might be a liar.”

  A muscle jumped in Bastien’s jaw. “You still haven’t learned your lesson.”

  “And you still fancy yourself a knight in shining armor. Some kind of dark prince.” He sneered. “Do you plan to call me out again? Shall it be pistols at dawn or sabers in the square?”

  “That depends.” Bastien paused. “Are you going to beg your cousin to save you again?”

  A glimmer of rage passed across Detective Grimaldi’s features. “Very well. I’ll dispense with the formalities.” He spoke to all those present, the tenor in his voice reverberating off the paneled walls. “Everyone here is a possible suspect in a murder. All of you might be lying to me.” His lips coiled into a smirk. “In fact, I expect it. Know that I will not relent until I uncover the truth. The Court of the Lions does not hold more authority than the New Orleans Metropolitan Police, despite the lore surrounding it. As an officer of the law, I am duty-bound to pursue any course of action to determine how this poor young woman came to be found murdered, drained of all her blood.”

  At this revelation, a block of ice settled around Celine’s heart, the cold burning into her throat. “Someone . . . drained Anabel of her blood?”

  Swiveling toward her, the detective nodded. “And used it to write that mathematical symbol beside her body.”

  “Actually . . . I don’t think it has anything to do with mathematics,” Celine said, awareness giving her voice life. “It makes far more sense that it would be a letter or a character.” A different kind of power threaded through her. A kind unlike any she had ever known. “Perhaps even one from an ancient text.”

  Detective Grimaldi’s brows arched before he managed to wipe his face clean of all emotion. “Interesting. And how did you come about this hypothesis?”

  “My father is a professor of linguistics. He had a chart on the wall of his office, showing the evolution of the English language.” Exhilaration flared through Celine. This was the detail that had troubled her for the last hour. This was the thing that had remained just beyond her reach.

  “Do you know what the symbol stands for?” the detective pressed.

  “It looks similar to the letters L or C in Latin or Greek, but it isn’t written correctly. It’s as if it’s been turned askew or written by the hand of a drunkard.”

  “I see.” He pronounced these two words slowly. Contemplatively.

  Celine cut her gaze at the young detective. “It’s within your purview to suspect everyone here, but you can’t possibly think I would tell you these things if I had anything to do with Anabel’s death. It would be tantamount to confessing that I am the murderer.”

  Sergeant Brady stared at Celine as if she’d sprouted wings and a horn. “Well, I’ll be damned. Has the girl gone and confessed?”

  Michael Grimaldi peered over his shoulder, his expression wry. “In the future, I would take the time to listen fully before coming to conclusions, Sergeant Brady.” He focused once more on Celine. “I will say, however, that I’m intrigued by the notion. Would you mind—”

  Bastien cut him off before he could finish. “If you wish to continue this line of questioning, I insist you arrange a time to meet at your headquarters tomorrow, so that Miss Rousseau is afforded the chance to secure her own representation.”

  Though Bastien obvi
ously wished to aid Celine, it grated her to appear helpless in anyone’s eyes. “While I appreciate your efforts, Monsieur Saint Germain, I do not need you to defend me.”

  Like the other members of La Cour des Lions, Arjun had stayed silent during this exchange, but he stood now, laughing quietly. “He’s not defending you, poppet. He’s doing what he does best: negotiating.”

  At that precise moment, a breathless Odette appeared at the top of the stairs. She gripped the railing with a gasp, then swiped her disheveled hair from her brow, leaving a smudge of red dirt across her forehead.

  Celine was not prepared for what followed in Odette’s shadow. At her booted heels—breathing heavily from exertion—stood the Mother Superior of the Ursuline convent.

  Celine’s erstwhile savior . . . as well as her possible executioner.

  HIVER, 1872

  AVENUE DES URSULINES

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  Tonight was both a failure and a success.

  I freely admit the girl’s death was unfortunate. As I said before, I do not relish the taking of a life. But ultimately I cannot dwell in remorse. In the grand scheme of things, she is no more than a cog in a clock.

  And my enemies have lived on borrowed time long enough.

  With her death, I’ve left my intended message. But still I failed to achieve the whole of my purpose. The greatest enemy of my kind walks free, his reputation intact. Without a hint of suspicion trailing in his wake. This knowledge enrages me. The thieving wretch does not deserve to slither about unscathed—to occupy positions of power and influence—after all the things his family has done to mine.

  I could kill him. Break his neck. Bleed him dry. It would be simple. Deserved. After all, he is the reason I walk this world bereft of light. Because of him, I lost everything. My very humanity, even.

  I could do it. I could bring about his demise.

  But his death at my hands would incur war and ruination to those around me. Would deepen the rift between the Fallen and the Brotherhood. Between my family and his. First I wish to see him suffer. I wish to see them all meet their maker and be sent to the fiery pit where they belong.

  I pray you not judge me too harshly for this. I know these kinds of petty considerations are unbecoming of an immortal such as myself, but there is a thin line between justice and vengeance. That line is the edge of a blade.

  One day I will plunge it into his soul.

  The girl, however, did intrigue me. Not the one with the mild-mannered expression and the heart-shaped face. I know there are those who are drawn to people like her. They seek tranquility. A place to rest their heads.

  I seek nothing of the sort. I have rested far too long.

  But that girl . . . that girl with the unflinching stare and the knowing expression. She possesses the look of someone who has met Death on a field of battle and managed to live another day. I am intrigued by her. I am curious about the scars Death left behind. I want to know who she is. What she’s done.

  What role she will play in this tale of woe.

  My interest consumes me in a dangerous way, for demons like me are predisposed to obsession, and I do not have the time for any distractions. Once, years ago, my sister in the night lost herself chasing after an unremarkable human, trying to find answers to questions she should have known better than to ask.

  I could not save her. The light of the moon betrayed me that evening. My heart still bears the wounds, years later. I should know better than to be consumed by curiosity. I should not care what this enchanting creature thinks. What she does, or what she feels.

  And yet . . .

  I must care. No matter how fragile she is—how delicately her life hangs in the balance—she is a tool to be used and discarded. A hammer intended for a very specific nail.

  She will be the one in the end. The one who sends my enemy deep into the pits of Hell, where he belongs. I can see it, as true as I can sense the moon at my shoulder, high at its peak, its light as much a source of comfort as it is a source of pain.

  My enemy is just as enthralled as I. Even more so because he desires her in actuality, not simply as a pawn in a grander scheme. The thought fills me with delight. Perhaps I have finally found something of his with which to toy. Something to make him squirm. To take from him for everything he—and his kind—have taken from me.

  For never was a story of more woe.

  Soon he will know what it feels like to be unmade.

  A SILHOUETTE IN A DREAM

  T’es une allumeuse, Celine Rousseau.”

  You’re a tease, Celine Rousseau.

  Rivers, rivers, rivers of blood. The smell of warm copper and salt. The gentle swirl of her thoughts as her focus escaped her, as she began slowly drowning in her own mind.

  This was the way the dream always started.

  “T’as supplié pour mon baiser, n’est-ce pas?”

  You’ve been begging for me, haven’t you?

  His harsh whisper beside her ear. The feeling of his clammy hand against her skin, his palm slicked with sweat. The sickening twist of her stomach.

  He’d been the younger brother of one of the atelier’s best clients. A wealthy wastrel, used to having whatever—and whomever—he wanted. Accustomed to spending his father’s money as though he alone had earned every franc. He’d stared at Celine for the last three months, a greedy light in his gaze. It had unnerved her then, but she’d known better than to anger him by drawing attention to it.

  Weeks later, she still recalled how his hands did not seem like the hands of gentleman, for they were callused and worn. In truth, nothing about him—despite his breeding and his wealth—indicated he was a gentleman. His hands were roughened by horseback riding. Indeed, he was one of the finest riders in his elite circle of friends.

  With these hands, he’d offered to soothe her. Offered to bring her something warm to drink. Asked if he could keep her company. Celine had not known what to do when he’d come to the door of the atelier long after dusk, his fine cloak about his shoulders and his breath reeking of wine. She’d asked him to return home, but he’d been insistent, barreling into the workshop as though he owned it.

  In her dream, Celine observed the scene from above, as though the conscious part of her had separated from her body in sleep. She witnessed the events unfold with punishing slowness. Watched herself make mistake after mistake, as though God Himself wished to teach her a lesson.

  A dull thud sounded in her ears.

  Her striped chambray dress tore from her shoulder when the young man tried to stop her from fleeing. Everything after that was a haze. Celine counted herself lucky that he’d barely managed to take hold of her skirts before her fingers had flailed about, scrabbling for anything with which to defend herself.

  The candelabra had not been a choice. It had been the best weapon she could grasp.

  Celine often wondered—in moments to herself—if she’d meant to kill him. Surely she could have struck him using less force. Surely she did not have to aim for the side of his head. Surely she could have prevented his death.

  But no. In the darkest of her dreams, she’d known the truth.

  In Celine, evil had found the perfect vessel.

  She’d meant to destroy the young man, as surely as he’d meant to destroy her. While she’d watched the blood seep from his body, she’d searched her soul for a drop of regret, a hint of remorse. She’d found none. She’d clutched the candelabra tighter. Prepared the lie to tell her father, knowing she could not stay where she was.

  Once more, a muted thud vibrated in her skull.

  Who would believe Celine had been the victim? After all, she was not the one lying cold and motionless on the atelier floor. The dream version of herself stared at the growing circle of crimson. Stepped back so it would not stain the hem of her skirts.

  And then . . . something new and curio
us began to take shape in the blood pooling about her feet. Usually Celine was barefoot in this memory, her toes sliding across the cold marble, trying to avoid any contact with the boy she’d killed.

  Tonight, a symbol formed beside her toes. The same symbol she’d seen earlier, smeared in the wood next to Anabel’s body.

  Something soft brushed across the tip of Celine’s nose. She looked up. A flutter of golden-yellow petals cascaded around her, settling into the widening pool of blood, turning into hundreds of embroidered handkerchiefs the instant they touched the marble floor. Then the lunar goddess dragged her chariot across Celine’s dream. The thudding in her ears grew louder. More insistent.

  Everything dissolved in a sea of black.

  * * *

  Celine woke with a start.

  Though her room was dark, all was not still.

  The thuds were sharper now. No longer muffled. A clatter of wood against stone. She flinched as a cool mist dampened her skin. The shutters outside her window had blown open. A storm raged beyond them, sending sheets of rain sideways, driving water into her tiny room until everything it touched felt alive.

  Celine stood. Almost slipped as her bare feet slid across the wet stone floor. She took the few short steps to the window of her cell. Then sighed.

  “Merde,” she cursed to no one.

  It couldn’t be helped. If she was to secure the latch once more, she would have to lean forward and be drenched.

  Celine considered wrapping herself in a shawl. It would be appropriate to do so. Her nightshift was fashioned of thin cotton. If rain soaked through the garment, it would be inappropriate for her to stand beside the window and risk being seen.

  Her expression hardened when she realized her shawl was nowhere within reach. The wind continued beating at her shutters, the rain gusting through her room.

  Propriety be damned.

  Celine battled a particularly harsh gale, then reached over the windowsill to grasp the wooden latch.