The Beautiful (ARC) Page 28

  A foul curse flew from Odette’s lips. She repeated the word

  in two more languages for good measure. Tugging Celine to

  her feet, Odette proceeded to drag her the rest of the way. They

  halted before an immense lift of gleaming brass, its bars fash-

  ioned of winding vines and birds of paradise, their feathers

  inlaid with Persian turquoise.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Celine muttered. “A cage of my very

  own.”

  Odette snickered. She gestured to the right, and an inordi-

  nately tall man with rich auburn hair secured at the nape of his

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  neck and a frock coat of midnight blue with matching gloves stepped forward to unfetter a gleaming lock of pure silver.

  Though he was as lithe as a dancer, he managed to heave open

  the sliding door to the brass lift with barely a twinge of effort.

  Once they were situated inside, Celine rested her head on

  Odette’s shoulder, her eyes falling shut as the lift lurched into motion under the steady direction of its lissome gatekeeper.

  “The list of those allowed access here is short,” Odette said.

  “This lift has one destination: the top floor of the hotel. While you reside at the Dumaine, that entire space will be yours

  alone.”

  Celine considered this, even as the weariness fell upon her

  like a warm woolen blanket. “And if the killer can scale the walls of the hotel?” She recalled how the demon had scuttled up the

  building before vanishing into the wind.

  “Can he also shatter iron bars and locks of solid silver?”

  “For the sake of argument, let’s assume so.”

  “Then t’es foutue,” Odette swore under her breath. “As are

  we all.”

  Celine laughed softly, her eyes still closed. “Merci, Odette.”

  “Pas du tout, mon amie,” Odette replied. “We take care of our

  own.”

  Celine’s breath caught in her throat. “Is that . . . thing one of your own?” she asked, her tone halting.

  Odette said nothing until the lift began to slow. “No.”

  But her hesitation suggested otherwise.

  “You know what it is.” Celine’s eyes flew open. “Why won’t

  you tell me?”

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  “It isn’t my story to tell.”

  “Please—”

  The lift ground to a halt, and the slender gentleman in the

  blue velvet frock coat unlatched the door in a seamless motion,

  his gaze one of supreme ennui.

  “No more questions,” Odette said, smoothing back Celine’s di-

  sheveled curls in a soothing gesture. Then she locked eyes with

  Celine, refusing to blink as if she were in a trance. “I’m going to show you to your room, and you’re going to sleep through an

  entire night, as if you’re adrift among the clouds.” A sad smile

  curved up her doll-like face. “The only dreams you’ll have will

  be pleasant ones, filled with islands of floating meringue and

  sparkling glasses of champagne.” Her voice sounded layered.

  Weighted. It resonated through Celine, reaching through to the

  marrow of her bones.

  The last thing she remembered was the rumble of a brass cage.

  Of the bird within flying free.

  j

  Celine woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest.

  Disorientation gripped her, her vision struggling to find focus.

  Her eyes darted to all corners, searching for something famil-

  iar. Fighting for a semblance of footing.

  She had no recollection of this place.

  Then—like a wave crashing upon a shore—all the events

  of last night flooded through her mind. She was enshrined

  in the top floor suite of the finest hotel in the city. A brass

  lift festooned with gilded birds had borne her to this place.

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  Before she’d taken her leave, Odette had made certain Celine was comfortable. Warm and well cared for.

  Tomorrow they would begin devising a trap to catch a killer.

  This last thought caused Celine to sit up at once, her breath

  lodged in her throat, the ache in her head throbbing dully. She

  looked around, her gaze moving about the space once more,

  this time with measured deliberation.

  The cream-colored sheets beneath her fingers possessed a

  faint luster, their surfaces smooth, their edges trimmed with

  delicate gold embroidery. When she ran her hands across them,

  they felt like cool water to the touch. As if they’d been woven

  from pure spider silk. Above her hung a thick canopy of golden

  damask, pinned in its center by an emblem entwined with intri-

  cate filigree. Tied around each of the bed’s four mahogany posts

  were drapes of wine-red velvet.

  Celine threw back the bedcovers and sank her bare toes into

  the luxurious Aubusson carpet, the tassels along its edge glint-

  ing in the candlelight.

  Countless paintings hung on the far side of the bedcham-

  ber, extending the full height of the room, some twenty-odd

  feet. A few were the width of Celine’s palm, others stood more

  than double her height. Each was rendered by the hand of

  a master, the details within both dark and light, as if their

  collector appreciated the contrast of sunlight and shadow in

  equal measure.

  Crowning the remaining three sides of the room was a kind of

  narrow balcony, the like of which Celine had never seen before.

  Shelves upon shelves of books filled the walls along the upper

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  half of the chamber, oiled castors and iron ladders awaiting their savant’s inevitable return.

  Tall scented candles had been lit around the room, as if

  Odette had known how disconcerting it would be for Celine to

  wake in a cold and unfamiliar place.

  She crossed the chamber toward a pair of mullioned win-

  dows, numbness tingling along her extremities. She’d slept

  hard. Surprisingly so, given the shocking tenor of recent

  events. When Celine tugged aside the heavy curtains to look

  outside, she discovered two things of note: that there were—

  indeed—wrought-iron bars encasing every window, painted

  a glossy white, and that nightfall still reigned supreme on the

  world below. Despite Odette’s final admonition for Celine to

  sleep until the sun rose, she’d woken in that time just before

  dawn, when night was at its darkest.

  Celine studied the scene beyond her barred window. Noted

  the lack of a balcony outside. The level of security for the top

  floor of the Dumaine was certainly extreme. As if it were in-

  tended for a visiting dignitary or a member of royalty.

  Celine retraced her steps, taking stock of every entrance and

  egress. The main access to the room was a set of double doors

  built to look as if they were part of the intricate paneling, their edges trimmed in gilt-leafed molding. Another door leading

  to a washroom appeared as if it were a piece of art in its own

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p; right, a thick frame concealing its seams. Inside the washroom,

  a large tub of hammered copper stood on a raised platform

  surrounded by squares of white marble tile. Every sconce in

  sight had been encrusted with crystals. The air around Celine

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  smelled of irises and sweet water, the flames of countless white candles dancing along the walls and ledges.

  Her feet steady on the cold marble, Celine shucked her still

  damp dress, not even bothering to collect it from the floor. In

  rote silence, she removed the hairpins from her scalp, pausing

  to rub the sore spots they’d left behind. Then she moved toward

  a porcelain bowl and pitcher enclosed by a three-sided mirror

  of embellished brass.

  She stared at her reflection. At eyes wider than a raccoon’s and

  hair like a murder of crows. Dried blood still dotted her skin.

  The red specks were especially disturbing beside her eyes, which

  glittered with a consumptive light, as if Celine were possessed of a fever. Without a second thought, she filled the basin with clear water from the pitcher and began splashing her face, scrubbing

  at her cheeks until they looked raw. Until all three versions of

  herself reflected in the mirrors appeared appropriately chafed.

  Celine didn’t pause to dry her face. She returned to the cano-

  pied bed and drew the covers to her chin, letting the wetness

  soak through the sheets, cooling her heated skin.

  Her gaze settled above the large fireplace parallel to the foot

  of the four-poster bed.

  It had been cut from a solid block of Italian marble, the screen

  before it fashioned of meshed iron and gold. Hanging above

  the tiered ledge was a portrait of a young man of no more than

  twenty-five, a devilish whorl of black hair falling across his

  forehead and the knowing glint of a pirate in his eyes. Though

  his coloring was much fairer than Bastien’s—and his face

  possessed a distinctly European bent—Celine could detect a

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  vague resemblance, most especially in the cut of his jaw. In the unmistakable arrogance of his amber gaze.

  A gold skeleton key rested in his palm, a crimson ribbon dan-

  gling from a loop at its end. A young man of obvious means,

  who possessed the key to countless doors.

  How droll.

  But the most striking thing about the portrait was its palette.

  The subject’s skin and features had all been rendered in believ-

  able tones, but everything else stretched the notion. The shad-

  ows were too bright a blue, the edges a blur, the corners splashed with ochre paint as if the artist had been on the cusp of madness.

  Celine stared at the painting for a time. Then closed her eyes.

  She felt as if she were being watched. As if the portrait’s gaze followed her, like the stories of the Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece, the Mona Lisa. She decided to focus on the taper beside her head, which dripped wax down its brass holder in steady streams, until

  the gleaming candelabra appeared as if it were weeping.

  Another disconcerting sight. Everywhere Celine looked,

  something sinister sprang to life. She thought about waiting

  until the sun rose to return to sleep. Until the rays of white-gold light seeped onto her silken sheets. The sight of dawn should

  bring with it a measure of peace.

  Why did Celine not feel as if it would?

  Her head sank into the sumptuous pillow, her body restless,

  the eyes at the foot of her bed taunting.

  Disturbed by the sense of being watched while she slept,

  Celine drew the wine-red curtains around the bed and swal-

  lowed herself in the comfort of darkness.

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  HIVER, 1872

  RUE BIENVILLE

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  i

  From my deserted street corner, I watch the expensive cur-

  tains on the uppermost floor of the Hotel Dumaine shift to

  one side. The face of a stunning young woman with sharp green

  eyes and hair the color of spilled ink peers through the open-

  ing. Only to vanish in the next breath, the heavy damask falling

  back into place.

  I smile.

  Fitting that they would take her to Nicodemus’ rooms. A

  chamber suited for a Sun King, replete with a garish display

  of wealth, the kind to which he has grown accustomed over

  the years. An homage to Versailles at its best. Or at its worst,

  depending on one’s perspective.

  No matter. Nicodemus is rarely there now. He knows better

  than to come to New Orleans and tempt his fate. He has lost

  much in the last few years.

  But I have lost more. And there is still much for us both to

  lose. Memories and hopes, wishes for a future that can never

  be replaced once it is gone. By now, Nicodemus has undoubt-

  edly been summoned from the safety of his New York lair

  in response to the rash of recent murders in New Orleans.

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  He will return to the city soon, just as I have foreseen.

  Precisely in time for my final performance.

  Satisfaction winds through my limbs, causing me to drop my

  guard for a moment. All is unfolding according to plan. I relish

  this twinkle of time before I allow the rage to collect in my chest and color my vision. Then I breathe deeply of the briny air. Let

  the dampness fill my lungs as my heightened senses stretch,

  soaking in every detail in my vicinity. A horse nearby with an

  aching tooth, smelling of blood and sweet decay. Crumbs of rye

  bread swirling about in the gutter, their perfume sour and pun-

  gent. A dead rat lingering in the corner of a nearby sewer, the

  maggots on it wriggling beneath a beam of moonlight.

  And—just around the bend—the beating of hearts. One old.

  Two young. If I had to guess, the younger ones are engaged in

  an act of lust, their hearts racing in tandem with their sighs.

  The old heart thuds slowly. Steadily. Beating toward its inexo-

  rable end.

  Another creature of the night draws close. My muscles tense

  and my teeth lengthen on instinct, like the claws of a cat. I re-

  assure myself when I realize it is a familiar scent. One I need

  not fear.

  I continue breathing deeply until my shoulders fall. Then I

  look once more to the top floor of the Dumaine. Another haunt

  I know well . . . down to its secret doors and hidden passage-

  ways.

  Not long ago, I visited these rooms under cover of night, tak-

  ing in the world of my enemies, knowing I would face them

  all soon. I even chose to lie upon Nicodemus’ bed and admire

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  his collection of books, the shelves of which crown the towering space like a glittering tiara. I pushed the ladders along their oiled casters and marveled at the gleaming motions before

  pocketing one of my favorite tomes, a first edition of The Count of Monte Cr
isto. Pity I missed the chance to bid my beloved Alexandre a final farewell.

  Contentment ripples across my skin at the wash of memories.

  Nicodemus’ bedchamber is a fitting place to leave my next

  mark.

  I linger in my delicious reverie along my street corner, a

  pleasant hum forming behind my lips. A song from a brighter,

  happier time.

  A beggar passes by, her hands outstretched for an alm, her

  shawl a tattered rag flapping in the breeze. Her heart thumps

  in a recognizable pattern. The old soul I sensed moments ago. I

  reach into my pocket to offer her everything I possess, a small

  fortune by anyone’s standards.

  I have no need of money. What I need, I take. Currency is not

  important to a creature like me. I do not seek to rest beneath a

  golden canopy or bathe in a roomful of polished marble.

  I seek only to survive.

  No. That is a lie. I wish to thrive. To see those who would

  bring an end to my existence die a slow, agonizing death. Af-

  ter they witness everything they value crumple to pieces before

  them.

  It is only fitting.

  “Bless you,” the beggar woman says, a sibilant sound whistling

  from between her handful of teeth.

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  “May the Lord keep you,” I reply with a smile.

  My voice catches her off guard. I’m unsurprised by this. Its

  rich music lulls mortals closer in a way that never ceases to

  amuse me. It helps greatly in salving the path toward their in-

  evitable demise. In a way, I would argue we are among the most

  perfect of predators. We mime the mannerisms of our prey. We

  walk among them, unknown and unseen. By the time they real-

  ize they are caught in our web, it is far too late. The transformation is the click of a tumbler, the turn of a handle.

  The end of a life. Here one moment. Gone the next.

  There is only one other kind of creature that rivals us in such

  a way. Or perhaps two, though I find most woodland folk gen-

  uinely annoying, with all their talk of glamour and promises.

  With their gleeful tales of tricking mortals into making disas-

  trous bargains. Why would I have need of anyone’s firstborn

  child? A mewling infant is a nuisance, not a reward. And only

  true monsters would make meals of such a thing.

  Besides that, I do not bargain with lesser beings. I take. After