The Beautiful (ARC) Page 37

  of earnestness. “I want to tell Bastien myself, without any of

  your spies or henchmen nearby.”

  “Why would you think I would agree to such a sentimental

  request?”

  “Because despite everything, you like me, Monsieur le

  Comte,” Celine replied without flinching. “And you love your

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  nephew. Bastien is your weakness. I’d wager it must pain you to cause him grief.”

  Another unreadable emotion crossed his face, the silence

  stretching thin for several breaths. “When did you wish to tell

  Sébastien?”

  Here was the most important question he’d asked yet. Celine

  maintained a flat affect while answering. “I suppose it depends

  on how soon you wish to see this matter at an end.”

  “Tonight, then?”

  It was just as she’d hoped. “If you wish, Monsieur le Comte.”

  Nicodemus sent her a wry look. “Love is, indeed, a weakness.”

  He leaned toward her right ear. “And I do like you, Marceline

  Rousseau. Most especially when you do what I want.” The brush

  of his threat curdled her spine, sending spiders scurrying across her skin.

  Celine smiled to mask her fear. “I understand.”

  “Sébastien will meet you on the terrace in twenty minutes.”

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  Two Sides of the Same Coin

  i

  The scent of dying flowers wafted past the open doors,

  weaving toward Celine. It reminded her of the praline

  vendor who idled on the corner of Rue Bourbon and Rue

  Toulouse every Saturday, Christmas bells on his wrists and

  ankles, a homemade pipe dangling from his lips. Beneath the

  moonlight, the travertine balustrade at her fingertips glowed

  a pale shade of pink, spidered with veins the color of dried

  blood. Vines of bougainvillea and peach begonias wrapped

  around the terrace railing, dew glistening on their downy

  petals.

  From this vantage point, Celine considered her next move.

  She’d successfully secured what she most wanted: a mo-

  ment alone with Bastien. As a result of the count’s efforts to

  keep them apart after Nigel’s murder, Celine had yet to share

  what she’d realized while studying the clues on Michael’s slate

  chalkboard.

  Come with me to the heart of Chartres.

  At the very least, it was possible she’d learned the location

  of the killer’s lair. What they should do with this information

  remained to be seen. She’d considered taking it to Michael, but

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  he’d already refused to help her once, and the New Orleans Metropolitan Police had thus far been stymied in all their

  attempts to catch this otherworldly demon.

  Celine didn’t know how much time Nicodemus would give

  them now. Would it be enough to secure Arjun’s or Odette’s

  help as well? The prospect seemed unlikely. Bastien might

  be willing to defy his uncle to catch Nigel’s murderer, but it

  would be foolish of Celine to expect the same of anyone else

  in the Court, especially given their recent encounter outside

  police headquarters several nights ago.

  No matter. Celine intended to use every second of her bor-

  rowed time with Bastien, especially if it meant they might lure

  the killer into the light.

  Several other couples mingled at the edge of the balcony.

  A trio of young women huddled together, laughing at bawdy

  jokes. Their levity brightened the tenor of Celine’s thoughts.

  For an instant, she even considered joining them. Especially

  when she overheard one of their ranks speaking in animated

  tones about Odette Valmont’s costume. How Sébastien Saint

  Germain’s scandalous lover had dared to wear fitted breeches

  beneath her open mantle, as well as a gentleman’s cravat.

  Mischief gleamed in one girl’s brown eyes. “Whom do you

  suppose wears the trousers in bed?”

  “Neither of them, if they’re doing it correctly,” the young

  woman next to her replied.

  “Zut alors!” the last girl cried with delight.

  Despite everything, Celine could not help but laugh. She’d

  meant it when she’d told Nicodemus she liked it here. New

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  Orleans was a world of contrasts. A city of life and death. A raw and rich tableau.

  It suited her.

  She traced her fingers along the stone balustrade, sketching

  through the thin layer of moisture collecting along its surface.

  A pair of footsteps came to an abrupt halt over her shoulder,

  too close to be by chance. She turned at once, her words swal-

  lowed by a gasp.

  “Pippa.” Alarm scalded through Celine’s body.

  Anger pinched her lovely friend’s features. “I came here be-

  cause I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Please, you can’t be seen with—”

  “No,” Pippa interrupted. “This time, you will be the one to listen.”

  Celine tugged her deeper into the shadows, glancing about

  wildly, her features tight. “You don’t understand, I—”

  “No!” Tears pooled in Pippa’s eyes as she wrenched herself

  free. “I don’t want to give you a chance to offer me an explana-

  tion. You’ve . . . wounded me. Immensely. I’ve worried about you every day. A single word or note would have sufficed. But

  you’ve cut me out of your life, and I won’t pretend to know

  why.” She gesticulated as she spoke, her lace sleeve snagging on

  the elegant silver frogging across her baroque stomacher. “Oh,

  bother,” she moaned.

  “Let me help,” Celine said, reaching for the lace.

  Pippa moved to stop her. The next instant, her shoulders

  fell, her sigh one of defeat. “Blast it all,” she muttered. “I came outside intent on making an impression, yet here I am in your

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  debt.” Her wig of powdered sausage curls slid down her brow, the cross on her golden chain catching on a loose tendril. “And

  to make matters worse, I look like the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

  “Don’t fret.” A smile tugged at Celine’s lips. “I’ll be sure to

  heed your warnings, no matter how portentous.”

  Cutting her gaze, Pippa sighed once more. “I need you to

  know how angry I am . . . and that it doesn’t matter if you ig-

  nore me or push me away. I’ll always be here, Celine. I love you

  dearly, and that doesn’t change simply because you’re behaving

  like a wretch.” She yanked her wig straight, a cloud of powder

  diffusing about her head.

  Celine detangled the last of the snarled lace. “I love you

  dearly, too, and I’m beyond sorry for behaving like a wretch,”

  she said in a soft voice. “Please know I have my reasons for

  keeping my distance. One day soon, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “I’ll hold you to that promi
se.” Pippa nodded. “But never for-

  get that I am here, if ever you need me.”

  A lump gathered in the base of Celine’s throat. “I won’t forget.

  Ever.”

  Pippa nodded again, her expression turning morose. “I sup-

  pose I should return to the ball. I sent Phoebus for some re-

  freshments, and only a total lummox would get lost on his way

  to the punch bowl.”

  “Is Monsieur Devereux such a lummox?” Celine teased in a

  gentle tone.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Pippa cast her an

  arched glance. “But if you meet me for tea next Thursday, I’m

  sure—together—we can divine the truth.”

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  A part of Celine desperately wanted to be the kind of girl who could make plans next Thursday with a dear friend. But

  she had no idea what the next hour would hold, much less the

  next few days. It seemed that, no matter where she went in the

  world, these two warring sides of her were destined to come to

  an impasse. Two sides of the same coin. For Celine was every

  bit the girl in a jewel-toned dress who longed for the love and

  laughter of an afternoon tea. Just as she was every bit the girl in black, her heart filled with murderous designs, intent on bringing about a killer’s demise.

  Could two such opposing forces ever coexist in the same soul?

  “I’d love to have tea with you next Thursday,” Celine replied

  with conviction.

  The best she could do was hope. After all, hope was its own

  kind of magic.

  j

  The sky darkened to a deep purple as the minutes passed.

  Celine waited at the edge of the balcony, staring up at the stars.

  She didn’t know when she’d first realized how much the sight

  of the moon soothed her. Perhaps it had something to do with

  her mother.

  In the far reaches of her mind, Celine recalled walking along

  a rocky shore as a child, hand in hand with a lithe figure whose

  black hair fell past her waist in thick waves. In this memory, her mother sang to a full moon, the melody carrying over the inky

  water, unfurling into the vast sky above.

  Perhaps it was a dream. Nothing more.

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  A branch snapped in the treetops to Celine’s left, drawing her from her thoughts with a sudden jolt. Molten energy

  coursed through her veins, her skin growing hot like embers

  stoked to flame. Celine’s eyes flitted in all directions, fear

  making her aware of every breath. Every scuttle. Every sigh.

  She focused on the grove of looming oaks, her heart careen-

  ing in her chest.

  A lone owl burst from the shadows, its wings beating in time

  with her breath.

  She almost laughed. Her fingers trembled as they moved

  to the bare skin of her throat in an effort to soothe her raging

  nerves.

  The next instant, silence fell around her like a hammer on

  an anvil. The birds stopped stirring in the treetops, the cicadas ceased with their droning. A dull roar echoed in Celine’s ears

  when she twisted toward the open double doors at her back,

  intent on making her way inside.

  Before she could take a single step, the suddenly mute indi-

  viduals along the balcony crowded her path. They turned to

  leave in concert, their expressions blank, their footsteps rote.

  The trio of girls from earlier linked hands, their eyes glassy as they filed toward the double doors, the last of their ranks pausing to latch them shut behind her, the locks falling into place

  with an ominous click.

  Was this Nicodemus’ doing?

  Panic thrummed through Celine’s body. What kind of dark

  magic was this?

  Had Nicodemus lied to her? Was he toying with her? Had he

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  made false promises of his own, all along intending to rid himself of Celine at the first opportunity?

  Suddenly each of her memories became that much more pre-

  cious. She thought about hitching up her skirts and fleeing.

  Considered racing toward the latched doors and pounding on

  their oaken surfaces, bellowing for help.

  How badly would she injure herself if she were to jump over

  the balustrade?

  Celine had planned to lure the killer to the location of his first murder. To hem him in along the docks, taking advantage of

  the open spaces and the stretch of water at their backs, thereby

  thwarting his attempts to escape. And if that didn’t work, she

  was determined to root him out of his hiding place in the heart

  of Chartres.

  He was not meant to trap her.

  Was Nicodemus the killer? Had Celine quite literally waltzed

  into his clutches?

  Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession, the whalebone of

  her stays laced tight. The only recourse Celine had was that if

  she screamed loud enough, someone inside was sure to hear

  her.

  But would they reach her in time?

  Celine planted her feet, rooting her convictions. If this was to

  be her one chance, she would take it. Her fingers moved toward

  the hidden pocket at her hip, pausing a hairsbreadth from the

  handle of Bastien’s silver dagger.

  A murder of crows burst from the branches to her right. She

  spun around, watching them soar into the moon, wishing with

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  all her might that she could sprout wings of her own and take

  flight.

  Just then, Celine noticed a strange set of markings along the

  edge of the balustrade. Her feet carried her closer before she

  had a chance to think.

  Four symbols had been inked into the travertine stone, their

  edges dried to match its veins, their centers a wet, brilliant

  crimson:

  L, O, U . . . P?

  A strangled sound emitted from Celine’s throat. She backed

  away, colliding with a wall of stone. Shock took hold of her

  when a pair of long arms reached around her waist, gloved

  hands running up her rib cage.

  “Mon amour,” he rasped behind her ear, his cool breath wash-

  ing across her nape. “You are mine forever.”

  Celine opened her mouth to scream. Something sharp tore

  into the side of her neck, and she was consumed in a dark void.

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  A Pound of Flesh

  i

  Something was horribly wrong.

  Bastien had known it the instant his uncle had come to

  him, a warm smile on his face and an unsettling light in his

  gaze. The moment Nicodemus had offered Bastien a chance to

  speak with Celine on the terrace in private.

  No member of the undead granted such a boon without first

  exacting an excruciating price. Especially a theatrical immortal

  like Nicodemus Saint Germain. Once, years ago, Bastien had

  witnessed his uncle take an actual pound of flesh from an en-

  emy, peeli
ng the man’s skin back slowly, relishing each of his

  screams. Bastien had been a boy of nine then. And in fairness,

  the enemy in question had killed his father.

  Unease gathered in the base of Bastien’s throat. His uncle’s

  sudden change of heart was sure to be an ill omen. Neverthe-

  less, he murmured his thanks and crossed the ballroom, paus-

  ing only to nod at those who vied for his attention. To beg their leave, with promises to return in a trice.

  All Bastien could think was reaching Celine. Of reassuring

  her that his uncle’s wishes had no bearing on his heart.

  Not that she needed any man’s reassurances.

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  An appreciative smile curved up one side of Bastien’s face when he thought of how she’d burst into the ballroom two

  hours late, garbed in a gown of mourning, a devil-may-care at-

  titude in each of her steps. It was one of the things he loved

  most about Celine. How little she gave a damn about anyone’s

  good opinion.

  Bastien paused before the solid oak double doors leading

  onto the terrace, puzzled to find them locked from the inside.

  Tension banding in his arms, he unlatched the doors to step

  onto the balcony . . . and was met with a sight that iced the marrow in his bones.

  No one was there. Not a single soul lingered beneath the

  violet sky, taking in the night air.

  Celine Rousseau was nowhere to be found.

  His teeth clenched and his jaw rippling, Bastien glided to-

  ward the empty railing, his eyes scanning every which way.

  He did not possess any of his uncle’s preternatural gifts. He

  could not see through the darkness unimpeded, nor could he

  smell the scent of blood from a vast distance. And he most

  definitely could not blur through time and space in the blink

  of an eye.

  But Bastien had learned as a boy to notice things most mor-

  tals would overlook. Like the smear of blood along the ledge,

  the color camouflaged in the veined travertine. And the four

  smudged symbols nearby, written in macabre ink, smelling of

  copper and salt.

  There had been a struggle. And it appeared the killer had

  taken Celine from the balcony.

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  Rage spread through Bastien’s veins. The rime of unmitigated rage. Always ice. Never fire.

  Bastien ripped the ridiculous mask from his face. Without a