The Beautiful (ARC) Page 38

  glance back, he returned to the double doors, stopping at the

  threshold, his mind in a calculated turmoil.

  First he looked for his uncle. Studied the crowd for the tall

  figure dressed in a long white opera cape. Thankfully Nicode-

  mus no longer appeared to be mingling among the Crescent

  City’s unofficial gentry. It was likely he’d joined some of New

  Orleans’ most influential gentlemen in a nearby antechamber

  to partake in a glass of cognac, a cigar, and a well of secrets. One of the Vieux Carré’s most cherished rituals.

  Which meant Bastien had less than half an hour before his

  uncle noticed his absence.

  Without pausing to think, Bastien slid among the couples

  weaving across the ballroom floor, stealing Odette from her

  partner before the foolish young man could form a protest.

  She did not miss a step. Nor did her smile falter at any mo-

  ment, despite the fact that a single glance at Bastien’s face told her something was terribly amiss.

  Odette Valmont represented the best of Bastien’s found

  family. She, Nigel, Hortense, Madeleine, Jae, and Boone had

  surrounded him not long after he’d arrived on the city’s docks

  almost a decade ago, an angry boy filled with loss and pain,

  whose haunted features had granted him the moniker Le

  Fantôme.

  This strange collection of immortals had been tasked with

  only one thing: guarding Nicodemus’ lone surviving heir. Pro-

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  tecting their maker’s greatest legacy. For nearly ten years, they’d stood at Bastien’s back, helping him blaze a trail through the

  city, all while keeping him safe from the terrors that had torn

  him from his parents and his sister.

  “Take a turn with me on the balcony,” Bastien said to Odette

  through a winsome smile, his words more breath than sound.

  With that, they reeled through the crowd—scattering the cou-

  ples lingering on the periphery—before spinning through the

  double doors and into the velvet darkness.

  As soon as they were beyond earshot, Bastien stopped mov-

  ing, his arms dropping to his sides. “Celine is gone,” he said quietly, aware that anyone—or anything—could be listening.

  Odette’s sable eyes flashed black, her features sharpening, her

  canines lengthening past her rouged lips. Piercing the elegant

  veil and bringing the world’s most perfect predator to the sur-

  face. She paused to fill her lungs with air. “I can smell her blood.

  She was here not five minutes ago.”

  “How can you be certain it’s hers?”

  She sniffed once more, her powdered head cocking to one

  side. “Her blood sings an unusual melody.”

  Bastien’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursing. “Have you ever

  looked in her future?”

  “Only that one time.” Odette hesitated. “But it showed me

  nothing about this, Bastien. It simply told me what I shared

  with you weeks ago. A truth that has already come to pass. She

  will be the tamer of—”

  “I remember.” The fury had reached Bastien’s fingertips,

  his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. It took all his

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  control not to break something with his bare hands. He knew better. The greater the anger, the more destructive its force. It would be of no help if he lost his head to it. “Can you track her scent?”

  Odette’s eyes returned to their normal shade, her nostrils no

  longer flaring like those of a jackal. “I’m not sure. The rain makes it difficult for me to track things by scent. Have you asked the

  Hellhound for help? He’s our best hunter.”

  “You know as well as I do that Boone won’t lift a finger in de-

  fiance of Nicodemus,” Bastien replied, ire sharpening his tone.

  “He’s too afraid.”

  “Our little hound has always been a lamb at heart,” Odette

  rejoined softly. “He took Nigel’s death the hardest. Tonight was

  the first time he’s come home in days.”

  Bastien glared at nothing, a twinge piercing through his

  chest. Time had become such a treasured commodity to them

  all. “Can you give me an hour?”

  Alarm flared across her lovely face. “Your uncle forbade—”

  “I don’t give a damn what Nicodemus said,” Bastien all but

  snarled.

  She reached for his hand, her gloved fingers cool to the touch.

  “Every member of La Cour des Lions is under express orders to

  prevent you from going anywhere that involves Celine Rous-

  seau. Please,” she entreated, “Nigel died because we all failed to take this threat seriously. If something happens to you, I don’t

  know what we’ll all do.”

  “I’m not the boy you met years ago.”

  “I know, my dearest,” she said. “Only Jae is a quicker draw

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  than you, and we’ve all seen you shoot a man through the eye at sixty paces. But the killer is trying to force us out into the open.

  Pick us off, one by one,” she continued, her eyes swimming, her

  tears turning pink. “The devil only knows why. This was sup-

  posed to have ended years ago.”

  “Odette.” Bastien gripped her by the shoulders, willing his

  expression calm. “You’re the only one I can trust. I know you

  care for Celine deeply. If we don’t help her, she could die.” His insides twisted at the thought, the words burning in his throat.

  “I cannot allow that to happen. You’ve spent years obeying your

  maker. Tonight, will you not help your friend?”

  Odette studied him, her lips pressed in a line, a single stream

  of blood-tinged tears sliding down one cheek. “I can’t stop them

  from looking for you, Bastien.”

  “Can you at least give me an hour?”

  She wavered, fighting to maintain her composure. “I’ll . . . try

  my best. But the Hellhound will find you, Bastien, as he always does. And we will all face the consequences.”

  “Thank you, Odette.” He kissed her forehead.

  Then he vaulted the balustrade and vanished into the

  darkness.

  j

  Bastien kicked through the door of Michael’s office at police

  headquarters without pausing for breath. He’d fully expected to

  find his childhood friend looming over his desk. Just as he’d fully anticipated an altercation the moment he demanded that the

  detective share all his notes on the killer. Who he might be.

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  What he might be. And—most importantly—where he might be.

  The only sign of life Bastien found was a single lamp, its lone

  flame dancing cheerfully in a clear cylinder of glass.

  Fury blinded him for an instant, his hands longing to

  shatter the lamp into a thousand pieces. In an effort to allay his rage, Bastien scanned the cramped space for anything that might

  help him find Celine. To one side was a cot, blankets folded atop it in a neat little pile, a basket of sewing supplies beside it.

  His anger threatened to slide into
despair.

  Many of the things he’d treasured had been taken from him

  all too soon. These losses had taught him to hold fast to his

  heart, save for two exceptions: the love he had for his immortal

  family, and the love he had for his city. He’d refused to make

  room for anything else. Then a month ago, a seed had been

  planted in his mind, watered by the hand of Fate. By a wry smile

  and a fall of raven hair. By a girl who met him word for word,

  challenge for challenge.

  Something unraveled in Bastien’s chest.

  It appeared there was now a third exception.

  He should have told Celine she’d captured his heart, instead

  of allowing ridiculous social mores and expectations to stand in

  their way. If anything happened to her, the devil himself would

  answer for it. Bastien would take no mere pound of flesh.

  Before he was finished, he would see the demon’s tears turn

  to ash.

  His lips pushed forward in calculation, Bastien paused on the

  large slate board running parallel to Michael’s desk. He studied

  the collection of clues the detective had amassed, including the

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  many insidious things the killer had said to Celine on multiple occasions:

  Welcome to the Battle of Carthage.

  You are mine .

  Death leads to another garden.

  To thine own self, be true.

  Die in my arms.

  A muscle ticked in Bastien’s neck. He perused the old map

  affixed to a corner of the slate, his gaze catching on something

  he’d missed before.

  Then Bastien straightened, his eyes going wide.

  Michael’s notes were incomplete. The killer had said a pecu-

  liar thing to Celine the night he had stalked her through the

  streets of the Vieux Carré. Bastien’s attention had been drawn

  by its absence on the otherwise meticulous board.

  Come with me to the heart of Chartres.

  Chartres was a city south of Paris, famed for the beautiful

  cathedral at its heart.

  Rue de Chartres ran through the center of New Orleans, in

  the very middle of Michael’s map. At the street’s heart stood the three spires of Saint Louis Cathedral.

  Had the demon been arrogant enough to lead them straight

  to his safe haven? To be sure, the church was an unusual place

  for a killer to find refuge. But it was also the exact kind of detail that would delight most of the immortals in Bastien’s acquaintance. To seek sanctuary in a house of God.

  “What in God’s name are you doing here?” a harsh voice

  demanded from behind him.

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  Bastien turned to meet the wily figure of his former friend.

  “I beg your pardon, Detective Grimaldi.” He kept his tone

  light, despite a surge of anger. “I’ll take my leave.”

  “Like hell you will. You broke my door, you no-account fiend.

  You and your godforsaken temper. Will you ever learn?”

  Michael cut his colorless gaze. “What brought you to my

  office at this hour, peacocking about like a shitty king of

  France?”

  “I had a momentary lapse in judgment,” Bastien said in a

  blithe voice, crossing in front of Michael while he spoke, intent on making a swift exit. “Which has since been rectified.”

  The young detective grabbed him by the front of his ivory

  waistcoat. “Balderdash. Answer my damned question. Why are

  you here?”

  Bastien fought to keep his fury in check. He could not strike

  down the detective. He would not strike Michael down. Gener-ations of bad blood forbade it. “I don’t have time for this pissing contest.” Gripping Michael’s wrists, he twisted the detective’s

  hands free of his absurd costume. “Send a bill to Jacques’ for

  the damage.” His grin turned arrogant. “Be sure to sample the

  vichyssoise the next time you’re there. You always did favor

  life’s simpler pleasures.” Again he tried to leave.

  “Did something happen to Celine?” Michael stepped in

  Bastien’s path, his nostrils flaring like he’d scented chum in

  the water.

  Her name on his lips rekindled Bastien’s rage. If he told Mi-

  chael the truth, there would be no way to contain the matter.

  The fool would order an entire garrison to descend on the

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  cathedral, and precious time would be lost navigating his righteous idiocy.

  “I have no idea where Celine Rousseau might be. Wasn’t that

  supposed to be your purview now?” Bastien sneered, attempt-

  ing to push past his childhood friend once more. The clock

  in Michael’s office ticked away the minutes. At any moment,

  Boone would find Bastien, his uncle trailing in the Hellhound’s

  well-heeled footsteps. And those moments were precious to

  Celine. Just as she had become precious to Bastien.

  More precious than life itself.

  Michael shoved him back, his features mottled. “Answer me,

  Sébastien. Before I call for the—”

  Bastien lashed out at Michael. Something he’d promised

  never to do, many years ago. To strike the young detective was

  in direct defiance of his uncle’s edicts. For a Saint Germain to

  strike a Grimaldi . . .

  His blow broke the bridge of Michael’s nose, blood spurting

  from beneath it. A howl of rage flew from the detective’s lips,

  causing footsteps to race toward them from below.

  “Take heed, Michael,” Bastien said through clenched teeth.

  “Never stand in my way again.” With that, he glided from the

  office, the beat of his heart thundering in his chest.

  There was nothing to be had for it.

  Sébastien Saint Germain had just violated the Brotherhood’s

  treaty.

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  The Final Nail

  i

  Celine woke on her side, her cheek resting against cold

  stone.

  A cloying scent wound through her nose, her temples thud-

  ding with the slow beat of her heart. For a time, she struggled

  to focus on anything, her vision swimming as if she’d consumed

  too much champagne. Licking her parched lips, Celine tried to

  lift her head.

  A cry of surprise flew from her mouth. Searing pain shot

  down her right arm, warm wetness trickling along her collar-

  bone, dripping down her black bodice. The wound on her neck

  was still fresh, which meant not much time had passed since

  she’d been attacked on the terrace. The sharp scent of blood

  permeated the air, mingling with the perfume of . . . incense?

  Again Celine attempted to shift position, but she was weak.

  So very weak.

  At least the killer had left her alive. She supposed she should

  be grateful. For a harrowing instant, she’d been certain her last breath on this earth would be on that balcony.

  Gritting her teeth through the pain, Celine fought to sit up,

  only to fail once more. Her hands were bound at h
er back,

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  her feet tied at the ankles, the ropes like leaden weights. With her elbow, she checked to see if Bastien’s silver blade was still concealed in the hidden pocket beneath her skirts. When

  Celine felt its comforting weight against her right hip, she

  let her head fall onto the smooth stone, wearied by even the

  simplest action.

  Her eyes locked on the frescoed ceiling above as she counted

  to three in her mind. Then Celine heaved her knees to her

  chest, her taffeta skirts rustling through the silence, her brow

  beading with sweat. With herculean effort, she looped her

  wrists over her feet, snapping several of the wooden hoops

  at her sides and twisting her left arm in the process. She

  gasped—blinking away hot tears of pain—before taking in her

  surroundings.

  To her left stretched a familiar floor of black-and-white stone,

  patterned at a diagonal. An aisle lit by long tapers ran down its center, bracketed by wooden pews.

  Celine coughed, bitter amusement coiling through her stom-

  ach. Her earlier assumption had been correct. She was lying on

  the altar of Saint Louis Cathedral, at the very heart of Rue de

  Chartres. If she weren’t so afraid, she would mock her attacker

  for his theatricality. Coughing again, she rolled to one side and fell from the stone surface, her teeth clacking together as her

  body hit the granite floor with a resounding thud. Shards of

  pain stabbed along her right side, a thousand tiny needles bur-

  rowing into her skin.

  Celine bit her lower lip to keep from screaming.

  There was no time for her to succumb to pain. She needed to

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  free her feet from their bonds so that she might at least attempt an escape. Celine sat up, drops of bright blood plinking against

  the cool stone. Then she tucked her knees beneath her chin and

  reached under the hem of her skirts to fiddle with the knots

  around her ankles.

  “I admire your resilience, Celine,” a warm voice pronounced

  from the shadows at her back, its accent refined. Distinct of

  the British upper class. “But you’ve lost a lot of blood. I don’t believe you’ll get very far.”

  Fear knifed through Celine, a ghostly chill racing down her

  spine. But she’d already made a promise to herself. Fear would

  not dictate her actions tonight. “Who are you?” Her voice was