The Beautiful (ARC) Page 39

  hoarse but firm. “Why have you brought me here?”

  Footsteps circled closer, the killer’s heels striking the stone

  floor with tantalizing slowness. “I’m somewhat put out that

  you haven’t realized who I am, being so damnably smart and

  all,” he continued, his tone mocking. “But in fairness, me

  love . . . I did sound a bit different before, I did.” He eased into a vibrant Cockney accent. The accent of London’s working class.

  Its tenor caused Celine to tremble. Despite her bleeding

  wound, she turned her head to one side, disbelief splintering

  her thoughts.

  Nigel?

  “But you were dead,” Celine whispered when Nigel strolled

  into view, looking hale and hearty and whole, the smell of earth

  suffusing the air about him. Shock began settling into Celine’s

  limbs, causing her shoulders to shake. “I saw you. Your arm.

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  Your head.” She gasped, realization cinching the breath from her body. “It was . . . you.”

  Evil did not look the way she’d imagined it would.

  Nigel wasn’t the bloodthirsty villain of her nightmares. He was

  Arjun’s good-natured friend. Odette’s silly sweet boy. One of

  Bastien’s closest confidants.

  Nigel clapped twice with slow deliberation, his grey cloak

  falling away from his arms, revealing a rumpled waistcoat and

  stained shirtsleeves. “You saw what we wanted you to see, love.”

  “We?”

  He ignored her question, switching back to the polished

  accent of Grosvenor Square. “You’ve proved to be quite the

  little detective.” He changed his tone once more, as if he were

  donning or doffing a hat. “So smart. So bleedin’ sharp, espe-

  cially for a bird.” His Cockney resonated into the rafters.

  Dear God, he sounded mad. But Celine didn’t sense any mad-

  ness about him. His cheeks were pink, his eyes clear, his lips

  full. No, it wasn’t madness.

  It was pride.

  Pride at playing to a crowd, like a revered actor on a stage.

  If Celine had to guess, Nigel was relishing the success of his

  deception, as if it offered testament to his greatness.

  Determination etched across her brow. If pride was his down-

  fall, Celine would distract him further by encouraging him to

  talk about himself. She’d done the same thing to the young man

  who’d attacked her that night in the atelier.

  Never mind that it had very nearly failed.

  “Please tell me why,” Celine whispered, her expression

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  pleading. “I don’t understand why you would do such a thing.”

  While she spoke, her fingers worked at the knots beneath her

  skirts, willing herself to remain calm.

  “Ever the brilliant little detective, aren’t we?” Nigel said in the Queen’s English. He moved closer to the trio of rounded steps

  leading up to the altar, pausing to rest his right foot on the dark granite base. “By the by, did you ever manage to uncover the

  meaning behind the symbols I left for you?”

  “No,” Celine lied, shrinking away from him, her back pressed

  against the altar’s base, the bonds beginning to loosen above

  her feet.

  “No matter,” Nigel continued, a casual air about him. “Im-

  pressive how quickly you determined they might be from an

  ancient language.” He braced an elbow on his bent knee. “You

  were only off by a few hundred years.”

  “The language predates ancient Greek?” Celine guessed.

  “A totally different civilization.” He switched to Cockney.

  “Even gave you a hint, I did.”

  Celine’s shoulders slumped. “Carthage.”

  “Correct.” He smiled, switching back. “As to why I did this . . .

  there are any number of reasons. Why does anyone betray

  their loved ones?” He straightened, his expression somber. “For

  power, perhaps. That’s something to which the Medicis, the

  Borgias, the Tudors, the Ptolemies—any number of influen-

  tial families throughout history—could attest.” He paused. “Or

  perhaps it’s because I never really loved them in the first place.

  “Do you know why the Court of the Lions exists?” Nigel

  continued, his eyes shining with an otherworldly light. “Do you

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  know why Nicodemus ripped me from my home in London’s East End and turned me into a demon, cursed to share his fate?”

  Anger rippled across his face. “To obey my maker until the end

  of time?”

  Celine shook her head, her first finger catching on a loop in

  her bonds, prying it free.

  A muscle worked beneath the skin of Nigel’s forehead. “The

  Court of the Lions exists for the sole purpose of protecting

  Nicodemus Saint Germain’s legacy.” He snorted. “Sébastien,

  the last scion of the Saint Germain family. I’ve guarded a

  mortal boy for nearly a decade. From the moment he sulked in

  a roomful of books to the moment he crowned himself prince

  of our dark court, I’ve been forced to do his bidding.” Bitter

  laughter flew from his lips. “I—an immortal being with powers beyond your wildest ken—was yoked to a cursed breather, like

  a bloody watchdog.” Distaste tugged at his lips. “It’s no wonder

  the Brotherhood despises us so.”

  The loop loosened infinitesimally more, Celine’s fingers chaf-

  ing from the effort. “Why does Bastien need to be guarded?” If

  she could buy herself but another minute . . .

  “Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice that every other member

  of Bastien’s family is dead. Do you think that’s by accident or

  by design?”

  A retort threatened to barrel from Celine’s mouth. She bit her

  tongue, tasting the salt of her blood. She could not succumb to

  anger, just as she would not be consumed by fear. “It must be by

  design,” Celine replied.

  Nigel brushed a thin layer of dirt from his shoulders and

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  adjusted his shirtsleeves as if he were preparing for something.

  A knot of unease formed in Celine’s stomach. “Bastien is the

  last piece of a retribution centuries in the making. And I—Nigel

  Fitzroy—will be the one to put the final nail in this coffin. The first of my kind to bridge the divide between the Fallen and

  the Brotherhood.” He inhaled through his nose and spread his

  arms wide. Then he shouted once, as if in triumph, a fierce,

  guttural cry.

  It sounded like the roar of a beast. Like the howl of a barely

  leashed creature relishing the spoils of his hunt. Its echo shook the very ground beneath Celine.

  No. Evil did not look the way she’d imagined it would.

  It looked far worse. It was hate wrapped in the guise of a

  friend.

  Celine fought back a tide of anguish, despondency settling

  around her, its shadow closing in.

  Before it could take root, she lurched to her fe
et and began

  to run. Her teeth chattering in her skull, she grabbed hold of

  the first pew, using it to propel her down the aisle toward the

  doors, expecting Nigel to stop her at any moment. Her bound

  hands itched to retrieve the dagger at her side. Itched to de-

  fend herself. To drive the silver deep into the place his heart

  used to be.

  But once she unsheathed the blade, she would have only a

  single chance to use it.

  Now was not that time.

  Soft laughter trailed behind Celine, its echo searing through

  her soul. She could not stop to question why Nigel wasn’t

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  chasing her. There was no time to idle in curiosity. Choking back the rising bile, Celine continued racing down the aisle, her body taxed by every footstep.

  Why was she so goddamned weak?

  The doors to the cathedral stood sentinel less than ten paces

  away. All that mattered now was escape.

  A rush of air gusted past Celine, her sight blurring from the

  breeze. She blinked, a cry of astonishment escaping her lips.

  Nigel was standing before the cathedral doors. Only a second

  before, he’d been at the opposite end of the church.

  Her senses dazed, Celine stumbled to a halt, grasping a pew

  to steady herself. “How?” She despised the way her voice trem-

  bled. “What are you?”

  A beat passed in awful silence. Then a slow smile spread

  across his face. “I thought you’d never ask.” His words were

  lethal in their calm.

  Nigel began to change. His eyes darkened to black, the color

  spreading like a drop of ink through water. His features sharp-

  ened, the tips of his ears tapering to points.

  Celine gripped the pew in her hands, swallowing her cries.

  Nigel’s teeth had begun to lengthen, his canines resembling

  those of a wolf, gleaming like daggers in the low light of the

  tapers.

  Panic gripped Celine’s stomach. Acid collected on her

  tongue, its sharpness washing down her throat. She took a

  step backward, her heart hurling against her chest, demand-

  ing to be set free.

  Then Nigel blurred toward her. One moment he was ten

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  paces away. The next he loomed a hairsbreadth before Celine, as if he’d manipulated the air around him, like a ghost or a spirit or a demon of the night.

  Celine clasped her bound hands before her, as if she were in

  prayer. She leaned against the pew, struggling to hold herself

  upright. Hoping her perceived weakness would grant her an

  opportunity to draw the dagger from its sheath at her hip.

  “Ask me again what I am.” The scruff on Nigel’s chin gleamed

  like molten copper, his eyes chips of obsidian.

  Celine could not respond. Nor could she look away.

  With a soft laugh, Nigel grabbed her wrists in an iron vise,

  pulling her against his chest. Then he leaned forward and licked

  the wound on her neck. Celine choked back a scream. When he

  tilted his head to the cathedral’s rafters—to the brilliant fres-

  coes of angels overcoming their demon brethren—his tongue

  was stained crimson with her blood. A sound of supreme satis-

  faction rose from his throat.

  As if he found her blood delicious. As if he relished in meals

  of human blood.

  Vampire.

  A brutal shriek burst from Celine’s lips. She tried to free

  her hands from her bonds so that she might grab the dag-

  ger at her hip, but Nigel laughed at her once more, reveling

  in her struggle. Toying with her as if she were nothing but a

  plaything.

  “That’s enough, Nigel.”

  The vicious admonition came from Celine’s back. To the right

  side of the altar.

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  An air of triumph filled the space when Nigel glanced over her shoulder. He whipped Celine around, his skin vibrating

  with anticipation.

  As if this had been his plan all along.

  Bastien walked down the aisle toward them, his revolver

  trained on Nigel, his expression hewn from ice.

  Nigel wrapped an arm about her waist, pulling Celine toward

  him, as if she were both a possession and a shield. Amuse-

  ment tinged his voice. “The reckless Romeo has finally come

  to rescue his foolish Juliet. Tell me, Lord Lion, does our keeper know you’re here?” His black eyes narrowed to slits. “What will

  Nicodemus say when he realizes you’ve risked his legacy for the

  life of a mortal girl?”

  Bastien ignored him. “He won’t harm you again, Celine,” he

  said, his tone even, his words soft. “Not if he wishes to see an-

  other moon.”

  Nigel’s arm tightened around her waist, drawing her back

  against the cool marble of his chest. “Don’t lie to your love,

  Sébastien,” he said. “For I haven’t had my fill, and her blood

  tastes sweeter than sun-warmed honey.”

  The beat of her heart thudding in her ears, Celine nodded to

  Bastien, her bound hands inching toward her pocket.

  With a subtle shake of his head, Bastien took a step forward,

  his thumb cocking the hammer of his revolver. “Your quarrel

  isn’t with her. Let Celine go, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Perhaps all I want is to drain her dry before your eyes. To

  watch you live the rest of your short, godforsaken life as the

  Ghost.”

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  The tips of Celine’s fingers grazed the edge of her pocket, her breaths quickening in her throat.

  Bastien’s lips pursed together, something flashing in the

  depths of his eyes. “Don’t waste a winning hand on such fool-

  ishness. No one goes to all this trouble for something so small

  and petty. I know we can make a deal.” His smile was cold.

  Unforgiving. “Name your terms.”

  “You are in no position to make demands. Put down your gun,

  Bastien,” Nigel said. “And perhaps I’ll agree to deal in good faith.”

  “Fuck your good faith.” Bastien’s smile widened. “Let her go.

  Now.” He took another step forward.

  “Aim true.” Nigel’s icy fingers wrapped around Celine’s neck,

  sending a shiver between her shoulder blades. “You may succeed

  in wounding me, but not before I rip the veins from her throat.”

  Celine’s fingers closed around the handle of the silver dagger.

  Before any of them could make another move, Nigel lifted

  Celine off her feet as if she weighed no more than a feather.

  Then he sank his teeth into her neck. Terror raked its sharp

  claws across Celine, the pain almost blinding her as she strug-

  gled to wrench his auburn hair from his scalp, her fingers

  flailing against a wall of stone.

  “Enough!” Bastien commanded. For the first time, Celine

  sensed fear in his voice. “Let her go, and I’ll put down my

  revolver.”

  Nigel licked his lips before he r
eplied. “Drop it first.”

  Bastien said nothing. He disengaged the bolt on his revolver,

  though he did not lower it.

  “Do it now, or I’ll finish her off,” Nigel taunted. “It won’t take

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  much. She has so little left to give. Her heart slows with each passing moment.”

  “Bastien,” Celine whispered, letting her posture cave in on

  itself, hoping Nigel would mistake the gesture for helplessness.

  The same kind of helplessness her attacker had expected that

  night in the atelier.

  But Celine Rousseau was not helpless. While there was still

  breath left in her body, she intended to fight. Nigel would not

  escape this church unscathed. She swore it to the heavens.

  Trembling uncontrollably, Celine eyed Bastien sidelong, her

  fingers brushing across her right hip. “Bastien, please,” she re-

  peated, as if she were begging him to save her.

  Though Bastien winced, he nodded once. Letting her know

  he understood her unspoken directive.

  “It appears we are at an impasse, Sébastien,” Nigel said. “What

  do you propose we do now? Fight to the death like civilized mon-

  sters?” He caught a trickle of blood dripping from Celine’s neck

  and brought it to his mouth. “Some of us are better monsters.”

  “Some of us are better men.” Bastien’s fingers tightened

  around his revolver. Then he pointed its barrel toward the floor.

  Nigel began lowering Celine to her feet. Dropping his guard.

  She waited for the instant her toes found purchase. Prepared

  herself to stab him in the throat, just as she’d been instructed to do the night Bastien gave her the dagger. All the while, Celine

  continued trembling, as if fear had found refuge in her bones.

  As if she were the pathetic little lamb Nigel had expected

  all along.

  She was no lamb. She was a lion.

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  Bastien set down his revolver. Unfolded to standing as Nigel released Celine.

  The next instant, the vampire blurred toward Bastien in a

  frenzy, his fangs tearing into Bastien’s throat.

  Celine hurled herself at Nigel’s back, the dagger in her hand.

  Her fury past the point of reason, Celine stabbed Nigel at the

  base of his head and the side of his neck, over and over again, a snarl on her lips.