The Beautiful (ARC) Read online

  along the docks. Would it make a difference if I offered to ac-

  company her? We could take the lady’s measurements together

  and then be on our way. I don’t believe we would be gone from

  the convent for long. In fact, I see no reason why we would have

  to miss evening prayer.”

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  Time ground to a halt. It was Celine’s turn to have her eyes widen with dismay.

  Pippa Montrose had offered to help. Had lied for Celine. To

  a nun.

  “I have many misgivings, Mademoiselle Montrose,” the

  Mother Superior said after a breath. “But perhaps if you are

  willing to provide escort . . .”

  “I am willing to take full responsibility.” Pippa grasped the

  tiny gold crucifix nestled at the hollow of her throat. She let her voice drop. Let it fill with reverence. “And I trust God will go

  with us tonight.”

  The Mother Superior frowned again, her lips unspooling

  slowly. Her attention shifted from Pippa toward Celine and

  back again. She stood straight. And made a decision.

  “Very well,” she said.

  A flare of surprise shot through Celine. The Mother Superior

  had shifted tack too quickly. Too easily. Suspicion gnawed at

  Celine’s stomach. She eyed Pippa sidelong, but her friend did

  not glance her way.

  “Thank you, Mother Superior,” Pippa murmured. “I promise

  all will go as planned.”

  “Of course. As long as you understand I’ve put my full trust in

  you, Mademoiselle Montrose. Do not disappoint me.” The nun’s

  smile was disturbingly beatific. “May His light shine upon you

  both, my children.”

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  HIVER, 1872

  AVENUE DES URSULINES

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  i

  I first glimpse my next victim as she passes beneath the flame

  of a gas lamp.

  Her eyes flash in a most curious way. As though she is on

  edge or held in suspense. Perhaps in the midst of doing some-

  thing illicit.

  The sight catches my attention, even through the horde

  of bustling bodies, a handful of them brimming with other-

  worldly energy. Her unease looks strangely beguiling, for it

  is the opposite of performative. She is heedless of everything

  around her, save the task at hand. It is a difficult undertaking

  for a hapless mortal, to move about a crowd so blissfully un-

  aware. So enviably unaffected.

  Crowds fascinate me. They provide demons such as myself

  with unique opportunities. Occasions to be seen and unseen in

  the same breath. For are we not always—human and creature

  alike—performing to some degree?

  I digress.

  The moment I enjoy most is when I first begin scanning the

  masses. When I first lay eyes on my target, and they know not

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  that they are being watched. They act without thought. Smile without agenda. Laugh as though not a soul is listening.

  I know what this must sound like. It sounds . . . disconcerting.

  I am aware. But I am by nature disconcerting. There are mo-

  ments in which I can be delightful, too. I speak many languages.

  I have traveled the world twice over. I can sing the entirety of

  Verdi’s Aida without the need of sheet music.

  Do I not deserve a modicum of consideration for these and

  many other achievements?

  I would like to think so, though I know it to be impossible.

  Demons should not be granted the indulgence of men. So

  sayeth man, at least.

  But I’ll share a secret. In my years, I have discovered it is

  possible to be both disconcerting and delightful all at once.

  Wine can be delicious though it muddles the mind. A mother

  may love and hate her children in the span of the same after-

  noon.

  And a predator could abhor itself even as it relishes its

  evening meal.

  I understand my behavior might be construed as odd. Un-

  seemly. But I am a thing of oddity. A creature born apart from

  this world.

  Don’t fret on my account. I have never been one of those im-

  mortals who enjoy toying with their food, nor do I particularly

  like stalking my prey. I am not looking for their weaknesses;

  rather, I am understanding their humanity. There is some-

  thing . . . wrong with treating a living being as though it ex-

  ists purely for my own sport. Every action I undertake has a

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  purpose. It is the characteristic that distinguishes me from many beings of the Otherworld.

  My convictions.

  I feel keenly the loss of any life taken. The kill last week along the pier did not thrill me in any way. It was necessarily gruesome, in a manner I typically eschew, especially for such an in-

  discriminate death. I brought about the girl’s end simply to see

  what was possible. To see what kind of attention it would draw.

  Alas, it did not have the effect I hoped, for my enemy remains

  above the authorities’ notice. It appears a more lasting impres-

  sion must be left with my next victim. A more direct assault,

  upon my enemy’s doorstep.

  Each death to come will be felt all the more keenly. That is of

  primary importance.

  For though I may disdain wanton bloodshed, I am not imper-

  vious to the draw of the hunt. A friend from childhood used to

  say she knew when an animal had perished in agony. She could

  taste it, and it ruined the meal for her.

  I find I am inclined to agree. There is also a certain allure to

  knowing what will happen next, before anyone else does. Per-

  haps it is a result of my unconventional upbringing. Or maybe

  it is simply human nature.

  And I was human. Once.

  A part of me still longs to be.

  Maybe that is what draws me to the liveliness of the French

  Quarter. I avoided hunting in it for many years, because its

  corners contained memories not soon forgotten. Images of

  pain and loss and heartbreak. But I’ve returned to my old haunt

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  after too long a time, for I have an ancient score to settle. A final performance to give.

  Sacro fremito di gloria / Tutta l’anima m’investe.

  A sacred thrill of glory / Runs through my heart.

  Perhaps I am still human after all.

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  A Touch of Violence

  i

  Celine!” Pippa called out as Celine whirled into the

  crowd, her steps surefooted. Free. “Slow down. There’s

  no need to move about so quickly.”

  Celine halted in her tracks, excitement sparking in her chest.

  The beat of a distant drum met with the clash of cymbals. Soon

  thereafter, trumpets pealed into the vibrant night air. A sul-


  try breeze toyed with the ends of the black satin ribbon about

  her throat, caressing her collarbone. Though she kept still, her

  heart reached for the music, as if it called to something deep

  in her bones. It never ceased to amaze her, how she seemed to

  thrive under cover of darkness. How she fell more in love with

  the moon every night.

  Each evening—despite the thick walls of the convent—

  Celine’s toes had tapped alongside the melodies of the pass-

  ing carnival parades. Rhythms and timbres and crescendos of

  sound she’d never before heard had captured her attention,

  stealing her thoughts from the word of God. She was not

  alone in this. Antonia’s fingers had frozen above the pages of

  vespers, her mind transfixed as well. Even Pippa had smiled

  at the music.

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  And here they were now, given a chance to revel in the heart of it all.

  The parade drew closer, the crowd around them spilling into

  the side streets of the Vieux Carré. Temporary vendors began

  rolling carts of food and drink onto its corners, adding layer

  upon layer to the sights and smells and sounds collecting about

  the space: spice and earth and the clash of metal against stone.

  Celine shifted with the sea of moving bodies, dragging Pippa

  in her wake. When they turned the corner, a delicious scent—

  unlike any Celine had ever known—permeated the air.

  “Cochon de lait!” a man with a soot-caked mustache called

  out in a strange French accent. He hovered above what looked

  like a beast of iron and black smoke about the size of a large

  trunk. When he rolled back its lid, Celine saw meat roasting

  above a makeshift spit, the aroma of burning pecan wood and

  sugarcane wafting through it. He poured a concoction that

  smelled of melted butter, white wine, hot peppers, and minced

  garlic all over the smoked cochon. A delicious steam sizzled

  from the smoldering embers, weaving through and around

  them. Then the man with the mustache poked a large fork in

  one side of the meat, and a piece of cochon fell from the bone

  onto a waiting piece of bread. Immediately a crowd formed a

  queue around the man and his iron beast.

  Celine desperately wished she carried with her a single coin.

  A single chance to partake in something so mouthwatering.

  She knew it was a bad idea to move closer to the merriment of

  the incoming parade, but it had been so long since this kind of

  unbridled joy had taken root in her heart. She supposed that

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  was the way of it, when one was guilty of committing unspeak-able acts like murder.

  Joy did not live in a heart full of fear.

  Pippa saw the look on her face. “We can’t linger here, Celine,”

  she said in a grim tone. “We can’t watch the parade.”

  “I know.” Celine inhaled deeply. “I’m just imagining that we

  could. That we did. And it was glorious.”

  A sympathetic smile curled up Pippa’s face. “I want to see it,

  too. But if the Mother Superior finds out we disregarded her

  wishes—that we did not go straight to our meeting and immedi-

  ately return—she’ll never let us venture into the city alone again.”

  “Of course.” Celine nodded. But her feet remained fixed to

  one spot.

  “Please,” Pippa continued, taking her hand. “Life is much

  more difficult when those around us do not have faith in us.”

  Celine sighed. As usual, Pippa wasn’t wrong. In the past,

  Celine’s penchant for recklessness had proved problematic.

  Disastrous on at least one occasion. The sense of joy that had

  bloomed in her chest only a moment before wilted like a rose

  beneath the hot sun.

  “You’re right,” Celine said softly. Regretfully. She turned away

  from the crowd and all its delightful promises.

  Pippa linked arms with her as they began walking in the op-

  posite direction. “I just don’t have the same sense of adventure

  as you.”

  “I’m not sure about that.” Celine grinned. “You did board

  a ship sailing into the unknown.” And lie for me tonight, she added without words.

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  It was impossible to miss the dark cloud passing over Pippa’s features. Curiosity warmed through Celine again. It was the

  first time in five weeks that she’d seen a shadow descend on

  Pippa’s face when confronted with questions concerning her

  past.

  Was it possible Pippa harbored a dark secret as well?

  It just seemed so unlikely.

  “There was nothing left for me in Liverpool,” Pippa began, as

  though she could read Celine’s mind, “except my family’s good

  name and a legacy of debt. My father . . . wasted his life and our fortunes in gambling hells and in the arms of fallen women.”

  She winced. “It was better that I leave and make my own path.”

  Anyone listening would sense how much it pained Pippa to

  disclose these truths. A part of Celine felt honored that Pippa

  had chosen to confide in her. She wrapped her arm more tightly

  around Pippa’s, but could not ignore the dread coiling through

  her stomach.

  Pippa would expect Celine to return the gesture. To trust her

  with details of Celine’s past. Sure enough, Pippa gazed at Celine as they made their way down the Avenue des Ursulines. Celine

  did not need to ask why. Her friend waited expectantly for

  Celine to offer her own tale of woe.

  To share her painful truth.

  More than anything, Celine wished to tell Pippa what had

  happened. But how would Pippa—her only friend in the New

  World—look upon her if she learned Celine had killed a man

  and fled Paris in the aftermath? Pippa had said it herself: what

  kind of monster takes a human life? At best she would stop

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  looking upon Celine with the eyes of a friend. At worst?

  Celine shuddered to think.

  The result would be the same: she would have no one. So

  Celine kept to her story, offering Pippa a shrug of her shoul-

  ders. A dismissive smile.

  “I completely understand about wanting to make your own

  way,” she said. “There was nothing left for me in Paris. It was

  better for me to begin anew elsewhere, too.”

  Pippa said nothing. For a time she did not look away from

  Celine. Then she nodded, as though she’d made a decision to

  leave things be. For now.

  j

  The two girls made their way down Rue Royale, on the lookout

  for a sign that read Jacques’. As they turned a corner, they passed a narrow side street that reeked suspiciously of refuse. The alleyway was unlit. Removed from the realm of civilized folk.

  Celine stopped short when the suggestion of a scuffle ema-

  nated from its shadows. It struck her like a bolt of lightning,

  electricity sizzling across her skin. A man cried out, be
gging for his life in a guttural mix of French and English. His words were

  followed by the sound of a fist against flesh.

  What if a murder was occurring only steps from where they

  stood?

  Celine knew it was wiser to continue on their course. To re-

  main ambivalent. Safe.

  But if a monster takes a life, what kind of creature refuses to

  save one?

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  Pippa tugged on Celine’s arm. Celine ignored her. Someone was being beaten to death in the alley, without recourse. The

  parable of the Good Samaritan rang in her ears, admonishing

  her to take notice. To act.

  The man cried out again, and Celine took a step closer.

  “Celine!” Pippa exclaimed in a loud whisper.

  “Who’s there?” a deep voice called from the alleyway’s ob-

  scured center.

  Without blinking an eye, Celine yanked Pippa into a fall of

  nearby shadows, her heart thudding in her chest. She peered

  around the corner—into the narrow alleyway—allowing her

  sight to adjust to the darkness.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” Pippa whispered in Celine’s ear, her

  eyes wide with terror, her breaths heavy. “We should leave

  at—”

  Celine pressed a finger to Pippa’s mouth and shook her head.

  She focused on the scene unfolding in the depths of the small

  side street. It took an instant to form an understanding.

  A man lay on his side amid a pile of desiccated fruit peelings,

  his words garbled, his predicament clear. One hand was raised

  in supplication. His shoulders shook uncontrollably.

  Two other men stood on either side of this poor soul, brack-

  eting him like a pair of suited specters. Through the darkness,

  the shorter man lit a cheroot. A flash of firelight shone on a

  set of perfect white teeth and the bleached linen of his rolled

  shirtsleeves.

  But it was not this man who caught Celine’s notice.

  It was the taller one standing to his right, watching the

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  violence unfold as though it were simple entertainment. A show performed onstage before a paying audience.

  Atop his head, Celine recognized the tilt of a Panama hat.

  Perhaps it was a coincidence. The boy she’d seen that first

  night—the one whose memory she’d struggled to conjure