by Renee Ahdieh
Celine stood taller, her knuckles turning white. “Yes. I do.”
Bastien leaned closer. A flicker of firelight caught on his gold watch chain. On the roaring lion etched into his signet ring. “I don’t give a fuck.”
Pippa gasped, both hands covering her mouth, her eyes wider than tea saucers.
Then Bastien continued on his way, Arjun laughing softly at his heels. Almost pityingly.
The word shook Celine. She’d never heard it said aloud. The sheltered life she’d lived in Paris had spared her from being trespassed by this kind of talk. Her father often commented that feminine ears were too delicate for such things. But Celine didn’t feel as though her delicate ears had been assaulted by the single syllable. Bastien may have uttered a foul word, but he’d spoken to her as he would a man. As an equal. Blood rushed through her body, adrenaline fueling its path. Horror settled in the base of her throat, a knot slowly tightening.
She knew this feeling. Recognized it. She’d felt it when her attacker had stilled on the floor of the atelier, crimson flowing from the wound in his skull, her hand clasped around the candelabra.
Celine felt . . . powerful. A part of something bigger than herself.
And still she did not feel a hint of remorse for anything she’d done.
It was terrifying to know such a dark creature writhed beneath Celine’s skin. This was not the behavior of a pious young woman, nor were these the emotions of a girl who should—by all rights—be seeking forgiveness. Salvation from a God she did not quite know or understand.
Celine blinked to clear her thoughts. Just as Pippa tugged on her hand.
“Are you all right?” Pippa said, her tone incredulous. “I can’t—” she tried. “I mean, can you believe what he said to you?”
Celine nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
She could not be certain what hand of Fate continued placing Sébastien Saint Germain in her path. Perhaps it was a test. God’s penance for her most grievous sin, that a boy shrouded in darkness would force her to see the light. Make of her a Good Samaritan.
But a greater fear lurked deep in Celine. Past the rush of blood, into the marrow of her bones.
No matter where she went, danger followed.
And it horrified her. Just as it thrilled her.
HIVER, 1872
RUE SAINT LOUIS
NEW ORLEANS
I catch her profile in the glint of a shining brass sign.
Her fear is reflected at me, her eyes bright.
I look away. It reminds me of the young woman from last week. I do not relish the sight of fear on anyone, though I know it to be a necessary evil. For if we do not understand fear, how are we ever to cherish safety?
I turn my attention to the three-story building before me, its trellised balconies overflowing with ivy and budding blossoms. Etched into the brass sign in the center—in odiously elaborate script—is the name Jacques’. Above the name is a symbol I often see in my dreams. A symbol infamous among the circles of both the Fallen and the Brotherhood.
A restaurant encompasses the entire first floor of the structure, its gas lanterns already ablaze. A queue is wrapping around the corner. Someone—undoubtedly Kassamir—has thrown open the double doors, revealing a smiling crowd and the sounds of fine china and tinkling crystal. Servers bustle about in their white gloves and starched jackets.
For a moment, my senses are inundated by this symphony of splendor and decadence. It is a music I know well, both in this life and in my former one. A smile curves across my lips.
Amusing that she should lead me here, of all places.
If only these poor fools knew what lurked above them, deep in a court of lions. If only my victim knew. Then they would all understand what it meant to feel true fear.
When I glance at her again, I catch a look of hesitation on her face, as though she is uncertain about whether to proceed. Recent events have unnerved her, and it saddens me. I expected her to be stronger. She began the night with such purpose, each of her steps steady. Resolute.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be too judgmental. This is not a city for everyone.
It is a snake in the reeds, beautiful and deadly, even while it sleeps.
Moreover, I feel partially to blame for her fear. I could have come to their aid. It would have taken the work of a moment to blur through the alley and silence that paltry threat. But what purpose would that have served, beyond the risk of revealing my true nature before it was time? To my knowledge, my victim was not yet in any real danger. At least not from the nephew of Le Comte de Saint Germain.
Bitterness coats my tongue.
That is a promise I do not have the strength to break. Not yet.
We are not ready for the war it will bring.
My thoughts darken in a way I do not like, so I return to my earlier musings. It’s possible Arjun Desai—the boy with the immobilizing touch—could present a threat one day, but it is too soon to tell. His skill set continues to intrigue me, as it did on the day I first made his acquaintance. Without a doubt, he is a worthy member of La Cour des Lions.
Another smile spreads across my face. It pleases me that our city’s society of mentalists—masquerading as something else entirely—managed to recruit him.
It should make for a fascinating turn of events.
But I cannot allow these things to distract me any more than they already have. Not tonight. There is far too much at stake for me to dwell on these incidental matters.
I return my gaze to her, the young woman who led me to where it all began, unknowingly.
Fittingly.
She pauses at the entrance of Jacques’, rethinking her choices once more.
Ah, but it is too late, my love.
We cannot change the mistakes of our past. They live on, so that we may learn, if we should be but so lucky. Alas, dear girl, your luck takes flight tonight.
I am the spider. I set silken traps. I watch as you step into my web.
I wait to strike.
But do not fear. I promise I will never forget you.
THE COURT OF THE LIONS
Celine waited for Pippa to collect herself just outside the narrow alleyway. When Celine realized she was behaving oddly—standing stock-still, her eyes unblinking—she began mimicking Pippa’s motions, straightening her overskirt as if it was all that needed sorting.
It never ceased to amaze Celine how circumstances could change so drastically in the matter of a moment. One second, every nerve ending in her body was alive, crackling with unseen energy. The next, everything went silent and motionless, as if she were submerged in a pool of deep water.
“Celine?” Two lines collected between Pippa’s brows.
Celine gathered that Pippa had posed her a question. True to form, Celine had not been listening. Ever since Bastien and Arjun had left them behind in the alley—a stone’s throw from the “sleeping” man who’d brandished a dagger at them less than ten minutes prior—Pippa had been maintaining a steady stream of nervous chatter.
Celine’s focus had been elsewhere. Lost in the delicious unknown.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Pippa asked. She held up her skirts and edged closer to Celine, concern seeping onto her features. “I asked if you still wished to meet Odette.”
“Of course,” Celine answered without thought.
Dismay touched the edges of Pippa’s lips, there and gone in an instant. “Oh.”
“Do you not wish to meet her?”
“It isn’t that.” Pippa shook her head. “I’m just . . . uncertain whether it is the wisest course of action.” Her blue eyes flicked toward Celine. “This evening has not gone as I’d hoped. I thought it better to stop tempting our fates.”
Of course Pippa felt uncomfortable. Most people would feel skittish after the events of tonight. A girl like Pippa would wis
h to be anywhere else. No, that wasn’t right. She would wish to be home, safe in her bed, with a soft blanket and a cup of hot tea. Better yet, with a mother or a lover to offer a soothing touch.
Celine exhaled slowly, a dark realization settling amid her thoughts.
Proper young women certainly wouldn’t feel so enlivened by the very idea of danger. Nor would they already be seeking out the next chance to feel their hearts pound in their ears and their faces flush as though they were too close to a candle flame.
Further proof that something was broken inside Celine.
Breathing deeply through her nose, Celine reached for her friend’s hand, her touch gentle. Comforting. “I’m sorry, Pippa,” she said. “I’ve been distracted by all that happened. Of course you don’t want to meet with Odette tonight after . . . well, everything. I completely understand. We’ll return to the convent at once.” She was careful not to let her disappointment show, though she felt it keenly.
Her friend had risked enough this evening on her account.
When Celine moved to retrace their steps, Pippa dawdled behind her. Celine turned in place. “Pippa?”
Pippa quirked her lips to one side. “You really wanted to go, didn’t you? You were happier tonight than I’ve ever seen you before. Freer.”
Celine thought to lie. But she was wearied by the notion. So very wearied.
She simply nodded.
A warm light filled Pippa’s gaze. “It was like getting a peek into who you truly are,” she said softly. “It made me feel like we were really friends.”
“We are really friends.”
Pippa shook her head, but it was not unkind. “Not yet. But I hope we will be. I do so want to be your friend, Celine.”
Celine swallowed, something clutching around her heart. “I want to be your friend, too, Pippa. Very much.”
Pippa nodded. Then she took hold of her skirts once more, resolve flashing across her face. “We shouldn’t keep Odette waiting.”
* * *
Less than two blocks away, Celine and Pippa caught sight of a brass sign positioned above the slender double doors of a well-lit establishment.
It read Jacques’ in fancy script. Etched above the name was a familiar symbol: a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion. In the distance, the pier loomed ominously, the water around it glittering like a sea of black diamonds, ready to swallow its supplicants whole.
“Oh,” Pippa said, realization dawning on her. “It’s a restaurant.”
A similar wash of surprise passed through Celine. It felt odd for Odette to direct them to a restaurant, especially for the purpose of a dress fitting.
Based on the long queue snaking around the front, it was clear the owner of Jacques’ knew how to capture the attention of a crowd, especially for a Monday evening. But on the outside, the structure itself looked rather ordinary. Red brick and black lacquered shutters enclosing three stories. Gas lamps blazing between tall, narrow windows. Polished wooden floors stained a light caramel color. Drapes of deep burgundy damask cascading down the walls.
Yet to Celine, something about it felt . . . off. Like a picture frame hanging askew. As if the restaurant had dutifully mastered every detail of the mundane, with the intention of wearing them as a mask. Concealing what, Celine could only guess.
Each time the door opened, the crystals hanging from the chandelier beside the entrance chimed merrily like they were welcoming newcomers. Then the lingering notes turned melancholy. A clash of discordant sounds, the slightest shift to minor key.
To Celine, it rang as a quiet warning. Still, everyone in the room kept smiling, oblivious to the unseen threat. Her gaze slipped across the contented faces of Jacques’ countless patrons.
How was it they could not feel it, too?
Perhaps Celine was mistaken. Perhaps these observations formed from a place of wishful thought. Maybe she sought proof she wasn’t the only one forced to wear a mask. And in doing so, she’d falsely found a kindred spirit . . . in a restaurant.
How ridiculous. She chastised herself. What kind of silly fool shared a silent understanding with a structure of brick and mortar? Celine committed to casting aside her concerns like a stone lying in her path.
Pippa touched Celine’s shoulder to catch her attention. “Should we seek out the gentleman Odette mentioned earlier today?”
“Mais oui. Lead the way.” Celine sent a deceptively careless grin over her shoulder.
As soon as the two girls crossed the threshold of Jacques’—Pippa pausing with a twinge of trepidation—the figurative stone Celine had cast aside rolled back into her path. She must be mad, seeing and feeling things not even in the demesne of possibility. But even in the most fevered of her dreams, it would be impossible to ignore this truth:
Jacques’ was anything but ordinary.
It was not about what Celine saw. It was about what she felt.
A strange sensation rippled across her skin, tingling through her blood, taking root in her core. Something hooked around her spine, drawing her in with an unspoken promise. Something . . . otherworldly.
Yes. That was it. It was as though she’d wandered into another realm. Not Heaven. Not Hell. But somewhere in between. A liminal space, spanning both light and dark. Whatever it was, Celine felt comfortable there.
An elbow struck Celine’s right arm, snagging her from her observations. The server who hastened past them offered an apologetic glance, his features knitted along his freckled brow. In both hands, he balanced trays laden with covered dishes of gleaming silver. Celine tracked his progress through the room as she directed Pippa closer to a wall of wooden paneling near the entrance, out of the main walkway’s path.
Pippa gazed about the space with purpose. “Do you see him?”
Captivated by the scene unfolding before them, Celine failed to reply.
Across the restaurant’s open dining area—near a set of curving stairs vanishing up into shadowy darkness—the freckled server caught the attention of an imposing figure standing beside the swinging door to the kitchen. The silk-faced lapels of his pristine frock coat glowed in the candlelight. Even from a distance, Celine recognized him as the ruler of this culinary domain. He maintained a ramrod straight posture, his dark skin and the gold ring through his right ear brilliant contrasts to his snow-white shirt. Then he glanced at the server, flicking his black eyes toward a table closer to Pippa and Celine. His gaze was pointed. Reproving.
A flush spreading across his cheeks, the young server conducted an artful about-face, twisting back in the table’s direction. He began distributing covered dishes before its four patrons, one of whom was a pale gentleman of Asiatic origin, sporting a thin mustache, perfectly groomed, and a shirt with a simple collar. Beside him sat a portly white fellow with red splotches across his nose and a smoldering cigar. Across the table was a man with skin the color of mahogany, wearing a spectacular waistcoat of gold and royal blue. Next to him sulked the younger, smaller version of himself.
It struck Celine as highly unusual. She’d never seen men of different skin color occupy the same space in a fine restaurant.
Parisian high society was not a society of mixed company. The Paris Celine knew was carefully sorted, just like its many arrondissements. As a small child, Celine was told never to traverse the narrow lanes of Saint-Denis just as its émigré residents were shown that they—and their kind—did not belong anywhere near the dazzling boulevards of Place Vendôme. She wondered if the scene taking place tonight within Jacques’ was normal in a port city like New Orleans, one in which people from all over the world congregated.
She would wager it was not. It had certainly been the truth for her own family. From an early age, Celine had been taught to be grateful for her mother’s absence from their family’s dining table.
Sadness flared around her heart. She took hold of it. Trapped it deep within her chest. It
did no good to dwell on matters she could not change. Steadfast in her resolve, Celine looked to Pippa to see if they should proceed.
It appeared that Pippa, too, had been swept away by the unearthly magic of this place. She watched rapt while the freckle-faced server finished distributing the covered dishes. Then he snapped his fingers in a dramatic fashion, and all the silver domes were removed in concert. Scented steam wafted through the air, floating toward Celine and Pippa as though it were borne on an enchanted wind. Pippa stilled, her eyes falling shut.
“What . . . is that deliciousness?” she asked Celine.
Celine leaned closer to the table, peering around the hustle and bustle of the busy restaurant.
The food smelled familiar—the same scents of butter and wine, the same perfume of marjoram, thyme, and rosemary—that Celine had grown up enjoying in Paris. But something else filtered through the air. Spices she could not readily identify.
They plagued her. Tantalized her. Intoxicated her.
The newly uncovered plates of Limoges porcelain held fillets of sole resting atop beds of fragrant rice, finished with a sauce similar to a beurre blanc, but with a twist of roasted tomatoes and a hint of sweet herbs. To the right of the flaky fish sat a tureen of pommes de terre soufflées. The delectably puffed potatoes were served alongside an intricate pyramid of roasted asparagus smothered in truffle port sauce, then garnished with slender shavings of cured meat.
At the table nearest to them, an elegant woman dripping with pearls drank from her glass of red wine before nibbling on a pillowy gougères, the salty scent of Gruyère cheese mingling with the rich fragrance of the Burgundy.
In that moment, Celine wanted nothing more than to slip into this woman’s expensive shoes, just for a breath of time. To sink her teeth into something decadent, heedless of all else around her.
“Oh!” Pippa said, startled by a sudden tongue of fire leaping from another table. A white-gloved maître d’hôtel swished the burning contents of a small pan, a blue blaze dancing around its edges. The concoction appeared to be a strange kind of creamy fruit covered in mounds of brown sugar, then doused with bourbon before being set aflame. A delectable perfume of warm caramel curled into the air, countless pairs of eyes drifting toward it.
