The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  A cool wash of surprise unfurled down Bastien’s spine. Either Ash was far more reckless than Bastien had first surmised, or he was a complete fool. Neither boded well for the bastard. Nevertheless, they’d reached a critical juncture in their conversation. A decision needed to be made. Bastien knew what Ash meant. He simply wanted to hear him say it.

  So he raised a brow in question.

  “Come off it, Bastien, you know of what I speak,” Ash continued.

  Bastien widened his smile. It appeared his bloodlust might be slaked tonight after all. “I haven’t the faintest clue which of my associates troubles your father. You’ll have to be more specific.” His voice had gone quieter with each word, until the last was no more than a whisper.

  “A man like Jay Ballon Albert can’t be seen doing business with Chinamen and ni—”

  It took less than a second for Bastien to draw his revolver from beneath his frock coat. He leveled it before Ash could take another breath.

  Slow to react, Ash remained stock-still, his mouth agape, his eyes blinking sluggishly. Behind them, Art stumbled to his brother’s aid, only to be knocked from his boots by something he neither saw nor heard. A ghost in the wind.

  To his credit, Phoebus knew better than to interfere or so much as utter a whimper.

  Indistinct shapes melted from the lines and shadows of the skeletal building, moving too quickly to track. They scuttled down steel columns soundlessly, blurring through the darkness until they sharpened into focus, forming a circle of cloaked figures around Bastien and Ash.

  “What the devil?” Ash’s voice shook.

  Bastien stared him down, a smile of supreme pleasure taking shape across his face. “Allow me to introduce you to some of my associates, Ash.” He aimed the revolver at the shocked boy’s chest. “They’d like a word with you.”

  * * *

  Before the night was through, Ashton Albert was going to piss his pants.

  Bastien wouldn’t relish the sight. Or the smell.

  No. That was a lie.

  He’d relish the sight immensely.

  It was time for this insufferable creature to be laid low. To know what it felt like to have nothing, not even a mother or a father nearby to save their son from the demons lurking in the darkness.

  Tension raked across Bastien’s shoulders. With a subtle twist of his neck, he forced his muscles to relax. It had been almost a year since unremitting anger had taken hold of Bastien when he thought of his parents’ untimely demise. Of all things, he wished it wasn’t a whimpering Ashton Albert to serve as a reminder of what he’d lost.

  Yet another reason to relish this weasel’s comeuppance.

  It was just as well. Bastien supposed he could make do with the sight of Jay Ballon Albert’s elder son dangling horizontally over a metal platform, eight stories above New Orleans.

  A burst of feminine laughter barreled into the night. Hortense took hold of Ash’s polished boots and spun the boy around once more, the uncut jewels in her massive rings flashing through the darkness, her ebon skin radiant against the velvet sky. When the pulley suspending Ash above the platform creaked, he cried out, begging for reprieve.

  “Dis-le plus fort, mon cher,” Hortense cooed. “I can’t hear you.”

  Boone laughed heartily, his cherubic features filled with delight. At the building’s edge, Jae twirled his mother-of-pearl dagger between his fingertips, his black hair coiling in the breeze.

  Hortense’s sister, Madeleine, rolled her eyes. Near the hem of her cloak—stricken silent by fear—sat Art, who proceeded to vomit on the platform a second time, his chest heaving, his face soiled by snot and tears.

  “Wha-what do you want?” Ash wailed.

  Bastien intended to answer him. Eventually.

  “Oy, Bastien,” Nigel said, his Cockney accent gruff, his expression severe. “Don’t descend to his level, gov. S’unbecoming of an honorable leader.”

  Bastien snorted. “Which fool said I was honorable? Depravity has no bounds.”

  “Amen to that,” Boone interjected in an exaggerated drawl.

  Grunting, Nigel adjusted the ties of his cloak. “S’enough.” He sliced a hand through the air. Arjun shifted closer, his lips wrapped around a smoldering cheroot, his expression one of shared agreement.

  Bastien studied them in amused silence. Like Odette and Jae, Nigel Fitzroy had been at his side from the beginning, Boone, Hortense, and Madeleine following soon thereafter. Arjun Desai had arrived to New Orleans less than a year ago, but he’d joined their ranks quickly, becoming much more than a mere colleague or acquaintance. Bastien prized the counsel of these seven strange individuals above most things, though he would only admit it under extreme duress. Thumbscrews, boiling oil, and the like.

  “I really should find some new friends,” Bastien mused.

  Arjun exhaled a plume of blue-grey smoke. “If you can afford it.” His hazel eyes glittered with amusement.

  “Spoken like the bloody maharajah himself.” Nigel guffawed.

  Annoyance flashed across Arjun’s face. “In many of your beloved Crown’s circles, a maharajah is no better than a mongrel.”

  “I would never—”

  “Dogs and Indians not allowed, Master Fitzroy. Right at the entrance to your beloved Astoria.”

  Anger darkened Nigel’s features. “If it had been left to me, none o’ that tosh would’ve happened. I know better, just as I know my betters.”

  “A benevolent imperialist,” Arjun said around another cloud of smoke. “How refreshing.”

  A feeble cry cut through the night, returning their attention to the matter at hand. Bastien gripped Ash by the rope around his waist, bringing an end to the slow torment of spinning in a circle. “I’m telling you this because I suspect you didn’t know,” he began in a conversational tone. “My mother was a quadroon, a free woman of color. Those associates your father couldn’t be seen working alongside? They are me. They are my family.” He paused, dropping his voice to a whisper. “No one insults my family.”

  “I didn’t intend to—”

  “Shut your mouth, you miserable swine,” Boone interrupted. “God is speaking.”

  Bastien silenced him with a look. Then turned back to Ash. “Such a shame. I was going to share a bottle of wine with you, Ashton. Now . . . you’ll have to partake in a meal with those who prefer a very different kind of drink.”

  When Bastien finished speaking, the tension in the air pulled taut like a string about to snap. Ash blinked away his tears, forcing himself to focus. Whatever he saw in the faces around him caused his lips to quiver and his shoulders to shake.

  Bastien knew what he saw. What Art saw. What Phoebus had hidden from in the precious moments prior. Demons. Creatures of blood and darkness.

  Death, made flesh.

  Bastien’s family, for better or for worse.

  Art heaved again beside Madeleine’s feet, choking as he struggled to calm himself. Bastien glanced at Arjun, sharing a wordless conversation. The next instant, Arjun reached for Art’s wrist. The boy slumped forward a moment later, granted a blessed pardon.

  Tears streamed sideways down Ash’s face. “All I said was—”

  Bastien stepped back. Cocked his revolver. Took aim.

  “Please!” Ash begged. A suspicious stain darkened the front of his trousers, the acrid smell of urine suffusing about him. “I’ll give you whatever you want. I won’t say anything. I’ll forget this ever—”

  “No,” Bastien said. “Never forget this as long as you live. Words are weapons. And nothing else matters when the devil has you by the balls.” He fired a single shot.

  Ash screamed. The rope dangling him above the platform snapped, his bound body crashing against the metal with a resounding clang. When he rolled over, blood dripped from his nose, its scent curling into the air, warm copper mixed with the salt of
the sea.

  Hortense and Madeleine stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Jae sheathed one of his blades with a snick. Boone threw his head back, inhaling deeply, his eyelids squeezed shut. Frowning with obvious frustration, Nigel crossed his arms while Arjun ground out his cheroot beneath his heel.

  Bitter amusement wound through Bastien’s chest. Another wish granted.

  Today might be his lucky day.

  Ash fought against his bindings as the cloaked figures around him drew closer, their eyes silver coins beneath a crescent moon.

  Then Madeleine, Hortense, and Boone fell on Ash like whips cracking through the night, his cries of terror muffled by the heavy fabric of their cloaks. By the sounds of ecstasy rising into the air high above New Orleans.

  Nigel watched the frenzy in cutting silence, his long arms crossed, the judgment on his face plain. “You’re better than petty revenge, Bastien. Your uncle wouldn’t be pleased.”

  “I never claimed to be a saint,” Bastien replied, his expression cool. “And Nicodemus isn’t here tonight, is he?”

  “Gomapgae,” Jae muttered in gratitude before wandering back toward the edge of the unfinished building, twirling a butterfly knife around his fingers with insouciant ease.

  “A fine shot,” Arjun interjected, deftly changing the subject. “Severing the rope with a single bullet. Bravo.”

  Bastien said nothing, his eyes tightening around the edges.

  “What?” Arjun blinked. “Was it something I said?” He swayed unsteadily on his feet.

  “You’re weak.”

  “It happens. It took a lot of effort to subdue the brother. Unlike you, I’m not God,” he joked.

  A dark smile ghosted across Bastien’s lips. “See to it you have something to eat.”

  “But of course, old chap.” Arjun bowed with a flourish.

  Despite his best efforts, guilt kindled in Bastien’s chest, threatening to catch flame. He battled the feeling, refusing to be troubled by their judgment. Then he called for Madeleine, who blurred to his side with the stealth of a shadow, her cloak trailing behind her like smoke. Not a trace of blood could be seen anywhere . . . until she opened her mouth, showing white teeth stained crimson and canines as long as those of a wolf.

  “Make sure no one dies tonight, Mad,” Bastien said softly. “We have too many eyes on us as it is.”

  “Mais oui, Bastien.” Madeleine nodded, her features serene. “And what should we do with him when we are done?”

  “Leave the trash with his younger brother, in the alley near their favorite watering hole. See to it they remember nothing. As always, my trust is with you.”

  Madeleine nodded, then whirled back to resume her meal.

  Exhaling slowly, Bastien glanced about the open space until his gaze settled on what he’d been searching for: Phoebus Devereux, huddled in a corner, his knees pulled to his chest, undoubtedly praying he’d been forgotten for the first time in his life.

  When Phoebus caught sight of Bastien gliding his way, he wrapped his arms around his knees, clasping his hands together until his knuckles turned white.

  Making a point to move with care, Bastien crouched in front of Phoebus. “I’m genuinely sorry you had to see any of that.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” Phoebus trembled like a dying leaf in a breeze.

  “That depends,” Bastien said, “on what you want me to do.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “I can simply let you go.”

  “You . . . could?” Phoebus’ eyes went wide behind his smudged spectacles.

  “If you wished it.”

  Phoebus nodded. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t say anything, Bastien.”

  “I know you won’t.” A half smile curved up Bastien’s face. “Who would believe you?” Sympathy laced through his features. “Just another tantalizing story about the Court, which I’ve found to be far more helpful than hurtful, for reasons I’m certain you can understand.”

  Shuddering, Phoebus looked away.

  “Conversely, I can help you forget.” Bastien paused. “I can make it so the events of tonight never haunt your dreams.”

  Phoebus swallowed. “Are you going to . . . kill Art and Ash?”

  “No. They won’t remember anything either.” His expression hardened. “But they don’t have a choice. You do. I never take away the choice from someone I respect.”

  “You . . . respect me?” Phoebus’ voice was hoarse.

  “You’re a good man. See to it you stay that way.” Bastien unfurled to his feet with the grace of a jungle cat. “And make your decision.”

  Phoebus pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, his fingers trembling. Conviction settled across his sweating face. “I . . . want to forget.”

  “And so you shall.”

  High above the Crescent City, the youngest grandson of the mayor began to scream bloody murder into a sky bruised with clouds.

  CHAMPAGNE AND ROSES

  Celine leaned back into the jewel-toned damask of her gilded chair. “I have nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Odette laughed. She reached for another morsel of quail, pulling the tender meat apart between her delicate fingers.

  “There is nothing I can say,” Celine continued. “Nothing I can do. No way to convey how amazing this meal was. Simply beyond belief.” She let out a protracted sigh. “Perhaps if I could dance like a winged fairy, I could better serve this cause.”

  Another bout of laughter lilted into the air. “That is my favorite thing you’ve ever said, mon amie.”

  “Also the truest.” Celine breathed in deeply, then reached beyond her golden cutlery for the crystal stem of her wineglass.

  Celine had spent most of her seventeen years in Paris. As such, she’d lived a stone’s throw from some of the finest culinary establishments in the world. Unfortunately the cost of frequenting these establishments had been too much for her family. Far too out of reach for most people she knew.

  But on special occasions, her father would take her to a bistro around the corner from their flat. The shiny-faced cook helming the kitchen was famous for her decadent roast chicken, served with small golden potatoes bathed in duck fat for hours on end. As a child, Celine loved popping a perfectly round pomme de terre into her mouth when it was still too hot, the crispy skin crackling on her tongue as she blew around the potato, struggling to cool it and consume it all at once. Her father had scolded her for being so unladylike, though he’d fought to conceal his smile.

  It had been Celine’s favorite meal.

  Every year on her birthday, her father would bring home a single mille-feuille from a well-known bakery in the eighth arrondissement. A cake of a thousand leaves. Paper-thin layers of puff pastry separated by whipped crème pâtissière, crushed almonds, and thin dribbles of chocolate.

  These were some of Celine’s fondest memories. Despite her father’s sternness and austerity, he’d managed to show his love in simple ways. Ways she’d often brought to mind during some of her darkest moments on the transatlantic crossing, for they’d given her comfort when she most needed it.

  But they were all pale shadows when compared with tonight.

  Tonight—at seventeen—Celine was certain she’d consumed the best meal of her life.

  Langoustines poached in butter, white wine, and thyme. Pistachio-encrusted turbot garnished with flakes of white truffle. Roasted quail served with a crème d’olive alongside root vegetables sautéed in herbes de Provence, then topped with edible flowers. Not to mention the little delicacies and perfect wine pairings offered throughout.

  All of it, sublime to the last drop. The fanciful side of Celine dreamed of one day bringing her father here. Of sharing this meal with him, too.

  Odette dabbed at the corners of her lips with a silk napkin before gesturing to one of the waiting maîtres
d’hôtel, who set a large brass bowl filled with rose petals beside her on a marble pedestal. Then he filled the basin with bubbling champagne so Odette could rinse her hands. So indulgent. So wasteful. Once her fingers were clean, Odette smoothed her bodice of duchess satin, her thumb grazing the ivory cameo at her breast, tilting it askew.

  “You wear that brooch often. It must hold a great deal of meaning to you,” Celine commented while the maître d’hôtel poured an entirely new bottle of champagne and roses. The bubbles tickled her wrists, the heady perfume of the petals curling into her throat.

  “Mmmmm,” Odette hummed in reply. “It does indeed.” She straightened the cameo, her gestures careful. A mischievous gleam shone in her eyes. “Would you believe me if I told you it was enchanted? That it kept the most shadowy of my secrets safe?” She winked.

  “After this much food and wine, I would believe just about anything.” Celine groaned as she tried in vain to slouch in her chair. “Tell me, Odette, why must we wear corsets even while we eat?”

  “Because men enjoy keeping us in cages at every waking hour.” Odette swirled her wine. “That way we’re contained. They’re afraid of what would happen if we were free.” She grinned. “But perhaps if I looked as you did in a corset, I would be singing a different tune. Alas, we can’t all be blessed with a tiny waist and a naturally heaving bosom,” she teased.

  “It . . . isn’t as wonderful as you would expect.” Celine winced, the wine causing her thoughts to spin. “Ever since my twelfth birthday, I’ve dreaded the way men look at me. As if I were something to eat.”

  Odette canted her head, an odd light in her gaze. “I never thought of it that way.” She paused in consideration. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn.” Conviction flashed across her face. “C’est assez! None of us should have to wear corsets unless we decide to wear them. In the meantime, I say we take to the square and burn them all.”

  Celine’s eyes sparkled. “The corsets?”

  “No, the men, of course.”

  A peal of laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “You do talk scandalously.”