by Renee Ahdieh
“I merely speak the truth. Men are wretched, my dear. I’ve sworn off them entirely. I’ll keep them as friends, but they remain forever unwelcome in my heart.”
Delight flared in Celine’s chest. “Please share your secret with me. I wish to be rid of them as well.” She could think of one or two in particular.
“It isn’t a secret.” Odette pushed aside her plate of Limoges porcelain to rest her elbows along the scalloped table’s edge. “I simply have no interest in them.” She paused, her expression thoughtful. “In truth, I much prefer the company of women, in all respects.” Odette pronounced this plainly, watching for Celine’s reaction.
It took Celine a moment to comprehend the full meaning behind Odette’s admission. Her eyes went wide the next instant, color creeping up her neck. “Please know how flattered I am, but—”
Odette snorted. “I don’t mean you specifically, you delicious narcissist. Though you are genuinely beautiful . . . and would undoubtedly prove to be a genuine nuisance as a result. Years ago I swore never to love anything more beautiful than myself.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Thankfully that leaves my options wide and varied.”
Laughter caught in Celine’s throat just as she took a sip of wine. It burned at the back of her tongue, causing her to cough like a silly young woman in her cups.
“But let’s not lie to each other, mon amie,” Odette said above Celine’s coughing. “You don’t wish to be rid of all men, do you?”
“I do.” Celine cleared her throat and wiped the tears from beneath her lashes. “They are nothing but a bother.”
Odette wagged a finger at Celine. “Menteuse. I see the way you look at Bastien.” She leaned closer, her expression sly. Knowing.
Celine startled, her hand jostling her water goblet. “What are you—” She sat up, her heart hammering in her chest. “How do I look?”
“Parched, mon amie. Like you wandered the desert for forty years, seeking the Promised Land.”
“I look . . . thirsty?” Celine groaned, her cheeks reddening. A mixture of anger and embarrassment washed through her veins. She considering denying it. Tried in vain to conjure a plausible explanation. Then lifted her chin in defiance. Why should she have to lie?
“Very well,” Celine announced. “I won’t deny it. I’m attracted to Bastien. I think he’s . . . too beautiful to be real.”
Odette clapped as if she’d just heard the world’s foremost soprano perform her favorite aria. “This is now my favorite thing you’ve ever said.” She proceeded to giggle in a way that reminded Celine of being a small girl. She didn’t know anyone who giggled like that anymore. “Now”—Odette paused to tap an index finger along her chin—“what to do about this situation . . .”
“Nothing,” Celine said determinedly. “There is nothing to do. I have no intention of pursuing anyone like Sébastien Saint Germain, Odette,” she warned. “Nothing will come from your rather naked attempts to interfere. You know as well as I do that Bastien isn’t a proper young gentleman.”
“And you require a proper young gentleman?”
“I do.” Celine nodded with conviction.
Her expression dubious, Odette pursed her lips. “We’ll discuss this later.” She shifted tack with the ease of a dancer. “Tell me what you think about my idea for the masquerade ball.”
Grateful that Odette had changed the subject, Celine did not hesitate to reply. “I think you shouldn’t go as Marie Antoinette. I daresay there will be at least fifteen other women dressed accordingly for the occasion. Because it’s expected. I say you do something unexpected.” A shrewd gleam alighted her gaze. “Don’t go as the wife. Go as the mistress.”
“Pardon?” Odette let out a burst of laughter. “This, from the girl who requires a proper young gentleman!”
Celine waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind that. You should go as Madame du Barry.”
“Scandaleux!” Odette clapped gleefully. “The society matrons will be positively bug-eyed!”
“And it will be the dress no one forgets,” Celine promised.
“I’ll do it . . . but I must insist you accompany me to the masquerade ball, as well as another soirée I’m keen to attend.” Odette toyed with the silk ribbon about her neck. “Rumor has it the host—a member of a new krewe known as the Twelfth Night Revelers—plans to decorate his gardens after A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Though both ideas tantalized Celine with possibility, she shook her head. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Not even if Bastien is there, in all his impropriety?” Odette winked.
“Especially not if he’s there.”
“Ah, don’t be so difficult, mon amie.” Odette paused meaningfully. “You already admitted he’s . . . how did you say it?”
Celine groaned, regret blooming in her stomach. “Too beautiful to be real.”
Something clattered to the floor behind her.
The blood drained from Celine’s face in a sudden rush. She froze in her seat, her eyes wide. It took only a glance in Odette’s direction to confirm the obvious.
Sébastien Saint Germain was standing behind Celine.
Listening to every word she’d just said.
* * *
“Je suis désolée.” Odette wrinkled her nose, clearly not sorry at all.
Celine considered balling up the silk napkin in her hand and hurling it toward Odette’s doll-like face. She reconsidered in the next instant. Although it might prove satisfying in the moment, it would do little to help her situation. Her pulse wreaking havoc through her body, Celine turned around.
And immediately wished she could shrink into nothingness.
Bastien stood at the top of the curved staircase, as striking as ever, his Panama hat in hand. Flanking him were several members of La Cour des Lions, each sporting varying degrees of amusement.
Before anyone could speak, Arjun bent to retrieve his leather notebook, an apologetic expression on his face. If Celine had to guess, he’d dropped it on purpose.
She tamped down a flare of gratitude. He’d dropped the notebook too late, that traitor.
A hero was only a hero if he managed to save the damsel in time.
Mortified, Celine stood at once, the legs of her gilded chair catching on the plush carpeting, her salmon-striped skirts a tangle about her feet. Gritting her teeth, Celine allowed her embarrassment to mushroom into anger. She curled her hands into fists and lengthened her neck so she could peer down at the recent arrivals with unmistakable disdain.
One of the elegant women with the rings laughed. “Comme une reine des ténèbres.”
Like a queen of darkness.
Easy laughter rippled around the room. Bastien kept silent, his gunmetal eyes unflinching, his handsome features unreadable.
Celine’s heartbeat drummed in her ears like the wings of a hummingbird. It would not do for her to appear weak. She would never be able to show her face again in this place if she succumbed to mortification.
Her fists gripping the striped fabric of her gown, Celine nodded once. “Hello.”
In response, Bastien bowed low, his hat held out at his side. When he stood once more, the suggestion of a smile played across his lips.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice silken. Sinful.
Celine wanted to stomp her foot and flee. To scream like a bean sídhe, loud enough to damage her own hearing.
“Bonsoir, Bastien,” Odette replied with a simpering grin.
Before another word could be spoken, the carved longcase clock along the wall began tolling the hour in furtive tones, its weighted brass pendulum swinging back and forth.
The interruption afforded Celine the perfect opportunity. “I’m afraid I must be going.” She pushed past the table, her face flushed.
“Not yet!” Odette stood, her sable eyes round, beseeching. “You must at l
east taste the îles flottantes.”
“Floating islands?”
“It’s a dessert Kassamir has been keen to add to the menu. We were to be among the first to try it. Clouds of perfect meringue floating in a decadent sauce of crème anglaise.”
Celine smiled sadly. “While that sounds heavenly, I’m afraid the hour is late. My friends at the convent will worry.”
Odette pouted, tucking a brunette curl behind an ear. “Then at least wait while I call for the carriage.”
“No,” Celine replied, straightening her skirts, keenly aware of their audience. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a few blocks to the convent.”
“I’m afraid I must insist,” Odette countered. “You simply can’t walk home alone, not after everything that’s happened recently.”
Frustration gripped Celine’s stomach. She needed to leave now. “Very well, then. I’ll hail a hired conveyance.”
“But that’s not necessary,” Odette protested. “Not when—”
“Odette,” Celine said through gritted teeth. “Thank you so much for the wonderful meal and the consummate hospitality. I’ll find my own way home.”
“I can’t in good conscience—”
“Let her be, Odette,” Bastien interrupted softly, the sound of his voice causing Celine to stiffen where she stood. “Tu ne peux pas tout contrôler.”
Odette moved from her side of the table. “Mais, Bastien, elle ne—”
“I’ll be fine, mon amie,” Celine said with another smile. “Please tell Kassamir the meal was a work of art. I’ll begin fashioning your gown for the masquerade ball immediately. Feel free to send the bolts of fabric and all the supplies to the convent first thing tomorrow.”
With that, Celine lifted her chin and made her way toward the stairs leading to the first floor of Jacques’. The members of La Cour des Lions—who’d stood silent and watchful throughout the entirety of this humiliating exchange—moved aside to grant Celine leave, though she could feel their eyes following her as she descended the steps, Boone inhaling deeply as she passed by.
Her hands trembled in her skirts, but she did not falter. She was a mountain, a tower, a hundred-year-old oak in the—
Behind her, soft laughter rose into the coffered ceiling.
Damn them all to Hell.
MEET YOUR MAKER
Celine regretted the decision to walk home the instant after she made it.
Less than a block from Jacques’, every shifting shadow and unfamiliar sound caught her attention, heightening her awareness, lending itself to a creeping kind of fear.
If only the Court could see the queen of darkness now.
It was Celine’s pride that wouldn’t allow her to admit she lacked the means to hire a hack. And it was her arrogance that forbade her from taking anything else from Odette. Or Bastien. Or any member of La Cour des Lions.
But now that the fervor over recent events had subsided, regret unfurled down Celine’s spine. She’d been too hasty. She should have taken advantage of the offered carriage instead of allowing her pride to get the better of her.
Celine sighed to herself.
No. It wasn’t just her pride. She was simply tired of being told what to do.
Steeling herself, Celine decided to let the beauty of a New Orleans evening distract her from her thoughts.
A balmy breeze riffled through a magnolia tree to her left, its downy white blossoms swaying in the sultry wind. The breeze coiled closer, carrying with it the sweet perfume of honeysuckle and lavender, the tiny flowers peeking from between the tines of a wrought-iron fence in front of a stately, four-storied mansion. Overhead, wraparound terraces and hanging baskets overflowed with waxy vines and brightly colored blossoms. A row of blue cypress trees dripped with Spanish moss, forming layers of scent and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, an unseen man with a beautiful voice began to sing, his words a mixture of French and something Celine could not quite discern.
In only a few short weeks, Celine had learned to appreciate how the city seemed to come alive the moment the sun dipped below the horizon. Not a normal kind of alive, like sunshine and laughter. But a sinister, sensual kind of alive. A warm caress and a cool whisper.
Despite everything, Celine found herself falling a little bit in love.
As she continued making her way toward the convent, footsteps shifted in line behind her, clear and crisp against the blue-grey pavestones. Heavy footsteps, like those of a man.
Celine listened as they drew near. Then straightened her spine. There was no reason to fear the person at her back. Pedestrians took to the streets of the Quarter at all hours of day and night. It was irrational to think this might be anyone—or anything—else.
Nevertheless, she could not help but be reminded of that awful night in the atelier, when her naïveté had betrayed her, changing the course of her life.
Celine turned onto the next street. The footsteps lingered in her shadow.
Fear prickled the nape of her neck. That feeling of being followed.
She refrained from turning to confront the man, lest she appear foolish for the second time in a single evening or, worse, provoke him into taking action. Instead she decided to conduct a test. She slowed her pace to a leisurely stroll, expecting the pedestrian to pass by.
He did not.
Instead he, too, slowed his footsteps to match hers.
Celine fended off a wave of panic, her memories of that terrible evening taking flight in her mind. She glanced about without moving her head, looking to see who might be around her. A lone gentleman strolled on the opposite side of the street, his walking stick striking the pavers, his gaze focused on the path before him, heedless of all else.
Would he bother to help her?
For an instant, Celine considered dashing across the lane and coming to stand alongside him, irrespective of these concerns. Then she made out the sounds of a parade in the distance. A place in which countless people undoubtedly gathered. She decided to speed up in order to make her way toward the crowd, no matter that it was in the wrong direction of the convent.
The footsteps behind her stopped midstride. Then Celine swore she heard something take to the wind in a flutter of leaves, the sound clattering against the bars of an iron balustrade.
Panic taking hold, Celine halted in her tracks. Dared to look over her shoulder.
Nothing was there.
Her heart dropped into her stomach, its beat thundering loud and hard through her body.
“Celine,” a voice whispered behind her. A voice of nails grating across slate.
Fear lanced through her, keeping her immobile for an instant.
Then she whirled around . . . to find nothing.
“Mon amour,” it rasped at her back, its words an icy brush against her skin. “You smell divine. Come with me to the heart of Chartres. Die in my arms.”
Celine lifted her skirts and ran, her feet racing above the grey pavestones. She sprinted to the nearest corner, rounding it, her teeth chattering in her skull.
Footsteps battered against the walkway behind her, then dissolved in a rustle of dried leaves. She continued running toward the noise of the parade in the distance, refusing to stop until she reached the crowd.
A hand shot from behind an alcove to her left, grabbing Celine by the arm, yanking her from her intended path, causing her to nearly stumble.
Celine screamed, forcing every bit of air from her lungs. A cool palm covered her lips, bidding her silent. Then strong arms shoved her behind a wall of bergamot-scented muscle.
Bastien.
Positioning himself before her, Bastien leveled his revolver into a fall of darkness beneath a nearby awning. A strange muttering could be heard in its depths, almost like the chittering of insects or the gnashing of teeth.
“Be gone,” Bastien said, his words punishing in their precision. �
��Or stay and meet your maker, for I’ll grant you no quarter.”
Celine pressed her face into his shoulder, her fingers digging into his back.
The chittering ceased, the cloaked creature scuttling up the side of the building before vanishing into the night.
For a beat, Celine and Bastien stood there unmoving, their bodies tensed, their breaths rising and falling in tandem. Then Bastien turned toward her, his expression cut from stone as he holstered his gun.
Something within Celine was on the brink of shattering. Her legs felt boneless, her body felt stretched thin. Energy pounded through her veins, causing her hands to shake.
Bastien’s fingers tightened around her arms at the exact moment Celine’s legs started to give. He held her in place, his gaze locked on hers.
Her vision hazy, Celine blinked. Then exhaled slowly.
“Celine,” Bastien said, his voice soft. Careful.
She nodded. “I’m . . . fine.” Celine continued staring at Bastien’s face, tracing its lines in an effort to calm herself, her throat dry, the words a jumble on her tongue. “How did you . . . I mean, you don’t need to—”
“Celine,” Bastien said again. Tentatively, he shifted a hand to the side of her face.
She kept still, though she wanted to lean into his touch.
“Tu vas bien?” he asked quietly, brushing his thumb along her cheek in a soothing caress.
Celine nodded. “But . . . please . . . stay.”
“I will.” Something glinted in his gaze. “I promise.”
“What—was that?” she whispered.
He hesitated, his thumb grazing the edge of her lips.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said softly. “I’m tired of all the lies.”
He inhaled through his nose. “It was . . .” He searched for the right words.
“Something inhuman,” Celine finished.
Bastien considered her for a moment. Then nodded.
“Did that . . . thing kill Anabel?” Celine asked.
“I can’t be certain. It’s possible.” His words seemed to ring of truth. Or maybe Celine simply wished to believe him. To dismiss the yellow ribbon. To ignore logic and listen to the whispers of her heart.
