by Renee Ahdieh
He spun around, anger sparking across his features. In a few long strides, he stood before her once more. “A foolish choice, especially when I’ve already arranged a place for you with full police protection.”
“It isn’t foolish at all,” Celine argued. “If you won’t respect my wishes, I see no reason to bend to your will. Besides that, no place in this city is safe if the killer is watching me, as I believe him to be.” A shiver chased over her skin, but Celine kept her gaze steady.
His thick brows tufted together. “It isn’t about respecting your wishes. It’s about what’s best for you. What will keep you the safest.”
Irritation simmered at the edges of Celine’s vision. “Then the New Orleans Metropolitan Police will only protect me if I do exactly as Detective Michael Grimaldi says?”
Michael said nothing in response. Soft laughter resonated from Odette.
Celine sighed. “For whatever reason, this—thing—has singled me out. We can either run from that fact or use it to our advantage.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not a fool. I’m aware of the danger, and I promise I’m appropriately afraid. I just refuse to be a victim for a single second more.” A muscle twitched beneath her left eye. Celine rubbed the skin there and found another fleck of dried blood smeared across her fingertips, the smell thick and metallic. Her stomach churned at the sight. “I only wish we knew what this thing was so that we might determine how best to destroy it.”
“Don’t believe every myth you hear. If there are no gods among us, there can be no demons,” Michael said, his voice leached of all emotion. “The same logic you’ve already employed indicates the killer must be a man. Most killers with multiple victims are.”
“It’s not simply a man.” Celine shook her head. “It’s something . . . else. Something inhuman.”
“If it lives and breathes, it can be killed like any living and breathing creature.”
Exhaustion burrowed deep into Celine’s bones. The strength to keep arguing with the intractable Michael Grimaldi was leaving her with each passing breath. Her fingers and toes had lost all sense of feeling. Soon it would be difficult to stand straight.
Even still, Celine did not miss the fact that Odette had failed to counter Michael’s recent assertions. Nor could Celine overlook the thoughtful slant of Odette’s brunette head.
Odette Valmont possessed information of value and was doing her level best to keep it from them.
Here was proof of something Celine had long suspected. The members of La Cour des Lions did have an inkling of what—or who—this demon might be. Why they chose to keep it among themselves remained a mystery. It could be because the murderer resided in their midst, and they wished to protect his identity. But their recent behavior did not follow this reasoning. In the last few days, Odette had become more than a mere acquaintance to Celine, and Bastien had gone out of his way to ensure her safety the other night. He’d even threatened to destroy the creature in a wholly remorseless manner.
Why would they go to such trouble to protect her if their loyalty lay with the killer?
Unless . . . this was all part of their plan.
An elaborate ruse to establish their innocence.
If that was true, Celine had already lost the battle. Only moments ago, she’d divulged her plan in its entirety to Odette. If Odette betrayed her, all her efforts would be for naught.
Celine’s shoulders sagged.
She was tired of speculating. She needed the truth. And Celine knew who to ask, though she dreaded his answer. The lie he would offer in place of what she desired. Nevertheless, Celine planned to speak to Bastien tomorrow. She’d demand he share with her everything he knew. No more lies. No more masks. It was time for them to cast aside their façades and bare all.
Bastien no longer had a choice. If he refused to be forthcoming, Celine would tell Michael about the yellow ribbon and allow judgment to rain down upon them all.
“Give up on this cockamamie plan,” Michael said to Celine, tearing her from her inner turmoil, his countenance grave. “Because I will never agree to using you as bait.”
Celine scowled, desperately wishing she could throttle Michael. Just a little. “I have no intention of giving up anything. Surely you of all people must understand that.” She reached for his hand in a weak attempt to channel sugar instead of spice. “Please, Michael. Don’t be so stubborn. I urge you to reconsider.”
He blinked twice at her touch, a vein jumping in his neck. “I won’t reconsider. But . . . I will promise to do everything I can to keep you safe.” The last was said in a fervent tone, his words jagged, his grasp rough. Celine didn’t think Michael was aware of how he’d wrapped her cold hand in both of his, clutching her fingers with an odd kind of desperation.
No matter what he said or how he said it, Michael’s intensity always betrayed him.
He cared for her. And that knowledge troubled Celine all the more.
For a moment, she considered taking advantage of it. If she begged him, perhaps he would relent. If she cried prettily or raged in just the right fashion, perhaps she could do what she’d failed to do before and overcome his mulishness.
But she didn’t want to play the role of the coy demoiselle. Not like this. It was never a role that had suited her well anyway, as evinced by their earlier interactions. Celine needed to be cold and calculating. If Michael refused to help her, the plan wouldn’t work.
That simply was not an option.
Her life—and the lives of those around her—depended on them all working together in concert.
“I don’t need you to help me,” Celine lied, her words callous, channeling Michael at his best. “I’ll simply ask Bastien instead.” She extricated her fingers from his grasp.
Dismay rippled across his face, there and gone in a flash. The next instant, Michael smiled coolly. “Ask him.” His smile turned punishing. “I have no doubt what his answer will be.”
“Mon cher, you don’t know him as well as you think you do.” Odette’s retort was pointed. “That’s the thing about beautiful fiends like Sébastien Saint Germain: they always do what you least expect them to do.” She brushed a speck of nonexistent dust from his shoulder. “And in the end, they always wear the crown.”
Celine could not have scripted a more perfect response. It was a loaded weapon, cocked and aimed at Michael’s chest.
Sometimes it was necessary to be as cunning as a fox, even if it also meant being cruel.
Michael narrowed his gaze. His nostrils flared. “The Court of the Lions does not rule this roost, Miss Valmont. I will see this city burn to the ground before I cede control of my investigation to a band of lawless beasts.” With that, he whirled toward the entrance, taking his leave, the very air around him seething.
It didn’t matter. Celine had planted the seed. Odette had watered it. Now they had only to watch it grow. If Celine had learned anything in the last few days, she’d learned that Detective Michael Grimaldi was not the type of young man to allow his enemy to best him. In any way.
She was counting on it.
“Connard,” Odette cursed under her breath as Michael disappeared from view.
The veined marble around Celine started to sway, the will-o’-the-wisps blurring in the background. “It can’t look too obvious,” she said to Odette, blinking hard. “And we’ll need to finesse the details.” She wound her fingers in her damp skirt and squeezed the ruined fabric in an effort to keep herself alert. “If you count the first murder of the young woman on the docks, the killer has taken one life a week since my arrival,” she babbled. “Following this pattern, the next murder is likely to take place in the coming week, which should give us a few days to set our trap.” Her head started to list forward. “Perhaps we should plan it for the night of the masquerade ball itself?” she thought aloud, just as the polished floor rushed toward her face.
“Ah, putai
n!” Odette cried out, catching Celine the moment before she struck the cold stone. “You’re falling to pieces before my very eyes.” She threaded one arm through Celine’s and wrapped the other around her shoulders, then began leading them down a darkened corridor.
Celine braced herself against Odette, her eyes struggling to stay open. “Thank you.” Her words were hoarse. “For everything.” She gripped her friend’s gloved hand tightly.
“You’re welcome, my brave little doe. But if you want your cockamamie plan to work—honestly, who uses such a word?—you’ll need to be more than brave. You’ll need to be ruthless. After tonight, I trust this won’t be an issue. It’s not every day one meets a girl who stabbed a demon with sewing shears. Ah, to have seen that!” Odette’s laughter was rueful, the sound chiming like bells. “Also I find it fascinating how talkative you are after bearing witness to a shocking event. Most people I know are struck silent by such things. You’re unusual at all turns, Celine Rousseau.” She grinned appreciatively.
Even through the haze of her exhaustion, Celine smiled. Her thoughts sobered in the next instant. “Why do they hate each other so much?” she murmured.
“Who hates whom, mon amie? I know nothing but love.”
“Please.” Celine nudged her elbow into Odette’s ribs. “I’m too exhausted to play these games. It’s a struggle putting one foot in front of the other.”
“Why do you think they hate each other?”
“How should I know?”
“Hazard a guess. It’s an age-old tale.”
“Because of a girl?” Celine’s eye twitched once more, her nose wiggling in response.
“Correct.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders fell.
Perhaps this was the young woman who possessed the right pedigree. Celine exhaled slowly. Such things shouldn’t matter to her. Not anymore.
They turned a corner, their steps light over the honed marble. Celine could almost swear Odette bore the whole of their shared weight, as if she possessed the strength of an Amazon.
“Was she impressive?” Celine’s voice sounded small. Tinny. Fitting for such a question.
“Very,” Odette replied, at ease despite her burden. “She sang like a lark and danced in the light of the sun.” She added in Celine’s ear, “But don’t worry, she wasn’t as beautiful as you.”
Celine snorted, then tripped over herself like she’d imbibed too much champagne. As inelegant as a swine in the mud, she crumpled to the floor.
A foul curse flew from Odette’s lips. She repeated the word in two more languages for good measure. Tugging Celine to her feet, Odette proceeded to drag her the rest of the way. They halted before an immense lift of gleaming brass, its bars fashioned of winding vines and birds of paradise, their feathers inlaid with Persian turquoise.
“You shouldn’t have,” Celine muttered. “A cage of my very own.”
Odette snickered. She gestured to the right, and an inordinately tall man with rich auburn hair secured at the nape of his neck and a frock coat of midnight blue with matching gloves stepped forward to unfetter a gleaming lock of pure silver. Though he was as lithe as a dancer, he managed to heave open the sliding door to the brass lift with barely a twinge of effort.
Once they were situated inside, Celine rested her head on Odette’s shoulder, her eyes falling shut as the lift lurched into motion under the steady direction of its lissome gatekeeper.
“The list of those allowed access here is short,” Odette said. “This lift has one destination: the top floor of the hotel. While you reside at the Dumaine, that entire space will be yours alone.”
Celine considered this, even as the weariness fell upon her like a warm woolen blanket. “And if the killer can scale the walls of the hotel?” She recalled how the demon had scuttled up the building before vanishing into the wind.
“Can he also shatter iron bars and locks of solid silver?”
“For the sake of argument, let’s assume so.”
“Then t’es foutue,” Odette swore under her breath. “As are we all.”
Celine laughed softly, her eyes still closed. “Merci, Odette.”
“Pas du tout, mon amie,” Odette replied. “We take care of our own.”
Celine’s breath caught in her throat. “Is that . . . thing one of your own?” she asked, her tone halting.
Odette said nothing until the lift began to slow. “No.”
But her hesitation suggested otherwise.
“You know what it is.” Celine’s eyes flew open. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“It isn’t my story to tell.”
“Please—”
The lift ground to a halt, and the slender gentleman in the blue velvet frock coat unlatched the door in a seamless motion, his gaze one of supreme ennui.
“No more questions,” Odette said, smoothing back Celine’s disheveled curls in a soothing gesture. Then she locked eyes with Celine, refusing to blink as if she were in a trance. “I’m going to show you to your room, and you’re going to sleep through an entire night, as if you’re adrift among the clouds.” A sad smile curved up her doll-like face. “The only dreams you’ll have will be pleasant ones, filled with islands of floating meringue and sparkling glasses of champagne.” Her voice sounded layered. Weighted. It resonated through Celine, reaching through to the marrow of her bones.
The last thing she remembered was the rumble of a brass cage.
Of the bird within flying free.
* * *
Celine woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. Disorientation gripped her, her vision struggling to find focus. Her eyes darted to all corners, searching for something familiar. Fighting for a semblance of footing.
She had no recollection of this place.
Then—like a wave crashing upon a shore—all the events of last night flooded through her mind. She was enshrined in the top floor suite of the finest hotel in the city. A brass lift festooned with gilded birds had borne her to this place. Before she’d taken her leave, Odette had made certain Celine was comfortable. Warm and well cared for.
Tomorrow they would begin devising a trap to catch a killer.
This last thought caused Celine to sit up at once, her breath lodged in her throat, the ache in her head throbbing dully. She looked around, her gaze moving about the space once more, this time with measured deliberation.
The cream-colored sheets beneath her fingers possessed a faint luster, their surfaces smooth, their edges trimmed with delicate gold embroidery. When she ran her hands across them, they felt like cool water to the touch. As if they’d been woven from pure spider silk. Above her hung a thick canopy of golden damask, pinned in its center by an emblem entwined with intricate filigree. Tied around each of the bed’s four mahogany posts were drapes of wine-red velvet.
Celine threw back the bedcovers and sank her bare toes into the luxurious Aubusson carpet, the tassels along its edge glinting in the candlelight.
Countless paintings hung on the far side of the bedchamber, extending the full height of the room, some twenty-odd feet. A few were the width of Celine’s palm, others stood more than double her height. Each was rendered by the hand of a master, the details within both dark and light, as if their collector appreciated the contrast of sunlight and shadow in equal measure.
Crowning the remaining three sides of the room was a kind of narrow balcony, the like of which Celine had never seen before. Shelves upon shelves of books filled the walls along the upper half of the chamber, oiled castors and iron ladders awaiting their savant’s inevitable return.
Tall scented candles had been lit around the room, as if Odette had known how disconcerting it would be for Celine to wake in a cold and unfamiliar place.
She crossed the chamber toward a pair of mullioned windows, numbness tingling along her extremities. She’d slept hard. Surprisingly so, given the shoc
king tenor of recent events. When Celine tugged aside the heavy curtains to look outside, she discovered two things of note: that there were—indeed—wrought-iron bars encasing every window, painted a glossy white, and that nightfall still reigned supreme on the world below. Despite Odette’s final admonition for Celine to sleep until the sun rose, she’d woken in that time just before dawn, when night was at its darkest.
Celine studied the scene beyond her barred window. Noted the lack of a balcony outside. The level of security for the top floor of the Dumaine was certainly extreme. As if it were intended for a visiting dignitary or a member of royalty.
Celine retraced her steps, taking stock of every entrance and egress. The main access to the room was a set of double doors built to look as if they were part of the intricate paneling, their edges trimmed in gilt-leafed molding. Another door leading to a washroom appeared as if it were a piece of art in its own right, a thick frame concealing its seams. Inside the washroom, a large tub of hammered copper stood on a raised platform surrounded by squares of white marble tile. Every sconce in sight had been encrusted with crystals. The air around Celine smelled of irises and sweet water, the flames of countless white candles dancing along the walls and ledges.
Her feet steady on the cold marble, Celine shucked her still damp dress, not even bothering to collect it from the floor. In rote silence, she removed the hairpins from her scalp, pausing to rub the sore spots they’d left behind. Then she moved toward a porcelain bowl and pitcher enclosed by a three-sided mirror of embellished brass.
She stared at her reflection. At eyes wider than a raccoon’s and hair like a murder of crows. Dried blood still dotted her skin. The red specks were especially disturbing beside her eyes, which glittered with a consumptive light, as if Celine were possessed of a fever. Without a second thought, she filled the basin with clear water from the pitcher and began splashing her face, scrubbing at her cheeks until they looked raw. Until all three versions of herself reflected in the mirrors appeared appropriately chafed.
