by Renee Ahdieh
“Marceline.”
The voice at her back was low. Accented. Unthreatening. Nevertheless it frightened Celine to her core. It had been months since she’d heard her full name spoken aloud. Though she did not recognize the voice offhand, its owner pronounced the three syllables with unmistakable purpose. As if he knew how she took her tea, as well as the last occasion she’d prayed to anyone for anything.
Celine froze midstep, her heart galloping through her chest like a spooked horse.
“N’aie pas peur,” the voice reassured from behind her, its baritone rich and clear. “I am not here to harm you.”
For a rash instant, Celine considered running. But something told her she would not get far. The fine hairs on her neck stood on end, as if she’d been sighted through a rifle’s lens, eyes surrounding her on all sides. Though her fingers trembled, Celine managed to unsheathe Bastien’s silver dagger before pivoting on a stockinged heel.
From a fall of nearby shadow emerged a slender gentleman wearing a felted top hat and a suit of darkest blue. The walking stick in his left hand was crowned by a solid gold lion, his pocket watch fashioned of gleaming Spanish bullion. When he removed his hat, Celine stifled a gasp.
She recognized this man.
It was the young man in the oddly colored painting above the fireplace in the suite at the Dumaine. The one that had haunted her from beyond the four-poster bed.
He gazed at her, his expression calm and collected. Then a slow smile unfurled on his cultured face. It startled her, for it was like watching a statue come to life. One second, his expression looked still and smooth, as if honed by the hand of a master. The next second everything softened, making him appear almost human.
Almost.
Like Arjun and Odette and all the other members of the Court, this man was not entirely human. Celine would bet her life on it.
She said nothing as he appraised her in silence. Despite the disbelief flaring through her, Celine knew at a glance who he was. Who he must be.
Bastien’s uncle. Le Comte de Saint Germain.
With nothing to do but return his unflinching study, Celine scoured his features for similarities, as if it would calm her.
The count stared down at her with the same exacting precision as his nephew, the line of his jaw no less cutting. His brow was as dark and expressive as that of Bastien, the tone of his skin several shades lighter.
Celine took in a sharp breath of warm night air. The count must have been no more than a boy himself when he assumed the task of raising his nephew. The painting in the suite at the Dumaine could have been completed yesterday, for Bastien’s uncle did not appear to be a day over twenty-five.
Impossible.
“I am Nicodemus Saint Germain,” he interrupted her thoughts. His accent was difficult to place, though his words were lyrical and precise, as if he’d been an elocutionist in a past life. When he shifted into the faint glow of a distant streetlamp, a current of fear chased across Celine’s skin.
Even the way he moved took her off guard. Like he was limned in smoke. Or deliberately moving slower than usual, as one would with a cornered animal.
On instinct, Celine lifted the silver blade in her hand, as if to ward him away.
A breeze blew past her, shocking her still, riffling the loose tendrils of her hair and the hem of her wrinkled skirt. Before Celine could blink, a figure came into focus. One second, nothing was there, save a swirl of darkness. The next breath, a man stood in its place, fully formed. As if he’d always been there, a watchful specter in his own right.
Jae. The member of the Court Bastien said “eliminated dead weight.”
Whatever that meant.
The graceful young man from the Far East loitered between Celine and the count, short blades in either hand. When he twirled one dagger across his fingers, Celine caught sight of something she’d missed before: countless tiny scars on the backs of his hands, the markings raised and faintly white. Her gaze traveled upward to note the same scars on the side of his neck, reaching just above his starched collar. There did not appear to be a design to the markings, for they’d been sliced at random, some of them crosshatched, every one of them painful to behold.
“In ancient China,” Nicodemus Saint Germain began in a conversational tone, “there was a time when capital punishment was inflicted by a means known as lingchi, or the Death of a Thousand Cuts.”
Celine shrank backward a single step. Then stood straight, determined to hold her ground, despite the fact that every fiber in her body wanted her to flee.
“Jaehyuk was caught some years ago on an errand in Hunan,” Nicodemus continued. “He barely escaped with his life. I am thankful every day he is by our side.”
Jae stared into nothingness, unblinking and unbreathing, as if he had no desire to feign even a semblance of humanity.
“I prize loyalty above most things,” the count said, “and Shin Jaehyuk possesses this quality in spades.”
Inhaling to quell her nerves, Celine said, “Monsieur le Comte, I’m not certain what—”
“Sébastien is not for you, Miss Rousseau,” Jae interjected, his voice no more than a whisper. “Have a care with your heart . . . and your life.”
The first cut.
Indignation took shape in Celine’s chest. She opened her mouth to retort when a noise resonated from the darkness at her back. The thud of approaching footsteps. She fought the urge to shudder the instant a pair of willowy figures glided past her.
The two young women with the unforgettable rings. In the starlight, their gems sparked like wildfire, their skin lustrous and dark, their silk skirts immaculate.
Bastien’s uncle watched Celine as they passed. “Madeleine de Morny is the most gifted tactician I’ve encountered in my life, a rival of Napoleon himself. Her younger sister, Hortense, sings like a songbird and dances like the wind.” The count leaned on his walking stick, gripping the lion in his palm. “But above all, I prize their candor. Madeleine is honest to a fault, and Hortense incapable of deceit.”
Celine gnawed at the inside of her cheek as the two women came to stand at the count’s right hand.
Madeleine de Morny stared at Celine without batting an eye. “Bastien est trop dangereux pour la santé,” she warned. “Be smarter than this, mademoiselle.”
A wicked smile unwound across Hortense’s face. “À moins que vous souhaitiez jouer à l’imbecile.”
Cuts two and three.
Another gust of wind blew from Jae’s back, fanning through his long black hair.
Whistling from the shadows, Boone sauntered toward them, his hands in his pockets, his cherubic curls splayed across his forehead. “Ah, darlin’ ,” he began when he met Celine’s gaze. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”
“Let me guess,” Celine said. “You’re here to tell me to stay away from Bastien.”
A rueful expression crossed his face. “I would avoid it if I could. I like you, Celine Rousseau. You vex Bastien greatly. Bet you cut your teeth on it.” He grinned, then his features soured all at once. “But we just lost Nigel. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”
“An excellent point, Monsieur Ravenel. The loss of one among us is indeed an agonizing blow,” the count agreed in a soft tone. “As always, I appreciate your support and your wisdom.” Again he returned his attention to Celine.
The fourth cut.
Despite her rising irritation, Celine felt herself start to curl inward, the fear threatening to overcome all else. The next instant, she forced herself to rally. To channel the goddess Selene, who lorded over the night sky and all its countless stars. “Monsieur le Comte, I’ve heard much about you over the past few weeks. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.” Though Celine tried her best not to sound cheeky, she knew she’d failed the moment Boone snorted and Hortense cackled.
“Comme un
e reine des ténèbres.” Hortense repeated her words from that evening at Jacques’, amusement coiling across her features. Celine almost laughed at the absurdity. If she was a queen of anything at all, she was Marie Antoinette, on her way to meet the guillotine.
To his credit, the count merely smiled, his amber eyes gleaming. “And a pleasure to make yours, ma chérie.”
In an ideal world, Celine should be striving to charm Bastien’s uncle. But that chance had vanished like smoke in the wind. After all, only a fool would try to charm a man whose first inclination was to threaten her.
Nicodemus Saint Germain had, without a doubt, succeeded in frightening Celine with this show of bravado. But she had no intention of cowering in his shadow. “I do not wish to be disrespectful, Monsieur le Comte, but you claim to prize candor, so I submit that there’s no need to belabor your point.” She glanced pointedly at his gathering retinue. “It’s clear you don’t find me a suitable companion for your nephew. But in fairness, you know very little about me.”
“On the contrary, I know a great deal about you, Marceline Béatrice Rousseau.”
Again her full name echoed in her ears, the sound carrying high above the soughing treetops. And again her heart raced behind her ribs in response.
Soft laughter fell from the count’s lips, as if he could sense her mounting fear. “Until recently, you resided with your scholarly father on the third floor of a small flat in Montmartre.” He took another step forward. Celine could not help it when she eased backward in tandem. Her body made the choice before she could reason with it.
Nicodemus continued, “And worked under the tutelage of the famed Camille de Beauharnais.” He paused with meaning. “In the uppermost floor of her atelier . . . beneath a lace of shimmering chandeliers.”
The thudding of Celine’s heart clawed into her throat.
He knows. Her worries invaded her mind. He knows.
The two words raced through her brain in time with her pulse. She fought to maintain her composure, her fingers gripping the silver dagger, her nails digging into her palms to the point of pain. “It’s clear you’ve learned much about my past, monsieur. You obviously have great resources at your disposal. But these details do not necessarily inform my present.”
Nicodemus’ smile was punishing. “I’ve heard you also enjoy being reckless. Venturing to places you’ve been forbidden. Lying through your teeth and flouting the rules.”
Color flooded Celine’s cheeks. “To which rules do you refer?”
“The only ones that matter. Mine.” His last word was the point of a knife in her back.
Celine refused to be intimidated, though her knees shook beneath her skirts.
A new emotion crossed the count’s face. One she could not recognize. As Nicodemus studied her, a line formed across the marble of his forehead. The next instant, it smoothed, vanishing from sight. “I admire your fearlessness, Celine. More than anything I could learn about your past, I can appreciate why my nephew is so taken with you. Not many young women would dare to hold their own in the company of so many who could kill her without a second thought.” He stepped forward again, the end of his walking stick striking the pavers beside his feet with a decisive thwack. “Who would kill you at my command, without a moment’s hesitation.”
The trembling took hold of Celine. She bit down on nothing to prevent it from reaching her teeth. There was nothing for her to say in response. Bastien’s uncle had just stated in no uncertain terms that Celine continued to breathe at his leisure. A cheeky retort would serve no purpose here. The only thing she could do was stand firm. Refuse to quail or beg, though her jaw clenched tighter with each passing second, her muscles tensing in preparation to fight or to flee.
After all, Celine Rousseau was not a mewling calf marked for slaughter. She could hold her own, if need be. The boy she’d killed for daring to treat her like a conquered thing was testament to that fact. Her last breath on this earth would not be tinged in regret, of that Celine was certain.
The count glowered into the night as if he could read her thoughts, his posture immovable. A mountain beneath the moon. “I, too, have heard the whispers of how you’re not afraid to spill blood. But you must know that I, too, have no qualms about destroying something in my path.”
“Why do you persist in threatening me, monsieur?” Celine gripped her skirts, the handle of Bastien’s dagger cool in her palm. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
Another flash of that same unreadable emotion. If Celine didn’t know better, she would have sworn it to be admiration. “I don’t threaten people, ma chérie,” Nicodemus said. “I trade in favors. If there is something I can do for you, you have but to ask.”
Celine almost laughed. Now he was offering her his good favor? It appeared that Bastien had learned his chameleon ways from his uncle. “I don’t want your money, monsieur.”
“I would not insult you by offering something as uninspiring as money.”
“May I ask what you want in exchange for earning your favor?”
The count did not hesitate. “I want you to reject my nephew. Cast him aside. Better still if it is for someone else.”
Celine blinked. “Why do you object to me so?” Her gaze narrowed. “Is it my lack of fortune or family?”
“As I said, I am not so uninspiring. Your lack of fortune is indeed a nuisance, but not of the insurmountable kind, were you suitable in other respects.” His words blistered Celine’s ears, mortification thrumming through her body. “In truth, I am most concerned by two things: you are far too inquisitive, and you have already become a weakness. I dislike seeing weakness in my nephew. Especially for something as inane as human emotion.”
Celine chose her next words with care, aware her cheeks had started to flush. “It is not a weakness to feel, monsieur. I—am not a weakness.”
“It is a weakness the moment one’s feelings override one’s judgment. And love of any kind is a weapon to be used against you, when wielded by the right hand.”
A part of Celine agreed with him. There were many times in life when she’d fallen prey to her emotions and erred in judgment as a result. Then she recalled the threads of hope she’d clung to during the long Atlantic crossing. “You should want your nephew to find love, my lord. When life becomes difficult, the only source of strength we have is love. Love of others, love of self, love of life in its entirety.”
Nicodemus nodded. “And what is love, ma chérie, a choice or a feeling?”
Taken aback, it took a moment for Celine to respond. “It is . . . a feeling.” She angled her head upward, biding time while searching for a better answer. As if it had been waiting for this moment, the moon emerged from behind a cloudbank, surrounded by a bevy of stars. Celine stared at the count with determination. “Love is looking at someone as if the stars shine in their eyes.”
He nodded again. “A beautiful notion. But you are wrong, ma chérie. Love is not a feeling. It is a choice. Contrary to popular opinion, there are many paths to happiness. I must ask which one you will choose, for the path you are on now will bring you only pain.” The count took a final step closer, until he stood just before her. Close enough that she could see the colors swirling in his amber eyes and smell the strange, icy scent emanating from his skin. Like frosted mint. “You do not belong in this world, Celine. It may be beautiful—intoxicating even—but beauty is a danger to behold, for it often masks the decay lurking beneath. Et ça fini toujours dans le sang.”
And it always ends in blood.
“I am not so captivated by the beautiful, monsieur.” Celine met his gaze without wavering. “For I know beauty is only a moment in time.”
“How right you are,” Nicodemus murmured. Then he placed his walking stick before him, both hands braced on the golden handle. “Nevertheless I must send along my nephew’s regrets. He will be unable to meet you tonight as planned.”
“I gathered as much, Monsieur le Comte,” Celine said.
“Don’t take it to heart, mademoiselle. My one goal in life is to protect my legacy. Do as I ask. Reject Sébastien. Hurt him once now to spare you both a life of pain. If you abide by my wishes, I will grant any favor you ask. And you’ll find there are no limits to my reach in all matters.” He paused, the line marring his forehead once more. “Defy me, and you’ll find your worst fears have become your reality. I will make sure you are left utterly alone, Celine Rousseau. Left to face everything you’ve run from, with no one to blame but yourself.”
His words struck Celine like a blow to the face. As if the count had peered into her very soul and unmasked her greatest fear of all. She flinched when a final gust of wind preceded the last arrival. The one she’d been expecting for quite some time. She’d braced herself for it, knowing this wound would cut her to the quick. But that did not lessen the sting. She felt it keenly, like a string snapping on a harp, the sound reverberating deep in her bones.
Odette did not meet Celine’s gaze as she moved into position at Nicodemus’ left. Her shoulders were rounded, her features somber. But still she came to stand beside Bastien’s uncle, her steps unfaltering.
“I’m sorry, mon amie,” Odette said, her sable eyes downturned. “You are my friend. But they . . . are my family.”
With this final cut, the count drew an invisible line in the sand.
Celine could trust no member of the Court. It was laughable to think their loyalties could ever be with her. If Nicodemus ordered them to leave her to her fate—to fend for herself, no matter the circumstances—they would do as he asked.
Michael had already refused to use Celine as bait. If Nicodemus prevented Bastien from helping Celine, she would be utterly alone, as the count had promised.
