The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  With a killer lurking in her shadow.

  Perhaps I’ll resort to praying once more. Her thoughts turned grim. In the premier pew of Saint Louis Cathedral, where all the best sinners take refuge.

  Awareness prickled through her limbs.

  Come with me to the heart of Chartres.

  Knowledge kindled within Celine, its cool light surging through her veins. She knew where to set her trap. And the devil take her if she would wait for a boy to defy his family before she made plans. She would do as she always did: whatever needed to be done. In Paris, Celine Rousseau had struck down her attacker in his prime, with no one to depend on but herself. She’d traveled half the world to start a new life, with not a single promise on her horizon.

  And no one—human or demon alike—would stand in her way now.

  HIVER, 1872

  JACKSON SQUARE

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  I believe tonight will end in blood

  and I alone know for whom.

  Maybe she will trap me, with her

  evil little

  Masque, her clever little mind.

  It will all be for naught, for she knows not what she does.

  Love is proof that blood alone means nothing.

  I am thankful my blood is thicker than oil

  Et brille plus fort que le soleil (And burns brighter than the sun).

  BEAUTIFUL DECAY

  Celine had lived and breathed French fashion for the better part of five years.

  In Paris she’d learned the importance of one’s choice in garments. How it spoke for a girl, perhaps before she was able to speak for herself. Clothes opened doors as surely as they closed them. On a practical level, the way a young lady chose to dress indicated not only her station in life, but where she wished to go.

  There was an art to dressing. Of all the reasons to love fashion, Celine had fallen in love with this one the most. The idea that she could drape her body in colors to match her soul. How a simple dress could convey her hopes and fears and dreams. How bolts of silk could be molded into armor in the right person’s hands.

  This was the spirit that had inspired Celine to create the gown she wore now. It was completely unsuitable for the event in question, yet perfect in all other respects. The battle regalia of a lunar goddess. Or perhaps an homage to a queen of darkness.

  Celine smiled to herself. Sometimes a girl must make her own magic.

  She filled her lungs with the sultry air of a warm evening. The last of the afternoon showers had ended just before the sun sank below the horizon. All the packed streets of New Orleans glimmered like newly polished silver, the air smelling of iron and smoke. Her hem swept over a pool of mirrored water, the black taffeta whispering in her wake.

  Just beyond the arch of the main entrance to the Orléans Ballroom, Celine paused midstep. For an instant, she imagined it to be the exact spot the Marquis de Lafayette himself had once stood.

  Though it was unlikely he would have arrived to a fête two hours late.

  Celine had needed the time. She’d spent most of her waking hours sequestered at police headquarters, finishing her costume. Just yesterday she’d managed to complete Odette’s ensemble. She’d even attempted to deliver the garments to Jacques’, only to be rebuffed at the door by the same Titian-haired individual who manned the lift at the Dumaine. After confiscating her parcels and rendering payment in full, Ifan had turned Celine and the officers in her company away, a self-satisfied sneer on his face. Consequently, she’d been denied the opportunity to see Bastien or perform a final fitting on Odette. Her first glimpse of the finished costume—a daring hat tip to Madame du Barry—would be tonight when she saw Odette at the ball.

  Celine hoped her friend would delight in her surprise as much as she had delighted in creating it.

  From dawn until dusk, Celine had poured her efforts into the black taffeta confection she wore now. It had begun as a gown of mourning, the kind readily available in any dress shop. She’d taken it apart and pieced it back together in a nod to the baroque silhouette. Within the gown’s skirts, she’d incorporated the first set of wide pannier hoops the carpenter on Rue Bienville had fashioned.

  The overall effect wasn’t perfect. Perhaps if she’d had more time, Celine would have added more flounces. She might have trimmed the black lace dripping from her pagoda sleeves into something more dramatic. But even in its imperfection, it was her, for better or for worse. Reckless, incomplete, and inappropriate.

  But here all the same.

  Celine rested her right foot on the bottom step, taking a moment to steel her spine.

  Bastien’s uncle would undoubtedly be present tonight, as would several members of La Cour des Lions. Still, Celine was uncertain if Bastien would be in attendance, so soon after Nigel’s death. The masquerade ball at the Orléans Ballroom was to be the soirée of the carnival season. His absence would be noted among those in society. Would this be enough to ensure his presence?

  Celine hoped it would.

  All the best and brightest of the Crescent City were sure to make an appearance. This year’s theme had been announced at the culmination of last year’s event. Twelve long months of anticipation for a tribute to the dazzling courts of Louis XV and his son Louis-Auguste, in that glimmer of time just before the French Revolution. Every invited guest had been instructed to garb themselves in white, from head to toe.

  And here Celine stood in nothing but black, from the domino on her face to the tips of her dyed slippers . . . save for the silver dagger concealed beneath her skirts, of course. This should have frightened her. In Paris, it would have been shocking to contemplate such a thing. But Celine was not in Paris anymore. Nor was she the same girl who’d fled the atelier that terrible night, her hands bloodied, her features frantic. That girl was a creature of distant memory. One unsure of her place, her toes lingering on a step leading into the unknown.

  Celine mounted the stairs. Tonight she wasn’t a girl afraid to face her choices. She was a goddess, baiting a trap to catch a killer.

  Her shoulders back, Celine glided beneath the arched doorway. Just beyond the entrance awaited two liveried gentlemen wearing powdered wigs and buckled shoes, their white stockings gartered at the knee, just beneath their tight breeches.

  “Password,” the one to the left said, his eyes glazed with boredom.

  Celine did not waver. “Capetian.”

  While the other guard opened the heavy doors, the man to the left sent Celine a quizzical look. As if he wished to say something and lacked the right words.

  She smiled to herself. That was the truth about proper society. They made all these rules, never planning to apply any consequences to themselves. Never expecting any of their ranks to stray from the established course.

  With an imperious tilt to her chin, Celine turned sideways to accommodate her wide-set hoops, then breezed through the doorway into what could possibly be her last night on this earth. It had been her first thought when she’d decided to remake a dress intended for mourning. If this was to be her last evening among the living, she wanted it to be the most glorious night in memory.

  She would live one night as Selene, a Titan who dragged darkness with her wherever she went.

  The jet beads along her bodice shimmered as Celine swept beneath the domed ceiling of the ballroom, ignoring the looks of surprise and distaste flashing nearby. She marveled at the countless chandeliers reflected in the polished marble at her feet, filling the room with a buttery glow. A makeshift court had been positioned around an ornate throne, festooned in ribbons of purple, green, and gold. In its center stood a bearded gentleman in his early twenties, his white regimentals embellished with braided brass, a smile of smug satisfaction winding across his lips. Celine supposed him to be the fête’s honored guest, the Russian Grand Duke, Alexei Alexandrovich. Under normal circumstances, she
might have been impressed by his imposing mien. But tonight she was a goddess.

  And a goddess did not concern herself with the triflings of men.

  All around Celine, couples floated in dazzling circles, whirling in the familiar triple time of a waltz. Their white garments lent them the appearance of pillowy clouds spinning through a golden firmament. The best of New Orleans society had powdered their wigs and faces, the scent sweetly suffocating alongside the towering bouquets of hothouse flowers, all chosen for their angelic hue. Even the servers bustling about with their trays of bubbling champagne had rouged their cheeks and lips, black beauty marks affixed beneath their right eyes.

  Celine watched the Crescent City’s finest dance in their powdered costumes, feeling their eyes upon her. The whispers behind the ivory fans. The looks of male disdain, along with the occasional wink of sly approval.

  None of it mattered. This was a different kind of freedom from the one Celine had longed for on the journey here. A different kind of power. The ability to see through a beautiful veneer and appreciate the decay beneath it.

  Now that she’d had a taste of such power, she never wanted to go back to before.

  Was the killer lurking among these dancing clouds? If he was, Celine had made certain he would notice her. She was counting on it.

  Her gaze snagged on a figure across the way. A young man who’d stopped in his tracks, his gunmetal eyes fastened on hers. He stood above the crowd, his black hair shorn against his scalp like Julius Caesar. The gold filigree trimming his mask contrasted with the dark bronze of his skin. His ivory jacquard waistcoat shone in the warm candlelight, as did the intricate soutache around the gilt buttons of his silk frock coat. He took a step forward and stopped, his satin breeches clinging to the sinew of his body, his head angled with admiration.

  Heaven forgive her, but Bastien was beautiful. Dangerously so.

  At his back stood a handful of preening young ladies, their papillote curls perfect, their expressions covetous.

  But he had eyes for one girl alone.

  A low hum resounded in Celine’s ears. It heated through her veins, the blood coloring her cheeks. Bastien bowed slowly, one foot in front of the other, his right hand swooping downward in tribute to the period. When he stood once more, Celine could not help but smile.

  Bastien returned her smile without hesitation, his eyes like glittering coins, an unspoken promise on his face. Then he melted into the crowd, unconcerned with those around him.

  If Alexei Alexandrovich presided over this heavenly court, then Sébastien Saint Germain was the prince of its shadowy counterpart.

  With this thought, the last of Celine’s fears dissipated. She knew Bastien would help her catch the killer tonight, in defiance of his uncle’s wishes. She was certain of it. Lucifer was hers the moment he returned her smile.

  Was this love, then?

  If it was, Celine wanted to bathe in it. To luxuriate in this feeling of knowing—without being told—that someone saw her, amid the beautiful decay. Saw her and stood by her side, against the very world itself.

  The next instant, her shoulders tensed. Through a parting in the crowd, Celine caught sight of Pippa’s unmistakable profile. Again her petite friend wandered through the ballroom on the arm of Phoebus Devereux, amid the crème de la crème of New Orleans society.

  Pippa met Celine’s gaze. Then turned away, her expression cold.

  Though it stung, Celine was grateful. It was better for Pippa to be angry with her. Anger kept her far from the killer’s line of sight.

  Odette spun past Celine on the dance floor, laughing as she careened in Boone’s arms, her skirted mantle swaying on the ingenious panniers. When they turned, Celine noticed the matching breeches she’d designed as a surprise, the gown of Odette’s costume split in its center, revealing her figure as she swirled to the music. Her ruby-encrusted brooch sparkled in the candlelight, pinned in the middle of a gentleman’s cravat. A mixture of the masculine and the feminine. A perfect representation of both Odette Valmont and Madame du Barry, the courtesan who helped rule a kingdom.

  Again Celine smiled to herself. Even if Odette never said another word to her, Celine knew her friend was grateful.

  “Mademoiselle Rousseau,” a familiar voice announced behind her right shoulder.

  Celine twisted around to meet the amber eyes of a tall masked figure. The black domino across her face shifted, obstructing her vision. She took a moment to straighten it, her pulse thudding through her body.

  “Monsieur le Comte,” she replied with a curtsy, her nerves tingling in her fingers.

  Bastien’s uncle held out a white-gloved hand. “May I have this dance?” A knowing smile ghosted across his lips, as if he were the serpent offering Eve the apple. Celine slid her hand in his. The next moment the world blurred around her, candle flames streaking along the edges of her vision.

  Nicodemus danced as if he’d been born to it. To all of it. The wealth, the debauchery, each of the glittering chandeliers. When he reeled them around the first bend—his steps smooth and precise—Celine closed her eyes for the briefest of instants. Wondered what it would be like to put her trust in an otherworldly creature like this.

  Her eyes flew open. This world of dark magic might intrigue Celine, but she knew better than to take a bite of its fruit.

  “A daring choice,” the count commented, noting the way her black skirts rustled around them in time with the music. “I appreciate young women who turn up their noses at society.”

  “All evidence to the contrary.” Fear would not dictate her actions tonight.

  “Sébastien must treasure your sharp wit.”

  “As they say, monsieur,” she replied. “One man’s treasure . . .”

  Another smile rippled across his face, his teeth blindingly white. “Touché, ma chérie. Touché.”

  They danced in silence for a spell.

  “Have you had a chance to consider my offer?” he asked.

  “I have,” she replied in equally noncommittal fashion.

  Something glinted in Nicodemus’ golden eyes. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Rousseau, have you ever heard of a game called shatranj?”

  Taken aback by the odd question, Celine missed a step. “I’m afraid I have not, Monsieur le Comte.”

  “It’s a Persian game of strategy, not so dissimilar to chess. Legend has it that it was among the favorites of the famed storyteller Shahrzad.”

  It troubled Celine to realize he’d stolen the upper hand with such a seemingly innocuous question. “I’ve played chess before, but I am not proficient. My father always let me win.”

  “Shatranj is one of the precursors to chess. I’d be pleased to teach you how to play.” His grin was sharp. “You may rest assured I will never let you win.”

  “Merci, Monsieur le Comte. I accept your generous offer . . . and hope to prove you wrong in all respects.”

  Nicodemus laughed, the sound savoring strangely of fatherly approval. “If you’ve taken time to consider my offer”—he spun them in place—“what request do you have of me?”

  Such arrogance. Such presumption. Celine pretended to hesitate before answering. “After much consideration . . . I think it would be best for me to leave New Orleans.” She did not have to be proficient at chess or shatranj to know that gifted players anticipated their opponent’s moves and planned accordingly.

  The count’s grip tightened on her hand. “You would leave the city without a glance back?”

  “It’s possible I could be persuaded,” she demurred. “There was a moment last week in which I wished I could forget everything and simply disappear.”

  The count considered her for half a turn around the ballroom. “If you mean that in earnest, I could help you.”

  “I’m certain you would be more than happy to help me dis-appear, monsieur,” she joked.

  His expr
ession took on a thoughtful bent. “I meant I could help you forget.”

  “You could help me . . . forget?”

  Nicodemus nodded once. “It is the work of a moment. You would feel nothing, nor would it cause any lasting damage.” He spoke as if he were inviting her to a picnic on the lawn of his country estate.

  It unnerved Celine beyond words. “And how would you explain this sudden bout of amnesia?”

  “I do not keep secrets from my nephew. Sébastien would know it was your choice. As such, he would come to respect it.”

  The strains of music died down, the bodies spinning around the ballroom slowing to a halt. Her mind in turmoil, Celine laughed with false abandon, joining in the applause as the song came to an end.

  Bastien’s uncle was a man with the power to steal memories.

  The thought alone frightened Celine more than anything he’d said thus far. It forced her to change tack, for if she lied about leaving New Orleans, what would stop him from robbing her mind with a snap of his fingers? Moreover, if she were to “disappear” afterward, not a soul would question her absence, given her decision to quit the city. She would be alone and adrift once more.

  No. It would be safer to negotiate a way to remain in New Orleans.

  Celine took Nicodemus’ proffered arm and strolled with him toward the fringes of the ballroom, taking time to construct a new plan. “Monsieur le Comte, I must apologize. When I said I thought the best thing for me to do was leave the city, I meant it, for it is the most rational approach.” She paused. “However, as you’ve already pointed out, my emotions are a weakness. I found that I’ve come to love New Orleans, and I do not wish to leave.” She shuddered as if a wave of fear had passed between her shoulder blades. “But I have no desire to relinquish my memories, nor do I wish to engage in battle with you. So I have an offer . . . if you’ll allow me to stay.”

  The count folded his gloved hands before him, his expression unreadable. “You would not demand Sébastien choose between us?”