The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  “Bastien has already lost most of his family,” Celine said. “I would not wish for him to lose you.” She bit at her lower lip. “So I will reject him, as you have asked.”

  Nicodemus said nothing for a time. “And what request do you have of me in exchange for rejecting my nephew?”

  “I have three.” Celine hoped her greed would convince him of her sincerity. “I would like a finished pied-à-terre in the Quarter. As well as a dress shop nearby for me to earn a living.”

  “And the third request?”

  Celine focused on his amber eyes, fighting to convey a sense of earnestness. “I want to tell Bastien myself, without any of your spies or henchmen nearby.”

  “Why would you think I would agree to such a sentimental request?”

  “Because despite everything, you like me, Monsieur le Comte,” Celine replied without flinching. “And you love your nephew. Bastien is your weakness. I’d wager it must pain you to cause him grief.”

  Another unreadable emotion crossed his face, the silence stretching thin for several breaths. “When did you wish to tell Sébastien?”

  Here was the most important question he’d asked yet. Celine maintained a flat affect while answering. “I suppose it depends on how soon you wish to see this matter at an end.”

  “Tonight, then?”

  It was just as she’d hoped. “If you wish, Monsieur le Comte.”

  Nicodemus sent her a wry look. “Love is, indeed, a weakness.” He leaned toward her right ear. “And I do like you, Marceline Rousseau. Most especially when you do what I want.” The brush of his threat curdled her spine, sending spiders scurrying across her skin.

  Celine smiled to mask her fear. “I understand.”

  “Sébastien will meet you on the terrace in twenty minutes.”

  TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN

  The scent of dying flowers wafted past the open doors, weaving toward Celine. It reminded her of the praline vendor who idled on the corner of Rue Bourbon and Rue Toulouse every Saturday, Christmas bells on his wrists and ankles, a homemade pipe dangling from his lips. Beneath the moonlight, the travertine balustrade at her fingertips glowed a pale shade of pink, spidered with veins the color of dried blood. Vines of bougainvillea and peach begonias wrapped around the terrace railing, dew glistening on their downy petals.

  From this vantage point, Celine considered her next move.

  She’d successfully secured what she most wanted: a moment alone with Bastien. As a result of the count’s efforts to keep them apart after Nigel’s murder, Celine had yet to share what she’d realized while studying the clues on Michael’s slate chalkboard.

  Come with me to the heart of Chartres.

  At the very least, it was possible she’d learned the location of the killer’s lair. What they should do with this information remained to be seen. She’d considered taking it to Michael, but he’d already refused to help her once, and the New Orleans Metropolitan Police had thus far been stymied in all their attempts to catch this otherworldly demon.

  Celine didn’t know how much time Nicodemus would give them now. Would it be enough to secure Arjun’s or Odette’s help as well? The prospect seemed unlikely. Bastien might be willing to defy his uncle to catch Nigel’s murderer, but it would be foolish of Celine to expect the same of anyone else in the Court, especially given their recent encounter outside police headquarters several nights ago.

  No matter. Celine intended to use every second of her borrowed time with Bastien, especially if it meant they might lure the killer into the light.

  Several other couples mingled at the edge of the balcony. A trio of young women huddled together, laughing at bawdy jokes. Their levity brightened the tenor of Celine’s thoughts. For an instant, she even considered joining them. Especially when she overheard one of their ranks speaking in animated tones about Odette Valmont’s costume. How Sébastien Saint Germain’s scandalous lover had dared to wear fitted breeches beneath her open mantle, as well as a gentleman’s cravat.

  Mischief gleamed in one girl’s brown eyes. “Whom do you suppose wears the trousers in bed?”

  “Neither of them, if they’re doing it correctly,” the young woman next to her replied.

  “Zut alors!” the last girl cried with delight.

  Despite everything, Celine could not help but laugh. She’d meant it when she’d told Nicodemus she liked it here. New Orleans was a world of contrasts. A city of life and death. A raw and rich tableau.

  It suited her.

  She traced her fingers along the stone balustrade, sketching through the thin layer of moisture collecting along its surface. A pair of footsteps came to an abrupt halt over her shoulder, too close to be by chance. She turned at once, her words swallowed by a gasp.

  “Pippa.” Alarm scalded through Celine’s body.

  Anger pinched her lovely friend’s features. “I came here because I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Please, you can’t be seen with—”

  “No,” Pippa interrupted. “This time, you will be the one to listen.”

  Celine tugged her deeper into the shadows, glancing about wildly, her features tight. “You don’t understand, I—”

  “No!” Tears pooled in Pippa’s eyes as she wrenched herself free. “I don’t want to give you a chance to offer me an explanation. You’ve . . . wounded me. Immensely. I’ve worried about you every day. A single word or note would have sufficed. But you’ve cut me out of your life, and I won’t pretend to know why.” She gesticulated as she spoke, her lace sleeve snagging on the elegant silver frogging across her baroque stomacher. “Oh, bother,” she moaned.

  “Let me help,” Celine said, reaching for the lace.

  Pippa moved to stop her. The next instant, her shoulders fell, her sigh one of defeat. “Blast it all,” she muttered. “I came outside intent on making an impression, yet here I am in your debt.” Her wig of powdered sausage curls slid down her brow, the cross on her golden chain catching on a loose tendril. “And to make matters worse, I look like the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

  “Don’t fret.” A smile tugged at Celine’s lips. “I’ll be sure to heed your warnings, no matter how portentous.”

  Cutting her gaze, Pippa sighed once more. “I need you to know how angry I am . . . and that it doesn’t matter if you ignore me or push me away. I’ll always be here, Celine. I love you dearly, and that doesn’t change simply because you’re behaving like a wretch.” She yanked her wig straight, a cloud of powder diffusing about her head.

  Celine detangled the last of the snarled lace. “I love you dearly, too, and I’m beyond sorry for behaving like a wretch,” she said in a soft voice. “Please know I have my reasons for keeping my distance. One day soon, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “I’ll hold you to that promise.” Pippa nodded. “But never forget that I am here, if ever you need me.”

  A lump gathered in the base of Celine’s throat. “I won’t forget. Ever.”

  Pippa nodded again, her expression turning morose. “I suppose I should return to the ball. I sent Phoebus for some refreshments, and only a total lummox would get lost on his way to the punch bowl.”

  “Is Monsieur Devereux such a lummox?” Celine teased in a gentle tone.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Pippa cast her an arched glance. “But if you meet me for tea next Thursday, I’m sure—together—we can divine the truth.”

  A part of Celine desperately wanted to be the kind of girl who could make plans next Thursday with a dear friend. But she had no idea what the next hour would hold, much less the next few days. It seemed that, no matter where she went in the world, these two warring sides of her were destined to come to an impasse. Two sides of the same coin. For Celine was every bit the girl in a jewel-toned dress who longed for the love and laughter of an afternoon tea. Just as she was every bit the girl in bla
ck, her heart filled with murderous designs, intent on bringing about a killer’s demise.

  Could two such opposing forces ever coexist in the same soul?

  “I’d love to have tea with you next Thursday,” Celine replied with conviction.

  The best she could do was hope. After all, hope was its own kind of magic.

  * * *

  The sky darkened to a deep purple as the minutes passed. Celine waited at the edge of the balcony, staring up at the stars. She didn’t know when she’d first realized how much the sight of the moon soothed her. Perhaps it had something to do with her mother.

  In the far reaches of her mind, Celine recalled walking along a rocky shore as a child, hand in hand with a lithe figure whose black hair fell past her waist in thick waves. In this memory, her mother sang to a full moon, the melody carrying over the inky water, unfurling into the vast sky above.

  Perhaps it was a dream. Nothing more.

  A branch snapped in the treetops to Celine’s left, drawing her from her thoughts with a sudden jolt. Molten energy coursed through her veins, her skin growing hot like embers stoked to flame. Celine’s eyes flitted in all directions, fear making her aware of every breath. Every scuttle. Every sigh. She focused on the grove of looming oaks, her heart careening in her chest.

  A lone owl burst from the shadows, its wings beating in time with her breath.

  She almost laughed. Her fingers trembled as they moved to the bare skin of her throat in an effort to soothe her raging nerves.

  The next instant, silence fell around her like a hammer on an anvil. The birds stopped stirring in the treetops, the cicadas ceased with their droning. A dull roar echoed in Celine’s ears when she twisted toward the open double doors at her back, intent on making her way inside.

  Before she could take a single step, the suddenly mute individuals along the balcony crowded her path. They turned to leave in concert, their expressions blank, their footsteps rote. The trio of girls from earlier linked hands, their eyes glassy as they filed toward the double doors, the last of their ranks pausing to latch them shut behind her, the locks falling into place with an ominous click.

  Was this Nicodemus’ doing?

  Panic thrummed through Celine’s body. What kind of dark magic was this?

  Had Nicodemus lied to her? Was he toying with her? Had he made false promises of his own, all along intending to rid himself of Celine at the first opportunity?

  Suddenly each of her memories became that much more precious. She thought about hitching up her skirts and fleeing. Considered racing toward the latched doors and pounding on their oaken surfaces, bellowing for help.

  How badly would she injure herself if she were to jump over the balustrade?

  Celine had planned to lure the killer to the location of his first murder. To hem him in along the docks, taking advantage of the open spaces and the stretch of water at their backs, thereby thwarting his attempts to escape. And if that didn’t work, she was determined to root him out of his hiding place in the heart of Chartres.

  He was not meant to trap her.

  Was Nicodemus the killer? Had Celine quite literally waltzed into his clutches?

  Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession, the whalebone of her stays laced tight. The only recourse Celine had was that if she screamed loud enough, someone inside was sure to hear her.

  But would they reach her in time?

  Celine planted her feet, rooting her convictions. If this was to be her one chance, she would take it. Her fingers moved toward the hidden pocket at her hip, pausing a hairsbreadth from the handle of Bastien’s silver dagger.

  A murder of crows burst from the branches to her right. She spun around, watching them soar into the moon, wishing with all her might that she could sprout wings of her own and take flight.

  Just then, Celine noticed a strange set of markings along the edge of the balustrade. Her feet carried her closer before she had a chance to think.

  Four symbols had been inked into the travertine stone, their edges dried to match its veins, their centers a wet, brilliant crimson:

  L, O, U . . . P?

  A strangled sound emitted from Celine’s throat. She backed away, colliding with a wall of stone. Shock took hold of her when a pair of long arms reached around her waist, gloved hands running up her rib cage.

  “Mon amour,” he rasped behind her ear, his cool breath washing across her nape. “You are mine forever.”

  Celine opened her mouth to scream. Something sharp tore into the side of her neck, and she was consumed in a dark void.

  A POUND OF FLESH

  Something was horribly wrong.

  Bastien had known it the instant his uncle had come to him, a warm smile on his face and an unsettling light in his gaze. The moment Nicodemus had offered Bastien a chance to speak with Celine on the terrace in private.

  No member of the undead granted such a boon without first exacting an excruciating price. Especially a theatrical immortal like Nicodemus Saint Germain. Once, years ago, Bastien had witnessed his uncle take an actual pound of flesh from an enemy, peeling the man’s skin back slowly, relishing each of his screams. Bastien had been a boy of nine then. And in fairness, the enemy in question had killed his father.

  Unease gathered in the base of Bastien’s throat. His uncle’s sudden change of heart was sure to be an ill omen. Nevertheless, he murmured his thanks and crossed the ballroom, pausing only to nod at those who vied for his attention. To beg their leave, with promises to return in a trice.

  All Bastien could think was reaching Celine. Of reassuring her that his uncle’s wishes had no bearing on his heart.

  Not that she needed any man’s reassurances.

  An appreciative smile curved up one side of Bastien’s face when he thought of how she’d burst into the ballroom two hours late, garbed in a gown of mourning, a devil-may-care attitude in each of her steps. It was one of the things he loved most about Celine. How little she gave a damn about anyone’s good opinion.

  Bastien paused before the solid oak double doors leading onto the terrace, puzzled to find them locked from the inside. Tension banding in his arms, he unlatched the doors to step onto the balcony . . . and was met with a sight that iced the marrow in his bones.

  No one was there. Not a single soul lingered beneath the violet sky, taking in the night air.

  Celine Rousseau was nowhere to be found.

  His teeth clenched and his jaw rippling, Bastien glided toward the empty railing, his eyes scanning every which way. He did not possess any of his uncle’s preternatural gifts. He could not see through the darkness unimpeded, nor could he smell the scent of blood from a vast distance. And he most definitely could not blur through time and space in the blink of an eye.

  But Bastien had learned as a boy to notice things most mortals would overlook. Like the smear of blood along the ledge, the color camouflaged in the veined travertine. And the four smudged symbols nearby, written in macabre ink, smelling of copper and salt.

  There had been a struggle. And it appeared the killer had taken Celine from the balcony.

  Rage spread through Bastien’s veins. The rime of unmitigated rage. Always ice. Never fire.

  Bastien ripped the ridiculous mask from his face. Without a glance back, he returned to the double doors, stopping at the threshold, his mind in a calculated turmoil.

  First he looked for his uncle. Studied the crowd for the tall figure dressed in a long white opera cape. Thankfully Nicodemus no longer appeared to be mingling among the Crescent City’s unofficial gentry. It was likely he’d joined some of New Orleans’ most influential gentlemen in a nearby antechamber to partake in a glass of cognac, a cigar, and a well of secrets. One of the Vieux Carré’s most cherished rituals.

  Which meant Bastien had less than half an hour before his uncle noticed his absence.

  Without pausing
to think, Bastien slid among the couples weaving across the ballroom floor, stealing Odette from her partner before the foolish young man could form a protest.

  She did not miss a step. Nor did her smile falter at any moment, despite the fact that a single glance at Bastien’s face told her something was terribly amiss.

  Odette Valmont represented the best of Bastien’s found family. She, Nigel, Hortense, Madeleine, Jae, and Boone had surrounded him not long after he’d arrived on the city’s docks almost a decade ago, an angry boy filled with loss and pain, whose haunted features had granted him the moniker Le Fantôme.

  This strange collection of immortals had been tasked with only one thing: guarding Nicodemus’ lone surviving heir. Protecting their maker’s greatest legacy. For nearly ten years, they’d stood at Bastien’s back, helping him blaze a trail through the city, all while keeping him safe from the terrors that had torn him from his parents and his sister.

  “Take a turn with me on the balcony,” Bastien said to Odette through a winsome smile, his words more breath than sound. With that, they reeled through the crowd—scattering the couples lingering on the periphery—before spinning through the double doors and into the velvet darkness.

  As soon as they were beyond earshot, Bastien stopped moving, his arms dropping to his sides. “Celine is gone,” he said quietly, aware that anyone—or anything—could be listening.

  Odette’s sable eyes flashed black, her features sharpening, her canines lengthening past her rouged lips. Piercing the elegant veil and bringing the world’s most perfect predator to the surface. She paused to fill her lungs with air. “I can smell her blood. She was here not five minutes ago.”

  “How can you be certain it’s hers?”

  She sniffed once more, her powdered head cocking to one side. “Her blood sings an unusual melody.”

  Bastien’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursing. “Have you ever looked in her future?”

  “Only that one time.” Odette hesitated. “But it showed me nothing about this, Bastien. It simply told me what I shared with you weeks ago. A truth that has already come to pass. She will be the tamer of—”