The Damned

by Renee Ahdieh

  “No.” Celine shook her head. “I prefer it when you’re forward with your opinions. And I like you as you are.”

  Michael took her hand in his, his touch fervent. Unmistakable in its affection. Something fluttered in Celine’s stomach. Was it the butterflies she’d read about in books or overheard young women whisper about in private? It felt . . . strange, but not unwelcome. His smallest finger curled around hers. She smiled, and was rewarded with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the severe set to his lips.

  Celine was all at once struck by the thought that she should kiss Michael. That this kiss would offer her the clarity she desperately sought. In fairy tales, a kiss was a powerful thing. If she kissed him, it would be like magic. The haze in her mind would clear. Her memory would be restored. She would wake as if from a dreamless sleep.

  And she would just . . . know.

  Just as suddenly, another image flared into sharp relief. Of another young man’s lips a hairsbreadth from hers. Of how she’d lain awake at night and imagined them brushing across her skin, his touch soft and hard all at once. Asking and offering in equal measure.

  Bastien. That damnably beautiful boy who had haunted her dreams since that evening at Jacques’ less than a week ago.

  It had taken a great deal of restraint to weather the effects of that altercation. Celine had spoken with her doctor at length about it. He’d reassured her that moments like those were not unusual for people who’d suffered head injuries. In fact, he’d recently read about a French philosopher with a developing theory on the matter. He’d called them “la sensation de déjà-vu.” A feeling of experiencing something a second time. This phenomenon would explain why Celine had felt the way she did in the boy named Bastien’s presence. As if she’d known him from a different life, even though the very idea was absurd.

  Perhaps it could all be attributed to her injuries, as everyone kept insisting.

  Or perhaps they were all lying to her.

  It was a discomfiting thought. Would Michael lie to her? Would Mademoiselle Valmont—who’d returned from Charleston last week—agree to perpetuate such lies? Would Pippa, her dearest friend in the world?

  A server bustled toward their end of the table, carrying a basket of pillowy brioche. He offered a bun to Celine, and she reached for the butter, the tips of her fingers grazing the large silver dinner knife to her right. A jarring sensation rippled through her bones. One of recognition and awareness. She tilted her head and picked up the dinner knife. Wrapped her hand around the embellished handle, its blade flashing in the light of a nearby candle flame.

  When Celine caught sight of her startled face in its reflection, her fingers started to shake. Michael was being introduced to the elderly gentleman sitting beside him and had not yet noticed her distress.

  Celine grasped the handle tightly in an attempt to conceal her trembling. She became overwhelmed by the sudden urge to pocket the knife. Not for the purpose of stealing it, but rather to protect herself.

  Protect herself from whom? What was wrong with her?

  Celine glanced about, fighting a wave of nonsensical panic. The gentleman beside Michael clapped a hand against the young detective’s back, offering effulgent praise for his recent accomplishments. Michael grimaced, but accepted the kind words with a murmured response of his own.

  Her eyes flitting to and fro, Celine brought the knife into her lap. When she looked up once more, it appeared that no one had noticed her odd behavior. Less than ten seconds had passed since she’d first touched the dinner knife.

  Smiling as if nothing were amiss, Celine tucked the knife into her skirt pocket with a deft motion.

  Immediately her trembling ceased. Her body relaxed, her shoulders dropped. She reached for the brioche bun and locked gazes with Odette Valmont, her shop’s generous benefactress. Though the elegant young woman was seated much farther down the table, it was clear from her expression that she’d seen everything Celine had done.

  Panic once more swirled in Celine’s chest. Of course Pippa would have asked Mademoiselle Valmont to attend her engagement party. Three days ago, their benefactress had come to the shop to order a custom gown complete with the newest style of Parisian bustle. Likely Pippa extended the invitation then.

  And now here Mademoiselle Valmont sat, studying Celine in surreptitious silence, her sable eyes knowing, her bow-shaped lips pinched.

  Celine stood the next instant.

  Michael started, concern lining his brow. “Celine?”

  She forced herself to smile. “I’m just going to take a turn about the garden.”

  “I believe dinner will be served shortly.”

  “I’ll return in a moment.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  Celine shook her head. “I need a moment to myself.” She discarded her linen napkin and stepped away from the table, taking in deep gulps of rose-scented air. Energy pulsing through her veins, she wandered closer to a trellis laced with grapevines, trying in vain to calm herself.

  “Is everything all right, mon amie?” a soft voice said from behind her.

  Celine turned around. Odette Valmont stood there, her brown hair lustrous, her silk batiste like a jeweled raiment around her neck. A familiar cameo surrounded by a halo of bloodred rubies flickered near the base of her throat.

  “I’m fine.” Celine swallowed before smiling brightly.

  One side of Odette’s lips kicked up. She stepped closer. “Don’t bother lying. I watched you filch some of the Devereux family’s silver.”

  Horror took hold of Celine, an icy wave spreading down her back. “I—I didn’t filch it. I meant only to borrow it.”

  “Pour quelle raison?” Odette canted her head. “Et pourquoi?”

  “I don’t know,” Celine admitted in defeat. “I just felt . . . safer with it.”

  Odette’s eyes became slits. “Is someone threatening you, mon amie?”

  “No. Not at all.” Celine took a step back. “You must think I’m mad.”

  A thoughtful expression settled on Odette’s face. “I don’t think you’re mad at all. I—” She stopped midsentence, tension banding across her forehead.

  “Celine?” a male voice said from behind her, tugging at her already frayed composure.

  She reacted on instinct. Celine whipped the knife from her pocket and held it aloft, her heart pounding in her chest. A horrible recollection stormed through her mind. The fleeting image of being stalked. Of having a man attack her unawares.

  Of possessing nothing but a silver knife with which to defend herself.

  Shock rounded Michael’s gaze. He raised his hands to either side of his face and took a step backward. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “It’s all right, Celine,” a familiar voice said. “You’re safe here. I promise. Nothing and no one will hurt you.” A small hand reached for hers, its touch tender. Celine blinked, and Pippa’s lovely face came into focus. Pippa threaded their fingers together and led Celine toward the house and into a small parlor of paneled ash, its shelves lined with leather-clad books.

  “I’m so sorry,” Celine began in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve caused a scene at your party. I should leave before more people take notice.”

  “Of course you haven’t caused a scene,” Pippa said with a kind smile. “Besides that, I want you to stay. It wouldn’t be a celebration without you.” She gestured toward a damask chaise positioned near the black marble fireplace. “Please have a seat, dearest.”

  Celine settled into the chair, her marigold silk skirts rustling, the silver knife still clenched in her right hand.

  Pippa looked around the well-appointed room. “I still find it a bit strange that one day I will call a place this grand my home. It’s more than I could have hoped to have.”

  “It is lovely,” Celine agree
d. “And you deserve a life of love and comfort.”

  “Don’t we all?” Pippa said.

  “Some are more deserving than others.”

  “I’m not sure about that.” Pippa took a seat in the chaise opposite Celine. “To be honest, I keep waiting for something to go awry.” Soft laughter bubbled from her lips. “Perhaps Phoebus is concealing some kind of terrible secret. Maybe he tortures bees or turns into a goat beneath the harvest moon.” She grinned.

  “But none of that would matter if you were happy.”

  “None of it?” Pippa’s eyes sparkled. “Not even the bees? Only a monster would torture an innocent little bee! Can you imagine?”

  It was so absurd, Celine could not help but laugh.

  Pippa’s grin widened. “I am happy, Celine. I’m marrying a good man. Phoebus is gentle and kind. His mother has been very gracious. His father”—she wavered—“is well intentioned, if a bit overbearing.”

  Celine’s grasp on the knife loosened. “Is his father unfair to you?”

  “Not outwardly.” Pippa shook her head. “But the deepest cuts can come from the smallest blade.” She sighed. “Phoebus isn’t what his father wanted him to be. But—in my opinion—he’s a much better sort of man. He doesn’t long for those around him to cower in fear. He doesn’t prize loyalty above all else.”

  Celine nodded, the knife dropping into her lap. Already she’d begun to breathe easier. Already she felt more relaxed. How did Pippa always seem to know what to do?

  “It worked,” Celine said in a wry tone.

  “What did?”

  “Your distraction.”

  “If it worked, then why do you still look so troubled?”

  Celine met Pippa’s worried blue eyes. “I hate being like this. It’s not . . . me. I feel like I’ve lost myself.”

  “You’ve been through such an ordeal.”

  “I know.” Celine bit back a spike of irritation. “I know.”

  “Do you want to tell me what happened tonight?”

  “I wish I could,” Celine said as she stared at the knife in her lap. “I just felt . . . threatened. As if I needed something to defend myself.”

  “Has this happened before?” Pippa asked. “Since your recovery in the hospital?”

  “No. But you’ve known for some time that I have these”—Celine searched for the words—“vivid dreams. Often I don’t remember what happened in them, but I always remember how I felt.”

  “Frightened?”

  Celine shook her head. “Powerful. As if I could destroy anything and everything in my path.” She hesitated. “These kinds of dreams have become more frequent since Michael and I went to dinner at Jacques’ last week.”

  Alarm gathered at the bridge of Pippa’s nose. “Heavens, why would he take you there, of all places?” she blurted. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if to catch the words before they could spill.

  Further proof that Pippa was hiding something. That those around Celine were keeping an important truth from her. “Was I not supposed to go to Jacques’?”

  Pippa exhaled slowly. Bit her lower lip.

  “There was a boy on the second floor,” Celine pressed, her gaze intense. “He knew me. I’m certain of it. And I knew him, though I cannot recall from where or from when.”

  Pippa remained silent.

  “Please tell me, Pippa. If you know something, please share it with me. I feel like I’m going mad. Like the world around me is conspiring to conceal the truth. I need to know the truth.” She moved to the edge of her seat. “Do I know that boy named Bastien? Tell me, once and for all.”

  Pippa hooked a stray blond curl around an ear, her expression torn. “Yes. You know him.”

  “Is he someone I should remember? Is he important?”

  Another hesitation. “No. You shouldn’t remember him. He isn’t . . . good for you, dearest.”

  “Does he know what happened to me?” Celine said. “If I ask him, can he tell me—”

  Pippa stood in a rush. “No. He’s the reason you almost died, Celine. Please. I’m begging you. Stay away from him. He isn’t right for you. Knowing him brought you nothing but pain. There are so many suitable young gentlemen out there. Take your pick! Detective Grimaldi has moved heaven and earth to make sure you are safe. If you would only give—”

  “‘Suitable young gentlemen’?” Celine scoffed. “You mean men like Phoebus.”

  Pippa recoiled. “Do you find fault with him?”

  “No. I simply don’t understand why you’re marrying someone you don’t love.”

  It was a cruel thing to say. Celine knew it the instant she saw the blood drain from Pippa’s face. But Celine was angry. So very angry. As she suspected, everyone had lied to her.

  Pippa had been lying to her this entire time.

  “Real love isn’t like a fairy tale, Celine,” Pippa said, her tone clipped. “It isn’t this all-consuming force that blinds you to reason. Real love is a choice. And I choose to love Phoebus, even if he isn’t a knight in shining armor or a dark prince in a shadowy underworld. I don’t need such childish dreams to be happy. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  It was like a slap in Celine’s face. Pippa had never passed such judgment on her before. Celine stood, the pilfered knife falling to the carpeted floor. “I refuse to believe that Phoebus Devereux is your match. I think you’re terrified of being alone and have said yes to the first rich boy who asked. Like a coward, you’ve let fear make your decisions, Philippa Montrose,” she seethed. “And real love may be a choice, but I plan to choose someone who steals the breath from my body and haunts my very dreams. That is the only kind of love worth having.”

  Splotches blossomed on Pippa’s cheeks, her shoulders starting to shake. “It doesn’t matter what you think,” she snapped. “Phoebus would never put me in danger. I can’t say the same for Sébastien Saint Germain. You almost died, Celine. If Michael hadn’t been there, Lord knows what would have happened. How can you be so foolish, even now? Have you learned nothing?”

  “How can I learn anything when everyone keeps lying to me!” Celine raged. “And I’d rather be foolish than settle for a fool.”

  Pippa’s eyes began to shimmer. Her lower lip trembled. The next second, tears started to slide down her cheeks, a sob escaping her lips.

  The knot in Celine’s throat tightened like a garrote. She swallowed, but her sight began to water in response. She and Pippa were fighting. She’d caused her dearest friend to cry at her own engagement party. What kind of person was she?

  In two long strides, Celine enveloped her friend in an embrace. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry. I spoke out of turn. There is no excuse for my behavior. Please forgive me.”

  Pippa sobbed louder, but wrapped her arms around Celine’s waist.

  “I’m sorry, Pippa,” Celine whispered. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  “I—I wish I could help,” Pippa said through her tears. “I almost lost you once. I can’t do it again.”

  “I know,” Celine whispered. “But I have to find a way to make sense of all this chaos.”

  Pippa nodded. “I understand. But please, Celine”—she looked up, her face flushed and her voice quavering—“please don’t put yourself in any more danger. Stay away from Bastien. Away from Jacques’. Away from that cursed world.”

  Celine said nothing.

  “Promise me,” Pippa pleaded.

  “I promise.” Celine wiped the tears from Pippa’s cheeks as she lied to her closest friend.

  And she planned to keep lying, until she learned the truth.

  CELINE

  This was the height of foolishness. She deserved whatever ill fortune came her way.

  Less than three hours after promising Pippa she would stay away from Sébastien Saint Germain, Celine stood outside Jacques�
��, searching for an opportune moment to stomp onto the premises and demand an audience. It didn’t matter how long it took. Celine had no intention of leaving until she’d obtained answers.

  Who was Bastien to her? What did he know of her lost memories? Would he help her?

  At first she considered making a request of the same imposing gentleman with the earring who’d allowed her upstairs at dinner that night last week. But something told her he would not be so accommodating this time.

  After Celine wasted half an hour hemming and hawing about the best way to proceed, she shored up her resolve and marched through the narrow double doors, her chin in the air.

  The establishment had begun its preparations for the evening’s close. Servers polished silver trays and wiped crystal glasses, stacking them in preparation for the next day. A young girl swept the shining wooden floors while two other boys set chairs atop the empty tables.

  “Mademoiselle, may I help you?” the girl with the broom asked, her Créole accent lilting.

  “I wish to speak to Sébastien Saint Germain,” Celine said.

  The girl stepped back in surprise. Then dipped into a curtsy. “Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”

  A minute passed before the dark-skinned gentleman with the earring approached from behind a swinging door. “Mademoiselle Rousseau,” he said without preamble. “It is not right for you to be here at such a late hour.” He glanced about. “Have you come alone?” His thick eyebrows shot into his forehead.

  “Yes,” she said, defiant. “I am tired of allowing society to dictate my behavior.”

  He almost smiled. “Be that as it may, I—”

  “Pardon the interruption, monsieur, but I have no intention of leaving until I’ve spoken with Sébastien.”

  “Alas, Bastien is not here.”

  “I think you’re lying to me, monsieur. And I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.” Celine grabbed a chair and sat, taking a moment to arrange her marigold skirts. “I’ll wait here until Bastien comes to speak with me.”