by Renee Ahdieh
ahead of myself.” Odette leaned conspiratorially toward Pippa,
who stood to one side, her fingers threading and unthreading
through each other. “Don’t believe all the nasty rumors. Bas-
tien’s uncle is a gem. After Bastien’s parents died, he took him
in as a boy and cared for him like his own.”
Celine cleared her throat, bewildered by the onslaught of
information. “This is the first I’ve heard of the count, and I
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was only . . . introduced to his nephew this evening.”
Odette tilted her head. “The count is not in the city at present, but I suspect Bastien should arrive at any moment.” She began
scanning the plush carpet, her gaze weaving around the chair
legs. “In any case, you should be on the lookout for Toussaint.”
“What?” Celine refrained from shifting backward. “We
should be looking for something . . . on the floor?” After wit-
nessing chess pieces offer their own surrender, Celine did not
want to be caught unawares by naughty parlor tables or stools
with errant senses of humor.
“Don’t be alarmed. It’s really nothing at all.” Odette gestured
once more with her hands, a reaction Celine had come to
associate with agitation. “Toussaint . . . is Bastien’s Burmese python.” She rushed through her next words. “Really he’s completely harmless. The poor angel adores his rest and wouldn’t
hurt a mouse.” She grimaced and bit her lip. “Zut alors. I meant
figuratively, of course.” Odette brightened. “Just wait. Before
you know it, you’ll all be the best of friends.”
It took a moment for her explanation to register, disjointed
as it was.
Bastien’s Burmese python.
Bastien’s giant snake.
Though the serpent in question had yet to make an ap-
pearance, Pippa stifled a small shriek and jumped backward,
scrambling for a chair or something upon which to stand.
Celine remained rooted to one spot, a familiar rush coursing
through her veins.
Odette cast them a rueful glance. “Occasionally, Toussaint
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does like to wrap himself around anything warm, but please know you have nothing to fear. I only mentioned him because—if you don’t know to look for him—he can be a bit . . .
disconcerting.”
“A snake?” Pippa squeaked, looking for all the world as if she
wanted to melt into the paneled wall at her back. “What kind of
person has a pet snake?”
“Lucifer,” Celine said in a flat voice. “Lucifer would have a pet snake.”
A trill of laughter burst from Odette’s lips as she reached for
her glass of wine. “Ah, you simply must tell me what happened
when you were introduced this evening. How delicious!”
Celine sucked in her cheeks to marshal her retort.
Pippa’s blue eyes darted across the floor while she gnawed on
her lower lip, her fingers toying with the golden cross around
her neck. “We encountered Mr. Saint Germain on our way
here. He wasn’t”—she hesitated—“as gracious as he should
have been.”
“I’m unsurprised to hear that,” Odette said. “Bastien is like a
character from a childhood nursery rhyme. When he’s good,
he’s very, very good. When he’s bad, well . . . I’m sure you can
finish the rest.”
Celine certainly could. But she refused to waste more time
contemplating that wretched boy and his ridiculous pet snake.
It would take effort, but Celine intended to put a swift end to . . .
whatever worrisome interest this beautiful boy had managed to
wake in her.
In truth, she didn’t understand it at all. They’d barely spent
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less than a moment in each other’s presence, and a handsome face was not enough to distract her from his many misdeeds.
Before the night was through, Celine intended to have a firm
rein on her emotions.
Nothing good ever came from letting them run amok.
Her gaze settled on a painting in a gilt frame across the room.
She let her sight distort until its edges glowed molten gold. Ce-
line hated how much her notice of a boy like Bastien brought
to light how broken she was. In one short evening, he’d become
a proverbial thorn in Celine’s side. A reminder that something
inside her was not right.
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it wasn’t a fascination with him
at all. Perhaps it was the allure of the creature that lurked within her. Not too long ago, that creature had granted her immense
power over a tormenter and freedom over her life.
But it had also made her a murderess.
Celine’s expression hardened. She would put an end to all of
it. Immediately.
It would have worked. Later, Celine would swear she’d been
on the cusp of victory, intent on shoving anything related to
Sébastien Saint Germain deep into a dark abyss. To make him
disappear forever.
All would have gone to plan.
If not for the high-pitched scream that suddenly tore through
the room.
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The Ghost
i
Pippa’s bloodcurdling shriek echoed through the chamber,
rebounding off the paneled walls, setting the golden tassels
atremble. It rent the space in two, like a crack had split across the plush carpeting, Hell yawning in fiery fathoms below.
Truly it was an impressive achievement, that scream.
The moment it left Pippa’s lips, every member of La Cour des
Lions leapt into action, their bodies tensed and alert. Odette
scrambled to Pippa’s side, the glass of red wine in her hand
tipping, its contents splashing on Pippa’s skirts. Before Celine
could blink, a stylish man from the Far East moved swiftly to-
ward them, brandishing a mother-of-pearl dagger. He halted
at her shoulder, twirling his blade from one hand to the other.
Boone sauntered into view while flipping an ice pick in the air.
The two women with the dangerous rings posed like panthers
about to spring, their fingers forming claws, as though their
opulent jewels were really weapons instead of adornments. The
victor of the recent chess match simply laid a pistol on the table before him, his bearded features cool and collected.
Celine gripped her friend’s elbow, yanking her back, angling
her body in front of Pippa’s, like a shield. “What happened?”
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she demanded of her friend in a hushed voice. “Are you all right?”
Guilt pulled at the corners of Pippa’s mouth. “I . . . thought
something brushed across my foot,” she said in a breathless
tone, her expression one of bewilderment. “I must have been
mistaken.” She spoke louder, pitching her voice through the
room. “I deeply regret having frightened every
one. There is
nothing amiss. Please accept my humblest apology.”
Those poised to attack did not stand down. Many of them
continued staring at Pippa, their features wary, their eyes con-
tinuing to flicker in a disconcerting way. Again Celine was mo-
mentarily struck by her earlier thought:
Inhuman.
But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? It was one thing to believe
in magic and illusion. Another entirely to believe in creatures
of childish fancy.
Pippa took in a great gulp of air, her face flushed. “I’m truly
sorry,” she said again, even louder, while trying in vain to pre-
vent the spilled wine from soaking through her skirts.
“Don’t apologize any more,” Celine muttered. “A pox on that
damned snake and its fool of a master.”
Then—as if Pippa’s scream had sent a message through the
paneled walls—one of the two doors in the back of the cham-
ber opened, a rush of cool air racing over the exposed skin at
Celine’s chest and throat. At first, nothing emerged from the
entrance, but then those nearby shifted slightly, as though to
allow someone—or something—passage.
“Ah, there he is.” Odette beamed.
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Pippa reached for Celine as a massive snake—its scales covered in dark brown spots bordered by rings of black—slithered
across the carpeted floor. Fear and exhilaration wound through
Celine’s body. She began easing to one side as the snake drew
closer, but Pippa held her in place, her fingers tightly coiled
around Celine’s wrist.
“They smell fear,” Pippa murmured.
“How do you know that?”
“I read it somewhere.”
“That’s rubbish.” Odette doffed her wine-stained gloves.
“Technically they can’t smell anything. Only taste things with
their tongues.”
Celine sent a murderous glare in Odette’s direction as the
snake passed them, vanishing under a pool of indigo silk be-
neath an arched window. Even after the serpent disappeared,
Pippa did not stop wringing the blood from the tips of Celine’s
fingers.
“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, Toussaint won’t hurt anyone,” Odette
reassured them, stuffing her bare hands in her pockets as she
spoke. “One time he wrapped himself around Arjun, but it was
only frightening for a minute.” She paused in remembrance.
“And that crumpet-eating criminal deserved it.”
“What—what did he do?” Pippa asked.
“Apparently massacred one too many crumpets,” the boy in
question teased from behind Pippa, his British accent slurring
ever so slightly, clearly tainted by drink.
Celine turned toward Arjun in shock, noting his reddened
knuckles and disheveled appearance. Not-so-gentle reminders
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that—regardless of how pleasantly he comported himself—this boy from the East Indies was not what he seemed. After all,
he’d managed to cross the room without being noticed, like a
shadow slipping through a cloud of smoke.
Pippa spun around with an unusual lack of grace, only to lose
her footing. She would have fallen to the floor if Arjun hadn’t
been there to steady her, his arms encircling her shoulders.
“I’ve got you, pet,” he said with a mischievous half smile.
A flash of horror rippled across Pippa’s face. The next instant,
she shoved him away with a startling amount of force. Arjun
landed on his backside, his waistcoat askew and his monocle
tangling about his neck.
Celine tried to control her reaction, but it could not be helped.
She pressed her knuckles to her lips. Soon, Odette was steady-
ing herself against Celine, cackling alongside her. Unsurpris-
ingly, Pippa did not join in their amusement. She clasped both
palms over her mouth. Flustered, she bent to help Arjun to his
feet, reaching for his hands.
Only to be roundly rebuffed.
“I’m so sorry!” she said, color rising up her neck. “I wasn’t
expecting you to be so . . .”
“Helpful?” he offered.
“Warm,” she finished, her cheeks reddening.
Arjun glanced up at her quizzically, then grinned, though he
still refused to take her proffered hand. Instead he looked to
his left, whistling through his teeth to catch the attention of
the nearby chess champion. The next instant, the gangly fel-
low stepped forward to yank Arjun to his feet with an uncanny
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amount of strength, his ruddy mustache curling along its waxed edges.
“ ’Ad enough, me good man?” he said in a gruff Cockney ac-
cent. When he straightened, he towered over everyone in his
vicinity, his limbs long and thin, causing him to resemble a
beanpole. “Is every bleedin’ maharajah as piss poor at holding
his liquor as you is?”
Arjun rolled his eyes. “Such poppycock. Not every man from
India is a maharajah, Nigel.” He paused for effect, securing his
golden cuff links. “And not every Englishman is a gentleman.”
“Blighter!”
“Loathsome imperialist.”
“Clumsy twat!”
“Overgrown twig.”
Nigel’s waxed mustache twitched. Then he threw back his
head and guffawed. The sound was so filled with delight that
Celine began to smile.
“¿Qué está pasando, Odette?” a rich voice cut through the
mêlée, the sound resonating from behind where they stood.
“¡Hostia!” Odette startled. Her small fist darted out, thudding
against a solid form. “Stop trying to scare me, you horse’s ass.
Te dije lo que sucedería la próxima vez . . .” She launched into
a tirade Celine could not follow, the Spanish words flying from
her lips with ease.
Arjun and Nigel exchanged a glance. Then promptly made
their way toward the roulette table in the back of the room.
Odette continued ranting to the newcomer at Celine’s back.
But Celine refused to turn around. She had no need to confirm
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the obvious. Her pulse ratcheted in her throat when the heat of him drew closer. The feeling of being both drawn in and pushed
back—a magnet made of opposing poles—gripped her stom-
ach. Just like the night she’d first arrived in New Orleans, when he’d cleared the streets without uttering a word, Bastien’s presence was a tangible thing. It made something in the air shift,
like a sigh of wind.
The creature inside Celine writhed beneath her skin, stirring
to life.
No. Celine Rousseau was not a weathervane. She would not
be moved by the Ghost’s presence as everyone else was. He was
not special, just like all the privileged boys she’d encountered in her past. Another spoiled and entitled approximation of a man.
She took a deep breath, determined to remain u
naffected.
Celine felt Bastien’s eyes settle on the back of her neck. The
fine hairs there stood on end, sending a warm buzz down her
spine. He was close enough that she could smell the bergamot
in his cologne. The hints of citrus and spice.
This boy was dangerous. Far too dangerous. Like fuel to her
fire.
She stood straight. Bade the stirring creature silent.
Odette continued chastising Bastien in a mixture of Span-
ish and French. Unruffled by her tirade, Bastien shifted past
Celine and Pippa, his strides unhurried, his movements liq-
uid. Since their encounter an hour ago, he’d discarded his
frock coat and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt,
revealing a tailored waistcoat of charcoal silk and a set of curious black markings on his inner left forearm. Disdaining the
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fashion of the day, he wore his dark hair shorn close to his head, resembling a bust Celine had once seen of Julius Caesar.
Strapped around his shoulders was a burnished leather hol-
ster, a revolver glinting beneath his right arm. When he met
Celine’s gaze, he pressed his lips together, a hint of irritation pushing them forward, squaring his jaw. Annoyance riddled
his handsome face. Not a trace of surprise nor a drop of plea-
sure at finding her here.
It emboldened Celine. Urged her to dismiss him as summar-
ily as he’d dismissed her.
“Are you finished?” he said quietly to Odette, though his eyes
were trained on Celine.
“For now,” Odette sniffed. “Just don’t do it again. You know
how much I despise being taken off guard. No doubt that’s the
reason you enjoy doing it, you malquisto.”
Though her tone had lightened to one of jest, Bastien did not
smile. “Responde mi pregunta. ¿Por qué está ella aquí?”
“No.” Odette crossed her arms. “I’m not answering your ques-
tion. C’est impoli. These ladies are my guests, and I do not owe
you an explanation for why they are here.”
The edges of Bastien’s eyes tightened, his expression darken-
ing. Under normal circumstances, Celine suspected this icy
glower engendered fear in others. Moved them to obey, with-
out question.
She met him eye for eye, glare for glare, her heart thudding
behind her ribs. Celine waited for him to ask them to leave.
After all, this building belonged to his family. And no matter
