by Renee Ahdieh
None of those waiting had yet to speak with him. Upon ar-
rival, he’d gone straight to the place where Anabel’s body had
been found, and the semicircle of grim-faced officers standing
around them did not exactly afford Celine a vantage point from
which to discern much else.
Across the way, Arjun sat on a tufted velvet stool with an
ankle crossed over a knee, his posture easy. From his fingers
dangled a crystal tumbler, the contents within it swirling around the glass in shades of amber and gold. The monocle swaying
from his throat shimmered as the whiskey danced about his
glass. Celine urged her mind to become lost in the warm prisms
cast by his motions.
Better she lose herself in drink than look to her immediate
right.
Toward the figure standing in the shadows, bereft of his re-
volver, glaring at nothing.
Celine feigned a cough to clear her throat.
Where was this cursed detective? Why was he taking so long
to examine the scene of the crime? And where in God’s name
was Odette?
Chaos had ensued in the moments following the discovery of
Anabel’s body. There hadn’t been time for Celine to take stock
of what was happening around her. Too many flashes of move-
ment in all directions, too many questions crowding her mind.
But now that a tense kind of calm had descended—an aerial-
ist on a tightrope—several details struck Celine as odd. First,
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the only immediate reactions from the second floor had been those of herself, Pippa, and Odette. The other members of La
Cour des Lions had kept strangely silent and still, as if murder
was not at all a surprising event.
It wasn’t until everyone below reacted to the news that a grue-
some death had occurred a stone’s throw from where they sat
that those on the second floor took action. Screams had echoed
into the rafters, carrying from the restaurant into the streets.
Women and men had fled the building, swelling into the alley-
ways and avenues adjoining Jacques’.
In the crush of shrieking bodies, Odette had disappeared
without a word. At first, Celine and Pippa had worried some-
thing awful might have happened to her. They’d raced down the
stairs toward the doors, searching the crowd for any sign of a
young woman dressed as a man. By the time they’d made their
way to the front of Jacques’, all the exits had been cordoned off by the New Orleans Metropolitan Police.
More than an hour later, Odette was still nowhere to be found.
In fact, only a few members of La Cour des Lions were still
present: Arjun, Bastien, Nigel, the man from the Far East, and
the two women with the tantalizing rings. The rest had vanished
into the night during the chaos. Celine knew Bastien could
not avoid being interrogated. His family owned this establish-
ment. It was only natural that he would be under immediate
inquiry. At any moment, she fully expected his uncle, the
Count, to stride into the room in a black silk cape and a plush
fur top hat.
Celine’s mind churned in a ceaseless barrage of thoughts.
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Despite her best efforts to silence them, one continued rising to the forefront. The sight of Anabel’s body troubled her immensely. Of course the gaping wound at the girl’s throat would
likely haunt Celine for the rest of her days. But something else
plagued her. Remained just beyond her reach.
The thud of a solid object echoed from below. The noise
clattered down the stairs in staccato bursts of sound. Celine
started. Pippa yelped softly. No one else uttered a word. The
five officers of the Metropolitan Police cinched their semicircle tighter, drawing closer, like the strings of a purse pulling shut.
Then they exchanged worried glances.
Without warning, someone clapped their hands behind the
waiting officers, the sound loud and sudden, causing Pippa
to cry out again and rekindling Celine’s irritation. It prickled
beneath her skin like a thousand tiny needles threatening to
burst forth. Arjun stopped swirling his drink. To his left, Nigel’s frown hardened, the sight contrasting with his curling mustache, the tendons in his fingers flexing as if to keep him from
lunging into the fray.
Celine did not need to look at Bastien to know his anger had
spiked, just as hers had.
“My most profound apologies for keeping you waiting so
long,” a man calmly intoned, the sound disparate with the cir-
cumstances. “But I promise only one among you will be truly
inconvenienced.”
The officers standing in a semicircle parted without preamble.
Revealing New Orleans’ best police detective.
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One of Us
i
The young man who stepped forward was not at all what
Celine expected.
Firstly, he looked to be only several years older than she. His
clean-shaven skin was tawny, in contrast to the pale features
of the other officers present. He was not wearing a uniform.
Instead it looked as though he’d left an elegant gathering, his
collar impeccably starched, his champagne-colored cravat
tied in a pristine knot. His wavy hair had been tamed into the
latest fashion, full on all sides. Something about his appear-
ance struck Celine as almost professorial. A touch awkward.
Save for the undeniable air of authority around him.
Before he spoke again, he offered them a forced smile, his
teeth straight and bright. Then he adjusted his shirtsleeves un-
til the perfect amount of white peeked from beneath the edge
of his deep green frock coat.
“I am Detective Michael Grimaldi of the New Orleans
Metropolitan Police,” he began in a clipped voice, each word
racing to overcome its predecessor. “I’m hoping to have your
utmost cooperation as we work together to find the perpe-
trator of this horrific crime.” He took a step closer, moving
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alongside Arjun, who flinched, his features souring.
At the sight of Arjun’s discomfort, satisfaction passed across
Detective Grimaldi’s face. Now that he stood next to Arjun,
Celine noted a similarity in their coloring, though Detective
Grimaldi’s features did not bear the same look of the East.
Perhaps he was Italian, as his name suggested.
Detective Grimaldi’s light eyes swept around the room again.
Undoubtedly scanning the crowd, searching for an opening. In
short order, he settled on Celine. His head tilted ever so slightly, his gaze appraising. Celine lifted her chin automatically. Defiantly. She didn’t know what possessed her to do it, but she
refused to be seen as anything but formidable. With a knowing
smirk, the young detective moved along to Pippa. Whatever he
was searching for, he fo
und in her.
Pippa gasped in awareness. Celine reached for her friend’s
hand to offer her a measure of strength, just as Pippa had done
for her countless times today.
The detective crouched before Pippa. “I apologize for having
to detain you, miss,” he said. “I promise not to keep you long.
I heard you were one of the ladies who found the poor young
woman’s body.” He paused. “That must have been terrible for
you.” Detective Grimaldi extended a hand her way, as though he
meant to help her to her feet. “Would you mind speaking with
me apart from the crowd for just a—”
“No,” Bastien interrupted, his tone low and harsh. Brim-
ming with unmistakable anger. He remained in shadow, refus-
ing to comply in even the simplest of terms. Behind him, the
curtains bristled as though a breeze had ruffled their edges.
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“No one will answer any questions without a witness, in full view of everyone present.” When Bastien finished speaking,
the menace hanging about the space thickened. Constricted,
as if it were being caged in a shrinking vessel.
Detective Grimaldi stood. He rolled his shoulders back. A
trace of fury crossed his face before he flattened his features
once more. “Mr. Saint Germain.” He quirked a brow. “If you
wish to have an attorney present—”
“That will not be necessary.” Bastien pushed away from the
wall and glided past Celine toward the police detective. He
deliberately took his time, pausing to move a butter-yellow
handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat to the pocket
of his trousers. When he stopped a stone’s throw from where
Detective Grimaldi stood, the curtains at his back rustled once
more. The unmistakable hiss of a serpent curled into the air.
Toussaint slithered from the darkness, slowly weaving into
the light.
Celine stiffened where she sat, the blood icing through her
body. Cries of fear burst from the lips of several police offi-
cers. One even attempted to draw his revolver, but Detective
Grimaldi stayed his hand without a word. Bastien offered them
a scythe-like smile, and it reminded Celine of a character in
a book she’d read recently. A cat from Cheshire who enjoyed
speaking in verse.
Toussaint coiled around Bastien’s feet, his forked tongue
flicking over the plush carpet, his head moving in a lazy sway.
Though knots of tension had pulled tight around him, Detec-
tive Grimaldi eased his stance, shifting back onto his heels.
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“I gather you already have an attorney present?”
Bastien lifted a glib shoulder. “It’s possible.”
Celine forced herself to relax while she searched the sea of
faces around her, trying to determine which member of La
Cour des Lions also happened to be well versed in the law. But
none of its ranks met her gaze. Nor did a single one of them
move a muscle. It was as if they were all chiseled from stone.
“Amazing that you would have the foresight to do that, Mr.
Saint Germain.” Detective Grimaldi clicked his tongue against
the roof of his mouth. “Truly I envy your sources.”
“I learned from example, Detective Grimaldi.” Bastien’s eyes
pulled taut around the edges. “The mind is a sword. Knowledge
is its whetstone.”
“Of course.” Detective Grimaldi snorted. “If you prefer, I’d
be happy to oblige you and move everyone to our headquar-
ters before I continue questioning the young lady.” A knowing
gleam took shape in his colorless gaze.
“I am equally happy to comply.” Though Bastien kept his voice
cordial, the menace swirling between them thickened further.
“However, I cannot speak as to whether everyone here will be
as . . . amenable.”
Celine swallowed. Something had altered, shrinking to a
point. Though the two young men engaged each other civilly,
it was impossible to miss the sentiment underlying their ex-
change.
The mutual, unadulterated hatred.
True danger—the kind that hinted at bodily harm—swirled
around them. Bastien stepped from the circle of scales around
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his feet, moving closer to Pippa. As though he were making a silent threat. Daring the detective to press further.
What followed was subtle. Nigel, Arjun, the man from the Far
East, and the two women with the dangerous rings glanced at
Bastien in unison, their bodies rigid with awareness.
Waiting for something to happen.
It should not have worked. But the police officers waiting on
the periphery mumbled among themselves. The youngest of
the five—a boy of barely eighteen—slid his gaze from Toussaint
to Bastien. He shuddered the following instant.
What was it about Bastien—about this place—that made
them all quail in their boots?
One of the officers—an older gentleman with a ruddy nose
and rheumy eyes—stepped forward. “Eh, Michael,” he began in
a thick drawl, “listen, my boy, perhaps it would be—”
“Detective Grimaldi,” the young detective corrected without
even glancing at the man who spoke.
The officer coughed once, but failed to conceal his resulting
frown. “Detective Grimaldi . . . perhaps it’s best if we conduct our interviews here, sir.”
Displeasure flickered across Michael Grimaldi’s face. Celine
sensed he wished to protest, but recognized the tides were
turning against him. “Very well, Sergeant Brady.”
In that instant, it became clear that everyone present—save
for Celine and Pippa—knew something about Jacques’ and its
peculiar denizens that was not apparent at first glance. Sébas-
tien Saint Germain did indeed wield a strange kind of power
within these paneled walls. Not once had he issued any direct
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threats or raised his voice. Nevertheless he managed to hold everyone present in an invisible vise.
The hint of this kind of power—the mere suggestion of it—
sent Celine’s blood on a tear through her body, her mind spin-
ning with possibility. The possibility that she, too, could wield this kind of influence over others.
That she, too, could crush her detractors in a vise.
Appalled by this reaction—by her growing obsession with
power of any kind—Celine stood suddenly, wishing to run from
her own skin.
It was a thoughtless move. Her heart sank like lead in her
stomach when she realized she’d drawn attention to herself in
the worst possible way.
The young detective turned toward her, letting his gaze settle
a moment. “May I help you, miss?” he intoned.
Celine considered her options before responding. She
watched Detective Grimaldi’s eyes flicker
over her. From the
shining curls of her dark hair to the faint sheen of sweat along
her brow. To the bit of black ribbon about her throat and the
blue gabardine dress fastened tightly across her bust. She
minded how his brows arched. Took note of the rise and fall of
his chest. Observed how his expression sharpened with admi-
ration, though he tried to conceal it.
Young men were predictable. Especially young men who
appreciated life’s finer things like Detective Grimaldi did, as
evinced by his manner of dress.
It was a truth she’d realized at the age of twelve.
Celine lowered her eyes and stepped forward. Then she lifted
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her lashes slowly, offering him a tentative smile. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, Detective Grimaldi, but might I beseech you for a
favor?” She tilted her head in a coy fashion.
His pale eyes widened. “As a rule, I tend not to agree to such
requests until I hear the terms, Miss . . .” He waited for her to offer her name, a distinct rasp in his voice.
“Please call me Celine.” She tucked a black curl behind an ear.
“And could I implore you to make an exception to your rule,
just this once?”
“Against my better judgment, I might be persuaded.”
From her periphery, Celine swore she heard Nigel snort. She
disregarded it, not even allowing herself to consider how Pippa
might perceive her behavior in this moment. How . . . others
might perceive it. She smiled brightly, then leaned closer, as if she wished to tell Detective Grimaldi something in confidence.
“It’s terribly late, and our . . . guardian will be looking for us.
Would it be possible for us to conduct these interviews tomor-
row, in the light of day?” Celine paused for breath, her green
eyes imploring him without words. She considered reaching
out to touch the young detective’s arm, but that would be too
forward, and she did not wish to mishandle the small amount
of magic she’d managed to conjure in this moment, all in an ef-
fort to achieve a greater goal.
Celine desperately wanted to leave. To give herself an hour to
collect her thoughts and speak with Pippa in private. A chance
to tell the right story to themselves, so that they could offer it later as the unswerving truth.
“Us?” Detective Grimaldi asked.
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