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Celine nodded. “I’m here with my dear friend Pippa.”
The young detective glanced over her shoulder. Then re-
turned his gaze to Celine. “I’d wager your guardian must be
quite concerned about your welfare, given the hour.”
Celine nodded again. “I’d hate to worry such a good woman,
especially if she hears about the unfortunate events that trans-
pired tonight.”
“Of course,” he agreed, his expression filled with concern. “It
would be terrible for her to think something might have hap-
pened to you both.”
Celine sensed he was on the cusp of acquiescing. Could it
really be that easy?
Detective Grimaldi leaned closer. Almost too close. “You
know,” he began, his voice low and husky, “you’re a very beauti-
ful young woman. Perhaps the most beautiful young woman
I’ve ever met.”
Celine blinked. Then laughed airily. “Thank you, Detective
Grimaldi.”
“In fact . . . you might be too lovely for your own good,” he
murmured.
“Pardon me?”
He bent toward her right ear. “Sit down,” he directed her,
“before you embarrass yourself any further.”
Outrage flared through Celine’s body, hot and cold all at once.
“How dare—”
The young detective turned his back on her before she could
finish admonishing him. That time she could not ignore the
chortle that escaped Nigel’s bearded mouth, nor the look of
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puckish glee Arjun passed her way. Celine dared not glance at Bastien, though she desperately wished to glower at the figure
standing nearby in silence, taking up too much confounded
space.
Bastien had come to Pippa’s defense. Why had he done noth-
ing to help Celine?
The very next instant—as if she’d heard Celine’s unspoken
plea—Pippa shot to her feet in a rustle of voile. “Detective
Grimaldi, I would kindly ask that you not forget there are la-
dies present.” Her voice shook on the last word, but her fists
curled against her sides. “Furthermore, I would also request
that you make your inquiries in an expeditious manner. We’ve
been waiting here for quite some time and are likely to incur
the wrath of the Mother Superior at the Ursuline convent.”
Detective Grimaldi pivoted on his heel. “You reside at the
convent?” He looked to Celine first for an answer. She held her
tongue, refusing to reply, humiliation still rippling through her veins.
“Yes,” Pippa answered, moving closer to Celine in solidar-
ity. “We do.” She inhaled through her nose. “So does”—she
swallowed—“so did Anabel.”
“Anabel?” He cast Pippa a searching glance.
“The young woman who perished tonight,” Celine offered in
a quiet tone.
Michael Grimaldi stared at her for a breath before nodding.
“Then you knew this poor girl?”
Celine balled her fists, her nails digging into her palms. “Yes.
She is one of us. One of seven girls who recently took up res-
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idence at the convent. Her name is Anabel—” She turned to Pippa.
“Stewart,” Pippa said, her voice cracking. “Anabel Stewart,
from Edinburgh.”
“I see,” the detective mused. “Did Miss Stewart accompany
you here tonight?”
Pippa eyed Celine sidelong. “Well—”
“We didn’t know she followed us,” Celine said, her words
filled with resignation. Now that Pippa had disclosed their as-
sociations, it was better they reveal everything at once, rather
than prolong the matter by forcing him to wring from them
every last drop of information.
Though Celine would not have been unhappy to watch him
struggle.
Another bout of shame clawed up her throat. How could she
be pleased to thwart the young detective charged with bringing
about justice for Anabel? After all, Celine was partly to blame
for what had happened tonight.
The moment she’d pondered earlier—the moment in which
she’d realized she was making the wrong choice—crushed her
with its finality. Even then, she’d known she would regret her
actions, though she never could have conceived of such a ter-
rible outcome. Celine despised feeling this way. Like a cog in a
wheel, powerless to her fate.
Better to be anything else.
To be a ghost in the night, commanding those around her
without words.
In that instant, Celine thought she had an inkling of what it
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must be like to be a monster. To commit monstrous deeds. To wish for monstrous things to come about.
To revel in the dark.
“Miss?” Detective Grimaldi said loudly, as if he’d tried to
catch Celine’s attention several times already.
She shook her head, forcing her raging thoughts to quiet.
“Celine?” Pippa whispered beside her. “The detective asked
you a question.” She reached for Celine’s hand and squeezed it,
their wordless affirmation that each of them was not alone, no
matter what happened. More than ever before, it strengthened
them both.
Detective Grimaldi studied Celine, his pale, almost colorless
eyes unnerving in their focus. “Do you know why Miss Stewart
followed you here without your knowledge?”
“I am not privy to anyone’s real thoughts but my own, Detec-
tive Grimaldi.”
“True.” He paused. “But perhaps”—he shifted closer, bearing
down on Celine with his impressive height—“you would in-
dulge me for just a moment.”
Incredulity settled across Celine’s features. The brashness of
this boy, to make requests of her after humiliating her so pub-
licly! “Of course, Detective Grimaldi,” she said through clenched teeth. “I would be happy to oblige you.”
“Charming,” he pronounced in a flat tone. The next breath,
his expression grew stern. He stood even taller, an unspoken
threat emanating from his broad chest. “I must insist you an-
swer my questions honestly, without further delay, or I will be
forced to use the full breadth of my office to—”
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“That’s enough, Michael.” Bastien’s words were a dangerous whisper.
Finally, Celine seethed to herself. Lucifer had finally seen fit to extend his magnanimity her way.
Bastien shouldered past Celine, stepping before Michael
Grimaldi, standing much too close for comfort, matching him
toe to toe.
Detective Grimaldi eased back. A dark satisfaction coiled in
Celine’s chest. How she longed for the ability to frighten some-
one with nothing more than her presence. To live in Bastien’s
skin for just an hour. To know what it felt like to have that kind of power.
“As Celine already said, neither she nor Miss Montrose was
privy to Miss Stewart’s actual thoughts and could, therefore,
only speculate about the latter’s reasons for following them,”
Bastien continued in a measured tone. “Any further questioning
on your part insinuates that the lady is withholding the truth.”
The detective nodded once. “Which is simply a kinder way to
say the lady might be a liar.”
A muscle jumped in Bastien’s jaw. “You still haven’t learned
your lesson.”
“And you still fancy yourself a knight in shining armor. Some
kind of dark prince.” He sneered. “Do you plan to call me out
again? Shall it be pistols at dawn or sabers in the square?”
“That depends.” Bastien paused. “Are you going to beg your
cousin to save you again?”
A glimmer of rage passed across Detective Grimaldi’s fea-
tures. “Very well. I’ll dispense with the formalities.” He spoke
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to all those present, the tenor in his voice reverberating off the paneled walls. “Everyone here is a possible suspect in a
murder. All of you might be lying to me.” His lips coiled into
a smirk. “In fact, I expect it. Know that I will not relent until I uncover the truth. The Court of the Lions does not hold more
authority than the New Orleans Metropolitan Police, despite
the lore surrounding it. As an officer of the law, I am duty-
bound to pursue any course of action to determine how this
poor young woman came to be found murdered, drained of
all her blood.”
At this revelation, a block of ice settled around Celine’s heart, the cold burning into her throat. “Someone . . . drained Anabel
of her blood?”
Swiveling toward her, the detective nodded. “And used it to
write that mathematical symbol beside her body.”
“Actually . . . I don’t think it has anything to do with math-
ematics,” Celine said, awareness giving her voice life. “It makes far more sense that it would be a letter or a character.” A different kind of power threaded through her. A kind unlike any she
had ever known. “Perhaps even one from an ancient text.”
Detective Grimaldi’s brows arched before he managed to
wipe his face clean of all emotion. “Interesting. And how did
you come about this hypothesis?”
“My father is a professor of linguistics. He had a chart on
the wall of his office, showing the evolution of the English lan-
guage.” Exhilaration flared through Celine. This was the detail that had troubled her for the last hour. This was the thing that had remained just beyond her reach.
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“Do you know what the symbol stands for?” the detective pressed.
“It looks similar to the letters L or C in Latin or Greek, but it isn’t written correctly. It’s as if it’s been turned askew or written by the hand of a drunkard.”
“I see.” He pronounced these two words slowly.
Contemplatively.
Celine cut her gaze at the young detective. “It’s within your
purview to suspect everyone here, but you can’t possibly think
I would tell you these things if I had anything to do with Ana-
bel’s death. It would be tantamount to confessing that I am the
murderer.”
Sergeant Brady stared at Celine as if she’d sprouted wings and
a horn. “Well, I’ll be damned. Has the girl gone and confessed?”
Michael Grimaldi peered over his shoulder, his expression
wry. “In the future, I would take the time to listen fully before coming to conclusions, Sergeant Brady.” He focused once more
on Celine. “I will say, however, that I’m intrigued by the notion.
Would you mind—”
Bastien cut him off before he could finish. “If you wish to
continue this line of questioning, I insist you arrange a time to meet at your headquarters tomorrow, so that Miss Rousseau is
afforded the chance to secure her own representation.”
Though Bastien obviously wished to aid Celine, it grated her
to appear helpless in anyone’s eyes. “While I appreciate your
efforts, Monsieur Saint Germain, I do not need you to defend
me.”
Like the other members of La Cour des Lions, Arjun had
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stayed silent during this exchange, but he stood now, laughing quietly. “He’s not defending you, poppet. He’s doing what he
does best: negotiating.”
At that precise moment, a breathless Odette appeared at
the top of the stairs. She gripped the railing with a gasp, then
swiped her disheveled hair from her brow, leaving a smudge of
red dirt across her forehead.
Celine was not prepared for what followed in Odette’s
shadow. At her booted heels—breathing heavily from
exertion—stood the Mother Superior of the Ursuline convent.
Celine’s erstwhile savior . . . as well as her possible
executioner.
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HIVER, 1872
AVENUE DES URSULINES
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
i
Tonight was both a failure and a success.
I freely admit the girl’s death was unfortunate. As I said
before, I do not relish the taking of a life. But ultimately I cannot dwell in remorse. In the grand scheme of things, she is no
more than a cog in a clock.
And my enemies have lived on borrowed time long enough.
With her death, I’ve left my intended message. But still I
failed to achieve the whole of my purpose. The greatest enemy
of my kind walks free, his reputation intact. Without a hint of
suspicion trailing in his wake. This knowledge enrages me. The
thieving wretch does not deserve to slither about unscathed—
to occupy positions of power and influence—after all the things
his family has done to mine.
I could kill him. Break his neck. Bleed him dry. It would be
simple. Deserved. After all, he is the reason I walk this world
bereft of light. Because of him, I lost everything. My very hu-
manity, even.
I could do it. I could bring about his demise.
But his death at my hands would incur war and ruination to
those around me. Would deepen the rift between the Fallen
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and the Brotherhood. Between my family and his. First I wish to see him suffer. I wish to see them all meet their maker and be sent to the fiery pit where they belong.
I pray you not judge me too harshly for this. I know these
kinds of petty considerations are unbecoming of an immortal
such as myself, but there is a thin line between justice and
vengeance. That line is the edge of a blade.
One day I will plunge it into his soul.
The girl, however, did intrigue me. Not the one with the mild-
mannered expression and the heart-shaped face. I know there
/>
are those who are drawn to people like her. They seek tranquil-
ity. A place to rest their heads.
I seek nothing of the sort. I have rested far too long.
But that girl . . . that girl with the unflinching stare and the
knowing expression. She possesses the look of someone who
has met Death on a field of battle and managed to live another
day. I am intrigued by her. I am curious about the scars Death
left behind. I want to know who she is. What she’s done.
What role she will play in this tale of woe.
My interest consumes me in a dangerous way, for demons
like me are predisposed to obsession, and I do not have the
time for any distractions. Once, years ago, my sister in the
night lost herself chasing after an unremarkable human, try-
ing to find answers to questions she should have known better
than to ask.
I could not save her. The light of the moon betrayed me that
evening. My heart still bears the wounds, years later. I should
know better than to be consumed by curiosity. I should not care
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what this enchanting creature thinks. What she does, or what she feels.
And yet . . .
I must care. No matter how fragile she is—how delicately
her life hangs in the balance—she is a tool to be used and dis-
carded. A hammer intended for a very specific nail.
She will be the one in the end. The one who sends my enemy
deep into the pits of Hell, where he belongs. I can see it, as true as I can sense the moon at my shoulder, high at its peak, its light as much a source of comfort as it is a source of pain.
My enemy is just as enthralled as I. Even more so because
he desires her in actuality, not simply as a pawn in a grander
scheme. The thought fills me with delight. Perhaps I have fi-
nally found something of his with which to toy. Something to
make him squirm. To take from him for everything he—and his
kind—have taken from me.
For never was a story of more woe.
Soon he will know what it feels like to be unmade.
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A Silhouette in a Dream
i
T’es une allumeuse, Celine Rousseau.”
You’re a tease, Celine Rousseau.
Rivers, rivers, rivers of blood. The smell of warm copper and
salt. The gentle swirl of her thoughts as her focus escaped her,
