by Renee Ahdieh
sipping afternoon tea at Claridge’s.
“Three. I have a brother and a sister.”
He considered her for a moment. “You must have been an
excellent role model for them. Undoubtedly far better than I.”
Pippa looked away. Swallowed. “I did my best, Detective
Grimaldi.”
“You don’t feel comfortable being candid in my presence,
Miss Montrose?” A furrow marred his forehead.
It was . . . unexpected of him to accuse Pippa of being dis-
ingenuous.
“I am being forthcoming,” Pippa said.
“Would it help if I told you I don’t harbor any suspicions
toward you, Miss Montrose?”
Pippa took a careful breath. “It would help, most definitely.”
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She bit her lower lip. “But that must mean you don’t have suspicions about Celine either, since we were together the
whole time.”
Arjun glanced up from his notebook.
The detective inclined his head, his colorless eyes unblinking.
“Are you quite certain you were in Miss Rousseau’s presence for
the entirety of the evening?”
Celine’s heart thrashed about her chest like a caged bird.
He’d trapped Pippa in a lie. So easily.
Pippa paled. “I . . .” She glanced at Arjun, who continued scrib-
bling in his notebook, offering her not a single word of advice.
“There was a brief time in which I left her side. But it could not have been for more than fifteen minutes,” she finished in a hurry.
“During that time”—Detective Grimaldi looked to Celine—
“did you interact with anyone else, Miss Rousseau?”
Celine didn’t even bother glancing toward Arjun for cues. It
was clear Detective Grimaldi already knew the answers to the
questions he was asking. He was trying to trip them. To muddy
the waters. To what end, Celine could only hazard a guess.
“I believe you know that answer already,” Celine said primly.
Nevertheless he waited for her response.
With a small sigh, she continued. “During that time, I shared
a brief conversation with the owner of the establishment.”
“Mr. Saint Germain.”
Celine nodded.
“And was he present throughout the entirety of your visit
to Jacques’?”
Awareness flared through Celine, hot and fast. Detective
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Grimaldi was after Bastien, not them. She should have realized it earlier, based on their mutual enmity from last night. Relief
flooded through her like cool water on a parched day. Her mind
whirled as it considered whether to disclose her observations
about the yellow ribbon.
But every word she spoke needed to be above reproach. And
she lacked incontrovertible proof.
“No,” Celine replied carefully, “he was not.”
Arjun stopped writing, his pencil stilling above his notebook
for an instant. Then he grinned to himself before resuming his
scribblings. But that breath of time had revealed his hand. The
truth of why the erstwhile attorney was here at all sharpened
into sudden focus.
He wasn’t here to help them. He’d come to protect Bastien.
To make sure his employer was not implicated in anything
untoward. These blackguards had inserted themselves into
Pippa and Celine’s unfortunate situation to safeguard their
own interests, proving they cared not a whit about anyone
else. Even though Arjun had said as much to Celine, her anger
rose in a sudden spike. The revelation about the yellow ribbon
threatened to burst from her lips in a spate of uncontrolled
fury, lack of proof be damned.
“Is something wrong, Miss Rousseau?” Detective Grimaldi
asked.
Curse him for being so observant. Celine cleared her thoughts with a toss of her dark curls. “Apart from the fact that I’m
being questioned by the police, I can think of nothing that might be wrong.”
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“I meant that you seemed piqued all of a sudden. As though something of note had captured your interest.”
“I only came to a troubling realization. That’s all.”
“May I inquire after it?”
Pointedly, Celine slid her gaze to Arjun. He met her glare,
then leaned back in his seat, the wood beneath him creaking at
the shift in weight. The corners of his hazel eyes narrowed, his
monocle glimmering as if in warning.
“It is with respect to Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine said.
Michael Grimaldi did not move a muscle, his stillness belying
his interest.
“Though I only saw it for a moment,” Celine began, “the image
of Anabel in death will forever be seared onto my mind, and I
wanted to be certain you’d caught every detail.”
The detective nodded.
Arjun tapped the end of his pencil against the black leather of
his notebook, a serene smile upon his face, though he kept his
attention locked on Celine.
Wordlessly, she dared him to stop her.
“Her pallid skin,” Celine continued. “Her eyes frozen open in
terror.” Beside her, Pippa shuddered. “Her unbound hair across her face . . .” She watched to see if Arjun had any reaction. Save for the continued tapping of his pencil against his notebook, he
was devoid of all emotion.
“And”—Celine paused—“that horrible, jagged wound.”
The detective waited.
“A kind of wound that would have produced a great deal of
blood, no doubt,” Celine said. “It would be all but impossible for
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anyone present last night—including Monsieur Saint Germain—
to have committed such a heinous crime, then drain their victim
of blood and remove all traces from their person in time.”
Detective Grimaldi steepled his hands before him. He stared
at Celine thoughtfully. She could not tell if he was impressed or irritated. “I came to a similar realization myself, Miss Rousseau,”
he said. “But precautions can be taken. Stained clothes can be
changed. Coats and gloves can be doffed just as easily as they
are donned.” He bent over his joined hands. “To that end, did
either you or Miss Montrose encounter anything you might
deem suspicious?”
Bastien had discarded his frock coat. Numerous members of La
Cour des Lions had carried weapons on their persons. Knives,
guns, ice picks, even rings that could double as instru-
ments of torture and violence. Suddenly the small red stain on
the collar of Odette’s shirt did not seem quite so innocuous.
Odette, a murderess? Celine almost laughed to herself. Then her blood ran cold.
Celine was a murderess.
Anyone was capable of committing ghastly deeds. And every-
one in the Court of the Lions appeared to possess otherworldly
gifts. Some could taste the flavor of deceit. Could make chess
pieces move about, bidden by the mind.
Could foretell the
future, with naught but a touch.
Arjun himself had stilled a man into a stupor, simply by
grabbing his wrist.
Celine looked about, fear seeping into her soul. All these
individuals were beyond the ordinary, their abilities extending
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far past parlor room tricks. But to what extent? Again she recalled what the two young women had revealed earlier in
the square, about “the Court” likely being responsible for the
decapitated girl along the docks.
The Court. La Cour des Lions.
Celine did not believe in coincidences.
And only a fool would provoke creatures with untold appe-
tites and unknown abilities.
If Celine wished to keep herself safe—to keep Pippa safe—
she needed to bend with the wind, no matter the bitter taste
it would leave on her tongue. Suddenly she understood why
the other officers of the New Orleans Metropolitan Police had
granted Bastien such a wide berth.
Cognez au nid de guêpe, et vous serez piqué.
Strike a wasp’s nest, and you will be stung.
Celine smoothed her apron overskirt. She met the detective’s
penetrating stare, refusing to flinch. “I’m sorry to say I saw
nothing of note, Detective Grimaldi.”
Disappointment flashed across his face. He looked to Pippa.
Surreptitiously, Celine reached under the table for Pippa’s
hand. Squeezed it tightly.
“I’m sorry, Detective Grimaldi,” Pippa said in a clear voice.
“But I didn’t see anything either.”
j
“It’s a shame my clients couldn’t be of more help to you,
Detective Grimaldi,” Arjun said as he held open the door of
the Mother Superior’s office.
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To his credit, he did not look the least bit smug.
Nevertheless, a hollow kind of rage spiraled through Celine’s
stomach.
“It is indeed a great shame,” Detective Grimaldi replied coolly.
He moved back to let Pippa pass, then waited just beyond the
oaken door.
When Celine crossed the stone threshold into the cavernous
corridor, the young detective shifted his tweed hat to his other
hand to walk alongside her.
He’d been waiting for Celine. Perhaps for another chance to
take her off guard.
Before Detective Grimaldi could continue probing any fur-
ther, Celine decided to wrest control of the situation and catch
him unawares first.
The quickest solution would be to needle the detective as he’d
needled her.
“It appears you know Monsieur Saint Germain well,” Celine
said, expecting this to provoke him, based on the charged ex-
change between the two young men the evening prior.
Michael Grimaldi surprised her. He did not seem perturbed in
the slightest by her inquiry. “Yes. We were schoolmates as children.
The best of friends.” He offered this with a knowing expression.
As though he were interested to see how this news affected her.
Celine frowned. “Friends? Then why are you—”
“I thought I was supposed to be the one with the questions.”
Celine bit down on the inside of her cheek while they walked.
“My apologies for asking,” she said, though she did not feel
sorry at all.
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The suggestion of a smile touched his lips. “It might be odd for me to say this, but you would have made quite a detective
yourself, Miss Rousseau.”
Celine snorted dismissively. While they followed Pippa and
Arjun down the corridor toward the double doors leading out-
side, she recalled what Arjun had said earlier this afternoon.
About being the wrong kind of person in the wrong kind of
skin. “Even you must be aware that those of the fairer sex could
never strive for such a lofty position, Detective Grimaldi.”
“Alas, you are not wrong.” The detective paused in contem-
plation. “Did you know the New Orleans Metropolitan Police
is one of the only police forces in our country to allow men of
color to serve in its ranks?”
“I did not.” Another spark of surprise warmed through Celine.
“It’s a rather recent development. Most likely a twisted ex-
periment of sorts.” He sighed to himself. “But as the grandchild
of a slave, I suppose it is a thing for which I should be grateful.”
A few steps ahead of them, Pippa and Arjun neared the mas-
sive double doors, Arjun reaching for a wooden handle to tug
it open. He paused to glance Celine’s way, and the ribbon of
widening light to his left caused his eyes to flash silver for an instant, as though he were a predator crouched in the shadows.
Inhuman.
Unnerved by the recurring thought, Celine returned her at-
tention to Michael Grimaldi, taking a moment to peruse his
features. “When we first met, I thought you were Italian. Are
you not?”
“I am.” The detective placed his hat beneath his arm and
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grasped hold of the other handle. “My father’s family hails from Sicily. But my mother’s family is of mixed blood, as are many
longtime residents of New Orleans. Beyond the Garden Dis-
trict, that is.” Detective Grimaldi moved aside to let Celine pass into the sunlight.
“I see,” Celine said slowly. Having the choice to conceal the
truth of her own blended heritage meant she’d been spared this
kind of cruel judgment. “It shouldn’t be revolutionary to think
one’s skin color should have no bearing on one’s place in society.”
The detective held open the door while Celine emerged into
the blinding brightness of the afternoon sun. “I agree,” he said.
“You may not be aware of this, but New Orleans society—
indeed, society throughout the South—bases much of its
notions on the one-drop rule.” He followed in her footsteps. “If
you possess a drop of African blood, you’re granted little in the way of consideration.”
Celine pondered this, her vision straining to adjust to the
harsh white light. She squinted up at him. “It’s the land of the
free in idea only, then.”
A smirk took shape on his face. “My father’s family were
humble cobblers in Palermo. They often struggled to put two
sticks together to start a fire. A chance for a better life brought them to the Crescent City fifty years ago.” He raised his right
hand to shield his gaze from the sun. “What brought you to
the shores of the New World, Miss Rousseau? The Mother
Superior told me you arrived by ship less than a fortnight
ago.”
Celine gripped the worn fabric of her skirts. “The same thing
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that brought your family here, Detective Grimaldi.” She grinned into the
light, her expression fierce. “Opportunity.”
The detective shifted, placing Celine in shadow, sheltering
her from the worst of the sun’s glare. “You’re very good,” he
whispered.
“Pardon?”
“You’re very good at hiding how smart you are.”
“And you’re very bad at trying to be charming.”
His lips twitched. “You don’t find me charming?”
“You’re still interrogating me, Detective Grimaldi. Would you find yourself charming in this instance?”
He swiped a large hand through his wavy hair. “Point taken.
And please,” he said, “call me Michael.”
“I . . . don’t know that that’s appropriate.”
“I find such beliefs tedious. It’s appropriate if we decide it
can be.”
“If only life were so simple. If only we all were smart enough
to shun tedium as you do.”
His colorless eyes—so light a shade of blue as to appear almost
white—shone oddly for an instant. Almost as if he were amused.
Nearby, Pippa coughed as if to clear her throat, and Celine
pivoted toward her. Arjun and Pippa waited just outside the
iron gate, their expressions incongruous. Pippa looked alert
and studious, her eyes wide, but not in a disapproving way. In
contrast, Arjun appeared unconcerned with the happenings
around him, save for the sharp light still glinting in his gaze.
If Celine had to guess, the young lawyer looked . . . cross.
An idea took shape in her mind. A simple way to impress
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upon Arjun—and his employer—that she would do as she pleased, despite their attempts to interfere.
Celine offered her right hand to Michael. “Have a good day,
Detective Grimaldi. Please see that you do not return here any-
time soon.” She sent him a teasing smile.
He offered her an awkward, almost forced grin, then took her
hand to press his lips to it. They were warm and soft. Despite
intending to assert the advantage, Celine felt her cheeks start
to redden.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked without warning.
“Not at all.”
His fingers tightened around hers. “You’re lying.”
“What?” Celine blinked in dismay. Was she that bad at it?
“It’s of little consequence to me if you are. You see, the
heart”—Michael lifted her wrist, where Celine’s pulse pounded
in her veins—“doesn’t lie.”
