by Renee Ahdieh
It was impossible to miss the dark cloud passing over Pippa’s features. Curiosity warmed through Celine again. It was the first time in five weeks that she’d seen a shadow descend on Pippa’s face when confronted with questions concerning her past.
Was it possible Pippa harbored a dark secret as well?
It just seemed so unlikely.
“There was nothing left for me in Liverpool,” Pippa began, as though she could read Celine’s mind, “except my family’s good name and a legacy of debt. My father . . . wasted his life and our fortunes in gambling hells and in the arms of fallen women.” She winced. “It was better that I leave and make my own path.”
Anyone listening would sense how much it pained Pippa to disclose these truths. A part of Celine felt honored that Pippa had chosen to confide in her. She wrapped her arm more tightly around Pippa’s, but could not ignore the dread coiling through her stomach.
Pippa would expect Celine to return the gesture. To trust her with details of Celine’s past. Sure enough, Pippa gazed at Celine as they made their way down the Avenue des Ursulines. Celine did not need to ask why. Her friend waited expectantly for Celine to offer her own tale of woe.
To share her painful truth.
More than anything, Celine wished to tell Pippa what had happened. But how would Pippa—her only friend in the New World—look upon her if she learned Celine had killed a man and fled Paris in the aftermath? Pippa had said it herself: what kind of monster takes a human life? At best she would stop looking upon Celine with the eyes of a friend. At worst?
Celine shuddered to think.
The result would be the same: she would have no one. So Celine kept to her story, offering Pippa a shrug of her shoulders. A dismissive smile.
“I completely understand about wanting to make your own way,” she said. “There was nothing left for me in Paris. It was better for me to begin anew elsewhere, too.”
Pippa said nothing. For a time she did not look away from Celine. Then she nodded, as though she’d made a decision to leave things be. For now.
* * *
The two girls made their way down Rue Royale, on the lookout for a sign that read Jacques’. As they turned a corner, they passed a narrow side street that reeked suspiciously of refuse. The alleyway was unlit. Removed from the realm of civilized folk.
Celine stopped short when the suggestion of a scuffle emanated from its shadows. It struck her like a bolt of lightning, electricity sizzling across her skin. A man cried out, begging for his life in a guttural mix of French and English. His words were followed by the sound of a fist against flesh.
What if a murder was occurring only steps from where they stood?
Celine knew it was wiser to continue on their course. To remain ambivalent. Safe.
But if a monster takes a life, what kind of creature refuses to save one?
Pippa tugged on Celine’s arm. Celine ignored her. Someone was being beaten to death in the alley, without recourse. The parable of the Good Samaritan rang in her ears, admonishing her to take notice. To act.
The man cried out again, and Celine took a step closer.
“Celine!” Pippa exclaimed in a loud whisper.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice called from the alleyway’s obscured center.
Without blinking an eye, Celine yanked Pippa into a fall of nearby shadows, her heart thudding in her chest. She peered around the corner—into the narrow alleyway—allowing her sight to adjust to the darkness.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Pippa whispered in Celine’s ear, her eyes wide with terror, her breaths heavy. “We should leave at—”
Celine pressed a finger to Pippa’s mouth and shook her head. She focused on the scene unfolding in the depths of the small side street. It took an instant to form an understanding.
A man lay on his side amid a pile of desiccated fruit peelings, his words garbled, his predicament clear. One hand was raised in supplication. His shoulders shook uncontrollably.
Two other men stood on either side of this poor soul, bracketing him like a pair of suited specters. Through the darkness, the shorter man lit a cheroot. A flash of firelight shone on a set of perfect white teeth and the bleached linen of his rolled shirtsleeves.
But it was not this man who caught Celine’s notice.
It was the taller one standing to his right, watching the violence unfold as though it were simple entertainment. A show performed onstage before a paying audience.
Atop his head, Celine recognized the tilt of a Panama hat.
Perhaps it was a coincidence. The boy she’d seen that first night—the one whose memory she’d struggled to conjure days later—could not be the only individual in New Orleans with a penchant for that style. But a deeper, more visceral part of Celine warned her not to put too much stock in coincidences.
“Please, Fantôme,” the man cowering in the muck begged. “Pardonnez-moi.” His voice trembled while he pleaded for forgiveness. He stretched a hand toward the figure in the Panama hat. The one he’d called the Ghost. An apt moniker for a creature so comfortable in the shadows.
“Apologies are nothing without amends, Lévêque,” the Ghost said in a richly rasping tone, his broad back to Celine, making it hard to discern any of his features. Even in the subtlest of motions, he carried himself as many young men of pedigree did in Paris: without a care in the world. As though the very air he breathed were laced with diamond dust.
The thought alone enraged Celine.
Continuing, he said, “You were warned what would happen the next time you behaved with such disrespect.” He nodded at the man smoking the cheroot, who rolled back his shirtsleeves to begin anew.
“Wait, wait, wait!” the cowering man said, his voice growing louder with each plea. He moved his forearm across his face to ward away the coming blows. “What do you want? Do you want me to apologize to her? I’ll beg on my knees for Mademoiselle Valmont’s forgiveness. I’ll—”
“Alas, Lévêque. You have nothing I—or Mademoiselle Valmont—want.” Leaning his right shoulder against the brick wall, he nodded again toward his compatriot with the cheroot.
Like a crack of thunder, a fist slammed into the trembling man’s face. As the beating continued, the Ghost pressed his fingers to the side of his throat as though he were checking his own pulse, then flicked away a speck of imaginary lint from his shoulder.
The sound of breaking bones splintered through the night, causing Celine to flinch.
This was cruel. Unnecessary. Appalling.
She moved to put a halt to the thrashing, but Pippa held fast to her arm. “Don’t interfere,” she said. “Please. Violent men are unpredictable.”
Her words stopped Celine cold.
Of course they were. She knew well what violent men were capable of doing. Her mind flashed to a late winter evening in the atelier. A wealthy young man offering to bring her hot tea and a warm blanket while she worked. The feeling of a clammy palm against her neck. How it shocked her in its uninvited wantonness. How a touch quickly turned painful. Nails digging into her arm. Fingers tearing through her hair. A roughened palm around her ankle.
No.
No.
No.
Then the smashing of a candelabra against his skull.
The silence that followed. The blood that flowed.
Celine stood frozen by this sudden wash of memory. In that moment, she’d become a murderess. The next, a fugitive. Now she lived in a convent across the Atlantic, each night sharing the word of God with other young women.
The irony.
Pippa gripped Celine’s forearm. “Celine?”
Celine shook herself from her thoughts as the man with the cheroot moved to exit the alleyway, wiping his bloodied knuckles with a silk handkerchief. Pippa inhaled sharply when Celine stepped into his path without thought, blocking him from proceeding farthe
r, meeting his hooded eyes with her own cool gaze. He quirked a brow at her.
Even without the aid of a gas lamp, Celine could see his obvious youth and the fine stitching on his expensive waistcoat of English damask. A slender gold chain hung around his neck, a monocle dangling from its center. His copper skin was unmarred—indeed almost too perfect—his hair a mass of dark waves. If Celine had to guess, his family likely hailed from the East Indies. His hazel eyes were filled with interest and not a small amount of admiration. It was almost as though he’d come across her on an evening stroll through a garden.
This was—by all rights—the look of a gentleman.
The boy’s eyes wandered over Celine, up and down. He let his gaze shift toward Pippa, whom he sent a slow smile. Then he bowed before stepping back, clearing the narrow path with a flourish.
And Celine was met—face-to-face—with le Fantôme. Pippa’s nails dug into Celine’s skin, eliciting a shudder of fear. Another jolt of heated awareness.
Le Fantôme glided closer, his movements soundless. He stood before Celine, his features absent any discernible emotion, the set of his shoulders easy. Strong. Though he wasn’t much taller than the boy with the monocle, his presence took up infinitely more space. She could well understand why their driver had yielded to him without thought. Celine stopped her eyes from widening, her lips from falling open. Were she to look upon this boy in the daylight, she would be forced to admit an unassailable truth:
The Ghost was the most striking young man she’d ever seen.
The skin above his cravat was bronzed, the muscles in his neck corded. Along his square jawline was the suggestion of stubble, its shadow accentuating the elegant symmetry of his features. It brought to light an aristocratic nose, which contrasted with his thick lashes and dark brow. Spanish maybe? North African perhaps? Regardless, he was an arresting mixture of the Old World alongside the New. A pirate bedecked in Savile Row.
He was . . . truly beautiful. Like a prince from a dark fairy tale.
Celine stood there a moment, words failing her. When she realized he’d rendered her speechless—stolen the very breath from her tongue—outrage coiled in her throat.
A glimpse of amusement flickered beside his lips. A slight indentation in his right cheek. The gesture reeked of arrogance. This boy knew full well what he looked like. Knew how to wield its power like a master of arms.
Celine narrowed her gaze at him.
When he spoke, his eyes flashed, granting his chiseled features a look of menace. “How may I help you this evening, mademoiselle?” he said in a low voice.
Since this fiend clearly enjoyed the sight of her flustered, Celine decided to ignore him, and instead turned toward the minion standing behind him, who propped one foot against the brick wall while inhaling from his cheroot.
“Does it make you proud to beat a helpless man, monsieur?” she asked him in a cold tone.
“Not in the slightest,” the other boy said in a British accent, around an exhalation of pale blue smoke. “But it does keep me limber for the boxing ring.”
“You dare to jest about such behavior?” Celine demanded. “You ought to be ashamed.”
The boy with the cheroot laughed. “The lovely young lady might speak differently if she knew what this bastard had done.”
“He is helpless. You and your”—Celine stabbed a finger in the Ghost’s direction, still refusing to acknowledge him—“friend have all the power.” When she finished speaking, the man in the muck squinted up at her from behind swollen eyelids. Then he slumped back down, his chest heaving from relief.
“What if we were defending a woman’s honor?” The boy put out his cheroot, grinding it beneath his heel.
The unexpected question took Celine off guard for an instant. “There is no honor in beating a helpless man.”
“A woman wise beyond her years,” the Ghost said softly, a strange accent threading through his speech. When he spoke, a wave of ice passed between Celine’s shoulder blades, sending a shiver down her spine. “But don’t presume to know everything, mademoiselle,” he continued.
Celine slid her gaze to his, her heart a low thud in her chest. She lifted her chin. “I know enough, monsieur.”
“Then know this: the truth is not always what you see.” He paused. “Now step aside.” His steely eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Please.”
Behind him, his friend laughed. “As I live and breathe,” he murmured. “Sébastien Saint Germain . . . acting the part of a gentleman instead of a blighter.”
In response, a muscle ticked in the Ghost’s jaw. The slightest hint of displeasure. He glanced toward his friend, warning him without words. The boy with the monocle grinned in response, which struck Celine as odd, given their circumstances. When one clearly outranked the other.
No matter. The Ghost had a name.
“You do not command me, Sébastien,” Celine said, her tone precise. “I defy you to try.”
Sébastien took in a careful breath. “I accept your challenge, mademoiselle.” With a wicked half smile, he took hold of her by the waist and moved her to one side, lifting her off her feet as though she were lighter than air.
Celine reacted on impulse—the desire to immobilize him as he had her. Her booted toes dangling above the cobblestones—matching him at eye level—she grabbed Sébastien by his silk cravat. Yanked tight, her expression determined. His eyes widened with surprise, a spark of fire burning in their depths. The indentation is his cheek appeared for less than an instant.
He was . . . amused?
Unmitigated ass.
She tightened her grip on his cravat. Felt the fine fabric wind through her fingers. Refused to avert her gaze, though he held her in the air like a puppet on a string.
“Celine!” Pippa’s voice was high-pitched. Celine didn’t need to guess how shocked her friend was. Pippa lurched closer, panic unfurling from her skin. “Forgive us for the interruption, sir.” Though Pippa addressed Sébastien, his gunmetal eyes never strayed from Celine’s.
“We need to leave,” Pippa urged her.
“Put me down, Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine demanded. “At once.”
To her surprise, Sébastien set her upon her feet. But he did not remove his palms from about her waist, just as Celine did not relinquish her grasp on his cravat. Even through her corset, she felt the touch of his thumb above her hip, the press of his long fingers into the small of her back. Her pulse thudded in her chest, its rhythm fast and fervent.
“She has teeth,” he said quietly. “But does she also have claws?”
“There is only one way to find out.” She meant it as a threat.
He took it as a challenge.
Sébastien’s smile was quick. Unstudied. Unusual in a boy who obviously prided himself on control. The edge in his features sharpened, leading Celine to suspect he wasn’t merely amused.
Was it possible he was intrigued?
Celine let go of his cravat, the back of her hand grazing an obsidian button as it skimmed over his waistcoat. Though it was far from the most improper thing she’d done tonight, the touch felt illicit. Stolen. Her cheeks warmed when something shifted in his gaze.
“Bastien.” His friend’s voice cut through their silent exchange. “We should go before someone summons the police.” He stepped forward purposefully, a palm moving to Sébastien’s shoulder, demanding his attention.
For a delicious instant, Bastien ignored it. Then he slid his hands from Celine’s waist, stepped back, and tipped his hat at her. With horror, she realized his touch had seared into her skin. That could be the only explanation for why the air around her waist felt so chilled. When he glided past her, the scent of bergamot and leather trailed in his wake.
A flurry of emotions raced through her body. Celine settled for indignation, grasping for it like a lifeline. When she turned to ensure she had the last
word, she caught a glimmer of silver in her periphery. It took less than the blink of an eye to realize its source.
The man in the mud had freed a dagger from his boot, his scarred features feral in the moonlight.
Celine cried out in warning, yanking Pippa to one side. In the same instant, Bastien whirled, withdrawing a revolver from inside his frock coat in a seamless motion. He took aim— meaning to fire—but his friend lunged for the man with the dagger, his right hand wrapping around the man’s wrist.
Without explanation, the man slumped forward, as though he’d suddenly fallen asleep, the dagger clattering to the ground beside him.
It all happened so quickly. Celine blinked once. Twice. Pippa struggled for breath, her blond curls quaking above her brow.
“What did you do?” Celine whispered to the boy with the monocle. “Is he . . . dead?”
The two young men held a wordless conversation.
“He’s . . . asleep,” the boy with the monocle said carefully, as though he’d settled on a version of the truth. “He’ll be jolly good in an hour, though the lummox doesn’t deserve it.”
“But—”
“We’re finished here,” Bastien said, his tone cold. Forbidding.
Celine glared at him. “You are absolutely not—”
“My apologies, mademoiselle. And to you, miss.” He bowed curtly to Pippa before gliding away. “Arjun?” he called over his shoulder. “I believe I owe you a drink.”
“Far be it from me to refuse such a generous offer.” Arjun smiled mockingly as he reached for the fallen dagger, tossing it deep into the alleyway. Then he stood and wiped his hands once more. “Especially from such an esteemed gentleman.”
Celine bit down on nothing as they began walking away, struggling to maintain her composure, her fists clenched. This cursed boy had stolen much from her in these moments. The words from her lips, the breath from her tongue. Now he thought to dismiss her like a child?
“You are no gentleman, Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine said loudly.
He stopped short. Pivoted on a polished heel. “Is that what you think, Celine?”