by Renee Ahdieh
Never was definitely not an option . . . was it?
Alas, Celine could not conceal these things from him forever. Resentment swirled through her like a fog tinged in red light. Pippa began crying quietly, her fingers winding around one of the handkerchiefs Celine had fashioned to raise money for the convent. One of the many embroidered fripperies Anabel had sold Odette earlier that very day.
How had it come to this?
What kind of horrible misfortune had befallen Anabel?
And why the devil had she acquiesced to the Mother Superior’s wishes? Celine clenched her fists in her skirts, anger heating her blood.
Tonight, the cost of Anabel’s decision had been her life.
Celine shook her head quickly, fending off the rising guilt. Wishing to banish the image of Anabel’s mauled body from her mind. Her efforts proved futile. Even in the few seconds before Pippa’s scream and Odette’s shout had torn through the night—before Bastien and Arjun and Nigel had raced to their sides—the image of Anabel’s death mask had seared itself forever onto Celine’s eyelids.
She glanced about, wondering how long the Metropolitan Police’s most celebrated detective would take to question them. None of those waiting had yet to speak with him. Upon arrival, 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 revolver, 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 movement in all directions, too many questions crowding her mind.
But now that a tense kind of calm had descended—an aerialist on a tightrope—several details struck Celine as odd. First, 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 gruesome 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 alleyways and avenues adjoining Jacques’.
In the crush of shrieking bodies, Odette had disappeared without a word. At first, Celine and Pippa had worried something 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 establishment. 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. 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 circumstances. “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.
ONE OF US
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 appearance 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 until 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 perpetrator of this horrific crime.” He took a step closer, moving 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 found 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 cr
owd for just a—”
“No,” Bastien interrupted, his tone low and harsh. Brimming with unmistakable anger. He remained in shadow, refusing to comply in even the simplest of terms. Behind him, the curtains bristled as though a breeze had ruffled their edges. “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 officers. 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, Detective Grimaldi eased his stance, shifting back onto his heels. “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 headquarters 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 exchange.
The mutual, unadulterated hatred.
True danger—the kind that hinted at bodily harm—swirled around them. Bastien stepped from the circle of scales around 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. Sébastien Saint Germain did indeed wield a strange kind of power within these paneled walls. Not once had he issued any direct 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 spinning 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 admiration, 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 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 tomorrow, 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 effort 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.
Celine nodded. “I’m here with my dear friend
Pippa.”
The young detective glanced over her shoulder. Then returned 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 transpired tonight.”
“Of course,” he agreed, his expression filled with concern. “It would be terrible for her to think something might have happened 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 beautiful 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 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 nothing 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 ladies 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.”