The Beautiful

by Renee Ahdieh

  “Of course, my dear. May God go with you. May you live a life of bounty and purpose.” Then—after the slightest hesitation—the Mother Superior turned toward the convent, her cross swaying with her steps, the scent of lanolin and medicinal ointment trailing in her wake.

  Celine stood in the rain for a time, Pippa waiting nearby, quietly wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of one hand. It was an exercise in futility, for the rain soon began to fall in earnest, its fat droplets plinking onto the iron railing and splashing onto their skin.

  Pippa removed the shawl from her own shoulders, draping it over Celine’s. “You’re shaking.”

  “Am I?” The throbbing in Celine’s head was worsening. She touched her temple and found a tender spot from where she’d struck the floor in her struggle with the killer.

  “Tomorrow I’ll make inquiries with some of the other women in my ladies’ organization,” Pippa continued. “Perhaps Phoebus’ mother will know of a place you can go.”

  “Thank you,” Celine mumbled, “but the boat to Tartarus is full.” She spoke the last under her breath. I am a Titan, after all, she sneered to herself.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you, dear.” Infinite patience rounded out Pippa’s response.

  “I said thank you, but I will make the inquiries myself.” Celine refrained from gritting her teeth, aware of how wrong it was to turn her frustrations on her closest friend.

  Pippa’s brows tufted together, betraying her own mounting irritation. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, Celine. It’s not your fault that a madman has unleashed himself on those near you. Nor is it your fault you’ve been asked to quit the convent.”

  “Even if the Mother Superior had not asked me to go, I would have left of my own will. It isn’t safe for me to stay. It would be better . . . if I never showed my face here again.”

  “I see.” Pippa blinked through the rain, her eyes shimmering suspiciously. Then she wiped her chin on her sleeve. Renewed her convictions with a bright smile. “Well, perhaps we can let a room together. Wouldn’t that be lovely? I’ve always liked Marigny.”

  Her words iced the blood in Celine’s body. Made her want to flee as fast as she could. She could not have Pippa anywhere near her. Of all people, Pippa should be as far from Celine as possible. Being near Celine Rousseau had become a kiss of death.

  And she did not know what she would do if something happened to Pippa because of her.

  To their right, the doors to the convent scraped open with yawning slowness. Two sullen officers shifted into view, bearing between them a bundle wrapped in linen sheets. Already the center of the sheets was stained red, the rain causing the blot to spread, its edges lightening to a pale pink. Celine watched in silence as they moved toward an open wagon waiting along the lane to bear the body to the station.

  William’s arms hung lifeless on either side of him, one of his hands still twisted in an unnatural position. They flopped like dead fish as the two officers lifted his battered body into the back of the wagon. Tears began to well in Celine’s eyes.

  Just a few days ago, William had offered Arjun a cutting from the convent’s garden, to help remind Arjun of home. He’d shown him a kindness, expecting nothing in return.

  Now he was dead, the last remembrance in his life the face of his killer.

  The tears spilled over, flowing down Celine’s cheeks in steady streams.

  Not once had she cried in earnest since that night in the atelier. Her mind had forbidden her the reprieve. She hadn’t cried when she’d realized her life in France was over. The first night aboard the Aramis, she’d listened to the soft sniffles of countless other young women. Still she’d failed to shed a single tear. She hadn’t cried even when Anabel had been slain.

  Why did the sight of William’s broken body move her to tears? Perhaps the dam inside her had finally burst. Or perhaps this was one crack too many in her façade.

  To thine own self, be true. The killer had quoted Shakespeare, as if he could see into Celine’s soul.

  Guilt seeped into her bones, burning like acid as it traveled down the length of her body. Bile choked in her throat. Celine was the reason this kind man and a lovely young woman had died.

  She would not be the reason anyone else died. Ever again.

  Without thought or consideration—her tears trailing down her cheeks, joining hands with the rain—Celine began to walk.

  “Celine?” Pippa called out from behind her.

  Celine ignored her and quickened her pace. Turned into the lemon grove, deliberately winding through the trees, pausing for a time in an effort to shake Pippa from her trail. Beneath a dripping branch, Celine took a deep breath, filling her head with the sweet scent of citrus as it mingled with the metal and moss of an early spring shower. Entreated her spirit to grant her the fortitude necessary to do what must be done.

  The street lay empty through the iron gate, a few short steps and a world away.

  In a moment, she would disappear and never turn back. It didn’t matter where she went. It only mattered that she vanish without a trace. That no one else perish because of her.

  “Celine!” She heard Pippa shout from the opposite side of the lemon grove.

  Now was her best chance. Celine darted from the shade of the tree, making her way toward the gate and the lonely freedom of a misty street.

  A tall man stepped into her path, his tweed cap pulled low on his brow. “Celine,” he said calmly, his eyes like chips of ice.

  Celine stumbled midstep, her composure on the cusp of splintering. “Yes, Detective Grimaldi?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve been asked to leave the convent.” She attempted to skirt him, but he shifted once more, blocking her from reaching the gate.

  Anger lined Michael’s features. “You’ve been asked to leave . . . tonight?” His words sounded muffled to her. As if he were speaking into a void or at the end of a long tunnel.

  Desperation clutched around her heart. “Let me go, Michael. Please.”

  “Now is not the time for anyone to be walking the streets alone, least of all you.”

  It was a cool declaration. But it seared through Celine like a brand, reminding her of the many deaths on her conscience. One by her own hand. “Get out of my way,” she said, her voice dangerously close to breaking.

  “No.”

  Celine shoved Michael with all her might. She didn’t stop to watch him fall. She simply raced toward the gate, her feet flying above the pavestones, her heart pounding at a frantic pace. The memory of what Bastien had said to her the night they first met echoed through her ears. He’d likened her to a lunar goddess who dragged darkness with her wherever she went.

  She would bring no more darkness here. She’d run away once to begin a new life. She could do it again, without a single glance over her shoulder.

  A firm hand yanked Celine off course, gripping her forearm tightly. Then it pulled her into a solid chest, clasping both her wrists behind her, forcing the air from her lungs. Michael towered over her, caging her with his arms, effectively rendering her immobile. He was stronger than he appeared at first glance, his body shifting beneath his wet garments like sinew.

  “You little fool,” he snarled under his breath, fury sharpening his features. “You think you’re going to run away and everything will be as it once was?”

  Celine glared up at him, drops of rain catching on her eyelashes. “Go to Hell.”

  “Will you make sense in Hell? If so, then lead the way.”

  “Sense?” she cried. “Tonight I was attacked by a creature that could fly. It taunted me. Said I belonged to it. Told me death was a garden and likened its work to the Battle of Carthage. Two nights ago, I was stalked by something that crawled up a wall and vanished in the wind without a trace.” Celine laughed, the sound bordering on crazed. “It knew my n
ame. Tell me, Michael Grimaldi, does any of this make sense?”

  Michael’s nostrils flared. He released her wrists, a veil of lethal calm descending over his face. “Why am I only now hearing of the incident from two nights ago?”

  “Am I to report to you at every turn?” Celine laughed again. Pushed him away, her hands thrown in the air. “Besides, I sound like a lunatic. Like someone who lived in the dungeons of the Bastille for an age, deprived of sunlight and air and all that is necessary to survive.” Her chest heaved as she took in a ragged breath.

  His expression unreadable, Michael stared down at her, his pale gaze steady. “What happened when the creature stalked you two days ago? How did you manage to escape?”

  “Bastien.”

  “Bastien?” Michael’s eyes narrowed, a muscle jumping in his neck. “Why was Bastien there?”

  “I haven’t the faintest clue. Perhaps you should stop behaving like a belligerent child and ask him. It’s possible he has a death wish, too.”

  Michael opened his mouth to retort, but the clatter of an arriving carriage stole his attention, sparing Celine from having to partake further in the conversation.

  A glossy black brougham halted just outside the iron gates of the convent. Emblazoned on its door was the symbol of a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion. For a stutter of time, Celine allowed herself to hope a broad-shouldered young man would alight from its confines, his eyes like honed daggers and his jaw like hewn stone. Dared to dream he would gift her this enchanted carriage, capable of taking her to the ends of the earth. Tell her to go anyplace she wished. Swore to follow wherever she went, even to Hell itself.

  Ridiculous. A man should not have to grant her this kind of freedom. Celine should be able to take it herself. But she’d already tried to take it. Tried and failed numerous times, the world reminding her at all turns that her own liberty wasn’t hers to give, much less take. A woman absent money or prospects had no place in proper society. In such a society, a wife and daughter were legal possessions. Commodities used to curry wealth and favor.

  Perhaps it was time for Celine to reject proper society.

  As if to underscore the notion, the door to the brougham swung open and Odette bounded down its steps, dressed in trousers and polished Hessians, a military-style jacket draped across her shoulders. She raced toward Celine’s side, brushing past Michael with a look that would scald the sun.

  “Mon amie,” Odette said, her expression grave, her eyes reddened around the rims.

  Celine steeled herself, her shoulders all but quaking with gratitude. The fairy tales of her childhood had been filled with lies. No man had come to her rescue tonight, as they always did in the stories.

  But her friends had. First Pippa with her épée. Then Odette with her carriage.

  And just a moment ago, Celine had almost turned her back on them forever.

  Before Celine could say anything, Michael glared down at Odette, his colorless eyes seeming as if they could pierce her through her heart. “Miss Valmont,” he said curtly. “Word certainly does travel fast . . . rousing even the most ardent of sleepers.”

  “None of your nonsense tonight.” Odette glowered back at him, stone-faced. “My patience for mediocre young men has fallen dangerously low.” She looked to Celine, her features softening. “I came as soon as I heard.” Her gloved hands wrapped around Celine’s fingers. “What is it you wish to do? I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

  Michael cleared his throat. “An unnecessary offer. I will arrange a place for Celine at police headquarters. It’s well insulated from potential intruders, and officers will be stationed nearby at all times.” He stood tall, water dribbling from the brim of his tweed cap. “I myself will patrol the streets around it twice a night, so there is no need for this dramatic display of concern. Return to your gilded abode, Miss Valmont. Leave the real work to those accustomed to doing it.”

  Odette sniffed, the sound filled with derision. “Don’t be proud of that rejoinder, you sanctimonious prick. It’s work enough having to look upon you with a straight face.” Her sable eyes tapered to slits. “And perhaps we should let Celine make her own decisions, rather than informing her of yours, as you seem so keen to do.” She turned to Celine. “Mon amie, we can go wherever you like. Charleston or Atlanta. New York, if you prefer. Perhaps even San Francisco. And if you wish to stay in New Orleans, I can have a suite ready for you at the Dumaine within the hour.”

  Celine nodded, her thoughts racing in a whirl. She could go wherever she chose. Flee this place and all its mounting terrors. Her eyes closed as she allowed herself to dream of a new life. A slate wiped clean once more.

  Footsteps splashed through a nearby puddle, drawing to a sudden halt, the sound of frightened gasps punching through the darkness. Celine opened her eyes, locking on a single image.

  Pippa, the color drained from her skin, her lips trembling, her features awash in unmistakable relief. Her hem was six inches deep in mud, and a branch had scratched the side of her left cheek, tiny trickles of blood sliding toward her chin.

  This entire time, Pippa had been searching for Celine, her concern for her friend causing her to be heedless of all else, even her own well-being.

  If Celine ran away now, the killer might never be caught. He would likely continue wreaking havoc on the world she’d left behind. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to witness it with her own eyes anymore or be terrorized by its possibility. But she would always know. Would always wonder.

  And her friends would remain in danger.

  Rage is a moment. Regret is forever. Celine had enough regrets on her head. Running away like a victim would not be one of them ever again. She was not a victim.

  She was a survivor.

  “I want to stay in New Orleans,” Celine said. “But I have one condition.”

  THE HAUNTED PORTRAIT

  An hour later, Celine, Michael, and Odette stood in a corner of darkly veined marble, ensconced in the farthest reaches of a deserted hotel lobby.

  Above them, crystal-and-brass chandeliers hung like silent sentinels, chiming softly in a ghostly breeze. Lanterns housed in spheres of opaque glass glowed around the room, resembling will-o’-the-wisps floating through the night. Purple orchids and white jasmine perfumed the air, the scent hinting of wealth and far-flung locales. Positioned at either end of the entrance hall were large chinoiserie vases overflowing with long-stemmed roses so deep a shade of red, their petals appeared black in the shadows.

  Were Celine’s exhaustion not an anchor about her shoulders, she would have whiled away a moment marveling at the grandeur of the space. Everything about it felt like it had been decorated to suit a queen of darkness.

  “We’ve waited long enough, mon amie,” Odette said, her voice scratched and weary. “Tell us your condition, s’il te plaît.”

  Michael stood a healthy distance from Odette, his long arms crossed, his dark curls mussed by the rain. Though his face was lined with distaste, his pale eyes blazed bright.

  In a barely audible whisper, Celine informed them of her plan. Once she was finished, they stared at her in stunned silence, Odette blinking rapidly, as if her mind intended to flash through every possible outcome in the span of a single breath.

  “Over my dead body,” Michael announced in a flat tone.

  “Here’s hoping, mon cher,” Odette quipped. She turned toward Celine, her sable gaze uncertain. “But I must agree with the boor’s sentiment. Using yourself as bait to catch a crazed killer . . . sounds unduly foolish.”

  Michael sniffed with unmistakable scorn. “Finally a semblance of sense.” He nodded at Odette, who offered him a mocking bow in return.

  “I knew you would not agree at first,” Celine replied. “But by tomorrow, I hope you will see the logic of it. How it makes sense for us to take action rather than be forced into a corner.”

  “Logic?” Odett
e snorted. “It’s madness, mon amie. Sheer madness. I finally understand why you lied to Pippa before we left the convent. You must have known she would never accept this as an option.”

  “Pippa is . . .” Celine exhaled with great care. “I don’t want Pippa anywhere near me, at least not until this ordeal is over. She’s not selfish enough to worry about her own safety.” The image of Pippa trembling in a puddle—her eyes shining and streams of blood trickling down her cheek—was one Celine would not soon forget.

  “Failing to worry about one’s own safety isn’t selfless. It’s foolish.” Odette quirked a brow, her lips puckering in judgment.

  Celine nodded. “I agree. But I don’t have the patience to argue with Pippa about it. It isn’t my place to dissuade her. And I’d rather be the hunter than the prey. Wouldn’t you?”

  A contemplative look settled on Odette’s face at the same time a frown tugged at the corners of Michael’s mouth.

  “Then I have your support?” Celine asked Odette.

  Inhaling slowly, Odette nodded. “Though I’m certain I’ll live to regret this.”

  “You won’t,” Celine said, infusing her voice with a surety she did not feel. “Thank you, Odette.” With that, she shifted her attention toward Michael.

  His displeasure deepened at her scrutiny. “I have no intention of agreeing to this plan, so spare yourself the effort,” he said, his words characteristically curt. Unfeeling. “It was folly to come here. For both of us.” Michael pivoted in place and began walking toward the double doors at the hotel’s entrance. “I’ll send for your things in the morning, then make my way to the Dumaine shortly afterward to collect you,” he said over his shoulder.

  A crick in Celine’s neck sent a surge of discomfort down her spine. She tilted her head, wincing all the while. “It’s unfortunate you aren’t willing to listen to reason, Michael,” she called out after him. “But until you agree to help me, I plan to remain here at the Hotel Dumaine.”