by Renee Ahdieh
Come with me to the heart of Chartres.
The phrase was missing from Michael’s collection. Evidently Celine had neglected to mention it to him. Did it matter? Did it hold any meaning? Who was this madman, and why was he killing people around them? Where was he hiding, in plain sight or in a shadowy labyrinth of his own? He could be among so many of the people she had met thus far. Or he could be none of them at all.
One thing was clear: Celine was finished waiting for him to make his next move.
Frustration clutched at her throat, the heat of barely checked rage warming across her skin. Her resolve hardened further. She would bait the killer into a trap the night of the masquerade ball, when he believed her to be preoccupied by drink. She would appear to indulge herself in the carnival festivities, and then leave the ball to wander the Quarter alone, just as she had the first evening the killer had followed her, a mere fortnight ago.
The fiend wouldn’t know that members of the Court would be lurking nearby in an ever-tightening circle, waiting for him to reveal himself. To finally make a misstep.
And if it didn’t work?
Celine would simply set the trap again at a different time and place.
Perhaps it was ridiculous to think she could outwit such a villain. But at least it was something.
Beside her feet, the rays of sunlight stretched long and lean as dusk began to descend on New Orleans, the sky catching fire along the horizon. Celine huffed, the echo unspooling into the plaster ceilings.
“What a waste of time,” she murmured to no one. Stopped herself from kicking the corner of Michael’s inordinately tidy desk like a child denied a sweet. There were so many other things she could be doing. Should be doing. Her glance fell on the skirt of Odette’s ball gown, strewn across the end of the rickety cot. For several hours this morning, Celine had worked to persevere and put the finishing touches on it. The masquerade ball was only two days away, and she still needed time to complete her own costume. But the needles had fallen from her shaking fingers, her nerves frayed from the prior evening’s events. No matter what Celine did, she could not silence the riot of her thoughts.
Militant footsteps rounded the corner just beyond the locked door. Celine listened, glancing at the clock to verify—once more—the time the guards patrolled the corridors outside Detective Grimaldi’s office.
Being quarantined like a cholera patient had been a waste of precious hours in many respects, but at least it had helped Celine gather the information necessary for tonight’s venture:
A midnight prison break.
By her count, guards patrolled the impressive brick edifice beside Saint Louis Cathedral every fifteen minutes. In two-hour increments, someone knocked on the door of Michael’s office to check on Celine or deliver something for her to eat. If she wished to attend to her physical needs, an officer stationed just around the nearest bend in the hall was there to make sure she returned to Michael’s office immediately afterward.
Michael himself had come twice to check on her since daybreak.
As he’d promised, Celine was well attended. It would be quite a task indeed for any intruder to make his way past the impressive squadron of guards surrounding the building, up its winding staircases to the third floor, and into its slew of hallways, patrolled as they were at all hours.
But she would wager none of them had considered whether Celine would wish to break out of this makeshift prison.
Of course it was wild and irresponsible to attempt such a thing. Alas, Celine suspected that if she even asked to leave the premises, Michael himself would be there to thwart her every move. Besides that, Celine did not think he would take kindly to her request to meet with any member of La Cour des Lions at police headquarters, let alone Bastien.
Merde, she thought to herself. I never should have told him anything, least of all my plan to use myself as bait.
Celine sniffed. It grated on her to be shackled to one place in such a manner, like a princess kept in a tower, awaiting a white knight. She wasn’t a complete fool, after all. No undue risk would be taken this evening. At all times, Bastien’s solid silver dagger would be close at hand. And she had no intention of wandering beyond earshot of police headquarters. Instead she’d wait for Bastien in the heart of Jackson Square not a minute before midnight, less than forty paces from the front doors of the cathedral.
What kind of foolish killer would try to strike her down a stone’s throw from a garrison of armed police officers?
Several sets of footsteps neared the door, pausing just outside. A fist pounded lightly on its oaken surface in three successive knocks. Then waited a breath before rapping four times more.
The signal Michael had devised to convey he was outside and all was well.
Celine unlocked the door to find the young detective standing there, a storm brewing in his colorless eyes. Over his shoulder loomed a jolly giant of a man carrying an incongruously small basket and a stooped woman with a woolen shawl draped across her shoulders and a covered dish between her wrinkled palms.
The elderly woman peered past Michael with a wry expression. “Step aside, caro.” Her accent was threaded with rolling r’s and richly rounded vowels. “And be sure to introduce me.” A twinkle shone in her watchful gaze.
When Michael failed to cross the threshold or utter a single word, the elderly woman elbowed him aside with an amused snort, the looming brute laughing under his breath, the sound like the barking of a large hound.
With a world-weary sigh, Michael followed them into his office, his motions uncharacteristically awkward. “Nonna, this is Miss Celine Rousseau of Paris.” He paused. “Miss Rousseau, I’d like to introduce you to my grandmother.”
Celine’s eyes went wide. She stood straight while tucking Bastien’s letter into the pocket of her petticoat. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Madame Gri—”
“None of that nonsense. Call me Nonna.” Her smile crinkled every line in her brow, the effect more soothing than a mug of hot tea. She shuffled past Celine. “I brought you some ribollita.” With a thunk, Nonna set down the covered dish on Michael’s desk. “It’s a soup my mother taught me to make when I was a child. You see, I was a bit of a piantagrane in my youth.” She made small circles with her hands, her gestures punctuating her words. “Always destroying things and getting into mischief. So my mamma would give me old bread to tear into pieces, then we would wait until they soaked up the delicious broth before having a feast! Have you ever had ribollita?” she asked Celine as she waved her immense escort closer, his steps mincing, as if he’d incurred a recent injury.
“No, ma’am.” Celine smiled, a fond warmth settling in her stomach.
“You will love it.” Nonna beamed. Every time she moved, the smell of cinnamon and sage suffused the air. “Luca, per favore, where are the bowls?” She turned to the jolly giant, a stern expression on her face. “And, Michael, why are you standing there as if you were struck by lightning? Muoviti!” She flung her hands to one side, shooing him away.
For the first time since Celine had met Michael, she glimpsed a look of utter bewilderment on his face. He started to step forward, then stopped, clearing his throat and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.
Despite everything, a bubble of dark laughter threatened to burst past Celine’s lips. Michael’s diminutive grandmother had ripped the proverbial carpet from beneath his feet, and Celine relished every second of watching him stumble.
Nonna continued, “I can only imagine how little my grandson has thought of providing you adequate food, since he himself often forgets to eat.” She spun around, her shawl falling from one shoulder. “Let me look at you.” Without warning, she seized Celine by the chin, turning her face to and fro. “Bella, bella, bella,” she murmured. “Where did you get those eyes and those cheekbones, cara?”
“My mother.”
“Ovviamente,” Nonna said with a n
od. “Your mother must have been a great beauty.” She winked at the man she’d called Luca. “Not unlike myself in my heyday.”
Luca laughed, the sound dancing about the dimly lit room as he stepped forward. “Since my cousin is clearly tongue-tied, I’ll have to apologize for him and make my own introduction.” He dipped his head into a small bow. “Luca Grimaldi, at your service.” When he smiled down at her, Celine noticed the similarity in the line of his jaw and along his tousled brow. But instead of lending him the scholarly look it did Michael, it made Luca appear quite rugged. Like a man who toiled with his hands in the outdoors for long stretches of time. His eyes brought to mind the color of melting chocolate, and—when he took Celine’s hand to press a polite kiss on it—the solidness of his grasp made her feel even more at ease.
Celine grinned up at him, marveling at how tall he was. “A pleasure to meet you, Luca.”
“Get the young lady a chair, caro,” Nonna chided Michael while spooning the hearty soup into small bowls she removed from Luca’s basket. Celine moved closer to help, but was brushed to one side without preamble. “No, no. You are our guest here.” Nonna handed Celine a bowl, and the steaming ribollita heated through Celine’s palms, winding toward her heart. A strange flutter took shape in her chest. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had prepared something especially for her, with their own two hands. At home in Paris, she’d done most of the cooking. And Celine had never known either of her grandmothers.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Nonna.”
“Of course.” Nonna served bowls of soup to Michael and to Luca. “Sit, sit, before the food runs away from you.” She snorted. “Can you believe my grandson didn’t want me to come here today?” Nonna said as they all gathered around Michael’s desk for a makeshift meal of ribollita. “He protested most ardently. So of course I made Luca bring me.” She tucked away a silver curl. “Though the circumstances are less than ideal, I was eager to meet you, dear Celine.” Her eyes sparkled. “Michael speaks well of you.”
“All the time,” Luca added in a teasing tone.
Michael’s gaze pierced into his cousin’s skull with the precision of a lance. “Christ Almighty, let this end soon,” he grumbled as he stirred his soup slowly, his features morose.
Quicker than a bolt of lightning, Nonna smacked the back of his head. “Non pronunciare il nome del Signore invano, Michael Antonio Grimaldi!”
Michael closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, all while Nonna continued eating as if nothing at all had transpired. As if she hadn’t just struck New Orleans’ premier police detective for daring to take the Lord’s name in vain.
Celine’s lips twitched. She coughed. Then snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “I’m deeply sorry.” She cleared her throat.
“For what?” Luca asked, his question tinged with amusement.
“That I can’t watch that happen over and over in my head.”
Luca barked, a meaty fist pounding against the desk, jostling Celine’s soup. “She’ll do nicely, cousin.” He howled. To his left, Nonna tittered, her slender shoulders shaking with laughter.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter that no one asked your opinion,” Michael replied, his words coolly cutting.
“Not at all.” Luca slurped his soup and leaned toward Celine. “I’d tell you awful stories about him, but I fear we’ve already pressed my proper cousin too far by gracing his doorstep un-announced.”
Celine curved a brow. “Was he as trying a child as I suspect? Lots of sanctimonious questions and smug answers?”
“Worse. Next time I’ll tell you about his fifth birthday, when he stabbed me in the side of the neck with a newly sharpened pencil.” He bent closer. “I still bear the scar right here.” Luca pointed at a small dark spot just below his left ear.
Celine tsked, delighted to sense Michael’s ire flare hot from beside her.
“Basta, Luca,” Nonna commanded. “You deserved it for breaking his other pencils as you did, and I think Michael has suffered enough for one evening. Let’s speak of pleasant things.” Her spoon clattered into her bowl. “Such as when you plan to bring that young woman to see me. The one who keeps writing you those lovely letters. It’s time I met her. You know I’m not getting any younger, Luca Grimaldi.”
Luca guffawed, choking around a mouthful of ribollita. “I thought you wanted us to discuss pleasant topics, Nonna.”
“She meant pleasant for herself,” Michael interjected.
Nonna harrumphed. “I will resort to all manners of shame if it means I get to hold my great-grandchildren before I die.”
“What about you, Michael?” Luca eyed his cousin with a devilish smirk. “Didn’t you tell me only last week that a young lady had caught your attention?”
Celine expected Michael to glare at his brawny cousin in response. But he merely glanced back at Luca with a look of unchecked annoyance.
“Who has caught your eye?” Nonna demanded, her outrage clearly feigned. Far too dramatic to be real. “And why am I only learning of this now?” Her tiny hand slapped the edge of the desk. “Rispondetemi.”
Luca laughed softly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair while Celine stared into her bowl of soup, praying for someone to change the subject.
Michael wiped his mouth with a linen handkerchief, his words measured. “I haven’t told you about her because I’m still trying to prove I’m worthy of her notice.” He leveled his gaze at the clock along the wall with a determined stare.
Celine refrained from squirming in her seat.
“Any young woman who fails to see what a wonderful man you are must be a fool,” Nonna said, her words pointed. “My Michael has always been the smartest boy in the room. So hardworking. And handsomer than any young man has any right to be.”
The color rose in Celine’s neck with unbridled ferocity. A part of her wished to say something to disrupt the course of the conversation, but she lacked the right words. No matter what she said or how she said it, she was bound to offend someone.
And Michael’s family had been so kind to her. Kinder than she deserved.
“She isn’t a fool,” Michael said with great care. “Far from it, in fact. She’s sharp and quick-witted. Notices details others would miss. Despite her own difficulties, she manages to be warm and selfless. Moreover, she refuses to bow at the altar of money,” he continued. “But she is stubborn, and a bit distracted.”
Celine’s jaw almost dropped. She’d never heard Michael speak of anyone so highly, least of all her.
“Well, you’ll simply have to get her to focus,” Nonna said, the side of her hand slicing toward the table as if it were a knife. “Turn your charms on her.”
Luca laughed. “His charms? No young lady wants to be inundated with useless facts, or be forced to contend with starched collars and ungodly hours of work.” He slid his attention to Celine, his expression shrewd. “Might you have any suggestions for my cousin, Miss Rousseau?”
“Pardon?” Celine sat up straight, her spoon jangling to the desk, the delicious broth splashing in its wake.
“You’re a young woman,” Luca pressed. “What would a young man need to do to catch your attention?”
The outlandishness of his request nearly unseated Celine. Only the daftest fool would fail to see what Luca and Nonna were trying to do. When she peered in Michael’s direction, he looked just as uncomfortable as she felt. “Perhaps”— Celine firmed her tone—“Detective Grimaldi should start with a poem?”
“Do you hear that, Michael?” Luca braced both elbows along the desk, an eager spark in his chocolate eyes. “You should send the young lady a poem.”
Michael considered his cousin’s suggestion, as if nothing at all were strange about this conversation. Then he turned toward Celine, watching her intently while he spoke. “I’m partial to Blake myself. Or perhaps Byron?”
Celine sw
allowed. “I favor Shakespeare, though I do enjoy Blake on occasion.” She didn’t know what possessed her to say it. Perhaps it was Michael’s compliments still ringing in her ears. But even if he recited her favorite sonnet by memory, it wouldn’t give life to a sentiment she did not hold for him. What she felt for Bastien was not yet love, but it was . . . something. A feeling Celine could no longer ignore.
“Shakespeare.” Michael nodded once, his brow resolute. “It’s worth a try.”
A THOUSAND TINY CUTS
Now was her chance.
The booted footsteps outside Michael’s office faded as they turned the corner. If Celine made a dash for it, she could sneak down the corridor and make her way outside.
The clock on the wall began to chime, tolling the midnight hour in dulcet tones.
One. Two. Three.
With a steeling breath, Celine removed her shoes. Unlatched the door. Twisted the knob.
Seven. Eight.
She glided down the hall, careful to walk on her stockinged toes. When the guard posted near the necessary looked in her direction, she ducked in an open doorway, her eyes peeled for the moment he turned back.
A battle charge drumming through her veins, Celine flew down the shadowed steps, careful to pause at each landing, ensuring not a soul was within sight. The moment she reached the ground floor, she stole a glance at the portly sergeant manning the front desk. Watched while he took a sip of coffee from a stained mug. Listened to him cough and clear his throat before he poured a splash of whiskey into his cup.
With a small smile, Celine crept along the wall until she arrived at a bolted side door. Taking great care to unlatch the brass lock without so much as a sigh of metal, she slipped through the opening and into the night. Once more, she waited beneath an eave, on the lookout for prowling gazes. Triumph settling on her face, she took a step onto the darkened path, her ears filled with the sound of chirruping insects and her eyes locked on the elegant expanse of saw palmettos in front of Saint Louis Cathedral.