by Renee Ahdieh
“I remember.” The fury had reached Bastien’s fingertips, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. It took all his control not to break something with his bare hands. He knew better. The greater the anger, the more destructive its force. It would be of no help if he lost his head to it. “Can you track her scent?”
Odette’s eyes returned to their normal shade, her nostrils no longer flaring like those of a jackal. “I’m not sure. The rain makes it difficult for me to track things by scent. Have you asked the Hellhound for help? He’s our best hunter.”
“You know as well as I do that Boone won’t lift a finger in defiance of Nicodemus,” Bastien replied, ire sharpening his tone. “He’s too afraid.”
“Our little hound has always been a lamb at heart,” Odette rejoined softly. “He took Nigel’s death the hardest. Tonight was the first time he’s come home in days.”
Bastien glared at nothing, a twinge piercing through his chest. Time had become such a treasured commodity to them all. “Can you give me an hour?”
Alarm flared across her lovely face. “Your uncle forbade—”
“I don’t give a damn what Nicodemus said,” Bastien all but snarled.
She reached for his hand, her gloved fingers cool to the touch. “Every member of La Cour des Lions is under express orders to prevent you from going anywhere that involves Celine Rousseau. Please,” she entreated, “Nigel died because we all failed to take this threat seriously. If something happens to you, I don’t know what we’ll all do.”
“I’m not the boy you met years ago.”
“I know, my dearest,” she said. “Only Jae is a quicker draw than you, and we’ve all seen you shoot a man through the eye at sixty paces. But the killer is trying to force us out into the open. Pick us off, one by one,” she continued, her eyes swimming, her tears turning pink. “The devil only knows why. This was supposed to have ended years ago.”
“Odette.” Bastien gripped her by the shoulders, willing his expression calm. “You’re the only one I can trust. I know you care for Celine deeply. If we don’t help her, she could die.” His insides twisted at the thought, the words burning in his throat. “I cannot allow that to happen. You’ve spent years obeying your maker. Tonight, will you not help your friend?”
Odette studied him, her lips pressed in a line, a single stream of blood-tinged tears sliding down one cheek. “I can’t stop them from looking for you, Bastien.”
“Can you at least give me an hour?”
She wavered, fighting to maintain her composure. “I’ll . . . try my best. But the Hellhound will find you, Bastien, as he always does. And we will all face the consequences.”
“Thank you, Odette.” He kissed her forehead.
Then he vaulted the balustrade and vanished into the darkness.
* * *
Bastien kicked through the door of Michael’s office at police headquarters without pausing for breath. He’d fully expected to find his childhood friend looming over his desk. Just as he’d fully anticipated an altercation the moment he demanded that the detective share all his notes on the killer. Who he might be. What he might be. And—most importantly—where he might be.
The only sign of life Bastien found was a single lamp, its lone flame dancing cheerfully in a clear cylinder of glass.
Fury blinded him for an instant, his hands longing to shatter the lamp into a thousand pieces. In an effort to allay his rage, Bastien scanned the cramped space for anything that might help him find Celine. To one side was a cot, blankets folded atop it in a neat little pile, a basket of sewing supplies beside it.
His anger threatened to slide into despair.
Many of the things he’d treasured had been taken from him all too soon. These losses had taught him to hold fast to his heart, save for two exceptions: the love he had for his immortal family, and the love he had for his city. He’d refused to make room for anything else. Then a month ago, a seed had been planted in his mind, watered by the hand of Fate. By a wry smile and a fall of raven hair. By a girl who met him word for word, challenge for challenge.
Something unraveled in Bastien’s chest.
It appeared there was now a third exception.
He should have told Celine she’d captured his heart, instead of allowing ridiculous social mores and expectations to stand in their way. If anything happened to her, the devil himself would answer for it. Bastien would take no mere pound of flesh.
Before he was finished, he would see the demon’s tears turn to ash.
His lips pushed forward in calculation, Bastien paused on the large slate board running parallel to Michael’s desk. He studied the collection of clues the detective had amassed, including the many insidious things the killer had said to Celine on multiple occasions:
Welcome to the Battle of Carthage.
You are mine.
Death leads to another garden.
To thine own self, be true.
Die in my arms.
A muscle ticked in Bastien’s neck. He perused the old map affixed to a corner of the slate, his gaze catching on something he’d missed before.
Then Bastien straightened, his eyes going wide.
Michael’s notes were incomplete. The killer had said a peculiar thing to Celine the night he had stalked her through the streets of the Vieux Carré. Bastien’s attention had been drawn by its absence on the otherwise meticulous board.
Come with me to the heart of Chartres.
Chartres was a city south of Paris, famed for the beautiful cathedral at its heart.
Rue de Chartres ran through the center of New Orleans, in the very middle of Michael’s map. At the street’s heart stood the three spires of Saint Louis Cathedral.
Had the demon been arrogant enough to lead them straight to his safe haven? To be sure, the church was an unusual place for a killer to find refuge. But it was also the exact kind of detail that would delight most of the immortals in Bastien’s acquaintance. To seek sanctuary in a house of God.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” a harsh voice demanded from behind him.
Bastien turned to meet the wily figure of his former friend. “I beg your pardon, Detective Grimaldi.” He kept his tone light, despite a surge of anger. “I’ll take my leave.”
“Like hell you will. You broke my door, you no-account fiend. You and your godforsaken temper. Will you ever learn?” Michael cut his colorless gaze. “What brought you to my office at this hour, peacocking about like a shitty king of France?”
“I had a momentary lapse in judgment,” Bastien said in a blithe voice, crossing in front of Michael while he spoke, intent on making a swift exit. “Which has since been rectified.”
The young detective grabbed him by the front of his ivory waistcoat. “Balderdash. Answer my damned question. Why are you here?”
Bastien fought to keep his fury in check. He could not strike down the detective. He would not strike Michael down. Generations of bad blood forbade it. “I don’t have time for this pissing contest.” Gripping Michael’s wrists, he twisted the detective’s hands free of his absurd costume. “Send a bill to Jacques’ for the damage.” His grin turned arrogant. “Be sure to sample the vichyssoise the next time you’re there. You always did favor life’s simpler pleasures.” Again he tried to leave.
“Did something happen to Celine?” Michael stepped in Bastien’s path, his nostrils flaring like he’d scented chum in the water.
Her name on his lips rekindled Bastien’s rage. If he told Michael the truth, there would be no way to contain the matter. The fool would order an entire garrison to descend on the cathedral, and precious time would be lost navigating his righteous idiocy.
“I have no idea where Celine Rousseau might be. Wasn’t that supposed to be your purview now?” Bastien sneered, attempting to push past his childhood friend once more. The clock in Michael’s o
ffice ticked away the minutes. At any moment, Boone would find Bastien, his uncle trailing in the Hellhound’s well-heeled footsteps. And those moments were precious to Celine. Just as she had become precious to Bastien.
More precious than life itself.
Michael shoved him back, his features mottled. “Answer me, Sébastien. Before I call for the—”
Bastien lashed out at Michael. Something he’d promised never to do, many years ago. To strike the young detective was in direct defiance of his uncle’s edicts. For a Saint Germain to strike a Grimaldi . . .
His blow broke the bridge of Michael’s nose, blood spurting from beneath it. A howl of rage flew from the detective’s lips, causing footsteps to race toward them from below.
“Take heed, Michael,” Bastien said through clenched teeth. “Never stand in my way again.” With that, he glided from the office, the beat of his heart thundering in his chest.
There was nothing to be had for it.
Sébastien Saint Germain had just violated the Brotherhood’s treaty.
THE FINAL NAIL
Celine woke on her side, her cheek resting against cold stone.
A cloying scent wound through her nose, her temples thudding with the slow beat of her heart. For a time, she struggled to focus on anything, her vision swimming as if she’d consumed too much champagne. Licking her parched lips, Celine tried to lift her head.
A cry of surprise flew from her mouth. Searing pain shot down her right arm, warm wetness trickling along her collarbone, dripping down her black bodice. The wound on her neck was still fresh, which meant not much time had passed since she’d been attacked on the terrace. The sharp scent of blood permeated the air, mingling with the perfume of . . . incense?
Again Celine attempted to shift position, but she was weak. So very weak.
At least the killer had left her alive. She supposed she should be grateful. For a harrowing instant, she’d been certain her last breath on this earth would be on that balcony.
Gritting her teeth through the pain, Celine fought to sit up, only to fail once more. Her hands were bound at her back, her feet tied at the ankles, the ropes like leaden weights. With her elbow, she checked to see if Bastien’s silver blade was still concealed in the hidden pocket beneath her skirts. When Celine felt its comforting weight against her right hip, she let her head fall onto the smooth stone, wearied by even the simplest action.
Her eyes locked on the frescoed ceiling above as she counted to three in her mind. Then Celine heaved her knees to her chest, her taffeta skirts rustling through the silence, her brow beading with sweat. With herculean effort, she looped her wrists over her feet, snapping several of the wooden hoops at her sides and twisting her left arm in the process. She gasped—blinking away hot tears of pain—before taking in her surroundings.
To her left stretched a familiar floor of black-and-white stone, patterned at a diagonal. An aisle lit by long tapers ran down its center, bracketed by wooden pews.
Celine coughed, bitter amusement coiling through her stomach. Her earlier assumption had been correct. She was lying on the altar of Saint Louis Cathedral, at the very heart of Rue de Chartres. If she weren’t so afraid, she would mock her attacker for his theatricality. Coughing again, she rolled to one side and fell from the stone surface, her teeth clacking together as her body hit the granite floor with a resounding thud. Shards of pain stabbed along her right side, a thousand tiny needles burrowing into her skin.
Celine bit her lower lip to keep from screaming.
There was no time for her to succumb to pain. She needed to free her feet from their bonds so that she might at least attempt an escape. Celine sat up, drops of bright blood plinking against the cool stone. Then she tucked her knees beneath her chin and reached under the hem of her skirts to fiddle with the knots around her ankles.
“I admire your resilience, Celine,” a warm voice pronounced from the shadows at her back, its accent refined. Distinct of the British upper class. “But you’ve lost a lot of blood. I don’t believe you’ll get very far.”
Fear knifed through Celine, a ghostly chill racing down her spine. But she’d already made a promise to herself. Fear would not dictate her actions tonight. “Who are you?” Her voice was hoarse but firm. “Why have you brought me here?”
Footsteps circled closer, the killer’s heels striking the stone floor with tantalizing slowness. “I’m somewhat put out that you haven’t realized who I am, being so damnably smart and all,” he continued, his tone mocking. “But in fairness, me love . . . I did sound a bit different before, I did.” He eased into a vibrant Cockney accent. The accent of London’s working class.
Its tenor caused Celine to tremble. Despite her bleeding wound, she turned her head to one side, disbelief splintering her thoughts.
Nigel?
“But you were dead,” Celine whispered when Nigel strolled into view, looking hale and hearty and whole, the smell of earth suffusing the air about him. Shock began settling into Celine’s limbs, causing her shoulders to shake. “I saw you. Your arm. Your head.” She gasped, realization cinching the breath from her body. “It was . . . you.”
Evil did not look the way she’d imagined it would. Nigel wasn’t the bloodthirsty villain of her nightmares. He was Arjun’s good-natured friend. Odette’s silly sweet boy. One of Bastien’s closest confidants.
Nigel clapped twice with slow deliberation, his grey cloak falling away from his arms, revealing a rumpled waistcoat and stained shirtsleeves. “You saw what we wanted you to see, love.”
“We?”
He ignored her question, switching back to the polished accent of Grosvenor Square. “You’ve proved to be quite the little detective.” He changed his tone once more, as if he were donning or doffing a hat. “So smart. So bleedin’ sharp, especially for a bird.” His Cockney resonated into the rafters.
Dear God, he sounded mad. But Celine didn’t sense any madness about him. His cheeks were pink, his eyes clear, his lips full. No, it wasn’t madness.
It was pride.
Pride at playing to a crowd, like a revered actor on a stage. If Celine had to guess, Nigel was relishing the success of his deception, as if it offered testament to his greatness.
Determination etched across her brow. If pride was his downfall, Celine would distract him further by encouraging him to talk about himself. She’d done the same thing to the young man who’d attacked her that night in the atelier.
Never mind that it had very nearly failed.
“Please tell me why,” Celine whispered, her expression pleading. “I don’t understand why you would do such a thing.” While she spoke, her fingers worked at the knots beneath her skirts, willing herself to remain calm.
“Ever the brilliant little detective, aren’t we?” Nigel said in the Queen’s English. He moved closer to the trio of rounded steps leading up to the altar, pausing to rest his right foot on the dark granite base. “By the by, did you ever manage to uncover the meaning behind the symbols I left for you?”
“No,” Celine lied, shrinking away from him, her back pressed against the altar’s base, the bonds beginning to loosen above her feet.
“No matter,” Nigel continued, a casual air about him. “Impressive how quickly you determined they might be from an ancient language.” He braced an elbow on his bent knee. “You were only off by a few hundred years.”
“The language predates ancient Greek?” Celine guessed.
“A totally different civilization.” He switched to Cockney. “Even gave you a hint, I did.”
Celine’s shoulders slumped. “Carthage.”
“Correct.” He smiled, switching back. “As to why I did this . . . there are any number of reasons. Why does anyone betray their loved ones?” He straightened, his expression somber. “For power, perhaps. That’s something to which the Medicis, the Borgias, the Tudors, the Ptolemies—any number
of influential families throughout history—could attest.” He paused. “Or perhaps it’s because I never really loved them in the first place.
“Do you know why the Court of the Lions exists?” Nigel continued, his eyes shining with an otherworldly light. “Do you know why Nicodemus ripped me from my home in London’s East End and turned me into a demon, cursed to share his fate?” Anger rippled across his face. “To obey my maker until the end of time?”
Celine shook her head, her first finger catching on a loop in her bonds, prying it free.
A muscle worked beneath the skin of Nigel’s forehead. “The Court of the Lions exists for the sole purpose of protecting Nicodemus Saint Germain’s legacy.” He snorted. “Sébastien, the last scion of the Saint Germain family. I’ve guarded a mortal boy for nearly a decade. From the moment he sulked in a roomful of books to the moment he crowned himself prince of our dark court, I’ve been forced to do his bidding.” Bitter laughter flew from his lips. “I—an immortal being with powers beyond your wildest ken—was yoked to a cursed breather, like a bloody watchdog.” Distaste tugged at his lips. “It’s no wonder the Brotherhood despises us so.”
The loop loosened infinitesimally more, Celine’s fingers chafing from the effort. “Why does Bastien need to be guarded?” If she could buy herself but another minute . . .
“Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice that every other member of Bastien’s family is dead. Do you think that’s by accident or by design?”
A retort threatened to barrel from Celine’s mouth. She bit her tongue, tasting the salt of her blood. She could not succumb to anger, just as she would not be consumed by fear. “It must be by design,” Celine replied.
Nigel brushed a thin layer of dirt from his shoulders and adjusted his shirtsleeves as if he were preparing for something. A knot of unease formed in Celine’s stomach. “Bastien is the last piece of a retribution centuries in the making. And I—Nigel Fitzroy—will be the one to put the final nail in this coffin. The first of my kind to bridge the divide between the Fallen and the Brotherhood.” He inhaled through his nose and spread his arms wide. Then he shouted once, as if in triumph, a fierce, guttural cry.