by Renee Ahdieh
along the docks. Would it make a difference if I offered to ac-
company her? We could take the lady’s measurements together
and then be on our way. I don’t believe we would be gone from
the convent for long. In fact, I see no reason why we would have
to miss evening prayer.”
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Time ground to a halt. It was Celine’s turn to have her eyes widen with dismay.
Pippa Montrose had offered to help. Had lied for Celine. To
a nun.
“I have many misgivings, Mademoiselle Montrose,” the
Mother Superior said after a breath. “But perhaps if you are
willing to provide escort . . .”
“I am willing to take full responsibility.” Pippa grasped the
tiny gold crucifix nestled at the hollow of her throat. She let her voice drop. Let it fill with reverence. “And I trust God will go
with us tonight.”
The Mother Superior frowned again, her lips unspooling
slowly. Her attention shifted from Pippa toward Celine and
back again. She stood straight. And made a decision.
“Very well,” she said.
A flare of surprise shot through Celine. The Mother Superior
had shifted tack too quickly. Too easily. Suspicion gnawed at
Celine’s stomach. She eyed Pippa sidelong, but her friend did
not glance her way.
“Thank you, Mother Superior,” Pippa murmured. “I promise
all will go as planned.”
“Of course. As long as you understand I’ve put my full trust in
you, Mademoiselle Montrose. Do not disappoint me.” The nun’s
smile was disturbingly beatific. “May His light shine upon you
both, my children.”
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HIVER, 1872
AVENUE DES URSULINES
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
i
I first glimpse my next victim as she passes beneath the flame
of a gas lamp.
Her eyes flash in a most curious way. As though she is on
edge or held in suspense. Perhaps in the midst of doing some-
thing illicit.
The sight catches my attention, even through the horde
of bustling bodies, a handful of them brimming with other-
worldly energy. Her unease looks strangely beguiling, for it
is the opposite of performative. She is heedless of everything
around her, save the task at hand. It is a difficult undertaking
for a hapless mortal, to move about a crowd so blissfully un-
aware. So enviably unaffected.
Crowds fascinate me. They provide demons such as myself
with unique opportunities. Occasions to be seen and unseen in
the same breath. For are we not always—human and creature
alike—performing to some degree?
I digress.
The moment I enjoy most is when I first begin scanning the
masses. When I first lay eyes on my target, and they know not
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that they are being watched. They act without thought. Smile without agenda. Laugh as though not a soul is listening.
I know what this must sound like. It sounds . . . disconcerting.
I am aware. But I am by nature disconcerting. There are mo-
ments in which I can be delightful, too. I speak many languages.
I have traveled the world twice over. I can sing the entirety of
Verdi’s Aida without the need of sheet music.
Do I not deserve a modicum of consideration for these and
many other achievements?
I would like to think so, though I know it to be impossible.
Demons should not be granted the indulgence of men. So
sayeth man, at least.
But I’ll share a secret. In my years, I have discovered it is
possible to be both disconcerting and delightful all at once.
Wine can be delicious though it muddles the mind. A mother
may love and hate her children in the span of the same after-
noon.
And a predator could abhor itself even as it relishes its
evening meal.
I understand my behavior might be construed as odd. Un-
seemly. But I am a thing of oddity. A creature born apart from
this world.
Don’t fret on my account. I have never been one of those im-
mortals who enjoy toying with their food, nor do I particularly
like stalking my prey. I am not looking for their weaknesses;
rather, I am understanding their humanity. There is some-
thing . . . wrong with treating a living being as though it ex-
ists purely for my own sport. Every action I undertake has a
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purpose. It is the characteristic that distinguishes me from many beings of the Otherworld.
My convictions.
I feel keenly the loss of any life taken. The kill last week along the pier did not thrill me in any way. It was necessarily gruesome, in a manner I typically eschew, especially for such an in-
discriminate death. I brought about the girl’s end simply to see
what was possible. To see what kind of attention it would draw.
Alas, it did not have the effect I hoped, for my enemy remains
above the authorities’ notice. It appears a more lasting impres-
sion must be left with my next victim. A more direct assault,
upon my enemy’s doorstep.
Each death to come will be felt all the more keenly. That is of
primary importance.
For though I may disdain wanton bloodshed, I am not imper-
vious to the draw of the hunt. A friend from childhood used to
say she knew when an animal had perished in agony. She could
taste it, and it ruined the meal for her.
I find I am inclined to agree. There is also a certain allure to
knowing what will happen next, before anyone else does. Per-
haps it is a result of my unconventional upbringing. Or maybe
it is simply human nature.
And I was human. Once.
A part of me still longs to be.
Maybe that is what draws me to the liveliness of the French
Quarter. I avoided hunting in it for many years, because its
corners contained memories not soon forgotten. Images of
pain and loss and heartbreak. But I’ve returned to my old haunt
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after too long a time, for I have an ancient score to settle. A final performance to give.
Sacro fremito di gloria / Tutta l’anima m’investe.
A sacred thrill of glory / Runs through my heart.
Perhaps I am still human after all.
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A Touch of Violence
i
Celine!” Pippa called out as Celine whirled into the
crowd, her steps surefooted. Free. “Slow down. There’s
no need to move about so quickly.”
Celine halted in her tracks, excitement sparking in her chest.
The beat of a distant drum met with the clash of cymbals. Soon
thereafter, trumpets pealed into the vibrant night air. A sul-
try breeze toyed with the ends of the black satin ribbon about
her throat, caressing her collarbone. Though she kept still, her
heart reached for the music, as if it called to something deep
in her bones. It never ceased to amaze her, how she seemed to
thrive under cover of darkness. How she fell more in love with
the moon every night.
Each evening—despite the thick walls of the convent—
Celine’s toes had tapped alongside the melodies of the pass-
ing carnival parades. Rhythms and timbres and crescendos of
sound she’d never before heard had captured her attention,
stealing her thoughts from the word of God. She was not
alone in this. Antonia’s fingers had frozen above the pages of
vespers, her mind transfixed as well. Even Pippa had smiled
at the music.
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And here they were now, given a chance to revel in the heart of it all.
The parade drew closer, the crowd around them spilling into
the side streets of the Vieux Carré. Temporary vendors began
rolling carts of food and drink onto its corners, adding layer
upon layer to the sights and smells and sounds collecting about
the space: spice and earth and the clash of metal against stone.
Celine shifted with the sea of moving bodies, dragging Pippa
in her wake. When they turned the corner, a delicious scent—
unlike any Celine had ever known—permeated the air.
“Cochon de lait!” a man with a soot-caked mustache called
out in a strange French accent. He hovered above what looked
like a beast of iron and black smoke about the size of a large
trunk. When he rolled back its lid, Celine saw meat roasting
above a makeshift spit, the aroma of burning pecan wood and
sugarcane wafting through it. He poured a concoction that
smelled of melted butter, white wine, hot peppers, and minced
garlic all over the smoked cochon. A delicious steam sizzled
from the smoldering embers, weaving through and around
them. Then the man with the mustache poked a large fork in
one side of the meat, and a piece of cochon fell from the bone
onto a waiting piece of bread. Immediately a crowd formed a
queue around the man and his iron beast.
Celine desperately wished she carried with her a single coin.
A single chance to partake in something so mouthwatering.
She knew it was a bad idea to move closer to the merriment of
the incoming parade, but it had been so long since this kind of
unbridled joy had taken root in her heart. She supposed that
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was the way of it, when one was guilty of committing unspeak-able acts like murder.
Joy did not live in a heart full of fear.
Pippa saw the look on her face. “We can’t linger here, Celine,”
she said in a grim tone. “We can’t watch the parade.”
“I know.” Celine inhaled deeply. “I’m just imagining that we
could. That we did. And it was glorious.”
A sympathetic smile curled up Pippa’s face. “I want to see it,
too. But if the Mother Superior finds out we disregarded her
wishes—that we did not go straight to our meeting and immedi-
ately return—she’ll never let us venture into the city alone again.”
“Of course.” Celine nodded. But her feet remained fixed to
one spot.
“Please,” Pippa continued, taking her hand. “Life is much
more difficult when those around us do not have faith in us.”
Celine sighed. As usual, Pippa wasn’t wrong. In the past,
Celine’s penchant for recklessness had proved problematic.
Disastrous on at least one occasion. The sense of joy that had
bloomed in her chest only a moment before wilted like a rose
beneath the hot sun.
“You’re right,” Celine said softly. Regretfully. She turned away
from the crowd and all its delightful promises.
Pippa linked arms with her as they began walking in the op-
posite direction. “I just don’t have the same sense of adventure
as you.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Celine grinned. “You did board
a ship sailing into the unknown.” And lie for me tonight, she added without words.
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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
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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 shoul-
ders. 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.
j
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 ema-
nated from its shadows. It struck her like a bolt of lightning,
electricity sizzling across her skin. A man cried out, be
gging 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 re-
main ambivalent. Safe.
But if a monster takes a life, what kind of creature refuses to
save one?
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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 ob-
scured 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, brack-
eting 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
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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