The Beautiful (ARC)

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The Beautiful (ARC) Page 13

by Renee Ahdieh


  None of those waiting had yet to speak with him. Upon ar-

  rival, 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 re-

  volver, 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 move-

  ment in all directions, too many questions crowding her mind.

  But now that a tense kind of calm had descended—an aerial-

  ist on a tightrope—several details struck Celine as odd. First,

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  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 grue-

  some 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 alley-

  ways and avenues adjoining Jacques’.

  In the crush of shrieking bodies, Odette had disappeared

  without a word. At first, Celine and Pippa had worried some-

  thing 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 establish-

  ment. 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.

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  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 cir-

  cumstances. “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.

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  One of Us

  i

  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 appear-

  ance 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 un-

  til 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 perpe-

  trator of this horrific crime.” He took a step closer, moving

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  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 fo
und 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 crowd for just a—”

  “No,” Bastien interrupted, his tone low and harsh. Brim-

  ming with unmistakable anger. He remained in shadow, refus-

  ing to comply in even the simplest of terms. Behind him, the

  curtains bristled as though a breeze had ruffled their edges.

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  “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 offi-

  cers. 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, Detec-

  tive Grimaldi eased his stance, shifting back onto his heels.

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  “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 headquar-

  ters 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 ex-

  change.

  The mutual, unadulterated hatred.

  True danger—the kind that hinted at bodily harm—swirled

  around them. Bastien stepped from the circle of scales around

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  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. Sébas-

  tien Saint Germain did indeed wield a strange kind of power

  within these paneled walls. Not once had he issued any direct

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  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 spin-

  ning 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 admi-

  ration, 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

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  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 tomor-

  row, 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 ef-

  fort 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.

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