by Renee Ahdieh
i
Celine regretted the decision to walk home the instant after
she made it.
Less than a block from Jacques’, every shifting shadow and
unfamiliar sound caught her attention, heightening her aware-
ness, lending itself to a creeping kind of fear.
If only the Court could see the queen of darkness now.
It was Celine’s pride that wouldn’t allow her to admit she
lacked the means to hire a hack. And it was her arrogance that
forbade her from taking anything else from Odette. Or Bastien.
Or any member of La Cour des Lions.
But now that the fervor over recent events had subsided, re-
gret unfurled down Celine’s spine. She’d been too hasty. She
should have taken advantage of the offered carriage instead of
allowing her pride to get the better of her.
Celine sighed to herself.
No. It wasn’t just her pride. She was simply tired of being told
what to do.
Steeling herself, Celine decided to let the beauty of a New
Orleans evening distract her from her thoughts.
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A balmy breeze riffled through a magnolia tree to her left, its downy white blossoms swaying in the sultry wind. The breeze
coiled closer, carrying with it the sweet perfume of honey-
suckle and lavender, the tiny flowers peeking from between
the tines of a wrought-iron fence in front of a stately, four-
storied mansion. Overhead, wraparound terraces and hang-
ing baskets overflowed with waxy vines and brightly colored
blossoms. A row of blue cypress trees dripped with Spanish
moss, forming layers of scent and shadow. Somewhere in the
distance, an unseen man with a beautiful voice began to sing,
his words a mixture of French and something Celine could
not quite discern.
In only a few short weeks, Celine had learned to appreciate
how the city seemed to come alive the moment the sun dipped
below the horizon. Not a normal kind of alive, like sunshine
and laughter. But a sinister, sensual kind of alive. A warm caress and a cool whisper.
Despite everything, Celine found herself falling a little bit in
love.
As she continued making her way toward the convent, foot-
steps shifted in line behind her, clear and crisp against the
blue-grey pavestones. Heavy footsteps, like those of a man.
Celine listened as they drew near. Then straightened her
spine. There was no reason to fear the person at her back. Pe-
destrians took to the streets of the Quarter at all hours of day
and night. It was irrational to think this might be anyone—or
anything—else.
Nevertheless, she could not help but be reminded of that
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awful night in the atelier, when her naïveté had betrayed her, changing the course of her life.
Celine turned onto the next street. The footsteps lingered in
her shadow.
Fear prickled the nape of her neck. That feeling of being
followed.
She refrained from turning to confront the man, lest she ap-
pear foolish for the second time in a single evening or, worse,
provoke him into taking action. Instead she decided to conduct
a test. She slowed her pace to a leisurely stroll, expecting the
pedestrian to pass by.
He did not.
Instead he, too, slowed his footsteps to match hers.
Celine fended off a wave of panic, her memories of that ter-
rible evening taking flight in her mind. She glanced about with-
out moving her head, looking to see who might be around her.
A lone gentleman strolled on the opposite side of the street, his walking stick striking the pavers, his gaze focused on the path
before him, heedless of all else.
Would he bother to help her?
For an instant, Celine considered dashing across the lane
and coming to stand alongside him, irrespective of these
concerns. Then she made out the sounds of a parade in the
distance. A place in which countless people undoubtedly
gathered. She decided to speed up in order to make her way
toward the crowd, no matter that it was in the wrong direc-
tion of the convent.
The footsteps behind her stopped midstride. Then Celine
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swore she heard something take to the wind in a flutter of leaves, the sound clattering against the bars of an iron balustrade.
Panic taking hold, Celine halted in her tracks. Dared to look
over her shoulder.
Nothing was there.
Her heart dropped into her stomach, its beat thundering loud
and hard through her body.
“Celine,” a voice whispered behind her. A voice of nails grat-
ing across slate.
Fear lanced through her, keeping her immobile for an instant.
Then she whirled around . . . to find nothing.
“Mon amour,” it rasped at her back, its words an icy brush
against her skin. “You smell divine. Come with me to the heart
of Chartres. Die in my arms. ”
Celine lifted her skirts and ran, her feet racing above the grey
pavestones. She sprinted to the nearest corner, rounding it, her
teeth chattering in her skull.
Footsteps battered against the walkway behind her, then dis-
solved in a rustle of dried leaves. She continued running toward
the noise of the parade in the distance, refusing to stop until she reached the crowd.
A hand shot from behind an alcove to her left, grabbing
Celine by the arm, yanking her from her intended path, causing
her to nearly stumble.
Celine screamed, forcing every bit of air from her lungs. A
cool palm covered her lips, bidding her silent. Then strong
arms shoved her behind a wall of bergamot-scented muscle.
Bastien.
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Positioning himself before her, Bastien leveled his revolver into a fall of darkness beneath a nearby awning. A strange muttering could be heard in its depths, almost like the chittering of insects or the gnashing of teeth.
“Be gone,” Bastien said, his words punishing in their precision.
“Or stay and meet your maker, for I’ll grant you no quarter.”
Celine pressed her face into his shoulder, her fingers digging
into his back.
The chittering ceased, the cloaked creature scuttling up the
side of the building before vanishing into the night.
For a beat, Celine and Bastien stood there unmoving, their
bodies tensed, their breaths rising and falling in tandem. Then
Bastien turned toward her, his expression cut from stone as he
holstered his gun.
Something within Celine was on the brink of shattering. Her
legs felt boneless, her body felt stretched thin. Energy pounded
through her veins, causing her hands to shake.
Bastien’s fingers tightened around her arms at the exact mo-
ment Celine’s legs started to give. He held her in place, his gaze locked on hers.
Her vision hazy, Celine blinked. Then exhaled slowly.
“Celine,” Bastien said, his voice soft. Careful.
She nodded. “I’m . . . fine.” Celine continued staring at
Bastien’s face, tracing its lines in an effort to calm herself, her throat dry, the words a jumble on her tongue. “How did you . . .
I mean, you don’t need to—”
“Celine,” Bastien said again. Tentatively, he shifted a hand to
the side of her face.
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She kept still, though she wanted to lean into his touch.
“Tu vas bien?” he asked quietly, brushing his thumb along her
cheek in a soothing caress.
Celine nodded. “But . . . please . . . stay.”
“I will.” Something glinted in his gaze. “I promise.”
“What— was that?” she whispered.
He hesitated, his thumb grazing the edge of her lips.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said softly. “I’m tired of all the lies.”
He inhaled through his nose. “It was . . .” He searched for the
right words.
“Something inhuman,” Celine finished.
Bastien considered her for a moment. Then nodded.
“Did that . . . thing kill Anabel?” Celine asked.
“I can’t be certain. It’s possible.” His words seemed to ring of
truth. Or maybe Celine simply wished to believe him. To dis-
miss the yellow ribbon. To ignore logic and listen to the whis-
pers of her heart.
Fickle little fool that it was.
“It knew my name. Told me to come with it to the heart of
Chartres.” Celine shuddered. “It asked me to die in its arms.”
A trace of rage rippled across Bastien’s face. “It’s gone now.”
“It might come back.”
“I’ll find it first.” Bastien’s fingers slid down her face, his palm framing her chin. His features took on a dangerous edge, his
steel-flecked eyes bright and intense.
He looked . . . vicious. Like an avenging angel. Or a demon
from Hell.
Celine wrapped a hand around his wrist. The way he spoke
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in this moment—the way he gazed at her—should have frightened her. But it didn’t. Instead Celine bowed into his caress.
Tightened her grip around his wrist, the creature in her blood
restless, feverish.
Bastien bent closer, his breath a cool wash across her skin, his
lips close enough to touch. To nip. To taste.
He was going to kiss her. She was going to kiss him back.
And—for a blink of time—nothing else would matter.
A pair of footfalls across the street shattered their reverie.
A well-dressed couple around her father’s age had stopped in
their tracks, pausing to stare at Bastien and Celine, their ex-
pressions filled with shared disapproval.
All at once, Celine’s sense of propriety returned. She knew
why the other pair looked upon them with such disdain. To
anyone passing by, Bastien and Celine appeared to be two
young lovers caught in a passionate embrace on a darkened
street corner. Unknowingly, Celine’s fingers had twisted
around the fine fabric of Bastien’s waistcoat, as if to tug him
closer. The palm of Bastien’s free hand was pressed against the
small of her back, dragging her against him.
She felt the heat of him through her bodice. Through her
skirts. Felt it caress past her skin, into her soul.
Wanton. Sinful. Perfect.
With a gasp, Celine pushed away.
Bastien’s fingers fell from her throat. He stepped back. The
fire in his eyes faded the next instant, replaced by amused in-
difference.
Celine swallowed, gripped by a sudden despondency.
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“Thank you . . . for coming to my aid this evening, Monsieur Saint Germain.”
Bastien nodded. “Of course.” He rubbed a palm against his
neck, pausing to check his pulse, for reasons Celine could not
begin to fathom.
Straightening stiffly, she looked about, seeking her own dis-
traction. A few short blocks away, the noise of the carnival rose in her ears, the revelry drawing closer with each passing second.
“We should make our way back to the convent,” Bastien said
above the rising din.
Celine nodded in agreement. But unease took hold of her
at the thought of marching through the darkened corridors of
the Ursuline convent. Of trying to fall asleep amid its lurking
shadows.
She could not be alone right now, though she refused to say
it aloud.
“I appreciate your offer to accompany me to the convent,”
Celine said, her voice shaken by uncertainty. “I just . . .”
Bastien’s expression softened. Her heart stuttered when he
moved toward her, only to catch himself midstep. “Would you
rather walk someplace else first? Perhaps a nearby café for some
coffee or a cup of tea?” he asked, his tone bordering on formal.
Celine hated to hear the distance in his words. Another wash
of inexplicable sadness hollowed through her. How she wished
she could ask him for what she truly wanted. How she wished
she could admit it to herself.
The creature inside her rattled its cage, demanding to be
released.
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As if to mock her further, raucous laughter pealed in the distance, its echo cheerful. Unencumbered. Celine resented it
greatly. More than anything, she wanted to feel as free as that
ribbon of laughter. To remember what it felt like to feel safe in her own skin.
Darkness wrapped around her like a shroud, reminding
Celine of her truth. How could she dare to wish for such a
thing? She’d killed a man and run away, flouting French law. If
the truth ever came to light, she could be hanged for it.
Did a murderess deserve to feel free?
A new strain of music unraveled into the sky, its melody
bright. Effervescent.
It beckoned to Celine, all but making the decision for her. Still she hesitated.
Then—as if he could read her mind—Bastien said, “Perhaps
we should venture in the direction of the parade and walk with
the crowd for a few minutes.”
Celine nodded, the gratitude plain on her face.
Maybe a girl destined for the gallows didn’t deserve to feel
free. To drown her dark sorrows in something light. But nei-
ther did any young man who tried to force himself on a young
woman.
And Celine still wasn’t sorry for what she’d done.
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Méfiez-vous du Rougarou
i
The crowd pulsed around Celine and Bastien, ebbing and
flowing like a capricious tide. Cheers and wild laughter
suffused the air, putting to rout the worst of her fears. Celine’s pulse thrummed beneath her skin, her blood rising in a heady
rush. If she closed h
er eyes, she could almost feel as if she were floating with the crowd, being carried on an errant wave.
She’d never experienced a more welcome distraction.
Bits of colored paper rained down around them, collecting
in Celine’s hair and against Bastien’s skin before littering the
ground. Music pounded into the sky, brass trumpets blaring,
screeching through the night as if their joy could not be con-
tained. Revelers gathered beneath eaves and along street cor-
ners festooned with vibrant streamers, many with their hands
or arms linked, all sense of propriety lost beneath the light of
the crescent moon.
A papier-mâché tableaux car trundled down the lane, moving
at a snail’s pace. Men clothed in jackets trimmed with golden
epaulettes—as if they were foot soldiers in Napoleon’s army—
laughed as they threw coins, painted buttons, and wooden
beads into the crowd.
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Each of Celine’s senses were aflame. The sweat and the smell of overturned earth mixed with powdery clouds of sugar to
form its own unique fragrance. She soon found herself caught
up in the commotion, her fears further dulled by the sight of
the ongoing spectacle.
She whirled around, stepping back when members of a danc-
ing troupe bearing torches pressed through the center of the
crowd, their skirts spinning in a blur about their slender bod-
ies. Shirtless, barrel-chested men with waxed mustaches and
scandalously tight trousers performed acrobatic tricks in the
middle of the street.
The chaos of the crowd threatening to separate them, Celine
reached for Bastien’s hand without thought. He threaded his fin-
gers through hers as if it were natural. As if the only thing that made sense amid the confusion was the touch of his skin to hers.
Celine drew alongside Bastien, her eyes wide-open, a smile
threatening to take shape on her face. Swallowed by the sea of
moving bodies, they were soon carried past a narrow alley-
way where a young, well-dressed couple shared an ardent kiss
in the shadows, as though they were the only two souls in
existence, her fingers winding through his hair, his hands
gripping her hips.
Her cheeks flushing, Celine averted her gaze. It was wrong to
watch something so intimate.
To watch them. To want to be them.
“Faites attention!” a man yelled as the crowd made a sudden
surge.