by Renee Ahdieh
A foul curse flew from Odette’s lips. She repeated the word
in two more languages for good measure. Tugging Celine to
her feet, Odette proceeded to drag her the rest of the way. They
halted before an immense lift of gleaming brass, its bars fash-
ioned of winding vines and birds of paradise, their feathers
inlaid with Persian turquoise.
“You shouldn’t have,” Celine muttered. “A cage of my very
own.”
Odette snickered. She gestured to the right, and an inordi-
nately tall man with rich auburn hair secured at the nape of his
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neck and a frock coat of midnight blue with matching gloves stepped forward to unfetter a gleaming lock of pure silver.
Though he was as lithe as a dancer, he managed to heave open
the sliding door to the brass lift with barely a twinge of effort.
Once they were situated inside, Celine rested her head on
Odette’s shoulder, her eyes falling shut as the lift lurched into motion under the steady direction of its lissome gatekeeper.
“The list of those allowed access here is short,” Odette said.
“This lift has one destination: the top floor of the hotel. While you reside at the Dumaine, that entire space will be yours
alone.”
Celine considered this, even as the weariness fell upon her
like a warm woolen blanket. “And if the killer can scale the walls of the hotel?” She recalled how the demon had scuttled up the
building before vanishing into the wind.
“Can he also shatter iron bars and locks of solid silver?”
“For the sake of argument, let’s assume so.”
“Then t’es foutue,” Odette swore under her breath. “As are
we all.”
Celine laughed softly, her eyes still closed. “Merci, Odette.”
“Pas du tout, mon amie,” Odette replied. “We take care of our
own.”
Celine’s breath caught in her throat. “Is that . . . thing one of your own?” she asked, her tone halting.
Odette said nothing until the lift began to slow. “No.”
But her hesitation suggested otherwise.
“You know what it is.” Celine’s eyes flew open. “Why won’t
you tell me?”
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“It isn’t my story to tell.”
“Please—”
The lift ground to a halt, and the slender gentleman in the
blue velvet frock coat unlatched the door in a seamless motion,
his gaze one of supreme ennui.
“No more questions,” Odette said, smoothing back Celine’s di-
sheveled curls in a soothing gesture. Then she locked eyes with
Celine, refusing to blink as if she were in a trance. “I’m going to show you to your room, and you’re going to sleep through an
entire night, as if you’re adrift among the clouds.” A sad smile
curved up her doll-like face. “The only dreams you’ll have will
be pleasant ones, filled with islands of floating meringue and
sparkling glasses of champagne.” Her voice sounded layered.
Weighted. It resonated through Celine, reaching through to the
marrow of her bones.
The last thing she remembered was the rumble of a brass cage.
Of the bird within flying free.
j
Celine woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest.
Disorientation gripped her, her vision struggling to find focus.
Her eyes darted to all corners, searching for something famil-
iar. Fighting for a semblance of footing.
She had no recollection of this place.
Then—like a wave crashing upon a shore—all the events
of last night flooded through her mind. She was enshrined
in the top floor suite of the finest hotel in the city. A brass
lift festooned with gilded birds had borne her to this place.
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Before she’d taken her leave, Odette had made certain Celine was comfortable. Warm and well cared for.
Tomorrow they would begin devising a trap to catch a killer.
This last thought caused Celine to sit up at once, her breath
lodged in her throat, the ache in her head throbbing dully. She
looked around, her gaze moving about the space once more,
this time with measured deliberation.
The cream-colored sheets beneath her fingers possessed a
faint luster, their surfaces smooth, their edges trimmed with
delicate gold embroidery. When she ran her hands across them,
they felt like cool water to the touch. As if they’d been woven
from pure spider silk. Above her hung a thick canopy of golden
damask, pinned in its center by an emblem entwined with intri-
cate filigree. Tied around each of the bed’s four mahogany posts
were drapes of wine-red velvet.
Celine threw back the bedcovers and sank her bare toes into
the luxurious Aubusson carpet, the tassels along its edge glint-
ing in the candlelight.
Countless paintings hung on the far side of the bedcham-
ber, extending the full height of the room, some twenty-odd
feet. A few were the width of Celine’s palm, others stood more
than double her height. Each was rendered by the hand of
a master, the details within both dark and light, as if their
collector appreciated the contrast of sunlight and shadow in
equal measure.
Crowning the remaining three sides of the room was a kind of
narrow balcony, the like of which Celine had never seen before.
Shelves upon shelves of books filled the walls along the upper
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half of the chamber, oiled castors and iron ladders awaiting their savant’s inevitable return.
Tall scented candles had been lit around the room, as if
Odette had known how disconcerting it would be for Celine to
wake in a cold and unfamiliar place.
She crossed the chamber toward a pair of mullioned win-
dows, numbness tingling along her extremities. She’d slept
hard. Surprisingly so, given the shocking tenor of recent
events. When Celine tugged aside the heavy curtains to look
outside, she discovered two things of note: that there were—
indeed—wrought-iron bars encasing every window, painted
a glossy white, and that nightfall still reigned supreme on the
world below. Despite Odette’s final admonition for Celine to
sleep until the sun rose, she’d woken in that time just before
dawn, when night was at its darkest.
Celine studied the scene beyond her barred window. Noted
the lack of a balcony outside. The level of security for the top
floor of the Dumaine was certainly extreme. As if it were in-
tended for a visiting dignitary or a member of royalty.
Celine retraced her steps, taking stock of every entrance and
egress. The main access to the room was a set of double doors
built to look as if they were part of the intricate paneling, their edges trimmed in gilt-leafed molding. Another door leading
to a washroom appeared as if it were a piece of art in its own
&nbs
p; right, a thick frame concealing its seams. Inside the washroom,
a large tub of hammered copper stood on a raised platform
surrounded by squares of white marble tile. Every sconce in
sight had been encrusted with crystals. The air around Celine
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smelled of irises and sweet water, the flames of countless white candles dancing along the walls and ledges.
Her feet steady on the cold marble, Celine shucked her still
damp dress, not even bothering to collect it from the floor. In
rote silence, she removed the hairpins from her scalp, pausing
to rub the sore spots they’d left behind. Then she moved toward
a porcelain bowl and pitcher enclosed by a three-sided mirror
of embellished brass.
She stared at her reflection. At eyes wider than a raccoon’s and
hair like a murder of crows. Dried blood still dotted her skin.
The red specks were especially disturbing beside her eyes, which
glittered with a consumptive light, as if Celine were possessed of a fever. Without a second thought, she filled the basin with clear water from the pitcher and began splashing her face, scrubbing
at her cheeks until they looked raw. Until all three versions of
herself reflected in the mirrors appeared appropriately chafed.
Celine didn’t pause to dry her face. She returned to the cano-
pied bed and drew the covers to her chin, letting the wetness
soak through the sheets, cooling her heated skin.
Her gaze settled above the large fireplace parallel to the foot
of the four-poster bed.
It had been cut from a solid block of Italian marble, the screen
before it fashioned of meshed iron and gold. Hanging above
the tiered ledge was a portrait of a young man of no more than
twenty-five, a devilish whorl of black hair falling across his
forehead and the knowing glint of a pirate in his eyes. Though
his coloring was much fairer than Bastien’s—and his face
possessed a distinctly European bent—Celine could detect a
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vague resemblance, most especially in the cut of his jaw. In the unmistakable arrogance of his amber gaze.
A gold skeleton key rested in his palm, a crimson ribbon dan-
gling from a loop at its end. A young man of obvious means,
who possessed the key to countless doors.
How droll.
But the most striking thing about the portrait was its palette.
The subject’s skin and features had all been rendered in believ-
able tones, but everything else stretched the notion. The shad-
ows were too bright a blue, the edges a blur, the corners splashed with ochre paint as if the artist had been on the cusp of madness.
Celine stared at the painting for a time. Then closed her eyes.
She felt as if she were being watched. As if the portrait’s gaze followed her, like the stories of the Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece, the Mona Lisa. She decided to focus on the taper beside her head, which dripped wax down its brass holder in steady streams, until
the gleaming candelabra appeared as if it were weeping.
Another disconcerting sight. Everywhere Celine looked,
something sinister sprang to life. She thought about waiting
until the sun rose to return to sleep. Until the rays of white-gold light seeped onto her silken sheets. The sight of dawn should
bring with it a measure of peace.
Why did Celine not feel as if it would?
Her head sank into the sumptuous pillow, her body restless,
the eyes at the foot of her bed taunting.
Disturbed by the sense of being watched while she slept,
Celine drew the wine-red curtains around the bed and swal-
lowed herself in the comfort of darkness.
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HIVER, 1872
RUE BIENVILLE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
i
From my deserted street corner, I watch the expensive cur-
tains on the uppermost floor of the Hotel Dumaine shift to
one side. The face of a stunning young woman with sharp green
eyes and hair the color of spilled ink peers through the open-
ing. Only to vanish in the next breath, the heavy damask falling
back into place.
I smile.
Fitting that they would take her to Nicodemus’ rooms. A
chamber suited for a Sun King, replete with a garish display
of wealth, the kind to which he has grown accustomed over
the years. An homage to Versailles at its best. Or at its worst,
depending on one’s perspective.
No matter. Nicodemus is rarely there now. He knows better
than to come to New Orleans and tempt his fate. He has lost
much in the last few years.
But I have lost more. And there is still much for us both to
lose. Memories and hopes, wishes for a future that can never
be replaced once it is gone. By now, Nicodemus has undoubt-
edly been summoned from the safety of his New York lair
in response to the rash of recent murders in New Orleans.
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He will return to the city soon, just as I have foreseen.
Precisely in time for my final performance.
Satisfaction winds through my limbs, causing me to drop my
guard for a moment. All is unfolding according to plan. I relish
this twinkle of time before I allow the rage to collect in my chest and color my vision. Then I breathe deeply of the briny air. Let
the dampness fill my lungs as my heightened senses stretch,
soaking in every detail in my vicinity. A horse nearby with an
aching tooth, smelling of blood and sweet decay. Crumbs of rye
bread swirling about in the gutter, their perfume sour and pun-
gent. A dead rat lingering in the corner of a nearby sewer, the
maggots on it wriggling beneath a beam of moonlight.
And—just around the bend—the beating of hearts. One old.
Two young. If I had to guess, the younger ones are engaged in
an act of lust, their hearts racing in tandem with their sighs.
The old heart thuds slowly. Steadily. Beating toward its inexo-
rable end.
Another creature of the night draws close. My muscles tense
and my teeth lengthen on instinct, like the claws of a cat. I re-
assure myself when I realize it is a familiar scent. One I need
not fear.
I continue breathing deeply until my shoulders fall. Then I
look once more to the top floor of the Dumaine. Another haunt
I know well . . . down to its secret doors and hidden passage-
ways.
Not long ago, I visited these rooms under cover of night, tak-
ing in the world of my enemies, knowing I would face them
all soon. I even chose to lie upon Nicodemus’ bed and admire
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his collection of books, the shelves of which crown the towering space like a glittering tiara. I pushed the ladders along their oiled casters and marveled at the gleaming motions before
pocketing one of my favorite tomes, a first edition of The Count of Monte Cr
isto. Pity I missed the chance to bid my beloved Alexandre a final farewell.
Contentment ripples across my skin at the wash of memories.
Nicodemus’ bedchamber is a fitting place to leave my next
mark.
I linger in my delicious reverie along my street corner, a
pleasant hum forming behind my lips. A song from a brighter,
happier time.
A beggar passes by, her hands outstretched for an alm, her
shawl a tattered rag flapping in the breeze. Her heart thumps
in a recognizable pattern. The old soul I sensed moments ago. I
reach into my pocket to offer her everything I possess, a small
fortune by anyone’s standards.
I have no need of money. What I need, I take. Currency is not
important to a creature like me. I do not seek to rest beneath a
golden canopy or bathe in a roomful of polished marble.
I seek only to survive.
No. That is a lie. I wish to thrive. To see those who would
bring an end to my existence die a slow, agonizing death. Af-
ter they witness everything they value crumple to pieces before
them.
It is only fitting.
“Bless you,” the beggar woman says, a sibilant sound whistling
from between her handful of teeth.
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“May the Lord keep you,” I reply with a smile.
My voice catches her off guard. I’m unsurprised by this. Its
rich music lulls mortals closer in a way that never ceases to
amuse me. It helps greatly in salving the path toward their in-
evitable demise. In a way, I would argue we are among the most
perfect of predators. We mime the mannerisms of our prey. We
walk among them, unknown and unseen. By the time they real-
ize they are caught in our web, it is far too late. The transformation is the click of a tumbler, the turn of a handle.
The end of a life. Here one moment. Gone the next.
There is only one other kind of creature that rivals us in such
a way. Or perhaps two, though I find most woodland folk gen-
uinely annoying, with all their talk of glamour and promises.
With their gleeful tales of tricking mortals into making disas-
trous bargains. Why would I have need of anyone’s firstborn
child? A mewling infant is a nuisance, not a reward. And only
true monsters would make meals of such a thing.
Besides that, I do not bargain with lesser beings. I take. After