by Renee Ahdieh
The moment Celine and Odette had entered the glittering
foyer of this magnificent home, champagne had been poured
liberally, to any and all who wished to partake. Hours later,
the glitziest pillars of New Orleans society were well into their cups. Already couples were disappearing into the hedgerow
deep within the impressive labyrinth, seeking shadowy corners
awash in fervent whispers.
Celine fiddled with the low-cut edge of her emerald gown,
trying in vain to tug it higher.
“Stop fretting over it, mon amie. You’ll only draw more atten-
tion to the impressive swath of bare skin there,” Odette said from beside Celine, her long sheath dress falling from her shoulders
in a cascade of lavender organza, her hair cocooned in a shim-
mering net atop her head. She’d styled herself in Regency garb,
with a hint of Greco-Roman influence. A skein of whisper-thin
tulle stained a deep Tyrian purple had been draped across her
chest, its ends left to trail down her back. Around her waist was
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a golden girdle inspired by the character Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons.
“I don’t mind a swath of bare skin,” Celine retorted. “I do
mind my bare breasts spilling over the top of my dress at a party replete with satyrs.”
Odette laughed, her ivory fan fluttering her loose brunette
curls. “If that happens, you’ll have ten marriage proposals by
the end of the evening.”
“I have no intention of becoming the future Madame Goat.”
Celine sniffed. “Besides that, I feel like a ham trussed up for
holiday dinner.”
Odette’s laughter rang into the starlit sky. “One glass of cham-
pagne, and you’re far more entertaining than the Bard himself.”
The edges of her lovely face crinkled as she gazed upon Celine,
her expression warm. “Before I forget, you look divine in that
color. It’s a perfect match for your eyes.”
Her words caused Celine to flinch. Her tormentor that night
in the Quarter had used that word. Divine. Meaning “of the gods.” She certainly didn’t feel “of the gods” tonight.
“I should have gone dressed as a tree,” Celine said in a flat
tone. When her gaze ran the length of the hedgerow, she caught
a glimpse of yet another satyr, his goat ears high on his curly head, a tail fashioned of wool and feathers pinned to the back
of his gabardine trousers.
Exasperation rippled through her chest. “Have any of these fools actually read the play?”
Odette cackled with merriment, her long purple mantle
swirling about her feet.
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A familiar figure caught Celine’s attention across the way.
Her heart missed a beat when a pair of sapphire eyes skimmed
dangerously close to where Celine stood, the smile below them
sweet and serene.
Pippa Montrose was in attendance at this soirée, dressed as
Titania, the queen of the fairies, if Celine had to hazard a guess.
She’d arrived on the arm of a placid young man with a slender
frame and large round spectacles, likely Phoebus Devereux.
Thankfully, it appeared Pippa had yet to spot Celine across
the crowded expanse.
Without a second thought, Celine turned in place, position-
ing her back to Pippa, all the while wishing she could shrink
into the rosebushes. If Pippa saw her, a confrontation would
likely ensue. Pippa had sent two messages to the hotel today
alone, both inquiring after Celine’s welfare. In the latter part
of the afternoon, Pippa had come to the Dumaine in person,
hoping to check on her friend. Celine had begged off each at-
tempt to make contact, spinning a web of white lies designed
to keep Pippa as far away from her as possible, even if it meant
damaging their relationship.
Better that Pippa feel cast aside than remain in the mur-
derer’s notice.
“We should leave,” Celine muttered to Odette, just as another
passel of jubilant partygoers hoisted a young man onto their
shoulders and proceeded to cheer as if his horse had won the
Derby.
Odette drew closer, her features tufting with concern. “I
thought you wanted to meet with Bastien. Is something wrong?”
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“Nothing is wrong.” Celine struggled to appear nonchalant.
“It’s just been three hours since we arrived. If he had any intention of showing his face, he would be here by now.”
Odette tossed a dismissive hand into the air, the jewels
adorning her fingers flashing. Definitely not made of paste.
“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, he’s always late to these kinds of things.
The fiend enjoys making an entrance.”
Despite Odette’s reassurances, doubt unfurled in Celine’s
stomach. Madeleine and Hortense had arrived not long af-
ter Celine and Odette, dressed as ethereal fey, their dark
shoulders gleaming with gold dust. Boone had trailed in their
shadow a moment later, garbed in white, a literal halo about
his head. A sight that had caused Odette’s body to shake with
laughter.
Celine was about to renew her objections when Odette waved
her fingers in the air above her head, her smile bright.
“Nigel!” Odette took hold of Celine’s hand to tug her along.
Closer to where Pippa and Phoebus stood engaged in conver-
sation with the crème de la crème of the Crescent City.
“Odette,” Celine gasped, trying to extricate herself from
Odette’s determined grip.
The damp warmth of the night and the dull roar of the fes-
tivities succeeded in drowning out Celine’s protests. Nigel
met them halfway, two masked figures sauntering behind him
at an unhurried pace. His tall frame wove with ease around
the countless bodies milling and spilling about. Like most
of the other guests in attendance, he’d taken a rather blasé
approach to his costume, resorting to winding a few willow
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branches around his arms, their leaves drooping, the overall effect lackluster, save for the laurel crown gracing his brow.
Boone appeared out of nowhere, startling Celine as he sidled
next to her, his loose white shirt billowing about his trim torso, the halo of gold across his forehead tilted askew.
Grateful for the cover his closeness provided, Celine paused
to peruse his attire. “And who are you supposed to be?”
“Theseus,” Boone said without hesitation.
“The founder hero of Athens?” Disbelief flared across Celine’s
face. “Be serious. You’re dressed as an angel.”
Boone shrugged. “Honestly I thought this was a fête for saints
and sinners.”
“And you thought to go dressed as a saint?”
“Didn’t you know, darlin’?” he drawled. “All the best saints are
sinners.”
Despite everything, Celine laughed, the sound filling he
r
lungs, causing her tightlaced stays to stretch farther. She
pressed a hand to her sternum, exhaling slowly to catch her
breath. With the hunger of a seasoned sinner, Boone ogled
Celine’s chest, the irony not at all lost on her.
Nigel grinned as Odette shoved Boone in the shoulder, a note
of warning in her eyes. The next instant, she turned to Nigel
and sighed a soul-deep sigh. “Just whom are you hoping to
channel in that godforsaken costume? I expected better of you,
Lord Fitzroy.”
“Oberon, o’ course.” Nigel twisted the waxed ends of his
ruddy mustache, his expression mischievous, his accent thick.
“One and only king o’ the fairies.”
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“King of the overgrown trees, more like,” Odette teased as she tore away a lifeless leaf along his elbow.
He peered down at her with exaggerated imperiousness. “Re-
gardless, I lord over every’fing in my dominion. Kneel before
me, Hippolyta.”
“You lord over nothing, my silly, sweet boy.” Odette swiped a
gloved fingertip beneath his chin, a ghost of a smile lingering
on her face. “Least of all the queen of the Amazons.”
Nigel bowed deeply, the leaves wrapped around his wrist
trembling from his motions. He sent a cheeky nod to Celine,
whose attention strayed toward the two masked figures loiter-
ing in his shadow. Perhaps loitering was the wrong word. For neither gentleman appeared to be the least bit concerned with
the unfolding spectacle.
One of them was obviously Arjun Desai. The mask of a don-
key concealed the upper half of his burnished face. A felt tail
had been attached to his backside. At least he’d paid the soirée’s theme the appropriate due, for he obviously meant to portray
Nick Bottom, the poor fool transformed into a beast of burden
by the notorious trickster, Robin Goodfellow.
Arjun scanned his surroundings, his eyes falling on Pippa,
his lips twitching. “Is that your friend on the arm of Phoebus
Devereux?” he asked Celine.
“I believe so,” she replied in noncommittal fashion. Hoping he
would not press the matter further.
“Fascinating.” Arjun’s grin widened as he cast a meaningful
glance toward the tall, broad-shouldered young man to his left.
A mask covered the entirety of his face, complete with a set of
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spiraled horns twisting away from his brow, the profile reminiscent of a bull. His body was swathed in a leather greatcoat,
its large black collar turned up, further shrouding his features
from view.
His only identifier was the gold signet ring on the smallest
finger of his left hand, embossed with the seal of La Cour des
Lions.
Celine’s gaze lingered on the ring, and Bastien’s graceful fin-
gers flexed at his sides, as if they could sense her unwavering
study. It should have meant nothing for Celine to notice this
particular crack in his façade. But—to her endless chagrin—it
caused her stomach to tighten and her skin to tingle as if she’d
stepped out into a bracing winter’s night.
His awareness made her feel alive. Which meant it fell
somewhere between nothing and everything. A bothersome
development, to be sure. Almost as troubling as the inevitable
question that followed.
Was Bastien pleased to see her, or was he irritated?
This was the first time they’d seen each other since admitting
their mutual attraction. The night they’d agreed to be nothing
more than mere acquaintances. Alas, the presence of a mere
acquaintance would not cause a swarm of butterflies to take
flight in Celine’s stomach, to cluster around her heart, their
wings fluttering.
Frustration warmed beneath her skin.
Odette struck a dramatic pose, her right hip jutting forward
as she gestured toward Bastien. “Pray tell, just who are you sup-
posed to be?”
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“The Minotaur.” A rich voice emanated from behind the bull mask, amusement rounding its tone.
“Is there a Minotaur in Shakespeare’s play?” Odette queried.
Bastien shook his horned head once.
“Well, bully for you,” Celine joked, wishing she could see his
eyes. Wishing she could read his thoughts like the pages of a
beloved book, pausing to savor every word. Her fingers moved
into her pocket of their own volition, pinching his insolent
note, stoking the anger in her blood, hoping the blaze would
overcome the desire.
The bull’s head tilted in Celine’s direction, the motion filled
with scorn. Then Bastien glanced away, as if he were bored with
the very idea of her.
Though it was subtle, his dismissal enraged Celine beyond
reason, the fire of fury swallowing everything in its path. She
crumpled the note in her fist. He’d already disregarded her
once today. After which Celine had gone to immense trouble
to attend this godforsaken gathering, all with the intention of
confronting him.
And he thought to treat her with derision?
Madness, to the very end. It was true a foolish part of Celine
had wanted to see him and be seen in return. She deserved to
feel wounded now. Nothing good ever came from succumbing
to madness.
No matter. To borrow his own words, Celine would grant
Bastien no quarter. He’d trifled with her long enough. These
weren’t the actions of an acquaintance. These were the actions
of an enemy. She’d had her fill of enemies.
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If Bastien was the Minotaur, Celine would be Theseus, armed with the sword of Aegeus.
Ready to slay the beast.
As if Arjun could taste the discomfort collecting in the air,
he laughed, pushing his donkey mask up his face, the silk ties
swiping through his unruly waves. “Well, I’d wager this event
to be the height of this season’s debauchery. Anyone care to
name the terms?” His British accent sounded too refined for
a party in which satyrs roamed the gardens with insidious
ease. Too cultured for a night in which drunken fools lost their
inhibitions in a maze of fragrant rosebushes, forgetting all their thorns.
As if to illustrate the point, a striking young woman with
hair the color of smoldering embers poured a glass of bubbling
champagne down the pale skin of her throat, letting it dribble
between her collarbones and soak through the front of her bod-
ice. It traced the shape of her breasts before she feigned out-
rage, as if she’d simply missed her mouth, her ensuing giggles
high and false.
Whatever attention the girl sought to garner, she succeeded.
Every eye—male and female alike—was locked on her slender
form, equal parts scandalized and tantalized. With a smug
For now.
Distracted by the exhibition, Pippa’s shocked gaze landed on
Celine, the same realization stealing through them in the next
breath. A flash of pain shimmered across Pippa’s features, her
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lips parting in surprise. The next instant, she leaned toward her escort, speaking with him in hushed tones.
Celine knew it would take less than ten paces for Pippa to
face her. Less than half that for the murderer to notice, were he present, as she suspected. And Celine simply could not allow
that to happen.
Panic took root in her stomach. Maddening laughter lilted
into the air around them, mingling with incessant chatter. The
scent of fresh herbs and the iron of overturned soil filled her
nostrils as Celine looked about, seeking an escape.
In a single, sinuous motion, Bastien removed his bull mask,
his silver eyes like storm clouds, his expression guarded. As if
he could sense her distress.
They locked gazes for a blink of time.
The next instant, Celine wheeled about without warning,
rushing toward the entrance of the maze, her cream-colored
hem snagging on thorns as she ran.
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Darkness Incarnate
i
Celine didn’t know why she was sure Bastien would follow
her.
She just knew—with the certainty of a rising moon—that he
would.
When she glanced over her shoulder, the shape of his great-
coat stretched behind her, and a jolt of something unseen,
unheard, unfelt before this moment raced through her blood.
It pulsed in time with her heart, sending her rushing down a
wicked path, deeper into wicked darkness.
She was Theseus. Setting a trap for the mighty Minotaur in a cursed Labyrinth.
As if she led him on a string, Bastien glided in her footsteps.
Celine felt him through the layers of shadow, like the night had
embraced her, remaking her in its own image. The sounds of
merriment faded into sighs, the smell of sweat and trampled
flowers steeping in the warm air.
Celine wove past a pair of young women embracing in a cor-
ner, rose petals crushed to paste beneath their feet. A shoulder
strap on one girl’s gown had slid down her arm, the rouge on