by Renee Ahdieh
her lover’s lips nothing more than a smudge across her cheek.
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Her face flaming with apology, Celine rounded the next corner and came upon a dead end. She spun in place, her head
held high. Bastien stood before her, backlit by the moon, his
upturned collar concealing most of his face, the head of the
Minotaur dangling from one hand.
She glared at him through the void, vowing to hold fast to her
plan, though the space around them thickened with suggestion.
“The Minotaur, Bastien? Really?”
“I possess a certain affinity for monsters.”
“And the long black coat?”
“I enjoy making a spectacle.” His face held nothing but shad-
ows, the set of his jaw refined. As if nothing about the situation troubled him in the slightest.
It provoked Celine further. “And what of Anabel’s yellow
ribbon?”
Bastien took a step closer. An arctic chill emanated from his
skin. “What of it?”
“Why do you have it?”
He said nothing for a time. “Why do you think I have it?”
Bastien took another step closer, pressing Celine into the
corner.
“Stop,” she commanded.
He halted in his tracks. “Are you afraid?”
“No. I’m furious.”
“I see.” Bastien’s response was slow. Deliberate. “You think I
killed her,” he said quietly.
The coal of night made it difficult for Celine to discern his
features. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
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“If I told you I didn’t kill her, would you believe me? If I said I found the ribbon on the stairwell, would that ring true?”
He advanced once more, prowling like a panther, the timbre
of his voice lowering even further. “Or would you believe me
if I told you it belonged to someone I loved long ago?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“Do you want to believe me?” It was as if Lucifer himself had posed Celine the question, his tone filled with dark deviltry.
Yes, her heart said. “No.” Celine’s hands balled into fists.
“Liar.” The last step Bastien took brought his face into a beam
of moonlight.
A sharp breath filled Celine’s lungs. He was painfully beauti-
ful. Not in the way of art or the way of poetry. But in the way
of violence. The way the sight of it gripped you and took hold.
Like a lightning storm behind a bank of clouds. A tidal wave
crashing upon a shore. A reminder that life was a moment
in time.
That every second of it should be relished.
“What manner of creature are the members of La Cour des
Lions?” Celine asked outright, unnerved by the tremor in her
chest. “Because I don’t believe any of you are human.”
Celine expected to see a glimmer of shock in his expression.
He remained stone-faced, the hem of his long coat writhing
about him like darkness incarnate.
“Odette makes all things possible. Arjun is a weaver of
words. Nigel balances the banker’s scale. Jae eliminates any
dead weight. Boone finds things that wish to remain hidden.
Madeleine puts those things to work, all while Hortense
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cavorts in the background. And—my love of snakes notwith-standing—I am as human as you are,” Bastien said simply.
“Do you take me for a fool?” she retorted.
He said nothing in response.
“If the Court of the Lions isn’t responsible for killing Anabel
and William, then who is?” Celine demanded in a harsh
whisper. “And how do we stop him?”
The sound of a twig snapped around the bend, crackling with
warning.
Before Celine could blink, Bastien shoved her into the cor-
ner, covering her with his body, the waxen leaves at her back
prickling against the bare skin along her arms. All the air left
her chest, the blood flooding her veins in a heated rush. For a
ridiculous instant, Celine thought Bastien was going to kiss her, like the heroes in the penny dreadfuls she often purloined from
her friend Josephine.
His arms encircled her as he assumed a wide stance, shield-
ing her from view. To anyone looking closely, it would appear
as though they were paramours lost in the evening revelry.
It did not escape Celine’s notice that Bastien failed to take a
defensive position.
Which meant he thought only to protect.
Footsteps emanated from behind him, a cluster of indistinct
figures shifting into view. With every second, they drew closer,
their identities concealed under cover of night.
Unmistakable menace rolled off Bastien’s body. From every
sleek muscle beneath his black waistcoat to every stretched
tendon in his arms. Celine’s breath lodged in her throat, her
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pulse trilling in her ears. Again reminding her why so many people granted Bastien such a wide berth.
Standing before Celine was a young man capable of spill-
ing blood without a moment’s hesitation. A ruthless fiend
who could slay an armed dragoon and attend Mass the next
morning.
The intruders moved closer, as if they were searching for
something in the hedgerow, their words slurring together,
their bodies stumbling through the darkness. Bastien’s right
arm snaked around Celine’s waist to place the handle of a
small dagger in her palm, his left hand shifting toward the
revolver tucked in his shoulder holster.
He shook his head once. Celine nodded in understanding.
They would say nothing. They would wait like coiled asps,
ready to strike.
A slender form—that of a young woman—tripped into
view just beyond Bastien’s shoulder. “Didn’t you say you saw
Sébastien Saint Germain go into the maze, chasing after a
young lady?” she said to the companion at her back, her words
slurring from drink.
“I could have sworn I did,” another feminine voice rang out
from behind her.
The first girl groaned. “Which lucky mouse managed to snag
herself a lion?”
“She can have him,” her friend replied with an audible
shudder. “He and every member of the Court frighten me. I
don’t care how much money or influence they peddle.”
“How can you say that? He’s a prize in all respects. Have you
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seen the way he looks when he smiles?” She sighed. “It’s a face that would set a girl’s drawers aflame.”
A cold light settled in Bastien’s gaze as they spoke. The ice of
a moonless night, high in the Himalayas.
“Well, he isn’t here,” the second girl said. “And Maman would
be furious if she knew we’d wandered into the maze. Everyone
knows what happens here after midnight.”
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“Blast it all,” the first girl said through her teeth. “I was hoping to leave the party with at least one good story.”
“Let’s be grateful we’re leaving at all, given the recent mur-
ders.” Her sensible friend tugged the first girl away, forcing
them to retrace their steps, their words melting into nothing-
ness a moment later.
Even after they’d wandered beyond earshot, Bastien did not
shift back. He stared down at Celine, his lips pursed, his fea-
tures calculating.
Celine looked up, meeting his study, measure for measure.
She inhaled, taking in the spice of the bergamot in his cologne
mixed with the scent of supple leather. “It appears your reputa-
tion precedes you,” she said, her words soundless. Traitorous.
With each passing instant, the charge in the air began to shift,
the danger reshaping itself into something warmer, headier.
But no less deadly.
“At least one young woman here is wise enough to fear me,”
he replied, his meaning plain.
“Is that what you think?” Her brow furrowed. “That I’m noth-
ing more than a fool in silken skirts?”
“You’re nothing like them. They’re leeches. You’re a lion.”
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Pleasure riffled through her at the compliment. “And what do leeches want with lions?”
“The chance to drink from our ice-cold veins.” He drew
closer, his cool breath washing across her skin.
Celine considered his face, focusing on the way his mouth
shaped words. The way its perfect furrow dipped in its center.
How easy it would be to stand on her toes and do what she’d
been wanting to do since the moment she first laid eyes on him.
She wasn’t alone in her desire. Even in the blue moonlight,
the naked wanting on Bastien’s face unmoored Celine, setting
her adrift in a stormy sea.
It was the kind of wanting that hurt.
“Celine.” He pronounced her name like a prayer. “What do
you want?”
“I want . . .” She saw herself mirrored in his liquid gaze.
Bastien brushed his forehead across hers. “Put an end to our
miseries, mon coeur,” he whispered. “Please.”
Celine rose on the tips of her toes, crowding his space as he’d
crowded hers. She gripped him by his pristine lapels, his knife
still entwined between her fingers, the blade gleaming white
beneath the stars. The front of her basque pressed to the hard-
ened planes of his body, Bastien’s heart racing against hers. He
looked down, then steadied himself.
Their lips were a hairsbreadth from touching. “I want”—
Celine’s tongue was a taste away from his—“you to answer my
goddamned questions.”
It took a moment for her words to register. A shadow crossed
Bastien’s brow, a muscle working in his jaw as he unwound
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himself and took a careful step backward. Celine’s hands slid from his chest, her heels returning to earth once more, the
dagger’s handle hanging limply in her palm.
She expected his anger. From an early age, Celine had known
boys did not take well to girls who toyed with their desires. She was prepared for his anger. Prepared to unleash some of her
own in return.
Rich laughter rumbled through the night. It began in Bas-
tien’s chest, then barreled from his perfect lips, the sound un-
abashed with appreciation.
Celine stood frozen, stunned silent.
Why did he never behave as expected? And why did it make
him even more damnably attractive?
Bastien continued laughing as if no one was there to listen.
His lips crooked into a half smile. “Celine Rousseau, you’re—”
“—brilliant,” she finished, refusing to admit how unsettled
she was by his reaction. “An absolute joy to behold.”
“I was going to say impossible.” Bastien shook his head, look-
ing bemused for the barest stretch of time. Then his expression
smoothed, ever the consummate chameleon. “But I suppose I’d
be willing to consider other options.” He straightened. “If you
want me to answer your questions, then name your terms.”
She blinked, resenting how he donned his guises with such
ease. “You wish to negotiate?”
“If you’ll sheathe your weapon.” Bastien motioned toward the
dagger in her hand.
Unbeknownst to herself, Celine had lifted the small blade into
the air, brandishing it between them. Blinking like a deer caught
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in the crosshairs, she turned the iridescent handle toward him.
Instead of taking it, Bastien passed its mother-of-pearl
scabbard to her. “Keep it on you at all times. The blade is solid silver. In these times, such a weapon is a necessity, not an option.” His tone would not brook any reproach. “And if need be,
always aim for the throat.”
Celine swallowed. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Do you . . .
truly promise to answer my questions?”
Bastien checked his pulse. Nodded once. “Not here. Every
hedgerow in this cursed maze contains at least five spies.” He
rubbed at the side of his neck. “Come with me.”
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Tread Carefully
i
Sébastien Saint Germain loathed what he was about to do.
But his feelings could have no bearing on his decision.
It must be done. Tonight. Without a shred of mercy.
Celine Rousseau suffered from many misguided notions. The
first of which was that she could be part of this world and not
suffer the consequences. That she could stand toe to toe with
creatures who would tear her to shreds without blinking an
eye . . . and live to speak about it.
If there was anything Bastien had learned in his eighteen
years, it was that humans—no matter how formidable or resil-
ient—did not belong in an Otherworld filled with demons and
beasts. In the shadowy underbelly of creatures who held noth-
ing but scorn for the fragility of life.
The world in which Bastien had been raised.
It didn’t matter that Bastien wanted Celine in his world, more
than anything. She was the first mortal girl to stand toe to toe
with Nicodemus Saint Germain’s heir and not flinch. And per-
haps—if these murders had not come about—it could have
been possible.
Love is an affliction.
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For the span of a breath, Bastien allowed himself to dream.
The next instant, the dream coiled on itself like a snake, wrap-
ping his heart in a vise. He needed to silence this foolish desire.
His uncle had said it to him before. We forget our dreams, but nightmares linger with us evermore.
Celine was the precise opposite of what Bastien’s uncle
de
sired for him in a wife. She was stubborn in her pursuits.
Uncompromising in her approach. Characteristics his uncle
refused to tolerate in any mortal. Not to mention that she
lacked the cachet of a distinguished family. Bastien’s union with a pillar of New Orleans society was of tantamount importance
to Uncle Nico. His marriage should be nothing more than a
business transaction, and Celine Rousseau was not a wise
choice in that respect, for countless reasons.
But these matters did not have bearing on Bastien’s decision
tonight. Celine’s single month in this world had already caused
her irreparable harm. The kindest thing for Bastien to do would
be to cast her from it, so he would not become a nightmare
lingering evermore in her mind.
He would rather be a dream she once had. Beautiful for a
time. Meant to be forgotten.
It always ends in blood.
Bastien wasn’t a noble fool. Far from it. There was nothing
noble about what he intended to do. It was purely selfish on his
part. He could not watch Celine die, as he’d watched his family
die. The image of her life draining from her body—of the spark
in her eyes fading before him—stole the breath from his chest.
He was doing it for himself. Not for her.
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Bastien stood taller, then sank his chin into the collar of his greatcoat, his expression morose. Celine leaned against
the bars of the brass lift as they rode to the top floor of the
Dumaine. When Bastien glanced sidelong at her, he tried to
disregard the lovely shade of pink in her cheeks. Struggled to
ignore the strange electricity pulsing between them.
In vain he fought to banish the memory of her body against
his. Of the way her green eyes tempted him into sin. She was
too close now, her skin smelling of lavender and honeysuckle,
the scent parching his throat, beckoning him closer.
Just for a taste.
As always, the lift lurched to a halt at precisely the right mo-
ment. “Thank you, Ifan,” Bastien said to the dark fey manning
it. An outcast from the Sylvan Wyld to whom his uncle paid an
obscene fortune every month for the express purpose of guard-
ing this post. With a single touch of his hand, Ifan possessed the ability to ice an intruder in their footsteps.
Ifan nodded, his features cool. If not for the fey’s binding
promise to Nicodemus, Bastien had no doubt Ifan would sneer