by Renee Ahdieh
Celine sat on the edge of the rickety cot in Michael’s office
at police headquarters. The ticking of the nearby clock
reverberated through her brain, the sound growing louder
with each passing second. Rays of filtered light cut across the
wooden floorboards beneath her feet, the sun warming in
preparation for its grand finale.
Her pulse thudded in her ears as she studied the large slate
chalkboard across the way, covered with endless lists and me-
ticulous diagrams Michael had constructed since the night of
the first murder along the docks less than one month ago. She
paused on the weather-beaten map affixed to a corner of the
smooth grey surface. Peered intently upon the details she’d
shared of the evening the killer had trailed her down a dark-
ened city street. The things the demon had said to her, both
that night and the night William had been killed. The threats
the creature had snarled in her ear:
Welcome to the Battle of Carthage.
You are mine .
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Death leads to another garden.
To thine own self, be true.
Die in my arms.
She shuddered at the memory of how the demon’s cool
breath had rippled down her back. Of the warm copper scent
he’d left behind after raking his bloodstained fingers across
her face. Celine looked away, her eyes catching on the chalk-
board’s most recent addition: the one pertaining to Nigel’s
murder last night in the suite at the Dumaine. The tallying
of another horrific clue to their collection of symbols.
She sighed, her shoulders bowing forward as if burdened by
an invisible weight.
It was the same as it had been for the last few hours.
Celine could make neither heads nor tails of it.
The letters themselves could be as they appeared at first
glance: an L, an O, and a Y. But strung together, they held no meaning for Celine, nor did they appear to resonate with
Michael or any other member of the Metropolitan Police. They
could be initials. Or directives. Or utter nonsense meant to
worry them to distraction.
If they were in fact another kind of script altogether, their
significance remained beyond Celine’s reach. The first letter
could be a backward or sideways L, in either ancient Greek or Latin. Or perhaps even a C? Maybe the killer had written it incorrectly, or perhaps the perspective had been skewed. The
second letter was arguably an O, if it was indeed a letter at all.
And the last? It could be any number of letters. A or Y or W.
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Perhaps a U, depending on its origins. It could even be from a language that predated ancient Greek.
Maybe they weren’t letters at all, and Michael had been right
to assign them mathematical meaning.
It was exhausting. All the unending possibilities had plagued
Celine well past dawn. As the hours had passed, the events of
last night had tangled through her mind, leaving behind an
eerie mélange of memory. What struck Celine most was the
contrast of coldness and warmth. Of darkness and light. The
way the air had felt in the maze, thick and heavy. The remem-
brance of the young girl spilling cool champagne down the
skin of her throat, the sparkling glass in the garden silhou-
etting her shape. The way Celine’s nerves had iced at any
threat, her bones pulling taut as if she’d stepped into a bracing winter’s night. The feel of Bastien’s hands searing across her
skin, his lips a brand in the hollow of her throat. The delicious warmth pouring down her body even now at the thought.
That horrifying moment when a scream had frozen on
Celine’s tongue.
The warm smell of blood.
The bitter cold of death.
She clutched the silly note tighter in her palm. The one
handed to her in passing by a stone-faced Odette a mere minute
after Michael had separated Celine and Bastien upon his
arrival to the hotel, intent on squirreling her away to the tri-
storied police headquarters in Jackson Square beside Saint
Louis Cathedral.
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Wherever you are, I will find you at midnight.
It shouldn’t have mattered to Celine that Bastien had thought
of her moments after discovering his murdered friend. But it
mattered more than she could find the words to say. The note
she held in her palm proved they were not simply the “passing
acquaintances” they’d agreed to be only days before. They were
beyond such inanities. Perhaps it mattered to someone some-
where that Celine was not a proper match for Bastien, nor was
he at all the proper suitor she’d envisioned for herself.
But it no longer mattered to them.
Celine saw past Bastien’s masks. He looked beyond her life-
time of artful lies. And when confronted with these truths—the
worst things that had happened to them, the worst things they
had done—Bastien did not flinch nor did Celine turn away.
These were the only truths that made sense amid such chaos.
Hooking an errant curl behind an ear, Celine strode toward
the slate chalkboard to take a closer look at the worn map,
pockmarked with metal pins from prior investigations. Again
she struggled to understand what had made the killer shift his
attentions to her. What had driven him to murder that poor girl
along the docks weeks ago. Whether everything was connected
and, if so, what the killer’s next step might be. Her gaze caught on the name of the street running in front of the police station, Rue de Chartres.
Come with me to the heart of Chartres.
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The phrase was missing from Michael’s collection. Evidently Celine had neglected to mention it to him. Did it matter? Did
it hold any meaning? Who was this madman, and why was he
killing people around them? Where was he hiding, in plain
sight or in a shadowy labyrinth of his own? He could be among
so many of the people she had met thus far. Or he could be
none of them at all.
One thing was clear: Celine was finished waiting for him to
make his next move.
Frustration clutched at her throat, the heat of barely checked
rage warming across her skin. Her resolve hardened further. She
would bait the killer into a trap the night of the masquerade ball, when he believed her to be preoccupied by drink. She would
appear to indulge herself in the carnival festivities, and then leave the ball to wander the Quarter alone, just as she had the first
evening the killer had followed her, a mere fortnight ago.
The fiend wouldn’t know that members of the Court would
be lurking nearby in an ever-tightening circle, waiting for him
to reveal himself. To finally make a misstep.
And if it didn’t work?
Celine would simply set the trap again at a different time and
place.
Perhaps it was ridiculous to think she could outwit such a
villain. But at least it was something.
Beside her feet, the rays of sunlight stretched long and lean
as dusk began to descend on New Orleans, the sky catching fire
along the horizon. Celine huffed, the echo unspooling into the
plaster ceilings.
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“What a waste of time,” she murmured to no one. Stopped herself from kicking the corner of Michael’s inordinately tidy desk
like a child denied a sweet. There were so many other things she
could be doing. Should be doing. Her glance fell on the skirt of
Odette’s ball gown, strewn across the end of the rickety cot. For several hours this morning, Celine had worked to persevere and
put the finishing touches on it. The masquerade ball was only
two days away, and she still needed time to complete her own
costume. But the needles had fallen from her shaking fingers, her nerves frayed from the prior evening’s events. No matter what
Celine did, she could not silence the riot of her thoughts.
Militant footsteps rounded the corner just beyond the locked
door. Celine listened, glancing at the clock to verify—once
more—the time the guards patrolled the corridors outside
Detective Grimaldi’s office.
Being quarantined like a cholera patient had been a waste
of precious hours in many respects, but at least it had helped
Celine gather the information necessary for tonight’s venture:
A midnight prison break.
By her count, guards patrolled the impressive brick edifice
beside Saint Louis Cathedral every fifteen minutes. In two-
hour increments, someone knocked on the door of Michael’s
office to check on Celine or deliver something for her to eat. If she wished to attend to her physical needs, an officer stationed
just around the nearest bend in the hall was there to make sure
she returned to Michael’s office immediately afterward.
Michael himself had come twice to check on her since day-
break.
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As he’d promised, Celine was well attended. It would be quite a task indeed for any intruder to make his way past the impressive squadron of guards surrounding the building, up its wind-
ing staircases to the third floor, and into its slew of hallways, patrolled as they were at all hours.
But she would wager none of them had considered whether
Celine would wish to break out of this makeshift prison.
Of course it was wild and irresponsible to attempt such a
thing. Alas, Celine suspected that if she even asked to leave the premises, Michael himself would be there to thwart her every
move. Besides that, Celine did not think he would take kindly
to her request to meet with any member of La Cour des Lions
at police headquarters, let alone Bastien.
Merde, she thought to herself. I never should have told him anything, least of all my plan to use myself as bait.
Celine sniffed. It grated on her to be shackled to one place
in such a manner, like a princess kept in a tower, awaiting a
white knight. She wasn’t a complete fool, after all. No undue
risk would be taken this evening. At all times, Bastien’s solid
silver dagger would be close at hand. And she had no intention
of wandering beyond earshot of police headquarters. Instead
she’d wait for Bastien in the heart of Jackson Square not a min-
ute before midnight, less than forty paces from the front doors
of the cathedral.
What kind of foolish killer would try to strike her down a
stone’s throw from a garrison of armed police officers?
Several sets of footsteps neared the door, pausing just outside.
A fist pounded lightly on its oaken surface in three successive
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knocks. Then waited a breath before rapping four times more.
The signal Michael had devised to convey he was outside and
all was well.
Celine unlocked the door to find the young detective stand-
ing there, a storm brewing in his colorless eyes. Over his shoul-
der loomed a jolly giant of a man carrying an incongruously
small basket and a stooped woman with a woolen shawl draped
across her shoulders and a covered dish between her wrinkled
palms.
The elderly woman peered past Michael with a wry expres-
sion. “Step aside, caro.” Her accent was threaded with rolling
r’s and richly rounded vowels. “And be sure to introduce me.” A twinkle shone in her watchful gaze.
When Michael failed to cross the threshold or utter a single
word, the elderly woman elbowed him aside with an amused
snort, the looming brute laughing under his breath, the sound
like the barking of a large hound.
With a world-weary sigh, Michael followed them into his of-
fice, his motions uncharacteristically awkward. “Nonna, this is
Miss Celine Rousseau of Paris.” He paused. “Miss Rousseau, I’d
like to introduce you to my grandmother.”
Celine’s eyes went wide. She stood straight while tucking Bas-
tien’s letter into the pocket of her petticoat. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Madame Gri—”
“None of that nonsense. Call me Nonna.” Her smile crinkled
every line in her brow, the effect more soothing than a mug of
hot tea. She shuffled past Celine. “I brought you some ribollita.”
With a thunk, Nonna set down the covered dish on Michael’s
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desk. “It’s a soup my mother taught me to make when I was a child. You see, I was a bit of a piantagrane in my youth.” She
made small circles with her hands, her gestures punctuating
her words. “Always destroying things and getting into mischief.
So my mamma would give me old bread to tear into pieces,
then we would wait until they soaked up the delicious broth
before having a feast! Have you ever had ribollita?” she asked
Celine as she waved her immense escort closer, his steps minc-
ing, as if he’d incurred a recent injury.
“No, ma’am.” Celine smiled, a fond warmth settling in her
stomach.
“You will love it.” Nonna beamed. Every time she moved, the
smell of cinnamon and sage suffused the air. “Luca, per favore,
where are the bowls?” She turned to the jolly giant, a stern
expression on her face. “And, Michael, why are you standing
there as if you were struck by lightning? Muoviti!” She flung her hands to one side, shooing him away.
For the first time since Celine had met Michael, she glimpsed
a look of utter bewilderment on his face. He started to step
forward, then stopped, clearing his throat and adjusting the
cuffs of his sleeves.
Despite everything, a bubble of dark laughter threatened to
burst past Celine’s lips. Michael’s diminutive grandmother had
ripped the proverbial carpet from beneath his feet, and Celine
relished every second of watching him stumble.
&n
bsp; Nonna continued, “I can only imagine how little my grandson
has thought of providing you adequate food, since he himself
often forgets to eat.” She spun around, her shawl falling from
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one shoulder. “Let me look at you.” Without warning, she seized Celine by the chin, turning her face to and fro. “Bella, bella,
bella,” she murmured. “Where did you get those eyes and those
cheekbones, cara?”
“My mother.”
“Ovviamente,” Nonna said with a nod. “Your mother must
have been a great beauty.” She winked at the man she’d called
Luca. “Not unlike myself in my heyday.”
Luca laughed, the sound dancing about the dimly lit room
as he stepped forward. “Since my cousin is clearly tongue-tied,
I’ll have to apologize for him and make my own introduction.”
He dipped his head into a small bow. “Luca Grimaldi, at your
service.” When he smiled down at her, Celine noticed the simi-
larity in the line of his jaw and along his tousled brow. But
instead of lending him the scholarly look it did Michael, it made Luca appear quite rugged. Like a man who toiled with his hands
in the outdoors for long stretches of time. His eyes brought
to mind the color of melting chocolate, and—when he took
Celine’s hand to press a polite kiss on it—the solidness of his
grasp made her feel even more at ease.
Celine grinned up at him, marveling at how tall he was. “A
pleasure to meet you, Luca.”
“Get the young lady a chair, caro,” Nonna chided Michael while
spooning the hearty soup into small bowls she removed from
Luca’s basket. Celine moved closer to help, but was brushed to
one side without preamble. “No, no. You are our guest here.”
Nonna handed Celine a bowl, and the steaming ribollita heated
through Celine’s palms, winding toward her heart. A strange
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flutter took shape in her chest. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had prepared something especially for her, with their
own two hands. At home in Paris, she’d done most of the cook-
ing. And Celine had never known either of her grandmothers.
She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Nonna.”
“Of course.” Nonna served bowls of soup to Michael and to