by Renee Ahdieh
glance back, he returned to the double doors, stopping at the
threshold, his mind in a calculated turmoil.
First he looked for his uncle. Studied the crowd for the tall
figure dressed in a long white opera cape. Thankfully Nicode-
mus no longer appeared to be mingling among the Crescent
City’s unofficial gentry. It was likely he’d joined some of New
Orleans’ most influential gentlemen in a nearby antechamber
to partake in a glass of cognac, a cigar, and a well of secrets. One of the Vieux Carré’s most cherished rituals.
Which meant Bastien had less than half an hour before his
uncle noticed his absence.
Without pausing to think, Bastien slid among the couples
weaving across the ballroom floor, stealing Odette from her
partner before the foolish young man could form a protest.
She did not miss a step. Nor did her smile falter at any mo-
ment, despite the fact that a single glance at Bastien’s face told her something was terribly amiss.
Odette Valmont represented the best of Bastien’s found
family. She, Nigel, Hortense, Madeleine, Jae, and Boone had
surrounded him not long after he’d arrived on the city’s docks
almost a decade ago, an angry boy filled with loss and pain,
whose haunted features had granted him the moniker Le
Fantôme.
This strange collection of immortals had been tasked with
only one thing: guarding Nicodemus’ lone surviving heir. Pro-
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tecting their maker’s greatest legacy. For nearly ten years, they’d stood at Bastien’s back, helping him blaze a trail through the
city, all while keeping him safe from the terrors that had torn
him from his parents and his sister.
“Take a turn with me on the balcony,” Bastien said to Odette
through a winsome smile, his words more breath than sound.
With that, they reeled through the crowd—scattering the cou-
ples lingering on the periphery—before spinning through the
double doors and into the velvet darkness.
As soon as they were beyond earshot, Bastien stopped mov-
ing, his arms dropping to his sides. “Celine is gone,” he said quietly, aware that anyone—or anything—could be listening.
Odette’s sable eyes flashed black, her features sharpening, her
canines lengthening past her rouged lips. Piercing the elegant
veil and bringing the world’s most perfect predator to the sur-
face. She paused to fill her lungs with air. “I can smell her blood.
She was here not five minutes ago.”
“How can you be certain it’s hers?”
She sniffed once more, her powdered head cocking to one
side. “Her blood sings an unusual melody.”
Bastien’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursing. “Have you ever
looked in her future?”
“Only that one time.” Odette hesitated. “But it showed me
nothing about this, Bastien. It simply told me what I shared
with you weeks ago. A truth that has already come to pass. She
will be the tamer of—”
“I remember.” The fury had reached Bastien’s fingertips,
his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. It took all his
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control not to break something with his bare hands. He knew better. The greater the anger, the more destructive its force. It would be of no help if he lost his head to it. “Can you track her scent?”
Odette’s eyes returned to their normal shade, her nostrils no
longer flaring like those of a jackal. “I’m not sure. The rain makes it difficult for me to track things by scent. Have you asked the
Hellhound for help? He’s our best hunter.”
“You know as well as I do that Boone won’t lift a finger in de-
fiance of Nicodemus,” Bastien replied, ire sharpening his tone.
“He’s too afraid.”
“Our little hound has always been a lamb at heart,” Odette
rejoined softly. “He took Nigel’s death the hardest. Tonight was
the first time he’s come home in days.”
Bastien glared at nothing, a twinge piercing through his
chest. Time had become such a treasured commodity to them
all. “Can you give me an hour?”
Alarm flared across her lovely face. “Your uncle forbade—”
“I don’t give a damn what Nicodemus said,” Bastien all but
snarled.
She reached for his hand, her gloved fingers cool to the touch.
“Every member of La Cour des Lions is under express orders to
prevent you from going anywhere that involves Celine Rous-
seau. Please,” she entreated, “Nigel died because we all failed to take this threat seriously. If something happens to you, I don’t
know what we’ll all do.”
“I’m not the boy you met years ago.”
“I know, my dearest,” she said. “Only Jae is a quicker draw
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than you, and we’ve all seen you shoot a man through the eye at sixty paces. But the killer is trying to force us out into the open.
Pick us off, one by one,” she continued, her eyes swimming, her
tears turning pink. “The devil only knows why. This was sup-
posed to have ended years ago.”
“Odette.” Bastien gripped her by the shoulders, willing his
expression calm. “You’re the only one I can trust. I know you
care for Celine deeply. If we don’t help her, she could die.” His insides twisted at the thought, the words burning in his throat.
“I cannot allow that to happen. You’ve spent years obeying your
maker. Tonight, will you not help your friend?”
Odette studied him, her lips pressed in a line, a single stream
of blood-tinged tears sliding down one cheek. “I can’t stop them
from looking for you, Bastien.”
“Can you at least give me an hour?”
She wavered, fighting to maintain her composure. “I’ll . . . try
my best. But the Hellhound will find you, Bastien, as he always does. And we will all face the consequences.”
“Thank you, Odette.” He kissed her forehead.
Then he vaulted the balustrade and vanished into the
darkness.
j
Bastien kicked through the door of Michael’s office at police
headquarters without pausing for breath. He’d fully expected to
find his childhood friend looming over his desk. Just as he’d fully anticipated an altercation the moment he demanded that the
detective share all his notes on the killer. Who he might be.
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What he might be. And—most importantly—where he might be.
The only sign of life Bastien found was a single lamp, its lone
flame dancing cheerfully in a clear cylinder of glass.
Fury blinded him for an instant, his hands longing to
shatter the lamp into a thousand pieces. In an effort to allay his rage, Bastien scanned the cramped space for anything that might
help him find Celine. To one side was a cot, blankets folded atop it in a neat little pile, a basket of sewing supplies beside it.
His anger threatened to slide into
despair.
Many of the things he’d treasured had been taken from him
all too soon. These losses had taught him to hold fast to his
heart, save for two exceptions: the love he had for his immortal
family, and the love he had for his city. He’d refused to make
room for anything else. Then a month ago, a seed had been
planted in his mind, watered by the hand of Fate. By a wry smile
and a fall of raven hair. By a girl who met him word for word,
challenge for challenge.
Something unraveled in Bastien’s chest.
It appeared there was now a third exception.
He should have told Celine she’d captured his heart, instead
of allowing ridiculous social mores and expectations to stand in
their way. If anything happened to her, the devil himself would
answer for it. Bastien would take no mere pound of flesh.
Before he was finished, he would see the demon’s tears turn
to ash.
His lips pushed forward in calculation, Bastien paused on the
large slate board running parallel to Michael’s desk. He studied
the collection of clues the detective had amassed, including the
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many insidious things the killer had said to Celine on multiple occasions:
Welcome to the Battle of Carthage.
You are mine .
Death leads to another garden.
To thine own self, be true.
Die in my arms.
A muscle ticked in Bastien’s neck. He perused the old map
affixed to a corner of the slate, his gaze catching on something
he’d missed before.
Then Bastien straightened, his eyes going wide.
Michael’s notes were incomplete. The killer had said a pecu-
liar thing to Celine the night he had stalked her through the
streets of the Vieux Carré. Bastien’s attention had been drawn
by its absence on the otherwise meticulous board.
Come with me to the heart of Chartres.
Chartres was a city south of Paris, famed for the beautiful
cathedral at its heart.
Rue de Chartres ran through the center of New Orleans, in
the very middle of Michael’s map. At the street’s heart stood the three spires of Saint Louis Cathedral.
Had the demon been arrogant enough to lead them straight
to his safe haven? To be sure, the church was an unusual place
for a killer to find refuge. But it was also the exact kind of detail that would delight most of the immortals in Bastien’s acquaintance. To seek sanctuary in a house of God.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” a harsh voice
demanded from behind him.
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Bastien turned to meet the wily figure of his former friend.
“I beg your pardon, Detective Grimaldi.” He kept his tone
light, despite a surge of anger. “I’ll take my leave.”
“Like hell you will. You broke my door, you no-account fiend.
You and your godforsaken temper. Will you ever learn?”
Michael cut his colorless gaze. “What brought you to my
office at this hour, peacocking about like a shitty king of
France?”
“I had a momentary lapse in judgment,” Bastien said in a
blithe voice, crossing in front of Michael while he spoke, intent on making a swift exit. “Which has since been rectified.”
The young detective grabbed him by the front of his ivory
waistcoat. “Balderdash. Answer my damned question. Why are
you here?”
Bastien fought to keep his fury in check. He could not strike
down the detective. He would not strike Michael down. Gener-ations of bad blood forbade it. “I don’t have time for this pissing contest.” Gripping Michael’s wrists, he twisted the detective’s
hands free of his absurd costume. “Send a bill to Jacques’ for
the damage.” His grin turned arrogant. “Be sure to sample the
vichyssoise the next time you’re there. You always did favor
life’s simpler pleasures.” Again he tried to leave.
“Did something happen to Celine?” Michael stepped in
Bastien’s path, his nostrils flaring like he’d scented chum in
the water.
Her name on his lips rekindled Bastien’s rage. If he told Mi-
chael the truth, there would be no way to contain the matter.
The fool would order an entire garrison to descend on the
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cathedral, and precious time would be lost navigating his righteous idiocy.
“I have no idea where Celine Rousseau might be. Wasn’t that
supposed to be your purview now?” Bastien sneered, attempt-
ing to push past his childhood friend once more. The clock
in Michael’s office ticked away the minutes. At any moment,
Boone would find Bastien, his uncle trailing in the Hellhound’s
well-heeled footsteps. And those moments were precious to
Celine. Just as she had become precious to Bastien.
More precious than life itself.
Michael shoved him back, his features mottled. “Answer me,
Sébastien. Before I call for the—”
Bastien lashed out at Michael. Something he’d promised
never to do, many years ago. To strike the young detective was
in direct defiance of his uncle’s edicts. For a Saint Germain to
strike a Grimaldi . . .
His blow broke the bridge of Michael’s nose, blood spurting
from beneath it. A howl of rage flew from the detective’s lips,
causing footsteps to race toward them from below.
“Take heed, Michael,” Bastien said through clenched teeth.
“Never stand in my way again.” With that, he glided from the
office, the beat of his heart thundering in his chest.
There was nothing to be had for it.
Sébastien Saint Germain had just violated the Brotherhood’s
treaty.
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The Final Nail
i
Celine woke on her side, her cheek resting against cold
stone.
A cloying scent wound through her nose, her temples thud-
ding with the slow beat of her heart. For a time, she struggled
to focus on anything, her vision swimming as if she’d consumed
too much champagne. Licking her parched lips, Celine tried to
lift her head.
A cry of surprise flew from her mouth. Searing pain shot
down her right arm, warm wetness trickling along her collar-
bone, dripping down her black bodice. The wound on her neck
was still fresh, which meant not much time had passed since
she’d been attacked on the terrace. The sharp scent of blood
permeated the air, mingling with the perfume of . . . incense?
Again Celine attempted to shift position, but she was weak.
So very weak.
At least the killer had left her alive. She supposed she should
be grateful. For a harrowing instant, she’d been certain her last breath on this earth would be on that balcony.
Gritting her teeth through the pain, Celine fought to sit up,
only to fail once more. Her hands were bound at h
er back,
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her feet tied at the ankles, the ropes like leaden weights. With her elbow, she checked to see if Bastien’s silver blade was still concealed in the hidden pocket beneath her skirts. When
Celine felt its comforting weight against her right hip, she
let her head fall onto the smooth stone, wearied by even the
simplest action.
Her eyes locked on the frescoed ceiling above as she counted
to three in her mind. Then Celine heaved her knees to her
chest, her taffeta skirts rustling through the silence, her brow
beading with sweat. With herculean effort, she looped her
wrists over her feet, snapping several of the wooden hoops
at her sides and twisting her left arm in the process. She
gasped—blinking away hot tears of pain—before taking in her
surroundings.
To her left stretched a familiar floor of black-and-white stone,
patterned at a diagonal. An aisle lit by long tapers ran down its center, bracketed by wooden pews.
Celine coughed, bitter amusement coiling through her stom-
ach. Her earlier assumption had been correct. She was lying on
the altar of Saint Louis Cathedral, at the very heart of Rue de
Chartres. If she weren’t so afraid, she would mock her attacker
for his theatricality. Coughing again, she rolled to one side and fell from the stone surface, her teeth clacking together as her
body hit the granite floor with a resounding thud. Shards of
pain stabbed along her right side, a thousand tiny needles bur-
rowing into her skin.
Celine bit her lower lip to keep from screaming.
There was no time for her to succumb to pain. She needed to
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free her feet from their bonds so that she might at least attempt an escape. Celine sat up, drops of bright blood plinking against
the cool stone. Then she tucked her knees beneath her chin and
reached under the hem of her skirts to fiddle with the knots
around her ankles.
“I admire your resilience, Celine,” a warm voice pronounced
from the shadows at her back, its accent refined. Distinct of
the British upper class. “But you’ve lost a lot of blood. I don’t believe you’ll get very far.”
Fear knifed through Celine, a ghostly chill racing down her
spine. But she’d already made a promise to herself. Fear would
not dictate her actions tonight. “Who are you?” Her voice was