Celine bit down on nothing as they began walking away, struggling to maintain her composure, her fists clenched. This cursed boy had stolen much from her in these moments. The words from her lips, the breath from her tongue. Now he thought to dismiss her like a child?
“You are no gentleman, Monsieur Saint Germain,” Celine said loudly.
He stopped short. Pivoted on a polished heel. “Is that what you think, Celine?”
Celine stood taller, her knuckles turning white. “Yes. I do.”
Bastien leaned closer. A flicker of firelight caught on his gold watch chain. On the roaring lion etched into his signet ring. “I don’t give a fuck.”
Pippa gasped, both hands covering her mouth, her eyes wider than tea saucers.
Then Bastien continued on his way, Arjun laughing softly at his heels. Almost pityingly.
The word shook Celine. She’d never heard it said aloud. The sheltered life she’d lived in Paris had spared her from being trespassed by this kind of talk. Her father often commented that feminine ears were too delicate for such things. But Celine didn’t feel as though her delicate ears had been assaulted by the single syllable. Bastien may have uttered a foul word, but he’d spoken to her as he would a man. As an equal. Blood rushed through her body, adrenaline fueling its path. Horror settled in the base of her throat, a knot slowly tightening.
She knew this feeling. Recognized it. She’d felt it when her attacker had stilled on the floor of the atelier, crimson flowing from the wound in his skull, her hand clasped around the candelabra.
Celine felt . . . powerful. A part of something bigger than herself.
And still she did not feel a hint of remorse for anything she’d done.
It was terrifying to know such a dark creature writhed beneath Celine’s skin. This was not the behavior of a pious young woman, nor were these the emotions of a girl who should—by all rights—be seeking forgiveness. Salvation from a God she did not quite know or understand.
Celine blinked to clear her thoughts. Just as Pippa tugged on her hand.
“Are you all right?” Pippa said, her tone incredulous. “I can’t—” she tried. “I mean, can you believe what he said to you?”
Celine nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
She could not be certain what hand of Fate continued placing Sébastien Saint Germain in her path. Perhaps it was a test. God’s penance for her most grievous sin, that a boy shrouded in darkness would force her to see the light. Make of her a Good Samaritan.
But a greater fear lurked deep in Celine. Past the rush of blood, into the marrow of her bones.
No matter where she went, danger followed.
And it horrified her. Just as it thrilled her.
HIVER, 1872
RUE SAINT LOUIS
NEW ORLEANS
I catch her profile in the glint of a shining brass sign.
Her fear is reflected at me, her eyes bright.
I look away. It reminds me of the young woman from last week. I do not relish the sight of fear on anyone, though I know it to be a necessary evil. For if we do not understand fear, how are we ever to cherish safety?
I turn my attention to the three-story building before me, its trellised balconies overflowing with ivy and budding blossoms. Etched into the brass sign in the center—in odiously elaborate script—is the name Jacques’. Above the name is a symbol I often see in my dreams. A symbol infamous among the circles of both the Fallen and the Brotherhood.
A restaurant encompasses the entire first floor of the structure, its gas lanterns already ablaze. A queue is wrapping around the corner. Someone—undoubtedly Kassamir—has thrown open the double doors, revealing a smiling crowd and the sounds of fine china and tinkling crystal. Servers bustle about in their white gloves and starched jackets.
For a moment, my senses are inundated by this symphony of splendor and decadence. It is a music I know well, both in this life and in my former one. A smile curves across my lips.
Amusing that she should lead me here, of all places.
If only these poor fools knew what lurked above them, deep in a court of lions. If only my victim knew. Then they would all understand what it meant to feel true fear.
When I glance at her again, I catch a look of hesitation on her face, as though she is uncertain about whether to proceed. Recent events have unnerved her, and it saddens me. I expected her to be stronger. She began the night with such purpose, each of her steps steady. Resolute.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be too judgmental. This is not a city for everyone.
It is a snake in the reeds, beautiful and deadly, even while it sleeps.
Moreover, I feel partially to blame for her fear. I could have come to their aid. It would have taken the work of a moment to blur through the alley and silence that paltry threat. But what purpose would that have served, beyond the risk of revealing my true nature before it was time? To my knowledge, my victim was not yet in any real danger. At least not from the nephew of Le Comte de Saint Germain.
Bitterness coats my tongue.
That is a promise I do not have the strength to break. Not yet.
We are not ready for the war it will bring.
My thoughts darken in a way I do not like, so I return to my earlier musings. It’s possible Arjun Desai—the boy with the immobilizing touch—could present a threat one day, but it is too soon to tell. His skill set continues to intrigue me, as it did on the day I first made his acquaintance. Without a doubt, he is a worthy member of La Cour des Lions.
Another smile spreads across my face. It pleases me that our city’s society of mentalists—masquerading as something else entirely—managed to recruit him.
It should make for a fascinating turn of events.
But I cannot allow these things to distract me any more than they already have. Not tonight. There is far too much at stake for me to dwell on these incidental matters.
I return my gaze to her, the young woman who led me to where it all began, unknowingly.
Fittingly.
She pauses at the entrance of Jacques’, rethinking her choices once more.
Ah, but it is too late, my love.
We cannot change the mistakes of our past. They live on, so that we may learn, if we should be but so lucky. Alas, dear girl, your luck takes flight tonight.
I am the spider. I set silken traps. I watch as you step into my web.
I wait to strike.
But do not fear. I promise I will never forget you.
THE COURT OF THE LIONS
Celine waited for Pippa to collect herself just outside the narrow alleyway. When Celine realized she was behaving oddly—standing stock-still, her eyes unblinking—she began mimicking Pippa’s motions, straightening her overskirt as if it was all that needed sorting.