Pippa Montrose had offered to help. Had lied for Celine. To a nun.
“I have many misgivings, Mademoiselle Montrose,” the Mother Superior said after a breath. “But perhaps if you are willing to provide escort . . .”
“I am willing to take full responsibility.” Pippa grasped the tiny gold crucifix nestled at the hollow of her throat. She let her voice drop. Let it fill with reverence. “And I trust God will go with us tonight.”
The Mother Superior frowned again, her lips unspooling slowly. Her attention shifted from Pippa toward Celine and back again. She stood straight. And made a decision.
“Very well,” she said.
A flare of surprise shot through Celine. The Mother Superior had shifted tack too quickly. Too easily. Suspicion gnawed at Celine’s stomach. She eyed Pippa sidelong, but her friend did not glance her way.
“Thank you, Mother Superior,” Pippa murmured. “I promise all will go as planned.”
“Of course. As long as you understand I’ve put my full trust in you, Mademoiselle Montrose. Do not disappoint me.” The nun’s smile was disturbingly beatific. “May His light shine upon you both, my children.”
HIVER, 1872
AVENUE DES URSULINES
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
I first glimpse my next victim as she passes beneath the flame of a gas lamp.
Her eyes flash in a most curious way. As though she is on edge or held in suspense. Perhaps in the midst of doing something illicit.
The sight catches my attention, even through the horde of bustling bodies, a handful of them brimming with other-worldly energy. Her unease looks strangely beguiling, for it is the opposite of performative. She is heedless of everything around her, save the task at hand. It is a difficult undertaking for a hapless mortal, to move about a crowd so blissfully unaware. So enviably unaffected.
Crowds fascinate me. They provide demons such as myself with unique opportunities. Occasions to be seen and unseen in the same breath. For are we not always—human and creature alike—performing to some degree?
I digress.
The moment I enjoy most is when I first begin scanning the masses. When I first lay eyes on my target, and they know not that they are being watched. They act without thought. Smile without agenda. Laugh as though not a soul is listening.
I know what this must sound like. It sounds . . . disconcerting. I am aware. But I am by nature disconcerting. There are moments in which I can be delightful, too. I speak many languages. I have traveled the world twice over. I can sing the entirety of Verdi’s Aida without the need of sheet music.
Do I not deserve a modicum of consideration for these and many other achievements?
I would like to think so, though I know it to be impossible.
Demons should not be granted the indulgence of men. So sayeth man, at least.
But I’ll share a secret. In my years, I have discovered it is possible to be both disconcerting and delightful all at once. Wine can be delicious though it muddles the mind. A mother may love and hate her children in the span of the same afternoon.
And a predator could abhor itself even as it relishes its evening meal.
I understand my behavior might be construed as odd. Unseemly. But I am a thing of oddity. A creature born apart from this world.
Don’t fret on my account. I have never been one of those immortals who enjoy toying with their food, nor do I particularly like stalking my prey. I am not looking for their weaknesses; rather, I am understanding their humanity. There is something . . . wrong with treating a living being as though it exists purely for my own sport. Every action I undertake has a purpose. It is the characteristic that distinguishes me from many beings of the Otherworld.
My convictions.
I feel keenly the loss of any life taken. The kill last week along the pier did not thrill me in any way. It was necessarily gruesome, in a manner I typically eschew, especially for such an indiscriminate death. I brought about the girl’s end simply to see what was possible. To see what kind of attention it would draw. Alas, it did not have the effect I hoped, for my enemy remains above the authorities’ notice. It appears a more lasting impression must be left with my next victim. A more direct assault, upon my enemy’s doorstep.
Each death to come will be felt all the more keenly. That is of primary importance.
For though I may disdain wanton bloodshed, I am not impervious to the draw of the hunt. A friend from childhood used to say she knew when an animal had perished in agony. She could taste it, and it ruined the meal for her.
I find I am inclined to agree. There is also a certain allure to knowing what will happen next, before anyone else does. Perhaps it is a result of my unconventional upbringing. Or maybe it is simply human nature.
And I was human. Once.
A part of me still longs to be.
Maybe that is what draws me to the liveliness of the French Quarter. I avoided hunting in it for many years, because its corners contained memories not soon forgotten. Images of pain and loss and heartbreak. But I’ve returned to my old haunt after too long a time, for I have an ancient score to settle. A final performance to give.
Sacro fremito di gloria / Tutta l’anima m’investe.
A sacred thrill of glory / Runs through my heart.
Perhaps I am still human after all.
A TOUCH OF VIOLENCE
Celine!” Pippa called out as Celine whirled into the crowd, her steps surefooted. Free. “Slow down. There’s no need to move about so quickly.”
Celine halted in her tracks, excitement sparking in her chest. The beat of a distant drum met with the clash of cymbals. Soon thereafter, trumpets pealed into the vibrant night air. A sultry breeze toyed with the ends of the black satin ribbon about her throat, caressing her collarbone. Though she kept still, her heart reached for the music, as if it called to something deep in her bones. It never ceased to amaze her, how she seemed to thrive under cover of darkness. How she fell more in love with the moon every night.
Each evening—despite the thick walls of the convent— Celine’s toes had tapped alongside the melodies of the passing carnival parades. Rhythms and timbres and crescendos of sound she’d never before heard had captured her attention, stealing her thoughts from the word of God. She was not alone in this. Antonia’s fingers had frozen above the pages of vespers, her mind transfixed as well. Even Pippa had smiled at the music.
And here they were now, given a chance to revel in the heart of it all.
The parade drew closer, the crowd around them spilling into the side streets of the Vieux Carré. Temporary vendors began rolling carts of food and drink onto its corners, adding layer upon layer to the sights and smells and sounds collecting about the space: spice and earth and the clash of metal against stone. Celine shifted with the sea of moving bodies, dragging Pippa in her wake. When they turned the corner, a delicious scent— unlike any Celine had ever known—permeated the air.