at any human who deigned to look him in the eye. It likely cur-
dled his nonexistent soul to serve a breather in such a fashion.
Bastien waited for Celine to exit the lift, knowing it gave her
comfort to lead rather than to follow. He needed her to feel
comfortable.
So that when he took the feeling away, it would hurt that
much more.
He discarded his bull mask in a corner while Celine strode
past the mirror hanging along the damasked wall of the narrow
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corridor, oblivious to what it was. On the surface, it shone brightly, nothing more than a simple looking glass. But the silver had been spelled to see past the naked eye. To uncover the
truth lurking beneath a prowler’s skin.
Bastien had learned at the age of five how most appearances
were designed to deceive.
Celine paused in front of the double doors leading to his un-
cle’s chambers. Again Bastien was reminded of how much she
did not know. How the wards spelled into the molding around
the doors—cleverly concealed within the elaborate carvings—
would burn the flesh of an unwanted intruder.
Oblivious to all the magic around her, Celine’s fingers wa-
vered on one of the gilded handles. She turned in place. “Is
something wrong, Bastien?”
“What do you mean?”
She frowned. “You keep looking at me as if I owe you money.”
Bastien’s immediate reaction was to laugh. He held the senti-
ment in check, though it pained him to do so. One of the things
that enchanted him most about Celine was her wit.
It didn’t matter. Nothing about her could hold him in thrall
anymore.
Before he had a chance to reconsider, Bastien glowered at
Celine with a look that would send lesser men running for their
mothers. On the force of this scowl alone, he pressed her back
against the double doors, his right hand coming to rest on the
English oak beside her head. Though Celine’s eyes widened,
she did not falter. Instead she bristled, cautioning him without
words.
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Tread carefully, Sébastien Saint Germain.
Damn her audacity. For matching him in all ways.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Bastien said, his tone imbued
with warning. “Just as I owe you nothing in return.”
“When are you going to—”
“You wanted answers. All you need to know is this: there
are demons in the night that want nothing more than to drain
you of your blood and leave behind a lifeless husk.” Bastien
cut her off before she could say anything. “It doesn’t matter
what they’re called. It doesn’t matter how they are killed. It
only matters that they will kill you. The best advice I can give you is to stay away and leave these matters to those equipped
to handle them.”
Celine choked through a bout of dark amusement, her pulse
fluttering beneath the thin skin along her neck. “If you’re
equipped to handle this demon, then why is it still wreaking
havoc on us? I deserve to know how to defend myself. Odette
would—”
“Did you not hear a word I said?” Bastien drew himself up to
his full height, intentionally towering over her, though he con-
tinued speaking in a measured tone. “Stay away from everyone
in the Court of the Lions. Don’t trust me. Don’t trust anyone
around me, including Odette. Whatever you hear, believe none
of it. Whatever you see, believe less than half.”
“You—promised me the truth.” Her eyes narrowed to slits.
He lifted a dismissive shoulder. “I lied.”
Fury mottled Celine’s face, the flakes of gold along her cheek-
bones flashing. To Bastien’s eternal frustration, it made her
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appear even lovelier, her eyes like gemstones, her teeth bared like weapons. “Then you brought me here just to—”
“You should have run away when you had the chance. There
is—”
“Stop interrupting me, you fils de pute.” Celine shoved him,
her palms like brands against his chest. “And for your informa-
tion, I already tried to run.”
“Liar.” Bastien brushed aside her hands as if he were swatting
a fly. “If you meant to run, you would have fled this place long
ago. Don’t tell me you tried. Selfish bastards like you and me
don’t try. We do.” The words felt like acid on his tongue, the truth searing through to his soul.
Celine recoiled from it, her lips parting. A look of under-
standing smoothed across her beautiful face. “You’re trying to
scare me. It won’t work.”
Bastien wrapped a careful hand around her throat, pulling
her closer, her unbound curls tickling his wrist, distracting him for another maddening instant. “Then you’re a fool.”
“Why won’t you help me?” Celine’s voice cracked at the last,
the first sign he’d caused her demonstrable pain.
It struck Bastien like a battering ram to his stomach. “You
worry about the creature who might kill you?” A cold spate of laughter fell from his lips. “You should worry about the demon
who will. For I’ll kill you myself if you don’t stay away.”
“Liar. You wouldn’t hurt me.” Despite everything, Celine
Rousseau still refused to retreat.
Bastien could not admire her for it. He would not admire
her for it.
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“You don’t know anything about me,” he said. “I’ve killed before, Celine. Countless times. And relished in doing it, never
once asking for forgiveness.” He meant to terrify her with this
admission. To seal their fate once and for all.
Celine exhaled slowly, her breath shaking as it left her lips.
“So have I.”
Bastien’s hand dropped from her throat, tension flowing
from beneath his skin, his chest tight with surprise. He thought
about accusing her of lying. But she wasn’t lying. He knew her
well enough to realize a revelation like this could not be a lie. It was too brutal, like truth often was.
Celine raised her pointed chin. Angry tears welled in her
eyes. “I killed a man with my own two hands.” Her fists balled
at her sides. “It’s why I ran away from Paris.” She inhaled, her
body trembling. “And I don’t feel sorry for it, not in the slightest. I’m not afraid of death, Sébastien Saint Germain. Nor am I
afraid of you. It is you who should be afraid of me.” She shoved him once more, the tears spilling down her cheeks.
Bastien grabbed her hands. Steadied her as she took in
another ragged breath. His thoughts roiled through his mind,
questions collecting on his tongue. “Who?”
“I killed the boy who tried to rape me.”
The fire left his body in a soul-stealing rush. It was the same
as always. Whenever Bastien was about to destroy something,
he felt ice, not
fire. “Good,” he said, not trusting himself to say more.
“Maybe we’re not so different, you and I.”
It was so far from the truth. So close to what his heart longed
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to believe. Bastien couldn’t help himself. He shifted a palm to her face, brushing away her tears with his thumb.
“Tell me why you have Anabel’s ribbon,” Celine said, her green
eyes shimmering. “Please.”
Bastien’s grip tightened, his hands cradling her chin. He
abhorred the need to explain himself. Despised the meaning
behind it. “Reach into my left breast pocket.”
Her brow furrowing, Celine withdrew a length of butter-
yellow silk from its place over his heart. Stitched on one corner of the worn handkerchief was a set of initials:
ESG
Confusion gathered along the bridge of her nose. “What—”
“It belonged to my sister, Émilie,” Bastien said. “She gave it to me the day she died.” He took a breath, the air burning through
his lungs the instant he uttered her name. “I carry it with me
always. It gives me strength.”
A moment passed in silence. Celine waited for him to speak,
as if she knew no pithy words of condolence would make a dif-
ference, even after more than a decade.
“She died for me.” He fought to conceal his pain, as he always
did. To make light of it, so no one would know how the memo-
ries of his past still haunted his present.
Celine cast him a searching glance. “You shouldn’t hide how you
feel, Bastien. Not from me. I promise never to judge you for it.”
“And why would you make such a promise to a boy you barely
know?”
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“I think you know why.” She did not look away.
Again he was held in thrall. Here was true power. The power to captivate without a word.
In that moment, Bastien no longer wished to hide from
Celine. Not anymore. With her, his pain was not a weakness
for an enemy to exploit. It was a strength, just as Émilie would
have wanted.
“I feel . . . shattered when I think of my sister,” he said, his voice graveled with unchecked emotion. “Like my heart is made of
glass, the pieces splintering through my chest.” Each word was
an unburdening. A truth longing to be set free.
Celine nodded, her expression wistful. “Wouldn’t it be won-
derful if we could all have hearts made of diamonds?”
“Unbreakable.” Bastien’s lips crooked into a half smile.
In her eyes, he saw an answered question.
Love is an affliction.
“We shouldn’t,” he said softly.
“But we will.”
“No.” Still Bastien could not stop himself from touching her.
From letting his fingers slide along her heated skin. “We won’t.”
“Yes, we will. Just like you’ll help me set my trap at the mas-
querade ball.”
“I will not.”
Celine leaned into his caress. “Such a liar.” She pressed the
full length of her body to his, a flame igniting in her gaze. “And a coward,” she breathed beneath his chin, the sensation curling
down his spine.
Before Bastien could offer a rejoinder, Celine surged onto her
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toes and slanted her lips to his. The instant they met, she softened in his arms, molding against him. He surrendered, the rest
of the world melting away. When her tongue brushed across his
lips, Bastien groaned, no longer capable of restraint.
This was not a kiss of curiosity, nor was it one of tentative ex-
ploration. It was wild. Reckless. And Bastien could do nothing
but respond in kind. He’d wanted this the first night they met.
When Celine had grabbed his cravat. When she’d stared him
down—expecting Sébastien Saint Germain to cower in fear—
she’d stolen his splintered heart.
All in one perfect instant.
Bastien lifted her from the floor, his hands hardening as
they wrapped her legs about his waist. He pushed through the
double doors with Celine in his arms, swallowing them in sud-
den darkness. Barely aware of his surroundings, he crossed the
room toward his uncle’s four-poster bed. Amusement flared
through him, hot and fast. Uncle Nico would no doubt rage
about this lack of respect.
It would be worth it.
They sank onto the cool sheets. Bastien kissed Spanish words
into the skin of Celine’s throat, promises no mortal man could
keep, vows of a poetic fool. His fingers loosened the pins buried in her crown of midnight curls, the metal pieces flying free, her hair coiling about them like a cloak of darkness. She tore at the buttons of his shirt, the sound of rending fabric causing Bastien to smile into her bared shoulder.
“I liked that shirt,” he rasped beside her ear.
“Then say a prayer for its immortal soul.”
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Bastien laughed. Every touch of her skin, every brush of his hand, sent another wave of desire coursing through his veins.
In the farthest reaches of his mind, Bastien considered what
this would mean. He risked little by taking Celine to bed. She
risked everything. Her reputation, her future, possibly even her
well-being. It was something Odette often remarked upon. The
injustice of it all.
He thought about stopping, even as he gathered her skirts in
his hands. “Celine.”
“Bastien.” She arched into him, her nails raking down his
arms, the sensation turning his sight black. He gripped behind
her knees, relishing the shock in her gasp.
He should put a stop to this. He knew he should. “Is this all
right?”
“Yes.”
His hands grazed higher. “This?” The blood roared through
his chest.
“Yes.”
His thumbs brushed across the soft skin between her thighs.
“And . . . this?”
I . . . what?”
The question in her voice caught his attention. She sat up
abruptly, squinting through the shadows on the opposite wall.
Then she pushed Bastien away, a bloodcurdling scream ripping
from her throat.
Bastien whirled to his feet, reaching for his revolver in a
seamless motion. Then he followed her gaze.
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The darkness across the way was thick and deep. The contrast
of light streaming from the open doors at the entrance of the
chamber made it difficult to see past the end of the bed. It took a moment for Bastien to detect the source of Celine’s scream.
To realize what tore a wrenching sob from her now.
Bastien stumbled to his knees, his revolver clattering onto the
Aubusson carpet.
It always ends in blood.
There—along the balcony of books high above head—lay the
r
emnants of an arm wrapped in broken willow branches, blood
dripping from its torn socket. Resting atop the banister sat the
crimson remains of a severed human head, its features mauled
by the claws of an animal.
But it didn’t matter. Nothing could hide the truth of his iden-
tity. Not from Bastien.
Nigel.
On the wall above the pool of blood was another symbol:
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HIVER, 1872
RUE BIENVILLE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
i
The ice grows thinner beneath my enemy. Beneath all his
kith and kin.
Now he knows I will take from him those he holds dearest in
the world. I will show them no mercy. I will take and take and
take until there is nothing left for them to lose.
Soon they will understand there are no limits to my reach.
For I have breached Nicodemus’ wall of protectors. His last re-
maining bastion. Now there can be no succor. Not from my
wrath.
He will endeavor to protect his family—as he has for centu-
ries—but there can be no doubt who will emerge victorious in
this battle. I alone hold all the cards. No doors are barred to me.
There is no mountain too high to climb. There are no reaches
in this Hell.
I stand in the shadows, staring up at the Hotel Dumaine. I
watch his Court of the Lions skulk through the darkness. Bear
witness as an impotent force of police officers descends on the
stately edifice. I listen as they speak. As she cries and he rages.
As they all wail for what once was.
The loss stings, does it not?
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No more than it stung when I lost everything I held dear.
When all I valued shattered to pieces, trampled to dust beneath
their feet.
My skin is electrified by their torment. My soul flies free.
He knows it is personal now. When his trust is taken from
him—when the one he most loves is marked by Death’s lasting
kiss—he will know why it was done. Whom to blame.
There is no way for us to turn back. The tinder has been col-
lected. The match has been struck.
Only one of us can survive the fires of Hell.
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The Piantagrane
i