his hands in his pockets, his cherubic curls splayed across his
forehead. “Ah, darlin’ ,” he began when he met Celine’s gaze. “I
was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”
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“Let me guess,” Celine said. “You’re here to tell me to stay away from Bastien.”
A rueful expression crossed his face. “I would avoid it if I
could. I like you, Celine Rousseau. You vex Bastien greatly. Bet
you cut your teeth on it.” He grinned, then his features soured
all at once. “But we just lost Nigel. We can’t afford to lose anyone else.”
“An excellent point, Monsieur Ravenel. The loss of one among
us is indeed an agonizing blow,” the count agreed in a soft tone.
“As always, I appreciate your support and your wisdom.” Again
he returned his attention to Celine.
The fourth cut.
Despite her rising irritation, Celine felt herself start to curl
inward, the fear threatening to overcome all else. The next in-
stant, she forced herself to rally. To channel the goddess Se-
lene, who lorded over the night sky and all its countless stars.
“Monsieur le Comte, I’ve heard much about you over the past
few weeks. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
Though Celine tried her best not to sound cheeky, she knew
she’d failed the moment Boone snorted and Hortense cackled.
“Comme une reine des ténèbres.” Hortense repeated her
words from that evening at Jacques’, amusement coiling across
her features. Celine almost laughed at the absurdity. If she was
a queen of anything at all, she was Marie Antoinette, on her
way to meet the guillotine.
To his credit, the count merely smiled, his amber eyes gleam-
ing. “And a pleasure to make yours, ma chérie.”
In an ideal world, Celine should be striving to charm Bastien’s
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uncle. But that chance had vanished like smoke in the wind.
After all, only a fool would try to charm a man whose first inclination was to threaten her.
Nicodemus Saint Germain had, without a doubt, succeeded
in frightening Celine with this show of bravado. But she had no
intention of cowering in his shadow. “I do not wish to be dis-
respectful, Monsieur le Comte, but you claim to prize candor,
so I submit that there’s no need to belabor your point.” She
glanced pointedly at his gathering retinue. “It’s clear you don’t find me a suitable companion for your nephew. But in fairness,
you know very little about me.”
“On the contrary, I know a great deal about you, Marceline
Béatrice Rousseau.”
Again her full name echoed in her ears, the sound carrying
high above the soughing treetops. And again her heart raced
behind her ribs in response.
Soft laughter fell from the count’s lips, as if he could sense
her mounting fear. “Until recently, you resided with your schol-
arly father on the third floor of a small flat in Montmartre.” He took another step forward. Celine could not help it when she
eased backward in tandem. Her body made the choice before
she could reason with it.
Nicodemus continued, “And worked under the tutelage of the
famed Camille de Beauharnais.” He paused with meaning. “In
the uppermost floor of her atelier . . . beneath a lace of shim-
mering chandeliers.”
The thudding of Celine’s heart clawed into her throat.
He knows. Her worries invaded her mind. He knows.
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The two words raced through her brain in time with her pulse.
She fought to maintain her composure, her fingers gripping the
silver dagger, her nails digging into her palms to the point of
pain. “It’s clear you’ve learned much about my past, monsieur.
You obviously have great resources at your disposal. But these
details do not necessarily inform my present.”
Nicodemus’ smile was punishing. “I’ve heard you also enjoy
being reckless. Venturing to places you’ve been forbidden.
Lying through your teeth and flouting the rules.”
Color flooded Celine’s cheeks. “To which rules do you refer?”
“The only ones that matter. Mine. ” His last word was the point of a knife in her back.
Celine refused to be intimidated, though her knees shook be-
neath her skirts.
A new emotion crossed the count’s face. One she could not
recognize. As Nicodemus studied her, a line formed across the
marble of his forehead. The next instant, it smoothed, vanish-
ing from sight. “I admire your fearlessness, Celine. More than
anything I could learn about your past, I can appreciate why my
nephew is so taken with you. Not many young women would
dare to hold their own in the company of so many who could
kill her without a second thought.” He stepped forward again,
the end of his walking stick striking the pavers beside his feet
with a decisive thwack. “Who would kill you at my command, without a moment’s hesitation.”
The trembling took hold of Celine. She bit down on nothing
to prevent it from reaching her teeth. There was nothing for
her to say in response. Bastien’s uncle had just stated in no un-
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certain terms that Celine continued to breathe at his leisure. A cheeky retort would serve no purpose here. The only thing she
could do was stand firm. Refuse to quail or beg, though her jaw
clenched tighter with each passing second, her muscles tensing
in preparation to fight or to flee.
After all, Celine Rousseau was not a mewling calf marked for
slaughter. She could hold her own, if need be. The boy she’d
killed for daring to treat her like a conquered thing was testa-
ment to that fact. Her last breath on this earth would not be
tinged in regret, of that Celine was certain.
The count glowered into the night as if he could read her
thoughts, his posture immovable. A mountain beneath the
moon. “I, too, have heard the whispers of how you’re not afraid
to spill blood. But you must know that I, too, have no qualms
about destroying something in my path.”
“Why do you persist in threatening me, monsieur?” Celine
gripped her skirts, the handle of Bastien’s dagger cool in her
palm. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
Another flash of that same unreadable emotion. If Celine
didn’t know better, she would have sworn it to be admiration.
“I don’t threaten people, ma chérie,” Nicodemus said. “I trade
in favors. If there is something I can do for you, you have but
to ask.”
Celine almost laughed. Now he was offering her his good fa-
vor? It appeared that Bastien had learned his chameleon ways
from his uncle. “I don’t want your money, monsieur.”
“I would not insult you by offering something as uninspiring
as money.”
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“May I ask what you want in exchange for earning your favor?”
The count did not hesitate. “I want you to reject my nephew.
Cast him aside. Better still if it is for someone else.”
Celine blinked. “Why do you object to me so?” Her gaze nar-
rowed. “Is it my lack of fortune or family?”
“As I said, I am not so uninspiring. Your lack of fortune is in-
deed a nuisance, but not of the insurmountable kind, were you
suitable in other respects.” His words blistered Celine’s ears,
mortification thrumming through her body. “In truth, I am most
concerned by two things: you are far too inquisitive, and you
have already become a weakness. I dislike seeing weakness in my
nephew. Especially for something as inane as human emotion.”
Celine chose her next words with care, aware her cheeks had
started to flush. “It is not a weakness to feel, monsieur. I—am
not a weakness.”
“It is a weakness the moment one’s feelings override one’s judgment. And love of any kind is a weapon to be used against
you, when wielded by the right hand.”
A part of Celine agreed with him. There were many times in
life when she’d fallen prey to her emotions and erred in judg-
ment as a result. Then she recalled the threads of hope she’d
clung to during the long Atlantic crossing. “You should want
your nephew to find love, my lord. When life becomes difficult,
the only source of strength we have is love. Love of others, love of self, love of life in its entirety.”
Nicodemus nodded. “And what is love, ma chérie, a choice or
a feeling?”
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Taken aback, it took a moment for Celine to respond. “It is . . . a feeling.” She angled her head upward, biding time while searching for a better answer. As if it had been waiting for this moment, the moon emerged from behind a cloudbank, surrounded by a bevy of stars. Celine stared at the count with de-
termination. “Love is looking at someone as if the stars shine in their eyes.”
He nodded again. “A beautiful notion. But you are wrong, ma
chérie. Love is not a feeling. It is a choice. Contrary to popular opinion, there are many paths to happiness. I must ask which
one you will choose, for the path you are on now will bring you
only pain.” The count took a final step closer, until he stood just before her. Close enough that she could see the colors swirling in his amber eyes and smell the strange, icy scent emanat-
ing from his skin. Like frosted mint. “You do not belong in this
world, Celine. It may be beautiful—intoxicating even—but
beauty is a danger to behold, for it often masks the decay lurk-
ing beneath. Et ça fini toujours dans le sang.”
And it always ends in blood.
“I am not so captivated by the beautiful, monsieur.” Celine
met his gaze without wavering. “For I know beauty is only a
moment in time.”
“How right you are,” Nicodemus murmured. Then he placed
his walking stick before him, both hands braced on the golden
handle. “Nevertheless I must send along my nephew’s regrets.
He will be unable to meet you tonight as planned.”
“I gathered as much, Monsieur le Comte,” Celine said.
“Don’t take it to heart, mademoiselle. My one goal in life is to
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protect my legacy. Do as I ask. Reject Sébastien. Hurt him once now to spare you both a life of pain. If you abide by my wishes,
I will grant any favor you ask. And you’ll find there are no limits to my reach in all matters.” He paused, the line marring his forehead once more. “Defy me, and you’ll find your worst fears have
become your reality. I will make sure you are left utterly alone, Celine Rousseau. Left to face everything you’ve run from, with
no one to blame but yourself.”
His words struck Celine like a blow to the face. As if the count
had peered into her very soul and unmasked her greatest fear
of all. She flinched when a final gust of wind preceded the last
arrival. The one she’d been expecting for quite some time. She’d
braced herself for it, knowing this wound would cut her to the
quick. But that did not lessen the sting. She felt it keenly, like a string snapping on a harp, the sound reverberating deep in her
bones.
Odette did not meet Celine’s gaze as she moved into position
at Nicodemus’ left. Her shoulders were rounded, her features
somber. But still she came to stand beside Bastien’s uncle, her
steps unfaltering.
“I’m sorry, mon amie,” Odette said, her sable eyes down-
turned. “You are my friend. But they . . . are my family.”
With this final cut, the count drew an invisible line in the
sand.
Celine could trust no member of the Court. It was laughable
to think their loyalties could ever be with her. If Nicodemus
ordered them to leave her to her fate—to fend for herself, no
matter the circumstances—they would do as he asked.
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Michael had already refused to use Celine as bait. If Nicodemus prevented Bastien from helping Celine, she would be
utterly alone, as the count had promised.
With a killer lurking in her shadow.
Perhaps I’ll resort to praying once more. Her thoughts turned grim. In the premier pew of Saint Louis Cathedral, where all the best sinners take refuge.
Awareness prickled through her limbs.
Come with me to the heart of Chartres.
Knowledge kindled within Celine, its cool light surging
through her veins. She knew where to set her trap. And the
devil take her if she would wait for a boy to defy his family be-
fore she made plans. She would do as she always did: whatever
needed to be done. In Paris, Celine Rousseau had struck down
her attacker in his prime, with no one to depend on but herself.
And no one—human or demon alike—would stand in her
way now.
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HIVER, 1872
JACKSON SQUARE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
i
I believe tonight will end in blood
and I alone know for whom.
Maybe she will trap me, with her
evil little
Masque, her clever little mind.
It will all be for naught, for she knows not what she does.
Love is proof that blood alone means nothing.
I am thankful my blood is thicker than oil
Et brille plus fort que le soleil (And burns brighter than the sun).
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Beautiful Decay
i
Celine had lived and breathed French fashion for the better
part of five years.
In Paris she’d learned the importance of one’s ch
oice in gar-
ments. How it spoke for a girl, perhaps before she was able to
speak for herself. Clothes opened doors as surely as they closed
them. On a practical level, the way a young lady chose to dress
indicated not only her station in life, but where she wished
to go.
There was an art to dressing. Of all the reasons to love fash-
ion, Celine had fallen in love with this one the most. The idea
that she could drape her body in colors to match her soul. How
a simple dress could convey her hopes and fears and dreams.
How bolts of silk could be molded into armor in the right per-
son’s hands.
This was the spirit that had inspired Celine to create the gown
she wore now. It was completely unsuitable for the event in
question, yet perfect in all other respects. The battle regalia of a lunar goddess. Or perhaps an homage to a queen of darkness.
Celine smiled to herself. Sometimes a girl must make her
own magic.
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She filled her lungs with the sultry air of a warm evening.
The last of the afternoon showers had ended just before the sun
sank below the horizon. All the packed streets of New Orleans
glimmered like newly polished silver, the air smelling of iron
and smoke. Her hem swept over a pool of mirrored water, the
black taffeta whispering in her wake.
Just beyond the arch of the main entrance to the Orléans
Ballroom, Celine paused midstep. For an instant, she imagined
it to be the exact spot the Marquis de Lafayette himself had
once stood.
Though it was unlikely he would have arrived to a fête two
hours late.
Celine had needed the time. She’d spent most of her wak-
ing hours sequestered at police headquarters, finishing her
costume. Just yesterday she’d managed to complete Odette’s
ensemble. She’d even attempted to deliver the garments to
Jacques’, only to be rebuffed at the door by the same Titian-
haired individual who manned the lift at the Dumaine. After
confiscating her parcels and rendering payment in full, Ifan
had turned Celine and the officers in her company away, a self-
satisfied sneer on his face. Consequently, she’d been denied the
opportunity to see Bastien or perform a final fitting on Odette.
Her first glimpse of the finished costume—a daring hat tip to