The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(101)

All Bastien could think was reaching Celine. Of reassuring her that his uncle’s wishes had no bearing on his heart.

Not that she needed any man’s reassurances.

An appreciative smile curved up one side of Bastien’s face when he thought of how she’d burst into the ballroom two hours late, garbed in a gown of mourning, a devil-may-care attitude in each of her steps. It was one of the things he loved most about Celine. How little she gave a damn about anyone’s good opinion.

Bastien paused before the solid oak double doors leading onto the terrace, puzzled to find them locked from the inside. Tension banding in his arms, he unlatched the doors to step onto the balcony . . . and was met with a sight that iced the marrow in his bones.

No one was there. Not a single soul lingered beneath the violet sky, taking in the night air.

Celine Rousseau was nowhere to be found.

His teeth clenched and his jaw rippling, Bastien glided toward the empty railing, his eyes scanning every which way. He did not possess any of his uncle’s preternatural gifts. He could not see through the darkness unimpeded, nor could he smell the scent of blood from a vast distance. And he most definitely could not blur through time and space in the blink of an eye.

But Bastien had learned as a boy to notice things most mortals would overlook. Like the smear of blood along the ledge, the color camouflaged in the veined travertine. And the four smudged symbols nearby, written in macabre ink, smelling of copper and salt.

There had been a struggle. And it appeared the killer had taken Celine from the balcony.

Rage spread through Bastien’s veins. The rime of unmitigated rage. Always ice. Never fire.

Bastien ripped the ridiculous mask from his face. Without a 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 Nicodemus 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 moment, 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 Fant?me.

This strange collection of immortals had been tasked with only one thing: guarding Nicodemus’ lone surviving heir. Protecting 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 couples lingering on the periphery—before spinning through the double doors and into the velvet darkness.

As soon as they were beyond earshot, Bastien stopped moving, 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 surface. 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 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 defiance 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.”