The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(102)

Bastien glared at nothing, a twinge piercing through his chest. Time had become such a treasured commodity to them all. “Can you give me an hour?”

Alarm flared across her lovely face. “Your uncle forbade—”

“I don’t give a damn what Nicodemus said,” Bastien all but snarled.

She reached for his hand, her gloved fingers cool to the touch. “Every member of La Cour des Lions is under express orders to prevent you from going anywhere that involves Celine Rousseau. Please,” she entreated, “Nigel died because we all failed to take this threat seriously. If something happens to you, I don’t know what we’ll all do.”

“I’m not the boy you met years ago.”

“I know, my dearest,” she said. “Only Jae is a quicker draw than you, and we’ve all seen you shoot a man through the eye at sixty paces. But the killer is trying to force us out into the open. Pick us off, one by one,” she continued, her eyes swimming, her tears turning pink. “The devil only knows why. This was supposed to have ended years ago.”

“Odette.” Bastien gripped her by the shoulders, willing his expression calm. “You’re the only one I can trust. I know you care for Celine deeply. If we don’t help her, she could die.” His insides twisted at the thought, the words burning in his throat. “I cannot allow that to happen. You’ve spent years obeying your maker. Tonight, will you not help your friend?”

Odette studied him, her lips pressed in a line, a single stream of blood-tinged tears sliding down one cheek. “I can’t stop them from looking for you, Bastien.”

“Can you at least give me an hour?”

She wavered, fighting to maintain her composure. “I’ll . . . try my best. But the Hellhound will find you, Bastien, as he always does. And we will all face the consequences.”

“Thank you, Odette.” He kissed her forehead.

Then he vaulted the balustrade and vanished into the darkness.



* * *





Bastien kicked through the door of Michael’s office at police headquarters without pausing for breath. He’d fully expected to find his childhood friend looming over his desk. Just as he’d fully anticipated an altercation the moment he demanded that the detective share all his notes on the killer. Who he might be. What he might be. And—most importantly—where he might be.

The only sign of life Bastien found was a single lamp, its lone flame dancing cheerfully in a clear cylinder of glass.

Fury blinded him for an instant, his hands longing to shatter the lamp into a thousand pieces. In an effort to allay his rage, Bastien scanned the cramped space for anything that might help him find Celine. To one side was a cot, blankets folded atop it in a neat little pile, a basket of sewing supplies beside it.

His anger threatened to slide into despair.

Many of the things he’d treasured had been taken from him all too soon. These losses had taught him to hold fast to his heart, save for two exceptions: the love he had for his immortal family, and the love he had for his city. He’d refused to make room for anything else. Then a month ago, a seed had been planted in his mind, watered by the hand of Fate. By a wry smile and a fall of raven hair. By a girl who met him word for word, challenge for challenge.

Something unraveled in Bastien’s chest.

It appeared there was now a third exception.

He should have told Celine she’d captured his heart, instead of allowing ridiculous social mores and expectations to stand in their way. If anything happened to her, the devil himself would answer for it. Bastien would take no mere pound of flesh.

Before he was finished, he would see the demon’s tears turn to ash.

His lips pushed forward in calculation, Bastien paused on the large slate board running parallel to Michael’s desk. He studied the collection of clues the detective had amassed, including the many insidious things the killer had said to Celine on multiple occasions:

Welcome to the Battle of Carthage.

You are mine.

Death leads to another garden.

To thine own self, be true.

Die in my arms.

A muscle ticked in Bastien’s neck. He perused the old map affixed to a corner of the slate, his gaze catching on something he’d missed before.

Then Bastien straightened, his eyes going wide.

Michael’s notes were incomplete. The killer had said a peculiar thing to Celine the night he had stalked her through the streets of the Vieux Carré. Bastien’s attention had been drawn by its absence on the otherwise meticulous board.

Come with me to the heart of Chartres.

Chartres was a city south of Paris, famed for the beautiful cathedral at its heart.

Rue de Chartres ran through the center of New Orleans, in the very middle of Michael’s map. At the street’s heart stood the three spires of Saint Louis Cathedral.

Had the demon been arrogant enough to lead them straight to his safe haven? To be sure, the church was an unusual place for a killer to find refuge. But it was also the exact kind of detail that would delight most of the immortals in Bastien’s acquaintance. To seek sanctuary in a house of God.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” a harsh voice demanded from behind him.

Bastien turned to meet the wily figure of his former friend. “I beg your pardon, Detective Grimaldi.” He kept his tone light, despite a surge of anger. “I’ll take my leave.”