The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(45)

The detective waited.

“A kind of wound that would have produced a great deal of blood, no doubt,” Celine said. “It would be all but impossible for anyone present last night—including Monsieur Saint Germain— to have committed such a heinous crime, then drain their victim of blood and remove all traces from their person in time.”

Detective Grimaldi steepled his hands before him. He stared at Celine thoughtfully. She could not tell if he was impressed or irritated. “I came to a similar realization myself, Miss Rousseau,” he said. “But precautions can be taken. Stained clothes can be changed. Coats and gloves can be doffed just as easily as they are donned.” He bent over his joined hands. “To that end, did either you or Miss Montrose encounter anything you might deem suspicious?”

Bastien had discarded his frock coat. Numerous members of La Cour des Lions had carried weapons on their persons. Knives, guns, ice picks, even rings that could double as instruments of torture and violence. Suddenly the small red stain on the collar of Odette’s shirt did not seem quite so innocuous.

Odette, a murderess? Celine almost laughed to herself. Then her blood ran cold.

Celine was a murderess.

Anyone was capable of committing ghastly deeds. And everyone in the Court of the Lions appeared to possess otherworldly gifts. Some could taste the flavor of deceit. Could make chess pieces move about, bidden by the mind. Could foretell the future, with naught but a touch.

Arjun himself had stilled a man into a stupor, simply by grabbing his wrist.

Celine looked about, fear seeping into her soul. All these individuals were beyond the ordinary, their abilities extending far past parlor room tricks. But to what extent? Again she recalled what the two young women had revealed earlier in the square, about “the Court” likely being responsible for the decapitated girl along the docks.

The Court. La Cour des Lions.

Celine did not believe in coincidences.

And only a fool would provoke creatures with untold appetites and unknown abilities.

If Celine wished to keep herself safe—to keep Pippa safe—she needed to bend with the wind, no matter the bitter taste it would leave on her tongue. Suddenly she understood why the other officers of the New Orleans Metropolitan Police had granted Bastien such a wide berth.

Cognez au nid de guêpe, et vous serez piqué.

Strike a wasp’s nest, and you will be stung.

Celine smoothed her apron overskirt. She met the detective’s penetrating stare, refusing to flinch. “I’m sorry to say I saw nothing of note, Detective Grimaldi.”

Disappointment flashed across his face. He looked to Pippa.

Surreptitiously, Celine reached under the table for Pippa’s hand. Squeezed it tightly.

“I’m sorry, Detective Grimaldi,” Pippa said in a clear voice. “But I didn’t see anything either.”



* * *





“It’s a shame my clients couldn’t be of more help to you, Detective Grimaldi,” Arjun said as he held open the door of the Mother Superior’s office.

To his credit, he did not look the least bit smug.

Nevertheless, a hollow kind of rage spiraled through Celine’s stomach.

“It is indeed a great shame,” Detective Grimaldi replied coolly. He moved back to let Pippa pass, then waited just beyond the oaken door.

When Celine crossed the stone threshold into the cavernous corridor, the young detective shifted his tweed hat to his other hand to walk alongside her.

He’d been waiting for Celine. Perhaps for another chance to take her off guard.

Before Detective Grimaldi could continue probing any further, Celine decided to wrest control of the situation and catch him unawares first.

The quickest solution would be to needle the detective as he’d needled her.

“It appears you know Monsieur Saint Germain well,” Celine said, expecting this to provoke him, based on the charged exchange between the two young men the evening prior.

Michael Grimaldi surprised her. He did not seem perturbed in the slightest by her inquiry. “Yes. We were schoolmates as children. The best of friends.” He offered this with a knowing expression. As though he were interested to see how this news affected her.

Celine frowned. “Friends? Then why are you—”

“I thought I was supposed to be the one with the questions.”

Celine bit down on the inside of her cheek while they walked. “My apologies for asking,” she said, though she did not feel sorry at all.

The suggestion of a smile touched his lips. “It might be odd for me to say this, but you would have made quite a detective yourself, Miss Rousseau.”

Celine snorted dismissively. While they followed Pippa and Arjun down the corridor toward the double doors leading outside, she recalled what Arjun had said earlier this afternoon. About being the wrong kind of person in the wrong kind of skin. “Even you must be aware that those of the fairer sex could never strive for such a lofty position, Detective Grimaldi.”

“Alas, you are not wrong.” The detective paused in contemplation. “Did you know the New Orleans Metropolitan Police is one of the only police forces in our country to allow men of color to serve in its ranks?”

“I did not.” Another spark of surprise warmed through Celine.

“It’s a rather recent development. Most likely a twisted experiment of sorts.” He sighed to himself. “But as the grandchild of a slave, I suppose it is a thing for which I should be grateful.”