The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(58)

Celine sighed to herself.

No. It wasn’t just her pride. She was simply tired of being told what to do.

Steeling herself, Celine decided to let the beauty of a New Orleans evening distract her from her thoughts.

A balmy breeze riffled through a magnolia tree to her left, its downy white blossoms swaying in the sultry wind. The breeze coiled closer, carrying with it the sweet perfume of honeysuckle and lavender, the tiny flowers peeking from between the tines of a wrought-iron fence in front of a stately, four-storied mansion. Overhead, wraparound terraces and hanging baskets overflowed with waxy vines and brightly colored blossoms. A row of blue cypress trees dripped with Spanish moss, forming layers of scent and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, an unseen man with a beautiful voice began to sing, his words a mixture of French and something Celine could not quite discern.

In only a few short weeks, Celine had learned to appreciate how the city seemed to come alive the moment the sun dipped below the horizon. Not a normal kind of alive, like sunshine and laughter. But a sinister, sensual kind of alive. A warm caress and a cool whisper.

Despite everything, Celine found herself falling a little bit in love.

As she continued making her way toward the convent, footsteps shifted in line behind her, clear and crisp against the blue-grey pavestones. Heavy footsteps, like those of a man.

Celine listened as they drew near. Then straightened her spine. There was no reason to fear the person at her back. Pedestrians took to the streets of the Quarter at all hours of day and night. It was irrational to think this might be anyone—or anything—else.

Nevertheless, she could not help but be reminded of that awful night in the atelier, when her na?veté had betrayed her, changing the course of her life.

Celine turned onto the next street. The footsteps lingered in her shadow.

Fear prickled the nape of her neck. That feeling of being followed.

She refrained from turning to confront the man, lest she appear foolish for the second time in a single evening or, worse, provoke him into taking action. Instead she decided to conduct a test. She slowed her pace to a leisurely stroll, expecting the pedestrian to pass by.

He did not.

Instead he, too, slowed his footsteps to match hers.

Celine fended off a wave of panic, her memories of that terrible evening taking flight in her mind. She glanced about without moving her head, looking to see who might be around her. A lone gentleman strolled on the opposite side of the street, his walking stick striking the pavers, his gaze focused on the path before him, heedless of all else.

Would he bother to help her?

For an instant, Celine considered dashing across the lane and coming to stand alongside him, irrespective of these concerns. Then she made out the sounds of a parade in the distance. A place in which countless people undoubtedly gathered. She decided to speed up in order to make her way toward the crowd, no matter that it was in the wrong direction of the convent.

The footsteps behind her stopped midstride. Then Celine swore she heard something take to the wind in a flutter of leaves, the sound clattering against the bars of an iron balustrade.

Panic taking hold, Celine halted in her tracks. Dared to look over her shoulder.

Nothing was there.

Her heart dropped into her stomach, its beat thundering loud and hard through her body.

“Celine,” a voice whispered behind her. A voice of nails grating across slate.

Fear lanced through her, keeping her immobile for an instant.

Then she whirled around . . . to find nothing.

“Mon amour,” it rasped at her back, its words an icy brush against her skin. “You smell divine. Come with me to the heart of Chartres. Die in my arms.”

Celine lifted her skirts and ran, her feet racing above the grey pavestones. She sprinted to the nearest corner, rounding it, her teeth chattering in her skull.

Footsteps battered against the walkway behind her, then dissolved in a rustle of dried leaves. She continued running toward the noise of the parade in the distance, refusing to stop until she reached the crowd.

A hand shot from behind an alcove to her left, grabbing Celine by the arm, yanking her from her intended path, causing her to nearly stumble.

Celine screamed, forcing every bit of air from her lungs. A cool palm covered her lips, bidding her silent. Then strong arms shoved her behind a wall of bergamot-scented muscle.

Bastien.

Positioning himself before her, Bastien leveled his revolver into a fall of darkness beneath a nearby awning. A strange muttering could be heard in its depths, almost like the chittering of insects or the gnashing of teeth.

“Be gone,” Bastien said, his words punishing in their precision. “Or stay and meet your maker, for I’ll grant you no quarter.”

Celine pressed her face into his shoulder, her fingers digging into his back.

The chittering ceased, the cloaked creature scuttling up the side of the building before vanishing into the night.

For a beat, Celine and Bastien stood there unmoving, their bodies tensed, their breaths rising and falling in tandem. Then Bastien turned toward her, his expression cut from stone as he holstered his gun.

Something within Celine was on the brink of shattering. Her legs felt boneless, her body felt stretched thin. Energy pounded through her veins, causing her hands to shake.

Bastien’s fingers tightened around her arms at the exact moment Celine’s legs started to give. He held her in place, his gaze locked on hers.