The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(67)

“Each time you evade me, I only want you more,” it gasped, its voice like metal against stone. “You cannot escape. You are mine.” Then it dragged its bloody fingers across her face, as if it were marking her.

A horrified scream caught in Celine’s throat. She kept rigid, her eyes unblinking, struggling to detect anything of note. Anything that might help identify the creature in the light of day. But the room was too dark, the demon far too close. Pippa’s footsteps pounded down the corridor, her screams jumbled and nonsensical.

“Death leads to another garden. Welcome to the Battle of Carthage,” the thing whispered in Celine’s ear, its words a crazed rasp, its accent refined. “To thine own self, be true.”

Celine stabbed it in its chest with her sewing shears. Roaring, the demon shoved her to one side with inhuman strength, an earsplitting cry rending through the darkness. Celine’s head struck the floor in a dull thud, her vision distorting from the blow. She fought to focus on the figure looming above her. All she could distinguish was the silhouette of what appeared to be a man, tall and well muscled, his chest heaving, the sleeves and hem of his coat tattered.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Celine said in a hoarse tone.

The demon’s laughter was a wet gurgle. “You will be.”

Commotion rang through the hallways beyond Celine’s cell. Doors banged open, and the cries of young women layered through the thick darkness, their footsteps pattering across the stone floors, their candles wavering over the walls.

Then the demon leapt out of Celine’s window with preternatural grace.

Her skull buzzing and her vision hazy, Celine reached for the fallen box of matches. Labored to sit up and light one, her toes slipping through the pool of sticky warmth collecting by her feet. Her fingers shook as the match burst into flame, the peppery scent of gunpowder suffusing the air.

Celine’s heart hammered in her temples, her limbs bereft of warmth. The moment the match’s flame stretched tall to spread its light, Pippa burst through the entrance of the cell, brandishing a fireplace poker like a fencing épée. Her resounding scream turned into many, mounting like ripples across a pond. Horrified, sleep-laden faces craned for a glimpse beyond the doorway, regretting their curiosity in the next instant.

For nothing could have prepared them for the sight that met their eyes.

Strewn across the sill of Celine’s open window was a man’s mangled body. One of his legs was crooked at an unnatural angle, an arm bent behind him, nearly torn from its socket. His wispy beard trailed onto the stone floor. Red bubbles frothed around his mouth as the blood from a gash in his neck trickled downward, seeping between the cracks in eerie tributaries.

Above his body—painted onto the wooden shutter—was another symbol, sketched in crimson:





THE LONELY FREEDOM OF A MISTY STREET




Numbness enveloped Celine, settling on her shoulders, winding about her limbs. She welcomed it. Wished it would swallow her whole.

A demon had touched her. Marked her.

Taken another life.

William, the kind gardener who resembled a wizard, had been murdered tonight in Celine’s cell, on the cusp of the witching hour. He’d perished much like Anabel, his throat torn out in gruesome fashion, the blood spilling from his body as fast as his heart could pump it. This time the killer had been far less fastidious. Instead of draining William entirely of blood, he had allowed it to spatter everywhere, as if there had been a struggle. Or perhaps the demon had chosen to toy with its prey.

Neither thought was reassuring.

Celine sat on the steps beyond the vestibule of the Ursuline convent. A light rain dusted the air, sprinkling her skin, though she could not feel it, courtesy of the blessed numbness. Around her, muted speech and rapid footfalls punctuated the night, every so often laced with intermittent wails.

Thankfully—following the initial onslaught of questions—no one thought to trouble Celine or draw anywhere near. It was as if they’d come to the same realization she had. That she was a curse. A blight upon all their lives.

It could not have been a coincidence that Anabel had been killed after following Celine into a den of iniquity. Nor could it be mere chance that William had met his gruesome end in her cell. With the exception of the seemingly unrelated murder along the docks, the killer looked to be targeting anyone tied to Celine Rousseau, for reasons beyond all their ken. There appeared to be no logic to any of it, save for the victims’ associations with her and with the Ursuline convent.

Was it possible the young woman along the docks was also connected in some way?

At this point, no detail, however far-fetched, could be ignored.

Each time you evade me, I only want you more.

You cannot escape. You are mine.

Celine winced as she stared at the granite pavers beside her feet, watching the rain glisten across their gritty surfaces. She stiffened when Pippa crouched next to her, then glanced at her friend sidelong, meeting blue eyes wide with worry. Without a word, Pippa handed her a clean linen handkerchief. Then waited attentively while Celine wiped the blood from her face, the dried bits flaking onto her damp dress, causing her stomach to churn and acid to bubble in her throat.

“Is there anything I can do?” Pippa asked, her voice gentle.

You can leave me alone. Rage coursed through Celine at how little regard Pippa seemed to hold for her own self-preservation. By now, she should know better than to seek out the company of a blight like her.