The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(71)

Perhaps it was time for Celine to reject proper society.

As if to underscore the notion, the door to the brougham swung open and Odette bounded down its steps, dressed in trousers and polished Hessians, a military-style jacket draped across her shoulders. She raced toward Celine’s side, brushing past Michael with a look that would scald the sun.

“Mon amie,” Odette said, her expression grave, her eyes reddened around the rims.

Celine steeled herself, her shoulders all but quaking with gratitude. The fairy tales of her childhood had been filled with lies. No man had come to her rescue tonight, as they always did in the stories.

But her friends had. First Pippa with her épée. Then Odette with her carriage.

And just a moment ago, Celine had almost turned her back on them forever.

Before Celine could say anything, Michael glared down at Odette, his colorless eyes seeming as if they could pierce her through her heart. “Miss Valmont,” he said curtly. “Word certainly does travel fast . . . rousing even the most ardent of sleepers.”

“None of your nonsense tonight.” Odette glowered back at him, stone-faced. “My patience for mediocre young men has fallen dangerously low.” She looked to Celine, her features softening. “I came as soon as I heard.” Her gloved hands wrapped around Celine’s fingers. “What is it you wish to do? I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

Michael cleared his throat. “An unnecessary offer. I will arrange a place for Celine at police headquarters. It’s well insulated from potential intruders, and officers will be stationed nearby at all times.” He stood tall, water dribbling from the brim of his tweed cap. “I myself will patrol the streets around it twice a night, so there is no need for this dramatic display of concern. Return to your gilded abode, Miss Valmont. Leave the real work to those accustomed to doing it.”

Odette sniffed, the sound filled with derision. “Don’t be proud of that rejoinder, you sanctimonious prick. It’s work enough having to look upon you with a straight face.” Her sable eyes tapered to slits. “And perhaps we should let Celine make her own decisions, rather than informing her of yours, as you seem so keen to do.” She turned to Celine. “Mon amie, we can go wherever you like. Charleston or Atlanta. New York, if you prefer. Perhaps even San Francisco. And if you wish to stay in New Orleans, I can have a suite ready for you at the Dumaine within the hour.”

Celine nodded, her thoughts racing in a whirl. She could go wherever she chose. Flee this place and all its mounting terrors. Her eyes closed as she allowed herself to dream of a new life. A slate wiped clean once more.

Footsteps splashed through a nearby puddle, drawing to a sudden halt, the sound of frightened gasps punching through the darkness. Celine opened her eyes, locking on a single image.

Pippa, the color drained from her skin, her lips trembling, her features awash in unmistakable relief. Her hem was six inches deep in mud, and a branch had scratched the side of her left cheek, tiny trickles of blood sliding toward her chin.

This entire time, Pippa had been searching for Celine, her concern for her friend causing her to be heedless of all else, even her own well-being.

If Celine ran away now, the killer might never be caught. He would likely continue wreaking havoc on the world she’d left behind. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to witness it with her own eyes anymore or be terrorized by its possibility. But she would always know. Would always wonder.

And her friends would remain in danger.

Rage is a moment. Regret is forever. Celine had enough regrets on her head. Running away like a victim would not be one of them ever again. She was not a victim.

She was a survivor.

“I want to stay in New Orleans,” Celine said. “But I have one condition.”





THE HAUNTED PORTRAIT




An hour later, Celine, Michael, and Odette stood in a corner of darkly veined marble, ensconced in the farthest reaches of a deserted hotel lobby.

Above them, crystal-and-brass chandeliers hung like silent sentinels, chiming softly in a ghostly breeze. Lanterns housed in spheres of opaque glass glowed around the room, resembling will-o’-the-wisps floating through the night. Purple orchids and white jasmine perfumed the air, the scent hinting of wealth and far-flung locales. Positioned at either end of the entrance hall were large chinoiserie vases overflowing with long-stemmed roses so deep a shade of red, their petals appeared black in the shadows.

Were Celine’s exhaustion not an anchor about her shoulders, she would have whiled away a moment marveling at the grandeur of the space. Everything about it felt like it had been decorated to suit a queen of darkness.

“We’ve waited long enough, mon amie,” Odette said, her voice scratched and weary. “Tell us your condition, s’il te pla?t.”

Michael stood a healthy distance from Odette, his long arms crossed, his dark curls mussed by the rain. Though his face was lined with distaste, his pale eyes blazed bright.

In a barely audible whisper, Celine informed them of her plan. Once she was finished, they stared at her in stunned silence, Odette blinking rapidly, as if her mind intended to flash through every possible outcome in the span of a single breath.

“Over my dead body,” Michael announced in a flat tone.

“Here’s hoping, mon cher,” Odette quipped. She turned toward Celine, her sable gaze uncertain. “But I must agree with the boor’s sentiment. Using yourself as bait to catch a crazed killer . . . sounds unduly foolish.”