The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(78)

“She—attacked me, master.”

I smirk at him. “You allowed a witless human girl to get the better of you?”

“I did not expect her to be so . . . fearless.”

“I told you already; she has met Death and lived to tell the tale. Of course she would be capable of causing you harm. You are lucky the blade was not made of silver.”

“Yes, master,” he grumbles. “Is there anything else you need of me?”

I sense his irritation. He did not wish for me to learn of his wound. Even endeavored to conceal it by changing his shirt. More than his need for revenge, this one’s pride will be his undoing. His desire to be noticed. To be deemed the savior who resurrected his fellow demons of the night—those of us banished from the Sylvan Wyld—back to their rightful place among the wintry stars.

But Lazarus was no savior, and this pathetic quim is no concern of mine. They are all expendable. Each a means to my end.

“Master?” he presses. “Is there any other service you require?”

“Not at this time.” I pause. “No. That isn’t true. I wish for you to take a bath.”

“Master?”

His puzzlement vexes me. “You may have changed your garments, but still you reek of death. They will smell it on you before they set eyes on you.” I resort to my greatest asset. The power to hold lesser beings in my thrall, with nothing more than my words. “This is your next lesson: if you wish to command respect and rise above your ranks, you must be better than your brethren. Far more cunning. Your life was stolen from you, and you have been relegated to a place of servitude far too long. But you are not a servant. You have at hand the tools to be king of this jungle. A means to bridge the divide . . . and save us all.” I let my voice fade with significance, my features high in their regard.

“A lion,” he breathes, his eyes luminous in their glory.

I nod. “But you must never forget. All the world’s a stage.”

“And all the men and women merely players,” he finishes with a flourish.

I direct him to leave with a jerk of my chin. He bows before dissolving into the darkness, his steps light with his success.

Insignificant fool.

He is eager to please me. Eager to assume the usurper’s role and settle into a position of power. It is why I singled him out not long ago. For I am also eager to take from my enemy what has been taken from me. To have him know what it feels like to have a love lost and a trust broken.

Briefly I recall the moment the betrayal tore through my soul. The realization hollowed me, the way a scorching of one’s essence is wont to do. It took years for me to collect the embers. To remake of myself something whole. After that trying time, I no longer felt sorrow for what I had lost. I only felt anger. Hatred.

Now I feel vengeance. It tastes sweet. Sweeter than all the blood and death I could ever hope to swallow.

One man in his time plays many parts.

They thought there was no reason to fear me. That I had scattered to the winds, like ashes from an urn. They sought to steal my birthright and install a false king upon the throne.

They were wrong.





A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S SOIRéE




    No. —B



Bastien had refused to meet with Celine. The insufferable cad hadn’t even bothered to display the barest measure of civility in his response.

The first five times she read his note—his initial scrawled larger than life along the bottom of the page—rage had coursed through her veins. She’d resorted to pacing across the plush carpet of her borrowed bedchambers, seething with fury.

Then—on the sixth reading—she’d composed herself. Settled her expression.

Rage was a moment. He would regret this forever.

Coolly and calmly, Celine made plans. She sent a note to Odette via the hotel’s courier, who passed along Odette’s immediate reply, informing her of Bastien’s plans for the evening.

He would be attending the Midsummer Night’s soirée hosted by a member of the Twelfth Night Revelers. The same party Celine had declined to attend when Odette had invited her at dinner only a few days ago.

That particular evening, it had not served a purpose.

But today was a different story. Celine intended for this event to serve several purposes, all in her favor. Indeed, she would frequent every ridiculous carnival function in the foreseeable future—even the blasted masquerade ball itself—if it meant rooting out the perpetrator of these ghastly crimes, which were now occurring around her once a week.

Her plan tonight was twofold: to gain answers to her many questions from the lion himself, and to inform the killer that Celine Rousseau was not going to tuck tail and run.

That she planned to stay and fight.

She took time to make herself ready. It didn’t matter that she had less than a single afternoon to procure a costume. Another quick message to Odette secured Celine a dress borrowed from a family who owed the Court “a barrelful of money.”

The resulting gown did not fit Celine well, but she spent the latter part of the day remaking it to suit the occasion, an outdoor event held alongside a manse in the wealthiest lane of the Garden District. To be sure, it was in poor taste for Celine to be attending a party of any kind, mere days after she’d been cast out of the convent.