The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(82)

Whatever attention the girl sought to garner, she succeeded. Every eye—male and female alike—was locked on her slender form, equal parts scandalized and tantalized. With a smug smile, she whirled into her circle of tittering friends, safe and cosseted.

For now.

Distracted by the exhibition, Pippa’s shocked gaze landed on Celine, the same realization stealing through them in the next breath. A flash of pain shimmered across Pippa’s features, her lips parting in surprise. The next instant, she leaned toward her escort, speaking with him in hushed tones.

Celine knew it would take less than ten paces for Pippa to face her. Less than half that for the murderer to notice, were he present, as she suspected. And Celine simply could not allow that to happen.

Panic took root in her stomach. Maddening laughter lilted into the air around them, mingling with incessant chatter. The scent of fresh herbs and the iron of overturned soil filled her nostrils as Celine looked about, seeking an escape.

In a single, sinuous motion, Bastien removed his bull mask, his silver eyes like storm clouds, his expression guarded. As if he could sense her distress.

They locked gazes for a blink of time.

The next instant, Celine wheeled about without warning, rushing toward the entrance of the maze, her cream-colored hem snagging on thorns as she ran.





DARKNESS INCARNATE




Celine didn’t know why she was sure Bastien would follow her.

She just knew—with the certainty of a rising moon—that he would.

When she glanced over her shoulder, the shape of his great-coat stretched behind her, and a jolt of something unseen, unheard, unfelt before this moment raced through her blood. It pulsed in time with her heart, sending her rushing down a wicked path, deeper into wicked darkness.

She was Theseus. Setting a trap for the mighty Minotaur in a cursed Labyrinth.

As if she led him on a string, Bastien glided in her footsteps. Celine felt him through the layers of shadow, like the night had embraced her, remaking her in its own image. The sounds of merriment faded into sighs, the smell of sweat and trampled flowers steeping in the warm air.

Celine wove past a pair of young women embracing in a corner, rose petals crushed to paste beneath their feet. A shoulder strap on one girl’s gown had slid down her arm, the rouge on her lover’s lips nothing more than a smudge across her cheek.

Her face flaming with apology, Celine rounded the next corner and came upon a dead end. She spun in place, her head held high. Bastien stood before her, backlit by the moon, his upturned collar concealing most of his face, the head of the Minotaur dangling from one hand.

She glared at him through the void, vowing to hold fast to her plan, though the space around them thickened with suggestion. “The Minotaur, Bastien? Really?”

“I possess a certain affinity for monsters.”

“And the long black coat?”

“I enjoy making a spectacle.” His face held nothing but shadows, the set of his jaw refined. As if nothing about the situation troubled him in the slightest.

It provoked Celine further. “And what of Anabel’s yellow ribbon?”

Bastien took a step closer. An arctic chill emanated from his skin. “What of it?”

“Why do you have it?”

He said nothing for a time. “Why do you think I have it?” Bastien took another step closer, pressing Celine into the corner.

“Stop,” she commanded.

He halted in his tracks. “Are you afraid?”

“No. I’m furious.”

“I see.” Bastien’s response was slow. Deliberate. “You think I killed her,” he said quietly.

The coal of night made it difficult for Celine to discern his features. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“If I told you I didn’t kill her, would you believe me? If I said I found the ribbon on the stairwell, would that ring true?” He advanced once more, prowling like a panther, the timbre of his voice lowering even further. “Or would you believe me if I told you it belonged to someone I loved long ago?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

“Do you want to believe me?” It was as if Lucifer himself had posed Celine the question, his tone filled with dark deviltry.

Yes, her heart said. “No.” Celine’s hands balled into fists.

“Liar.” The last step Bastien took brought his face into a beam of moonlight.

A sharp breath filled Celine’s lungs. He was painfully beautiful. Not in the way of art or the way of poetry. But in the way of violence. The way the sight of it gripped you and took hold. Like a lightning storm behind a bank of clouds. A tidal wave crashing upon a shore. A reminder that life was a moment in time.

That every second of it should be relished.

“What manner of creature are the members of La Cour des Lions?” Celine asked outright, unnerved by the tremor in her chest. “Because I don’t believe any of you are human.”

Celine expected to see a glimmer of shock in his expression. He remained stone-faced, the hem of his long coat writhing about him like darkness incarnate.

“Odette makes all things possible. Arjun is a weaver of words. Nigel balances the banker’s scale. Jae eliminates any dead weight. Boone finds things that wish to remain hidden. Madeleine puts those things to work, all while Hortense cavorts in the background. And—my love of snakes notwithstanding—I am as human as you are,” Bastien said simply.