“Je suis désolée, Mère Supérieure,” Celine apologized, “mais”—she glanced to her right, trying to decide whether or not to involve Pippa in this falsehood—“but, alas, her modiste is unfamiliar with the baroque style of dress. She expressed urgency in needing the garments and a schedule that did not appear to be flexible during the day. You see . . . she volunteers each afternoon with a ladies’ organization that knits socks for children.”
Even in profile, Celine saw Pippa’s eyes widen with dismay.
It was an abhorrent lie, to be sure. Fashioning Odette as an angel with a soft spot for barefooted souls was among the more . . . colorful stories Celine had told in her lifetime. But this entire situation was ridiculous. And Celine enjoyed prevailing over tyrants, even by the barest of measures. Especially ones who threatened her friends.
The Mother Superior’s frown softened, though the rest of her expression remained doubtful. She linked her hands behind her back and began pacing. “Be that as it may, I do not feel it is appropriate for you to travel through the city unescorted past sundown. A young woman not much older than you . . . perished along the docks only yesterday.”
In Celine’s opinion, perished was a rather subdued word for being ripped to pieces beneath a starlit sky.
The Mother Superior paused in silent prayer before resuming her lecture. “During carnival season, there are many revelers in the streets. Sin runs rampant, and I do not wish for a mind as weak and susceptible as yours to be lured by danger.”
Though Celine bristled at the slight, she nodded in agreement. “I, too, do not wish to be tempted by anything untoward.” She pressed a hand over her heart. “But I believe this young woman to be good and God-fearing, Mère Supérieure. And the money she will give the convent for my work would undoubtedly be of great benefit to us all. She made it clear—several times—that cost was not an object.”
“I see.” The Mother Superior turned toward Pippa without warning. “Mademoiselle Montrose,” she said, “it appears you have little to offer on the matter. What have you to say about this situation?”
Celine closed her eyes, bracing herself for what was to come. She wouldn’t blame Pippa for telling the truth. It was simply in her nature to do so. And who could blame Pippa for following her natural inclination.
Pippa cleared her throat, her small hands tightening into fists. “I . . . found the young lady quite trustworthy and virtuous as well, Mother Superior,” she said slowly. “Of course your concerns are not without merit, especially given what happened along the docks. Would it make a difference if I offered to accompany her? We could take the lady’s measurements together and then be on our way. I don’t believe we would be gone from the convent for long. In fact, I see no reason why we would have to miss evening prayer.”
Time ground to a halt. It was Celine’s turn to have her eyes widen with dismay.
Pippa Montrose had offered to help. Had lied for Celine. To a nun.
“I have many misgivings, Mademoiselle Montrose,” the Mother Superior said after a breath. “But perhaps if you are willing to provide escort . . .”
“I am willing to take full responsibility.” Pippa grasped the tiny gold crucifix nestled at the hollow of her throat. She let her voice drop. Let it fill with reverence. “And I trust God will go with us tonight.”
The Mother Superior frowned again, her lips unspooling slowly. Her attention shifted from Pippa toward Celine and back again. She stood straight. And made a decision.
“Very well,” she said.
A flare of surprise shot through Celine. The Mother Superior had shifted tack too quickly. Too easily. Suspicion gnawed at Celine’s stomach. She eyed Pippa sidelong, but her friend did not glance her way.
“Thank you, Mother Superior,” Pippa murmured. “I promise all will go as planned.”
“Of course. As long as you understand I’ve put my full trust in you, Mademoiselle Montrose. Do not disappoint me.” The nun’s smile was disturbingly beatific. “May His light shine upon you both, my children.”
HIVER, 1872
AVENUE DES URSULINES
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
I first glimpse my next victim as she passes beneath the flame of a gas lamp.
Her eyes flash in a most curious way. As though she is on edge or held in suspense. Perhaps in the midst of doing something illicit.
The sight catches my attention, even through the horde of bustling bodies, a handful of them brimming with other-worldly energy. Her unease looks strangely beguiling, for it is the opposite of performative. She is heedless of everything around her, save the task at hand. It is a difficult undertaking for a hapless mortal, to move about a crowd so blissfully unaware. So enviably unaffected.
Crowds fascinate me. They provide demons such as myself with unique opportunities. Occasions to be seen and unseen in the same breath. For are we not always—human and creature alike—performing to some degree?
I digress.
The moment I enjoy most is when I first begin scanning the masses. When I first lay eyes on my target, and they know not that they are being watched. They act without thought. Smile without agenda. Laugh as though not a soul is listening.
I know what this must sound like. It sounds . . . disconcerting. I am aware. But I am by nature disconcerting. There are moments in which I can be delightful, too. I speak many languages. I have traveled the world twice over. I can sing the entirety of Verdi’s Aida without the need of sheet music.
Do I not deserve a modicum of consideration for these and many other achievements?
I would like to think so, though I know it to be impossible.
Demons should not be granted the indulgence of men. So sayeth man, at least.
But I’ll share a secret. In my years, I have discovered it is possible to be both disconcerting and delightful all at once. Wine can be delicious though it muddles the mind. A mother may love and hate her children in the span of the same afternoon.
And a predator could abhor itself even as it relishes its evening meal.
I understand my behavior might be construed as odd. Unseemly. But I am a thing of oddity. A creature born apart from this world.
Don’t fret on my account. I have never been one of those immortals who enjoy toying with their food, nor do I particularly like stalking my prey. I am not looking for their weaknesses; rather, I am understanding their humanity. There is something . . . wrong with treating a living being as though it exists purely for my own sport. Every action I undertake has a purpose. It is the characteristic that distinguishes me from many beings of the Otherworld.
My convictions.
I feel keenly the loss of any life taken. The kill last week along the pier did not thrill me in any way. It was necessarily gruesome, in a manner I typically eschew, especially for such an indiscriminate death. I brought about the girl’s end simply to see what was possible. To see what kind of attention it would draw. Alas, it did not have the effect I hoped, for my enemy remains above the authorities’ notice. It appears a more lasting impression must be left with my next victim. A more direct assault, upon my enemy’s doorstep.