Each death to come will be felt all the more keenly. That is of primary importance.
For though I may disdain wanton bloodshed, I am not impervious to the draw of the hunt. A friend from childhood used to say she knew when an animal had perished in agony. She could taste it, and it ruined the meal for her.
I find I am inclined to agree. There is also a certain allure to knowing what will happen next, before anyone else does. Perhaps it is a result of my unconventional upbringing. Or maybe it is simply human nature.
And I was human. Once.
A part of me still longs to be.
Maybe that is what draws me to the liveliness of the French Quarter. I avoided hunting in it for many years, because its corners contained memories not soon forgotten. Images of pain and loss and heartbreak. But I’ve returned to my old haunt after too long a time, for I have an ancient score to settle. A final performance to give.
Sacro fremito di gloria / Tutta l’anima m’investe.
A sacred thrill of glory / Runs through my heart.
Perhaps I am still human after all.
A TOUCH OF VIOLENCE
Celine!” Pippa called out as Celine whirled into the crowd, her steps surefooted. Free. “Slow down. There’s no need to move about so quickly.”
Celine halted in her tracks, excitement sparking in her chest. The beat of a distant drum met with the clash of cymbals. Soon thereafter, trumpets pealed into the vibrant night air. A sultry breeze toyed with the ends of the black satin ribbon about her throat, caressing her collarbone. Though she kept still, her heart reached for the music, as if it called to something deep in her bones. It never ceased to amaze her, how she seemed to thrive under cover of darkness. How she fell more in love with the moon every night.
Each evening—despite the thick walls of the convent— Celine’s toes had tapped alongside the melodies of the passing carnival parades. Rhythms and timbres and crescendos of sound she’d never before heard had captured her attention, stealing her thoughts from the word of God. She was not alone in this. Antonia’s fingers had frozen above the pages of vespers, her mind transfixed as well. Even Pippa had smiled at the music.
And here they were now, given a chance to revel in the heart of it all.
The parade drew closer, the crowd around them spilling into the side streets of the Vieux Carré. Temporary vendors began rolling carts of food and drink onto its corners, adding layer upon layer to the sights and smells and sounds collecting about the space: spice and earth and the clash of metal against stone. Celine shifted with the sea of moving bodies, dragging Pippa in her wake. When they turned the corner, a delicious scent— unlike any Celine had ever known—permeated the air.
“Cochon de lait!” a man with a soot-caked mustache called out in a strange French accent. He hovered above what looked like a beast of iron and black smoke about the size of a large trunk. When he rolled back its lid, Celine saw meat roasting above a makeshift spit, the aroma of burning pecan wood and sugarcane wafting through it. He poured a concoction that smelled of melted butter, white wine, hot peppers, and minced garlic all over the smoked cochon. A delicious steam sizzled from the smoldering embers, weaving through and around them. Then the man with the mustache poked a large fork in one side of the meat, and a piece of cochon fell from the bone onto a waiting piece of bread. Immediately a crowd formed a queue around the man and his iron beast.
Celine desperately wished she carried with her a single coin. A single chance to partake in something so mouthwatering. She knew it was a bad idea to move closer to the merriment of the incoming parade, but it had been so long since this kind of unbridled joy had taken root in her heart. She supposed that was the way of it, when one was guilty of committing unspeakable acts like murder.
Joy did not live in a heart full of fear.
Pippa saw the look on her face. “We can’t linger here, Celine,” she said in a grim tone. “We can’t watch the parade.”
“I know.” Celine inhaled deeply. “I’m just imagining that we could. That we did. And it was glorious.”
A sympathetic smile curled up Pippa’s face. “I want to see it, too. But if the Mother Superior finds out we disregarded her wishes—that we did not go straight to our meeting and immediately return—she’ll never let us venture into the city alone again.”
“Of course.” Celine nodded. But her feet remained fixed to one spot.
“Please,” Pippa continued, taking her hand. “Life is much more difficult when those around us do not have faith in us.”
Celine sighed. As usual, Pippa wasn’t wrong. In the past, Celine’s penchant for recklessness had proved problematic. Disastrous on at least one occasion. The sense of joy that had bloomed in her chest only a moment before wilted like a rose beneath the hot sun.
“You’re right,” Celine said softly. Regretfully. She turned away from the crowd and all its delightful promises.
Pippa linked arms with her as they began walking in the opposite direction. “I just don’t have the same sense of adventure as you.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Celine grinned. “You did board a ship sailing into the unknown.” And lie for me tonight, she added without words.
It was impossible to miss the dark cloud passing over Pippa’s features. Curiosity warmed through Celine again. It was the first time in five weeks that she’d seen a shadow descend on Pippa’s face when confronted with questions concerning her past.
Was it possible Pippa harbored a dark secret as well?
It just seemed so unlikely.
“There was nothing left for me in Liverpool,” Pippa began, as though she could read Celine’s mind, “except my family’s good name and a legacy of debt. My father . . . wasted his life and our fortunes in gambling hells and in the arms of fallen women.” She winced. “It was better that I leave and make my own path.”
Anyone listening would sense how much it pained Pippa to disclose these truths. A part of Celine felt honored that Pippa had chosen to confide in her. She wrapped her arm more tightly around Pippa’s, but could not ignore the dread coiling through her stomach.
Pippa would expect Celine to return the gesture. To trust her with details of Celine’s past. Sure enough, Pippa gazed at Celine as they made their way down the Avenue des Ursulines. Celine did not need to ask why. Her friend waited expectantly for Celine to offer her own tale of woe.
To share her painful truth.
More than anything, Celine wished to tell Pippa what had happened. But how would Pippa—her only friend in the New World—look upon her if she learned Celine had killed a man and fled Paris in the aftermath? Pippa had said it herself: what kind of monster takes a human life? At best she would stop looking upon Celine with the eyes of a friend. At worst?