“No,” Bastien interrupted, his tone low and harsh. Brimming with unmistakable anger. He remained in shadow, refusing to comply in even the simplest of terms. Behind him, the curtains bristled as though a breeze had ruffled their edges. “No one will answer any questions without a witness, in full view of everyone present.” When Bastien finished speaking, the menace hanging about the space thickened. Constricted, as if it were being caged in a shrinking vessel.
Detective Grimaldi stood. He rolled his shoulders back. A trace of fury crossed his face before he flattened his features once more. “Mr. Saint Germain.” He quirked a brow. “If you wish to have an attorney present—”
“That will not be necessary.” Bastien pushed away from the wall and glided past Celine toward the police detective. He deliberately took his time, pausing to move a butter-yellow handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat to the pocket of his trousers. When he stopped a stone’s throw from where Detective Grimaldi stood, the curtains at his back rustled once more. The unmistakable hiss of a serpent curled into the air.
Toussaint slithered from the darkness, slowly weaving into the light.
Celine stiffened where she sat, the blood icing through her body. Cries of fear burst from the lips of several police officers. One even attempted to draw his revolver, but Detective Grimaldi stayed his hand without a word. Bastien offered them a scythe-like smile, and it reminded Celine of a character in a book she’d read recently. A cat from Cheshire who enjoyed speaking in verse.
Toussaint coiled around Bastien’s feet, his forked tongue flicking over the plush carpet, his head moving in a lazy sway. Though knots of tension had pulled tight around him, Detective Grimaldi eased his stance, shifting back onto his heels. “I gather you already have an attorney present?”
Bastien lifted a glib shoulder. “It’s possible.”
Celine forced herself to relax while she searched the sea of faces around her, trying to determine which member of La Cour des Lions also happened to be well versed in the law. But none of its ranks met her gaze. Nor did a single one of them move a muscle. It was as if they were all chiseled from stone.
“Amazing that you would have the foresight to do that, Mr. Saint Germain.” Detective Grimaldi clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Truly I envy your sources.”
“I learned from example, Detective Grimaldi.” Bastien’s eyes pulled taut around the edges. “The mind is a sword. Knowledge is its whetstone.”
“Of course.” Detective Grimaldi snorted. “If you prefer, I’d be happy to oblige you and move everyone to our headquarters before I continue questioning the young lady.” A knowing gleam took shape in his colorless gaze.
“I am equally happy to comply.” Though Bastien kept his voice cordial, the menace swirling between them thickened further. “However, I cannot speak as to whether everyone here will be as . . . amenable.”
Celine swallowed. Something had altered, shrinking to a point. Though the two young men engaged each other civilly, it was impossible to miss the sentiment underlying their exchange.
The mutual, unadulterated hatred.
True danger—the kind that hinted at bodily harm—swirled around them. Bastien stepped from the circle of scales around his feet, moving closer to Pippa. As though he were making a silent threat. Daring the detective to press further.
What followed was subtle. Nigel, Arjun, the man from the Far East, and the two women with the dangerous rings glanced at Bastien in unison, their bodies rigid with awareness.
Waiting for something to happen.
It should not have worked. But the police officers waiting on the periphery mumbled among themselves. The youngest of the five—a boy of barely eighteen—slid his gaze from Toussaint to Bastien. He shuddered the following instant.
What was it about Bastien—about this place—that made them all quail in their boots?
One of the officers—an older gentleman with a ruddy nose and rheumy eyes—stepped forward. “Eh, Michael,” he began in a thick drawl, “listen, my boy, perhaps it would be—”
“Detective Grimaldi,” the young detective corrected without even glancing at the man who spoke.
The officer coughed once, but failed to conceal his resulting frown. “Detective Grimaldi . . . perhaps it’s best if we conduct our interviews here, sir.”
Displeasure flickered across Michael Grimaldi’s face. Celine sensed he wished to protest, but recognized the tides were turning against him. “Very well, Sergeant Brady.”
In that instant, it became clear that everyone present—save for Celine and Pippa—knew something about Jacques’ and its peculiar denizens that was not apparent at first glance. Sébastien Saint Germain did indeed wield a strange kind of power within these paneled walls. Not once had he issued any direct threats or raised his voice. Nevertheless he managed to hold everyone present in an invisible vise.
The hint of this kind of power—the mere suggestion of it—sent Celine’s blood on a tear through her body, her mind spinning with possibility. The possibility that she, too, could wield this kind of influence over others.
That she, too, could crush her detractors in a vise.
Appalled by this reaction—by her growing obsession with power of any kind—Celine stood suddenly, wishing to run from her own skin.
It was a thoughtless move. Her heart sank like lead in her stomach when she realized she’d drawn attention to herself in the worst possible way.
The young detective turned toward her, letting his gaze settle a moment. “May I help you, miss?” he intoned.
Celine considered her options before responding. She watched Detective Grimaldi’s eyes flicker over her. From the shining curls of her dark hair to the faint sheen of sweat along her brow. To the bit of black ribbon about her throat and the blue gabardine dress fastened tightly across her bust. She minded how his brows arched. Took note of the rise and fall of his chest. Observed how his expression sharpened with admiration, though he tried to conceal it.
Young men were predictable. Especially young men who appreciated life’s finer things like Detective Grimaldi did, as evinced by his manner of dress.
It was a truth she’d realized at the age of twelve.
Celine lowered her eyes and stepped forward. Then she lifted her lashes slowly, offering him a tentative smile. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, Detective Grimaldi, but might I beseech you for a favor?” She tilted her head in a coy fashion.
His pale eyes widened. “As a rule, I tend not to agree to such requests until I hear the terms, Miss . . .” He waited for her to offer her name, a distinct rasp in his voice.
“Please call me Celine.” She tucked a black curl behind an ear. “And could I implore you to make an exception to your rule, just this once?”