“Don’t believe every myth you hear. If there are no gods among us, there can be no demons,” Michael said, his voice leached of all emotion. “The same logic you’ve already employed indicates the killer must be a man. Most killers with multiple victims are.”
“It’s not simply a man.” Celine shook her head. “It’s something . . . else. Something inhuman.”
“If it lives and breathes, it can be killed like any living and breathing creature.”
Exhaustion burrowed deep into Celine’s bones. The strength to keep arguing with the intractable Michael Grimaldi was leaving her with each passing breath. Her fingers and toes had lost all sense of feeling. Soon it would be difficult to stand straight.
Even still, Celine did not miss the fact that Odette had failed to counter Michael’s recent assertions. Nor could Celine overlook the thoughtful slant of Odette’s brunette head.
Odette Valmont possessed information of value and was doing her level best to keep it from them.
Here was proof of something Celine had long suspected. The members of La Cour des Lions did have an inkling of what—or who—this demon might be. Why they chose to keep it among themselves remained a mystery. It could be because the murderer resided in their midst, and they wished to protect his identity. But their recent behavior did not follow this reasoning. In the last few days, Odette had become more than a mere acquaintance to Celine, and Bastien had gone out of his way to ensure her safety the other night. He’d even threatened to destroy the creature in a wholly remorseless manner.
Why would they go to such trouble to protect her if their loyalty lay with the killer?
Unless . . . this was all part of their plan.
An elaborate ruse to establish their innocence.
If that was true, Celine had already lost the battle. Only moments ago, she’d divulged her plan in its entirety to Odette. If Odette betrayed her, all her efforts would be for naught.
Celine’s shoulders sagged.
She was tired of speculating. She needed the truth. And Celine knew who to ask, though she dreaded his answer. The lie he would offer in place of what she desired. Nevertheless, Celine planned to speak to Bastien tomorrow. She’d demand he share with her everything he knew. No more lies. No more masks. It was time for them to cast aside their façades and bare all.
Bastien no longer had a choice. If he refused to be forthcoming, Celine would tell Michael about the yellow ribbon and allow judgment to rain down upon them all.
“Give up on this cockamamie plan,” Michael said to Celine, tearing her from her inner turmoil, his countenance grave. “Because I will never agree to using you as bait.”
Celine scowled, desperately wishing she could throttle Michael. Just a little. “I have no intention of giving up anything. Surely you of all people must understand that.” She reached for his hand in a weak attempt to channel sugar instead of spice. “Please, Michael. Don’t be so stubborn. I urge you to reconsider.”
He blinked twice at her touch, a vein jumping in his neck. “I won’t reconsider. But . . . I will promise to do everything I can to keep you safe.” The last was said in a fervent tone, his words jagged, his grasp rough. Celine didn’t think Michael was aware of how he’d wrapped her cold hand in both of his, clutching her fingers with an odd kind of desperation.
No matter what he said or how he said it, Michael’s intensity always betrayed him.
He cared for her. And that knowledge troubled Celine all the more.
For a moment, she considered taking advantage of it. If she begged him, perhaps he would relent. If she cried prettily or raged in just the right fashion, perhaps she could do what she’d failed to do before and overcome his mulishness.
But she didn’t want to play the role of the coy demoiselle. Not like this. It was never a role that had suited her well anyway, as evinced by their earlier interactions. Celine needed to be cold and calculating. If Michael refused to help her, the plan wouldn’t work.
That simply was not an option.
Her life—and the lives of those around her—depended on them all working together in concert.
“I don’t need you to help me,” Celine lied, her words callous, channeling Michael at his best. “I’ll simply ask Bastien instead.” She extricated her fingers from his grasp.
Dismay rippled across his face, there and gone in a flash. The next instant, Michael smiled coolly. “Ask him.” His smile turned punishing. “I have no doubt what his answer will be.”
“Mon cher, you don’t know him as well as you think you do.” Odette’s retort was pointed. “That’s the thing about beautiful fiends like Sébastien Saint Germain: they always do what you least expect them to do.” She brushed a speck of nonexistent dust from his shoulder. “And in the end, they always wear the crown.”
Celine could not have scripted a more perfect response. It was a loaded weapon, cocked and aimed at Michael’s chest.
Sometimes it was necessary to be as cunning as a fox, even if it also meant being cruel.
Michael narrowed his gaze. His nostrils flared. “The Court of the Lions does not rule this roost, Miss Valmont. I will see this city burn to the ground before I cede control of my investigation to a band of lawless beasts.” With that, he whirled toward the entrance, taking his leave, the very air around him seething.
It didn’t matter. Celine had planted the seed. Odette had watered it. Now they had only to watch it grow. If Celine had learned anything in the last few days, she’d learned that Detective Michael Grimaldi was not the type of young man to allow his enemy to best him. In any way.
She was counting on it.
“Connard,” Odette cursed under her breath as Michael disappeared from view.
The veined marble around Celine started to sway, the will-o’-the-wisps blurring in the background. “It can’t look too obvious,” she said to Odette, blinking hard. “And we’ll need to finesse the details.” She wound her fingers in her damp skirt and squeezed the ruined fabric in an effort to keep herself alert. “If you count the first murder of the young woman on the docks, the killer has taken one life a week since my arrival,” she babbled. “Following this pattern, the next murder is likely to take place in the coming week, which should give us a few days to set our trap.” Her head started to list forward. “Perhaps we should plan it for the night of the masquerade ball itself?” she thought aloud, just as the polished floor rushed toward her face.
“Ah, putain!” Odette cried out, catching Celine the moment before she struck the cold stone. “You’re falling to pieces before my very eyes.” She threaded one arm through Celine’s and wrapped the other around her shoulders, then began leading them down a darkened corridor.