Come with me to the heart of Chartres.
The phrase was missing from Michael’s collection. Evidently Celine had neglected to mention it to him. Did it matter? Did it hold any meaning? Who was this madman, and why was he killing people around them? Where was he hiding, in plain sight or in a shadowy labyrinth of his own? He could be among so many of the people she had met thus far. Or he could be none of them at all.
One thing was clear: Celine was finished waiting for him to make his next move.
Frustration clutched at her throat, the heat of barely checked rage warming across her skin. Her resolve hardened further. She would bait the killer into a trap the night of the masquerade ball, when he believed her to be preoccupied by drink. She would appear to indulge herself in the carnival festivities, and then leave the ball to wander the Quarter alone, just as she had the first evening the killer had followed her, a mere fortnight ago.
The fiend wouldn’t know that members of the Court would be lurking nearby in an ever-tightening circle, waiting for him to reveal himself. To finally make a misstep.
And if it didn’t work?
Celine would simply set the trap again at a different time and place.
Perhaps it was ridiculous to think she could outwit such a villain. But at least it was something.
Beside her feet, the rays of sunlight stretched long and lean as dusk began to descend on New Orleans, the sky catching fire along the horizon. Celine huffed, the echo unspooling into the plaster ceilings.
“What a waste of time,” she murmured to no one. Stopped herself from kicking the corner of Michael’s inordinately tidy desk like a child denied a sweet. There were so many other things she could be doing. Should be doing. Her glance fell on the skirt of Odette’s ball gown, strewn across the end of the rickety cot. For several hours this morning, Celine had worked to persevere and put the finishing touches on it. The masquerade ball was only two days away, and she still needed time to complete her own costume. But the needles had fallen from her shaking fingers, her nerves frayed from the prior evening’s events. No matter what Celine did, she could not silence the riot of her thoughts.
Militant footsteps rounded the corner just beyond the locked door. Celine listened, glancing at the clock to verify—once more—the time the guards patrolled the corridors outside Detective Grimaldi’s office.
Being quarantined like a cholera patient had been a waste of precious hours in many respects, but at least it had helped Celine gather the information necessary for tonight’s venture:
A midnight prison break.
By her count, guards patrolled the impressive brick edifice beside Saint Louis Cathedral every fifteen minutes. In two-hour increments, someone knocked on the door of Michael’s office to check on Celine or deliver something for her to eat. If she wished to attend to her physical needs, an officer stationed just around the nearest bend in the hall was there to make sure she returned to Michael’s office immediately afterward.
Michael himself had come twice to check on her since daybreak.
As he’d promised, Celine was well attended. It would be quite a task indeed for any intruder to make his way past the impressive squadron of guards surrounding the building, up its winding staircases to the third floor, and into its slew of hallways, patrolled as they were at all hours.
But she would wager none of them had considered whether Celine would wish to break out of this makeshift prison.
Of course it was wild and irresponsible to attempt such a thing. Alas, Celine suspected that if she even asked to leave the premises, Michael himself would be there to thwart her every move. Besides that, Celine did not think he would take kindly to her request to meet with any member of La Cour des Lions at police headquarters, let alone Bastien.
Merde, she thought to herself. I never should have told him anything, least of all my plan to use myself as bait.
Celine sniffed. It grated on her to be shackled to one place in such a manner, like a princess kept in a tower, awaiting a white knight. She wasn’t a complete fool, after all. No undue risk would be taken this evening. At all times, Bastien’s solid silver dagger would be close at hand. And she had no intention of wandering beyond earshot of police headquarters. Instead she’d wait for Bastien in the heart of Jackson Square not a minute before midnight, less than forty paces from the front doors of the cathedral.
What kind of foolish killer would try to strike her down a stone’s throw from a garrison of armed police officers?
Several sets of footsteps neared the door, pausing just outside. A fist pounded lightly on its oaken surface in three successive knocks. Then waited a breath before rapping four times more.
The signal Michael had devised to convey he was outside and all was well.
Celine unlocked the door to find the young detective standing there, a storm brewing in his colorless eyes. Over his shoulder loomed a jolly giant of a man carrying an incongruously small basket and a stooped woman with a woolen shawl draped across her shoulders and a covered dish between her wrinkled palms.
The elderly woman peered past Michael with a wry expression. “Step aside, caro.” Her accent was threaded with rolling r’s and richly rounded vowels. “And be sure to introduce me.” A twinkle shone in her watchful gaze.
When Michael failed to cross the threshold or utter a single word, the elderly woman elbowed him aside with an amused snort, the looming brute laughing under his breath, the sound like the barking of a large hound.
With a world-weary sigh, Michael followed them into his office, his motions uncharacteristically awkward. “Nonna, this is Miss Celine Rousseau of Paris.” He paused. “Miss Rousseau, I’d like to introduce you to my grandmother.”
Celine’s eyes went wide. She stood straight while tucking Bastien’s letter into the pocket of her petticoat. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Madame Gri—”
“None of that nonsense. Call me Nonna.” Her smile crinkled every line in her brow, the effect more soothing than a mug of hot tea. She shuffled past Celine. “I brought you some ribollita.” With a thunk, Nonna set down the covered dish on Michael’s desk. “It’s a soup my mother taught me to make when I was a child. You see, I was a bit of a piantagrane in my youth.” She made small circles with her hands, her gestures punctuating her words. “Always destroying things and getting into mischief. So my mamma would give me old bread to tear into pieces, then we would wait until they soaked up the delicious broth before having a feast! Have you ever had ribollita?” she asked Celine as she waved her immense escort closer, his steps mincing, as if he’d incurred a recent injury.
“No, ma’am.” Celine smiled, a fond warmth settling in her stomach.
“You will love it.” Nonna beamed. Every time she moved, the smell of cinnamon and sage suffused the air. “Luca, per favore, where are the bowls?” She turned to the jolly giant, a stern expression on her face. “And, Michael, why are you standing there as if you were struck by lightning? Muoviti!” She flung her hands to one side, shooing him away.