Celine mounted the stairs. Tonight she wasn’t a girl afraid to face her choices. She was a goddess, baiting a trap to catch a killer.
Her shoulders back, Celine glided beneath the arched doorway. Just beyond the entrance awaited two liveried gentlemen wearing powdered wigs and buckled shoes, their white stockings gartered at the knee, just beneath their tight breeches.
“Password,” the one to the left said, his eyes glazed with boredom.
Celine did not waver. “Capetian.”
While the other guard opened the heavy doors, the man to the left sent Celine a quizzical look. As if he wished to say something and lacked the right words.
She smiled to herself. That was the truth about proper society. They made all these rules, never planning to apply any consequences to themselves. Never expecting any of their ranks to stray from the established course.
With an imperious tilt to her chin, Celine turned sideways to accommodate her wide-set hoops, then breezed through the doorway into what could possibly be her last night on this earth. It had been her first thought when she’d decided to remake a dress intended for mourning. If this was to be her last evening among the living, she wanted it to be the most glorious night in memory.
She would live one night as Selene, a Titan who dragged darkness with her wherever she went.
The jet beads along her bodice shimmered as Celine swept beneath the domed ceiling of the ballroom, ignoring the looks of surprise and distaste flashing nearby. She marveled at the countless chandeliers reflected in the polished marble at her feet, filling the room with a buttery glow. A makeshift court had been positioned around an ornate throne, festooned in ribbons of purple, green, and gold. In its center stood a bearded gentleman in his early twenties, his white regimentals embellished with braided brass, a smile of smug satisfaction winding across his lips. Celine supposed him to be the fête’s honored guest, the Russian Grand Duke, Alexei Alexandrovich. Under normal circumstances, she might have been impressed by his imposing mien. But tonight she was a goddess.
And a goddess did not concern herself with the triflings of men.
All around Celine, couples floated in dazzling circles, whirling in the familiar triple time of a waltz. Their white garments lent them the appearance of pillowy clouds spinning through a golden firmament. The best of New Orleans society had powdered their wigs and faces, the scent sweetly suffocating alongside the towering bouquets of hothouse flowers, all chosen for their angelic hue. Even the servers bustling about with their trays of bubbling champagne had rouged their cheeks and lips, black beauty marks affixed beneath their right eyes.
Celine watched the Crescent City’s finest dance in their powdered costumes, feeling their eyes upon her. The whispers behind the ivory fans. The looks of male disdain, along with the occasional wink of sly approval.
None of it mattered. This was a different kind of freedom from the one Celine had longed for on the journey here. A different kind of power. The ability to see through a beautiful veneer and appreciate the decay beneath it.
Now that she’d had a taste of such power, she never wanted to go back to before.
Was the killer lurking among these dancing clouds? If he was, Celine had made certain he would notice her. She was counting on it.
Her gaze snagged on a figure across the way. A young man who’d stopped in his tracks, his gunmetal eyes fastened on hers. He stood above the crowd, his black hair shorn against his scalp like Julius Caesar. The gold filigree trimming his mask contrasted with the dark bronze of his skin. His ivory jacquard waistcoat shone in the warm candlelight, as did the intricate soutache around the gilt buttons of his silk frock coat. He took a step forward and stopped, his satin breeches clinging to the sinew of his body, his head angled with admiration.
Heaven forgive her, but Bastien was beautiful. Dangerously so.
At his back stood a handful of preening young ladies, their papillote curls perfect, their expressions covetous.
But he had eyes for one girl alone.
A low hum resounded in Celine’s ears. It heated through her veins, the blood coloring her cheeks. Bastien bowed slowly, one foot in front of the other, his right hand swooping downward in tribute to the period. When he stood once more, Celine could not help but smile.
Bastien returned her smile without hesitation, his eyes like glittering coins, an unspoken promise on his face. Then he melted into the crowd, unconcerned with those around him.
If Alexei Alexandrovich presided over this heavenly court, then Sébastien Saint Germain was the prince of its shadowy counterpart.
With this thought, the last of Celine’s fears dissipated. She knew Bastien would help her catch the killer tonight, in defiance of his uncle’s wishes. She was certain of it. Lucifer was hers the moment he returned her smile.
Was this love, then?
If it was, Celine wanted to bathe in it. To luxuriate in this feeling of knowing—without being told—that someone saw her, amid the beautiful decay. Saw her and stood by her side, against the very world itself.
The next instant, her shoulders tensed. Through a parting in the crowd, Celine caught sight of Pippa’s unmistakable profile. Again her petite friend wandered through the ballroom on the arm of Phoebus Devereux, amid the crème de la crème of New Orleans society.
Pippa met Celine’s gaze. Then turned away, her expression cold.
Though it stung, Celine was grateful. It was better for Pippa to be angry with her. Anger kept her far from the killer’s line of sight.
Odette spun past Celine on the dance floor, laughing as she careened in Boone’s arms, her skirted mantle swaying on the ingenious panniers. When they turned, Celine noticed the matching breeches she’d designed as a surprise, the gown of Odette’s costume split in its center, revealing her figure as she swirled to the music. Her ruby-encrusted brooch sparkled in the candlelight, pinned in the middle of a gentleman’s cravat. A mixture of the masculine and the feminine. A perfect representation of both Odette Valmont and Madame du Barry, the courtesan who helped rule a kingdom.
Again Celine smiled to herself. Even if Odette never said another word to her, Celine knew her friend was grateful.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” a familiar voice announced behind her right shoulder.
Celine twisted around to meet the amber eyes of a tall masked figure. The black domino across her face shifted, obstructing her vision. She took a moment to straighten it, her pulse thudding through her body.
“Monsieur le Comte,” she replied with a curtsy, her nerves tingling in her fingers.
Bastien’s uncle held out a white-gloved hand. “May I have this dance?” A knowing smile ghosted across his lips, as if he were the serpent offering Eve the apple. Celine slid her hand in his. The next moment the world blurred around her, candle flames streaking along the edges of her vision.
Nicodemus danced as if he’d been born to it. To all of it. The wealth, the debauchery, each of the glittering chandeliers. When he reeled them around the first bend—his steps smooth and precise—Celine closed her eyes for the briefest of instants. Wondered what it would be like to put her trust in an otherworldly creature like this.