Bastien ripped the ridiculous mask from his face. Without a glance back, he returned to the double doors, stopping at the threshold, his mind in a calculated turmoil.
First he looked for his uncle. Studied the crowd for the tall figure dressed in a long white opera cape. Thankfully Nicodemus no longer appeared to be mingling among the Crescent City’s unofficial gentry. It was likely he’d joined some of New Orleans’ most influential gentlemen in a nearby antechamber to partake in a glass of cognac, a cigar, and a well of secrets. One of the Vieux Carré’s most cherished rituals.
Which meant Bastien had less than half an hour before his uncle noticed his absence.
Without pausing to think, Bastien slid among the couples weaving across the ballroom floor, stealing Odette from her partner before the foolish young man could form a protest.
She did not miss a step. Nor did her smile falter at any moment, despite the fact that a single glance at Bastien’s face told her something was terribly amiss.
Odette Valmont represented the best of Bastien’s found family. She, Nigel, Hortense, Madeleine, Jae, and Boone had surrounded him not long after he’d arrived on the city’s docks almost a decade ago, an angry boy filled with loss and pain, whose haunted features had granted him the moniker Le Fantôme.
This strange collection of immortals had been tasked with only one thing: guarding Nicodemus’ lone surviving heir. Protecting their maker’s greatest legacy. For nearly ten years, they’d stood at Bastien’s back, helping him blaze a trail through the city, all while keeping him safe from the terrors that had torn him from his parents and his sister.
“Take a turn with me on the balcony,” Bastien said to Odette through a winsome smile, his words more breath than sound. With that, they reeled through the crowd—scattering the couples lingering on the periphery—before spinning through the double doors and into the velvet darkness.
As soon as they were beyond earshot, Bastien stopped moving, his arms dropping to his sides. “Celine is gone,” he said quietly, aware that anyone—or anything—could be listening.
Odette’s sable eyes flashed black, her features sharpening, her canines lengthening past her rouged lips. Piercing the elegant veil and bringing the world’s most perfect predator to the surface. She paused to fill her lungs with air. “I can smell her blood. She was here not five minutes ago.”
“How can you be certain it’s hers?”
She sniffed once more, her powdered head cocking to one side. “Her blood sings an unusual melody.”
Bastien’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursing. “Have you ever looked in her future?”
“Only that one time.” Odette hesitated. “But it showed me nothing about this, Bastien. It simply told me what I shared with you weeks ago. A truth that has already come to pass. She will be the tamer of—”
“I remember.” The fury had reached Bastien’s fingertips, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. It took all his control not to break something with his bare hands. He knew better. The greater the anger, the more destructive its force. It would be of no help if he lost his head to it. “Can you track her scent?”
Odette’s eyes returned to their normal shade, her nostrils no longer flaring like those of a jackal. “I’m not sure. The rain makes it difficult for me to track things by scent. Have you asked the Hellhound for help? He’s our best hunter.”
“You know as well as I do that Boone won’t lift a finger in defiance of Nicodemus,” Bastien replied, ire sharpening his tone. “He’s too afraid.”
“Our little hound has always been a lamb at heart,” Odette rejoined softly. “He took Nigel’s death the hardest. Tonight was the first time he’s come home in days.”
Bastien glared at nothing, a twinge piercing through his chest. Time had become such a treasured commodity to them all. “Can you give me an hour?”
Alarm flared across her lovely face. “Your uncle forbade—”
“I don’t give a damn what Nicodemus said,” Bastien all but snarled.
She reached for his hand, her gloved fingers cool to the touch. “Every member of La Cour des Lions is under express orders to prevent you from going anywhere that involves Celine Rousseau. Please,” she entreated, “Nigel died because we all failed to take this threat seriously. If something happens to you, I don’t know what we’ll all do.”
“I’m not the boy you met years ago.”
“I know, my dearest,” she said. “Only Jae is a quicker draw than you, and we’ve all seen you shoot a man through the eye at sixty paces. But the killer is trying to force us out into the open. Pick us off, one by one,” she continued, her eyes swimming, her tears turning pink. “The devil only knows why. This was supposed to have ended years ago.”
“Odette.” Bastien gripped her by the shoulders, willing his expression calm. “You’re the only one I can trust. I know you care for Celine deeply. If we don’t help her, she could die.” His insides twisted at the thought, the words burning in his throat. “I cannot allow that to happen. You’ve spent years obeying your maker. Tonight, will you not help your friend?”
Odette studied him, her lips pressed in a line, a single stream of blood-tinged tears sliding down one cheek. “I can’t stop them from looking for you, Bastien.”
“Can you at least give me an hour?”
She wavered, fighting to maintain her composure. “I’ll . . . try my best. But the Hellhound will find you, Bastien, as he always does. And we will all face the consequences.”
“Thank you, Odette.” He kissed her forehead.
Then he vaulted the balustrade and vanished into the darkness.
* * *
Bastien kicked through the door of Michael’s office at police headquarters without pausing for breath. He’d fully expected to find his childhood friend looming over his desk. Just as he’d fully anticipated an altercation the moment he demanded that the detective share all his notes on the killer. Who he might be. What he might be. And—most importantly—where he might be.
The only sign of life Bastien found was a single lamp, its lone flame dancing cheerfully in a clear cylinder of glass.
Fury blinded him for an instant, his hands longing to shatter the lamp into a thousand pieces. In an effort to allay his rage, Bastien scanned the cramped space for anything that might help him find Celine. To one side was a cot, blankets folded atop it in a neat little pile, a basket of sewing supplies beside it.
His anger threatened to slide into despair.
Many of the things he’d treasured had been taken from him all too soon. These losses had taught him to hold fast to his heart, save for two exceptions: the love he had for his immortal family, and the love he had for his city. He’d refused to make room for anything else. Then a month ago, a seed had been planted in his mind, watered by the hand of Fate. By a wry smile and a fall of raven hair. By a girl who met him word for word, challenge for challenge.