Celine coughed, bitter amusement coiling through her stomach. Her earlier assumption had been correct. She was lying on the altar of Saint Louis Cathedral, at the very heart of Rue de Chartres. If she weren’t so afraid, she would mock her attacker for his theatricality. Coughing again, she rolled to one side and fell from the stone surface, her teeth clacking together as her body hit the granite floor with a resounding thud. Shards of pain stabbed along her right side, a thousand tiny needles burrowing into her skin.
Celine bit her lower lip to keep from screaming.
There was no time for her to succumb to pain. She needed to free her feet from their bonds so that she might at least attempt an escape. Celine sat up, drops of bright blood plinking against the cool stone. Then she tucked her knees beneath her chin and reached under the hem of her skirts to fiddle with the knots around her ankles.
“I admire your resilience, Celine,” a warm voice pronounced from the shadows at her back, its accent refined. Distinct of the British upper class. “But you’ve lost a lot of blood. I don’t believe you’ll get very far.”
Fear knifed through Celine, a ghostly chill racing down her spine. But she’d already made a promise to herself. Fear would not dictate her actions tonight. “Who are you?” Her voice was hoarse but firm. “Why have you brought me here?”
Footsteps circled closer, the killer’s heels striking the stone floor with tantalizing slowness. “I’m somewhat put out that you haven’t realized who I am, being so damnably smart and all,” he continued, his tone mocking. “But in fairness, me love . . . I did sound a bit different before, I did.” He eased into a vibrant Cockney accent. The accent of London’s working class.
Its tenor caused Celine to tremble. Despite her bleeding wound, she turned her head to one side, disbelief splintering her thoughts.
Nigel?
“But you were dead,” Celine whispered when Nigel strolled into view, looking hale and hearty and whole, the smell of earth suffusing the air about him. Shock began settling into Celine’s limbs, causing her shoulders to shake. “I saw you. Your arm. Your head.” She gasped, realization cinching the breath from her body. “It was . . . you.”
Evil did not look the way she’d imagined it would. Nigel wasn’t the bloodthirsty villain of her nightmares. He was Arjun’s good-natured friend. Odette’s silly sweet boy. One of Bastien’s closest confidants.
Nigel clapped twice with slow deliberation, his grey cloak falling away from his arms, revealing a rumpled waistcoat and stained shirtsleeves. “You saw what we wanted you to see, love.”
“We?”
He ignored her question, switching back to the polished accent of Grosvenor Square. “You’ve proved to be quite the little detective.” He changed his tone once more, as if he were donning or doffing a hat. “So smart. So bleedin’ sharp, especially for a bird.” His Cockney resonated into the rafters.
Dear God, he sounded mad. But Celine didn’t sense any madness about him. His cheeks were pink, his eyes clear, his lips full. No, it wasn’t madness.
It was pride.
Pride at playing to a crowd, like a revered actor on a stage. If Celine had to guess, Nigel was relishing the success of his deception, as if it offered testament to his greatness.
Determination etched across her brow. If pride was his downfall, Celine would distract him further by encouraging him to talk about himself. She’d done the same thing to the young man who’d attacked her that night in the atelier.
Never mind that it had very nearly failed.
“Please tell me why,” Celine whispered, her expression pleading. “I don’t understand why you would do such a thing.” While she spoke, her fingers worked at the knots beneath her skirts, willing herself to remain calm.
“Ever the brilliant little detective, aren’t we?” Nigel said in the Queen’s English. He moved closer to the trio of rounded steps leading up to the altar, pausing to rest his right foot on the dark granite base. “By the by, did you ever manage to uncover the meaning behind the symbols I left for you?”
“No,” Celine lied, shrinking away from him, her back pressed against the altar’s base, the bonds beginning to loosen above her feet.
“No matter,” Nigel continued, a casual air about him. “Impressive how quickly you determined they might be from an ancient language.” He braced an elbow on his bent knee. “You were only off by a few hundred years.”
“The language predates ancient Greek?” Celine guessed.
“A totally different civilization.” He switched to Cockney. “Even gave you a hint, I did.”
Celine’s shoulders slumped. “Carthage.”
“Correct.” He smiled, switching back. “As to why I did this . . . there are any number of reasons. Why does anyone betray their loved ones?” He straightened, his expression somber. “For power, perhaps. That’s something to which the Medicis, the Borgias, the Tudors, the Ptolemies—any number of influential families throughout history—could attest.” He paused. “Or perhaps it’s because I never really loved them in the first place.
“Do you know why the Court of the Lions exists?” Nigel continued, his eyes shining with an otherworldly light. “Do you know why Nicodemus ripped me from my home in London’s East End and turned me into a demon, cursed to share his fate?” Anger rippled across his face. “To obey my maker until the end of time?”
Celine shook her head, her first finger catching on a loop in her bonds, prying it free.
A muscle worked beneath the skin of Nigel’s forehead. “The Court of the Lions exists for the sole purpose of protecting Nicodemus Saint Germain’s legacy.” He snorted. “Sébastien, the last scion of the Saint Germain family. I’ve guarded a mortal boy for nearly a decade. From the moment he sulked in a roomful of books to the moment he crowned himself prince of our dark court, I’ve been forced to do his bidding.” Bitter laughter flew from his lips. “I—an immortal being with powers beyond your wildest ken—was yoked to a cursed breather, like a bloody watchdog.” Distaste tugged at his lips. “It’s no wonder the Brotherhood despises us so.”
The loop loosened infinitesimally more, Celine’s fingers chafing from the effort. “Why does Bastien need to be guarded?” If she could buy herself but another minute . . .
“Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice that every other member of Bastien’s family is dead. Do you think that’s by accident or by design?”
A retort threatened to barrel from Celine’s mouth. She bit her tongue, tasting the salt of her blood. She could not succumb to anger, just as she would not be consumed by fear. “It must be by design,” Celine replied.