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.
Something unraveled in Bastien’s chest.
It appeared there was now a third exception.
He should have told Celine she’d captured his heart, instead of allowing ridiculous social mores and expectations to stand in their way. If anything happened to her, the devil himself would answer for it. Bastien would take no mere pound of flesh.
Before he was finished, he would see the demon’s tears turn to ash.
His lips pushed forward in calculation, Bastien paused on the large slate board running parallel to Michael’s desk. He studied the collection of clues the detective had amassed, including the many insidious things the killer had said to Celine on multiple occasions:
Welcome to the Battle of Carthage.
You are mine.
Death leads to another garden.
To thine own self, be true.
Die in my arms.
A muscle ticked in Bastien’s neck. He perused the old map affixed to a corner of the slate, his gaze catching on something he’d missed before.
Then Bastien straightened, his eyes going wide.
Michael’s notes were incomplete. The killer had said a peculiar thing to Celine the night he had stalked her through the streets of the Vieux Carré. Bastien’s attention had been drawn by its absence on the otherwise meticulous board.
Come with me to the heart of Chartres.
Chartres was a city south of Paris, famed for the beautiful cathedral at its heart.
Rue de Chartres ran through the center of New Orleans, in the very middle of Michael’s map. At the street’s heart stood the three spires of Saint Louis Cathedral.
Had the demon been arrogant enough to lead them straight to his safe haven? To be sure, the church was an unusual place for a killer to find refuge. But it was also the exact kind of detail that would delight most of the immortals in Bastien’s acquaintance. To seek sanctuary in a house of God.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” a harsh voice demanded from behind him.
Bastien turned to meet the wily figure of his former friend. “I beg your pardon, Detective Grimaldi.” He kept his tone light, despite a surge of anger. “I’ll take my leave.”
“Like hell you will. You broke my door, you no-account fiend. You and your godforsaken temper. Will you ever learn?” Michael cut his colorless gaze. “What brought you to my office at this hour, peacocking about like a shitty king of France?”
“I had a momentary lapse in judgment,” Bastien said in a blithe voice, crossing in front of Michael while he spoke, intent on making a swift exit. “Which has since been rectified.”
The young detective grabbed him by the front of his ivory waistcoat. “Balderdash. Answer my damned question. Why are you here?”
Bastien fought to keep his fury in check. He could not strike down the detective. He would not strike Michael down. Generations of bad blood forbade it. “I don’t have time for this pissing contest.” Gripping Michael’s wrists, he twisted the detective’s hands free of his absurd costume. “Send a bill to Jacques’ for the damage.” His grin turned arrogant. “Be sure to sample the vichyssoise the next time you’re there. You always did favor life’s simpler pleasures.” Again he tried to leave.
“Did something happen to Celine?” Michael stepped in Bastien’s path, his nostrils flaring like he’d scented chum in the water.
Her name on his lips rekindled Bastien’s rage. If he told Michael the truth, there would be no way to contain the matter. The fool would order an entire garrison to descend on the cathedral, and precious time would be lost navigating his righteous idiocy.
“I have no idea where Celine Rousseau might be. Wasn’t that supposed to be your purview now?” Bastien sneered, attempting to push past his childhood