friend once more. The clock in Michael’s office ticked away the minutes. At any moment, Boone would find Bastien, his uncle trailing in the Hellhound’s well-heeled footsteps. And those moments were precious to Celine. Just as she had become precious to Bastien.
More precious than life itself.
Michael shoved him back, his features mottled. “Answer me, Sébastien. Before I call for the—”
Bastien lashed out at Michael. Something he’d promised never to do, many years ago. To strike the young detective was in direct defiance of his uncle’s edicts. For a Saint Germain to strike a Grimaldi . . .
His blow broke the bridge of Michael’s nose, blood spurting from beneath it. A howl of rage flew from the detective’s lips, causing footsteps to race toward them from below.
“Take heed, Michael,” Bastien said through clenched teeth. “Never stand in my way again.” With that, he glided from the office, the beat of his heart thundering in his chest.
There was nothing to be had for it.
Sébastien Saint Germain had just violated the Brotherhood’s treaty.
THE FINAL NAIL
Celine woke on her side, her cheek resting against cold stone.
A cloying scent wound through her nose, her temples thudding with the slow beat of her heart. For a time, she struggled to focus on anything, her vision swimming as if she’d consumed too much champagne. Licking her parched lips, Celine tried to lift her head.
A cry of surprise flew from her mouth. Searing pain shot down her right arm, warm wetness trickling along her collarbone, dripping down her black bodice. The wound on her neck was still fresh, which meant not much time had passed since she’d been attacked on the terrace. The sharp scent of blood permeated the air, mingling with the perfume of . . . incense?
Again Celine attempted to shift position, but she was weak. So very weak.
At least the killer had left her alive. She supposed she should be grateful. For a harrowing instant, she’d been certain her last breath on this earth would be on that balcony.
Gritting her teeth through the pain, Celine fought to sit up, only to fail once more. Her hands were bound at her back, her feet tied at the ankles, the ropes like leaden weights. With her elbow, she checked to see if Bastien’s silver blade was still concealed in the hidden pocket beneath her skirts. When Celine felt its comforting weight against her right hip, she let her head fall onto the smooth stone, wearied by even the simplest action.
Her eyes locked on the frescoed ceiling above as she counted to three in her mind. Then Celine heaved her knees to her chest, her taffeta skirts rustling through the silence, her brow beading with sweat. With herculean effort, she looped her wrists over her feet, snapping several of the wooden hoops at her sides and twisting her left arm in the process. She gasped—blinking away hot tears of pain—before taking in her surroundings.
To her left stretched a familiar floor of black-and-white stone, patterned at a diagonal. An aisle lit by long tapers ran down its center, bracketed by wooden pews.
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?”