refused to be seen as anything but formidable. With a knowing smirk, the young detective moved along to Pippa. Whatever he was searching for, he found in her.
Pippa gasped in awareness. Celine reached for her friend’s hand to offer her a measure of strength, just as Pippa had done for her countless times today.
The detective crouched before Pippa. “I apologize for having to detain you, miss,” he said. “I promise not to keep you long. I heard you were one of the ladies who found the poor young woman’s body.” He paused. “That must have been terrible for you.” Detective Grimaldi extended a hand her way, as though he meant to help her to her feet. “Would you mind speaking with me apart from the crowd for just a—”
“No,” Bastien interrupted, his tone low and harsh. Brimming with unmistakable anger. He remained in shadow, refusing to comply in even the simplest of terms. Behind him, the curtains bristled as though a breeze had ruffled their edges. “No one will answer any questions without a witness, in full view of everyone present.” When Bastien finished speaking, the menace hanging about the space thickened. Constricted, as if it were being caged in a shrinking vessel.
Detective Grimaldi stood. He rolled his shoulders back. A trace of fury crossed his face before he flattened his features once more. “Mr. Saint Germain.” He quirked a brow. “If you wish to have an attorney present—”
“That will not be necessary.” Bastien pushed away from the wall and glided past Celine toward the police detective. He deliberately took his time, pausing to move a butter-yellow handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat to the pocket of his trousers. When he stopped a stone’s throw from where Detective Grimaldi stood, the curtains at his back rustled once more. The unmistakable hiss of a serpent curled into the air.
Toussaint slithered from the darkness, slowly weaving into the light.
Celine stiffened where she sat, the blood icing through her body. Cries of fear burst from the lips of several police officers. One even attempted to draw his revolver, but Detective Grimaldi stayed his hand without a word. Bastien offered them a scythe-like smile, and it reminded Celine of a character in a book she’d read recently. A cat from Cheshire who enjoyed speaking in verse.
Toussaint coiled around Bastien’s feet, his forked tongue flicking over the plush carpet, his head moving in a lazy sway. Though knots of tension had pulled tight around him, Detective Grimaldi eased his stance, shifting back onto his heels. “I gather you already have an attorney present?”
Bastien lifted a glib shoulder. “It’s possible.”
Celine forced herself to relax while she searched the sea of faces around her, trying to determine which member of La Cour des Lions also happened to be well versed in the law. But none of its ranks met her gaze. Nor did a single one of them move a muscle. It was as if they were all chiseled from stone.
“Amazing that you would have the foresight to do that, Mr. Saint Germain.” Detective Grimaldi clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Truly I envy your sources.”
“I learned from example, Detective Grimaldi.” Bastien’s eyes pulled taut around the edges. “The mind is a sword. Knowledge is its whetstone.”
“Of course.” Detective Grimaldi snorted. “If you prefer, I’d be happy to oblige you and move everyone to our headquarters before I continue questioning the young lady.” A knowing gleam took shape in his colorless gaze.
“I am equally happy to comply.” Though Bastien kept his voice cordial, the menace swirling between them thickened further. “However, I cannot speak as to whether everyone here will be as . . . amenable.”
Celine swallowed. Something had altered, shrinking to a point. Though the two young men engaged each other civilly, it was impossible to miss the sentiment underlying their exchange.
The mutual, unadulterated hatred.
True danger—the kind that hinted at bodily harm—swirled around them. Bastien stepped from the circle of scales around his feet, moving closer to Pippa. As though he were making a silent threat. Daring the detective to press further.
What followed was subtle. Nigel, Arjun, the man from the Far East, and the two women with the dangerous rings glanced at Bastien in unison, their bodies rigid with awareness.
Waiting for something to happen.
It should not have worked. But the police officers waiting on the periphery mumbled among themselves. The youngest of the five—a boy of barely eighteen—slid his gaze from Toussaint to Bastien. He shuddered the following instant.