killer had been far less fastidious. Instead of draining William entirely of blood, he had allowed it to spatter everywhere, as if there had been a struggle. Or perhaps the demon had chosen to toy with its prey.
Neither thought was reassuring.
Celine sat on the steps beyond the vestibule of the Ursuline convent. A light rain dusted the air, sprinkling her skin, though she could not feel it, courtesy of the blessed numbness. Around her, muted speech and rapid footfalls punctuated the night, every so often laced with intermittent wails.
Thankfully—following the initial onslaught of questions—no one thought to trouble Celine or draw anywhere near. It was as if they’d come to the same realization she had. That she was a curse. A blight upon all their lives.
It could not have been a coincidence that Anabel had been killed after following Celine into a den of iniquity. Nor could it be mere chance that William had met his gruesome end in her cell. With the exception of the seemingly unrelated murder along the docks, the killer looked to be targeting anyone tied to Celine Rousseau, for reasons beyond all their ken. There appeared to be no logic to any of it, save for the victims’ associations with her and with the Ursuline convent.
Was it possible the young woman along the docks was also connected in some way?
At this point, no detail, however far-fetched, could be ignored.
Each time you evade me, I only want you more.
You cannot escape. You are mine.
Celine winced as she stared at the granite pavers beside her feet, watching the rain glisten across their gritty surfaces. She stiffened when Pippa crouched next to her, then glanced at her friend sidelong, meeting blue eyes wide with worry. Without a word, Pippa handed her a clean linen handkerchief. Then waited attentively while Celine wiped the blood from her face, the dried bits flaking onto her damp dress, causing her stomach to churn and acid to bubble in her throat.
“Is there anything I can do?” Pippa asked, her voice gentle.
You can leave me alone. Rage coursed through Celine at how little regard Pippa seemed to hold for her own self-preservation. By now, she should know better than to seek out the company of a blight like her.
By now, they should all have run for the hills.
“May I get you some tea?” Pippa asked.
Celine drew back and said nothing. She worried if she opened her mouth, a torrent of foul words—the worst of her fears given voice—would flow from her mouth. Things no one deserved to hear, least of all Pippa.
Though Celine had not responded to Pippa’s query—or even acknowledged her presence in any meaningful fashion—Pippa kept close, hovering in a way that aggravated Celine further.
Why doesn’t she know to save herself? Does she have a death wish? Celine’s thoughts turned vicious. Senseless in their rage.
A wall of black wool stepped before her, obscuring her vision. As always, Celine smelled the Mother Superior before she took in the elder woman’s face. That same scent of a wet hound in a haystack. Pippa stood at once, Celine remaining on the stairs, all sense of decorum scattered to the winds.
The wall of wool remained stalwart in its approach, watching and waiting. A dark streak of amusement sliced through Celine. She longed for a return to the day she’d believed the matron of the Ursuline convent to be her worst enemy. When the most memorable of Celine’s afternoons had been spent trying to imagine creative ways to thwart her.
For an instant, Celine pondered whether there was a single point at which she could have foiled her fate. At what precise moment had she wandered down the wrong path? Alas, there was nothing she could do about that now. But perhaps there was a way to stop this fearful turn of events from happening again in the future.
The Mother Superior cleared her throat, wordlessly demanding Celine’s attention, the wooden beads of her rosary dangling from her waist. Celine studied the small cross swaying before her. Observed the rain as it slid downward.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” the Mother Superior began in a grim tone. “I wanted to—”
“Why did you send Anabel to spy on us?” Celine asked, her voice hollow, her eyes leveled on the wall of black wool positioned before her.
A sharp intake of breath resounded from above. Celine looked up. The Mother Superior’s features were tight. Weary. Her habit had been tilted askew, rain trickling from its hem.
“You could have refused to let us go,” Celine continued. “You