of a fever. Without a second thought, she filled the basin with clear water from the pitcher and began splashing her face, scrubbing at her cheeks until they looked raw. Until all three versions of herself reflected in the mirrors appeared appropriately chafed.
Celine didn’t pause to dry her face. She returned to the canopied bed and drew the covers to her chin, letting the wetness soak through the sheets, cooling her heated skin.
Her gaze settled above the large fireplace parallel to the foot of the four-poster bed.
It had been cut from a solid block of Italian marble, the screen before it fashioned of meshed iron and gold. Hanging above the tiered ledge was a portrait of a young man of no more than twenty-five, a devilish whorl of black hair falling across his forehead and the knowing glint of a pirate in his eyes. Though his coloring was much fairer than Bastien’s—and his face possessed a distinctly European bent—Celine could detect a vague resemblance, most especially in the cut of his jaw. In the unmistakable arrogance of his amber gaze.
A gold skeleton key rested in his palm, a crimson ribbon dangling from a loop at its end. A young man of obvious means, who possessed the key to countless doors.
How droll.
But the most striking thing about the portrait was its palette. The subject’s skin and features had all been rendered in believable tones, but everything else stretched the notion. The shadows were too bright a blue, the edges a blur, the corners splashed with ochre paint as if the artist had been on the cusp of madness.
Celine stared at the painting for a time. Then closed her eyes. She felt as if she were being watched. As if the portrait’s gaze followed her, like the stories of the Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece, the Mona Lisa. She decided to focus on the taper beside her head, which dripped wax down its brass holder in steady streams, until the gleaming candelabra appeared as if it were weeping.
Another disconcerting sight. Everywhere Celine looked, something sinister sprang to life. She thought about waiting until the sun rose to return to sleep. Until the rays of white-gold light seeped onto her silken sheets. The sight of dawn should bring with it a measure of peace.
Why did Celine not feel as if it would?
Her head sank into the sumptuous pillow, her body restless, the eyes at the foot of her bed taunting.
Disturbed by the sense of being watched while she slept, Celine drew the wine-red curtains around the bed and swallowed herself in the comfort of darkness.
HIVER, 1872
RUE BIENVILLE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
From my deserted street corner, I watch the expensive curtains on the uppermost floor of the Hotel Dumaine shift to one side. The face of a stunning young woman with sharp green eyes and hair the color of spilled ink peers through the opening. Only to vanish in the next breath, the heavy damask falling back into place.
I smile.
Fitting that they would take her to Nicodemus’ rooms. A chamber suited for a Sun King, replete with a garish display of wealth, the kind to which he has grown accustomed over the years. An homage to Versailles at its best. Or at its worst, depending on one’s perspective.
No matter. Nicodemus is rarely there now. He knows better than to come to New Orleans and tempt his fate. He has lost much in the last few years.
But I have lost more. And there is still much for us both to lose. Memories and hopes, wishes for a future that can never be replaced once it is gone. By now, Nicodemus has undoubtedly been summoned from the safety of his New York lair in response to the rash of recent murders in New Orleans. He will return to the city soon, just as I have foreseen.
Precisely in time for my final performance.
Satisfaction winds through my limbs, causing me to drop my guard for a moment. All is unfolding according to plan. I relish this twinkle of time before I allow the rage to collect in my chest and color my vision. Then I breathe deeply of the briny air. Let the dampness fill my lungs as my heightened senses stretch, soaking in every detail in my vicinity. A horse nearby with an aching tooth, smelling of blood and sweet decay. Crumbs of rye bread swirling about in the gutter, their perfume sour and pungent. A dead rat lingering in the corner of a nearby sewer, the maggots on it