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“No, that’s not what I—the roses, they—they withered when they touched the ground, and—”

He blinks. “The roses... withered?”

“Yes, they withered and died, and Babette—she died too. Shediedwithout a drop of spilled blood, just two holes in her neck—”

“Are you sure you’re quite well?”

“No!” I almost shriek the word now, still clinging to him and proving his point completely. It doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for reason. My voice climbs steadily higher, and I dig my fingers into his arms as if I canforcehim to understand. Because men value strength. They don’t value hysteria; they don’tlistento hysterical women, and I—I— “I am most certainlynotquite well! Are you even listening to me? A woman has beenmurdered. Her corpse is currently draped across a grave like some sort of macabre fairy-tale princess, and you—you, monsieur”—my terrible unease finally sharpens into suspicion, and I hurl it at him like a blade—“why are you lurking outside a cemetery?”

Rolling his eyes, he breaks my grip with startling ease. My hands fall away from him like broken cobwebs.

“Why areyoulurking inside one?” His gaze sweeps from my bare shoulders to the mist above us. “In the rain, no less. Do you have a death wish, mademoiselle? Or is it the dead themselves who call to you?”

I recoil from him in disgust.

“Thedead? Of course they don’t—this is—” Exhaling hard through my nose, I force my shoulders back. My chin up. He will not distract me. The rain might soon wash away any clues I’ve missed, and Jean Luc and the Chasseurs must be notified. “The dead do notcallto me, monsieur—”

“No?”

“No,” I repeat firmly, “and to speak as such is rather unusual and suspicious, given the circumstances—”

“But under different circumstances?”

“Actually, I findyouto be rather unusual and suspicious.” I ignore the sardonic twist of his lips and continue with grim determination. “I apologize for this imposition, monsieur, but I—yes, I’m afraid you must come with me. The Chasseurs will want to speak to you, as you’re now”—I swallow hard as he cocks his head, studying me—“a p-primary suspect in what is sure to be a murder investigation. Or a witness, at the very least,” I add hastily, taking a tentative step backward.

His eyes track the step. The movement, though slight, sends a fresh chill down my spine. “And if I refuse?” he asks.

“Well then, monsieur, I—I will have no choice but to force you.”

“How?”

My stomach sinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“How will you force me?” he repeats, intrigued now. And that curiosity—that glint of humor in his black eyes—is somehow worse than his disdain. When he takes another step toward me, I take another step back, and his lips twitch. “Surely you must have some idea, or you wouldn’t have threatened it. Go on, pet. Don’t stop now. Tell me what you intend to do to me.” Those eyes flick briefly down my person—assessing,amused—before returning to mine in open challenge. “You don’t appear to have a weapon in that gown.”

My cheeks burn in open flame as I too glance down at my dress. The rain has rendered it near translucent. Before I can doanything, however—before I can pick up a rock or take off my boot to hurl at him, or perhaps gouge out his eyes—a shout sounds from down the street. We turn in unison, and a lean, familiar figure cuts toward us through the mist. My heart leaps to my throat at the sight of him. “Jean Luc! You’re here!”

The humor vanishes from the man’s expression.

Thank God.

“Father Achille told me where to find—” Jean Luc’s face twists as he draws closer, as he realizes that I’m not alone. That anothermanis here. He quickens his pace. “Who is this? And where is your coat?”

The man in question steps away from us, clasping long, pale fingers behind his back. That tilt of his lips returns—not like before, not quite a smile and not quite a sneer, but something in between. Something unpleasant. Arching a brow at me, he nods curtly toward Jean Luc. “How fortunate for all of us. Tell your little friend about the roses. I’ll take my leave.”

He moves to turn away.

To even my surprise, my hand snakes out to catch his wrist. His expression darkens at the contact, and slowly, coldly, he looks down at my fingers. I drop them hastily. His bare skin feels like ice. “Captain Toussaint isn’t mylittle friend. He’s my—my—”

“Fiancé,” Jean Luc finishes roughly, seizing my hand and pulling me to his side. “Is this man bothering you?”

“He—” I swallow, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter, Jean. Really. There’s something else, something more impor—”

“It matters tome.”

“But—”

“Is he bothering you?” Jean bites each word with unexpectedvenom, and I nearly shriek in frustration, resisting the urge to shake him, tostranglehim. He still glowers at the man, who now watches us with a strange sort of intensity. It verges on predatory. And his body—it’s grown too still.Unnaturallystill. The hair on my neck lifts as I ignore every instinct and turn my back to him, seizing the lapels of Jean Luc’s blue coat.