Page 7

Chapter Six

The Coldest Man

He steadies me with broad hands and a skeptical expression, arching a brow at my wild hair and wilder eyes. I look outrageous. I know I look outrageous, yet still I seize his leather surcoat—it skims his powerful frame like a second skin, stark black against his pallor—and stare up at him, open-mouthed. Unable to articulate the panic in my chest. It continues to build as my mind catches up with my senses.

This man is paler than Babette.

Colder.

His nostrils flare.

“Are you quite well, mademoiselle?” he murmurs, and his voice —deep and rich, it seems to curl around my neck and trap me there. I repress a full-body shiver, inexplicably unnerved. His cheekbones could cut glass. His hair gleams strange and silver.

“A body!” The words burst from me awkwardly, louder and shriller than our proximity demands. He still holds my waist. I still clutch his arms. Indeed, if I wished, I could reach out and touch the shadows beneath his flat black eyes. Those eyes bore into me with cold intensity now. “Th-There’s—there’s a b-b-body back there.” I jerk toward the cemetery gate. “A corpse—”

Slowly, he slants his head to examine the cobblestone path behind me. His voice is scathing. “Several, I imagine.”

“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. She died without 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 can force him to understand. Because men value strength. They don’t value hysteria; they don’t listen to hysterical women, and I—I— “I am most certainly not quite well! Are you even listening to me? A woman has been murdered . 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 are you lurking 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.

“The dead ? 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 not call to 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 find you to 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 do anything, 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 another man is 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 my little 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 to me .”

“But—”

“Is he bothering you?” Jean bites each word with unexpected venom, and I nearly shriek in frustration, resisting the urge to shake him, to strangle him. 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. Unnaturally still. 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.

“Listen to me, Jean. Listen. ” My hand slips to his belt as I speak, my fingers wrapping around the hilt of his Balisarda. He stiffens at the contact, but he doesn’t stop me. His eyes snap to my face, narrowing, and when I nod almost imperceptibly, his own hand replaces mine. He trusts me implicitly. Though I may not be the strongest or fastest or greatest of his Chasseurs, I am intuitive, and the man behind us is dangerous. He’s also involved in Babette’s death somehow. I know he is.

“He murdered her,” I breathe. “I think he murdered Babette.”

That’s all it takes.

In a single, fluid motion, Jean Luc spins me behind him and unsheathes his Balisarda, but when he charges forward, the man is already gone. No, not gone—

Vanished.

If not for the withered crimson rose where he once stood, he might’ve never existed at all.