Wicked After Midnight (Blud) (12 page)

“And what is it you do, Demi?”

On Earth and in Sangland, they’d pronounced my name with an emphasis on
Dem
, but in Franchia, it took on an entirely new flavor that I wished to practice alone and taste on my own tongue.

De-MEE
. Yes, I could get used to that.

I smiled at Monsieur Philippe and stepped as close as his stomach would allow. To his credit, he didn’t back away, although the way his nostrils flared like a frightened horse told me he wanted to. I leaned forward, just enough to almost press my chest into his body, raising my right leg behind me until I could reach overhead and catch my own foot. My skirt cascaded down around me, and I heard Vale grunt behind me; he now had a prime view. But all my attention, of course, was for Monsieur Philippe. Leaning forward and gently pressing my torso against him, I brought my foot up until it was inches away from his face, showing just the tiniest sliver of skin between my leggings and the top of my boot.

“I’m a contortionist,
monsieur
. The best Paris has ever seen.”

I placed one splayed hand against his chest and let my lips nearly brush his before pushing away, arcing gracefully and falling into a split on the ground. Monsieur
Philippe cleared his throat and fussed with his coat. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see the effect I was having. And I struggled not to get smug.

“I can see that. But
ma chère
, a Bludman in a cabaret? It’s unheard of!”

“Then hear of it,” I said.

I stood with a twirl and took a deep breath. I didn’t want to do what I was going to do, but I didn’t see that I had a choice. With Mademoiselle Caprice’s lessons in my head and steel in my spine, I stepped close to him and lifted his hands, placing them in their proper places at my waist and in my other hand. Palm to palm, he was warm and clammy, with just the faintest tremor of unease, and his blood burned high in his cheeks, spicing the air with nervousness and desire. The blood hunger tugged at me but wasn’t problematic. I’d seen other Bludmen lose it—especially Catarrh and Quincy, the two-headed twins at the caravan, who’d run hotter than most and needed to keep both mouths satisfied. Even Criminy got peckish if he went too long without feeding. But for me, it had always been like this, the same sort of polite hunger you would get waiting for a meal while staring at food behind a glass display. Sure, you wanted it. But you weren’t about to break the glass and steal it.

I began to hum a well-known waltz, and after a beat, he moved with me, surprisingly light on his feet. Madame Sylvie took up the song with a strange quaver in her voice, which freed me to talk.

“You see,
monsieur
. I am a very unusual woman. I was raised in a caravan, performing for humans every night. I’ve never drunk from a live subject. I don’t even know how to break the skin. My hunger is as inconsequential as
my talent is enormous.” I leaned close, my lips brushing his ear. “I am as tame as tame can be.”

He twirled me out and stared at me, just flat-out stared, as if he couldn’t quite figure out what sort of curiosity I might be but wanted to put me in a locked glass case in his bedroom. I swept a deep curtsy, knowing it would show off the tight fabric over my bosom to best advantage.

“How much,
madame
?”

Madame Sylvie chuckled, low and husky. “I don’t believe the girl wishes to offer such services,
monsieur
.”

All three of them looked to me. I hid my panic behind an enigmatic smile, as Criminy had taught me long ago.

“Is that true, Mademoiselle Ward?”

I winked. “For now. But please,
monsieur
, keep asking.”

He shivered all over and closed his eyes as if he couldn’t take another moment of looking at me without carrying me away to a bed, and that’s when I knew I’d won.

“She will be in tomorrow’s show?”

Madame Sylvie regarded me, taking in, I’m sure, my ragged hems and tangled hair. “Her debut will be Saturday night, I think. That gives us three days to get her in shape.” She walked close, lifting a lank curl that had fallen from my updo. “Interesting coloring, though. Blue eyes and hair the color of thick coffee.”

Monsieur Philippe nodded hungrily. “Exotic, just so.” He gasped and chuckled to himself. “That’s it. La Demitasse. The cup. Delicate and small and curved, perfect for holding both darkness and sweetness, yes?”

Much to my surprise, Madame Sylvie’s skin shivered over pink as she laughed and clapped her hands like a little girl. “But
monsieur
, that is brilliant! We’ll have to have posters made up
tout de suite
. I wonder if Monsieur Lenoir would . . .
but no. He won’t even look at her until we’ve made her a star. I’ll send for Steinlen. If you believe she is safe?”

Monsieur Philippe licked his lips like a toad. “Perhaps . . . one last test?”

I struggled not to bare my teeth and hiss at the expectant silence that followed. My eyes flashed to Vale, his jaw so hard that I winced as if struck somewhere soft. The interview was getting out of hand, testing the bounds of that one word:
anything
. One step after another. And now it all came down to something I very much didn’t want to do. Something that meant nothing to me and yet also meant everything.

I turned my quavering lips into a quirked smile and went up on tiptoes to kiss Monsieur Philippe on the rosy, blood-hot cheek.

“I’m very young,
monsieur
. Please forgive my shyness.”

A tremor ran through him, and he pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe away the sweat that beaded his brow.

“Understandable, my dear. How young?”

“Only eighteen,
monsieur
,” Madame Sylvie said.

“Eighteen. And a tame Bludman.” He shook his head, a quiver in his chin. “
Mon dieu
.”

Madame Sylvie rang her bell again, and the blue daimon boy appeared through the door, which had been ajar. “Blaise, dear, please take Mademoiselle Demi up to Mireille’s old room. You know what to do.”

“
Oui, madame
.” The boy jerked his chin at me, his eyes flashing a warning. I glanced back at Vale, and he nodded and followed me. A dash of blue told me the boy had collected my gloves.

“Monsieur Hildebrand, gentlemen are not allowed
upstairs. You know that. I hope you’ll accept the hospitality of the bar while I conclude some business with Monsieur Philippe.”

Vale quaked with fury, and I wrapped my arm around his and dragged him toward the door with me. He balked, but I was stronger than I looked, and I managed to pull him out before he said something we would all regret.

“
Merci, madame. À bientôot, monsieur
,” I cooed. As soon as the door shut, a whispered argument began within, and I leaned my back against the brick wall of the hallway.

“If Madame catches you listening in, she’ll beat you with a riding crop,” the daimon boy whispered. He shoved my gloves into my hands, and I slipped them over my fingers before Vale noticed. Not that he was looking at my hands.

“If she ever kisses that pervert again,
I’ll
beat her with a riding crop.” Vale was suddenly there, in front of me, blocking out Blaise and the lights and everything but his avid, searing eyes. “Run along, boy. Wait at the bottom of the stairs.”

“But Monsieur Vale—”

“Have you ever seen me angry, Blaise?”

“No,
monsieur
, but—”

“People who anger Hildebrands don’t live to complain. Now, run.”

The boy threw me an exasperated, frightened look and scuttled away. Vale’s fingers tightened around my upper arms, and he half-dragged me down the hall toward a bricked-in niche.

“Vale, you can’t get me in trouble on my first day—”

He cut me off with a hand under my chin and soft lips pressing, insistent and desperate, against mine.

It was the
last thing I expected but the first thing my body wanted. With damnable quickness, my arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer. An electric current shot through me, making me quiver with heat that pooled low in my belly. When his mouth opened, just slightly, I moaned for more and ran my tongue between his lips, frantic to gain entry.

This, this was what had been missing. This this this.

With Luc, with the boys on Earth. This mad, insane passion. The way his fingers tightened at my waist, the way my hips sought his, the way my heel dragged up the back of his calf as if pointing out the right road on a map. He felt it, too—I could tell by the frantic curling of his tongue, the hardness in his arms as I slid my hands down to his wrists, struggling not to dig in my nails. Everything inside me went liquid and hot, like molten chocolate. He tasted like masala, like chai, like spices both hot and sweet that were too fiery to savor undiluted.

I dipped deeper, chasing his tongue, frantic to remove the taste of Monsieur Philippe from my lips. I was so hot, so hungry, so avid, that I completely forgot I had fangs.
Until he pushed away roughly, almost tripping over the leg I’d wrapped around his thigh.

“Come back here,” I growled. He shook his head no, his eyes burning golden in the low lights of the hallway.

“Can’t. You nicked me.”

He stuck a finger to his lips and pulled it away barely painted with blood. My breath caught on instinct, but then I smelled it. Half-tainted. Wrong.

How easily I had forgotten that Abyssinian blood would drive me mad—and not in a good way. Although there were no germs and therefore no diseases in Sang—which, honestly, I still couldn’t quite believe—it would appear that insanity here could be chemically induced in a way that sounded a lot like rabies. Bludmen who drank any Abyssinian blood at all were said to foam at the mouth and bleed from the eyes, nose, and ears, all while running around, blind and screaming and clawing at whatever their talons encountered. It was an ugly way to go that often resulted in the death or dismemberment of anyone else nearby. This made the Abyssinians undaunted warriors, much respected and somewhat feared all over Sang, especially considering that many of them painted their weapons with their own blood.

Vale had said he was half Abyssinian, but I didn’t know if that meant his blood would make me only half-mad, or if it would take longer to kill me, or if it would just make me sick for a while. And I definitely didn’t want to find out after I’d just been offered a job and was one step closer to finding Cherie. I would have to be more careful, more controlled, the next time he kissed me.

Because yes, I realized, I wanted there to be a next time. I’d never wanted there to be a next time before.

“Why are you smiling,
bébé
?” He was leaning against the wall directly across the hall from me, mimicking my posture with one leg kicked up against the bricks. He looked as dazed as I felt, his eyes unfocused and wide. I hadn’t realized I was grinning until he asked, and that only made me grin wider.

“I was thinking about something funny.”

“You think going half-mad is funny? Or you think me kissing you is funny?”

“Neither.” I tried to control the grin and failed. “Definitely neither.”

“
Mademoiselle
? The ladies will be back soon. Please hurry.”

Blaise’s voice carried, faint and nervous, from the top of the stairs at the end of the hall. I didn’t want to get him in trouble, but I wasn’t ready to be without Vale. He was strange and dangerous, but he was the most familiar thing I had in Paris and also my main link to finding Cherie. And more immediately, I wanted him to kiss me again. After my first taste of passion, I felt open for more, like a book with the spine cracked, waiting for more ink. Just staring at him from five feet away made my heart speed up. Damn, but chemistry is a demanding bitch.

“I guess I need to go.”

He nodded sadly. “If you don’t, Blaise will get beaten. Madame Sylvie is kinder than most, but she doesn’t care to be crossed. And neither does her choreographer. Be careful—they’re two halves of the same serpent.”

“When will I see you again?” The words rushed out of me so fast I felt like Liesl in
The
Sound of Music
and mentally cursed myself for acting like a sixteen-year-old idiot instead of the stylish cabaret girl I was bound and determined to become. The way his searing gaze roamed over my mouth made me feel slightly better.

“I will go around to the other cabarets. Spread the word about a kidnapped girl who’s worth a great deal of ransom. Small and blond, yes?”

I nodded. “Curly hair, gray eyes. Last seen in a salmon-pink dress and bludbunny skull fascinator.”

He stroked my hair gently, his smile going sad.

“Oh.” I touched the polished skull myself; I’d forgotten I’d pinned it on after nearly losing it in the catacombs. “Never mind that last part.” Then, more softly, “It was her favorite.”

“I’ll do my best, Demi. Keep your ears open, eh? The daimons are good at keeping secrets among themselves, but perhaps you will hear something useful. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow. I have a delivery to make.”