Wicked After Midnight (Blud) (21 page)

I didn’t kill
him, although I wanted to. But I did make a terrible mess. I’d never fed from a human before, and my teeth slid across his skin like a car over black ice. When his arm latched around my waist, I bit harder, finally opening the skin and releasing a dribble of blood. My tongue found his neck with the impersonal kiss of licking a stamp.

Although Criminy had strictly forbidden feeding from customers and Cherie had never drunk from a live victim, the two-headed boys of the caravan had plenty of experience and loved to brag. Catarrh and Quincy had shrugged their extra-wide shoulders, saying that where they’d come from in Freesia, two minutes of drinking could conclude a full day’s work for lucky humans with a healthy constitution.

While Quincy filed his teeth, Catarrh detailed how very easy it was to make the bloodletting enjoyable for them if we wished. Bludmen did have a sort of residual magic. That was how they got away with snitching blood in the darker corners of the freak tent. Their willing victims never complained and sometimes enjoyed the experience so much they left a copper behind. The high-necked gowns and winding cravats meant to protect the humans
from us sometimes protected indiscreet Bludmen from the repercussions of a pilfered meal.

Knowing that feeding from the duke could, much like my stage antics, be another triumph or end with me being chased out of the city with fire and pitchforks, I tried to make it as good for him as I could without sacrificing my honor. Judging by the way he tried to drag me onto his lap and over the bulge in his expensive trousers, it worked. He was putty in my hands, whimpering and blissfully writhing under my lips. When he moaned and shuddered suddenly against me, hands digging hard at my waist, I knew we were done.

I pulled away with a long, seductive stroke of my tongue. He lay back, drained and panting.

“That was the most sensual experience of my life, my Demitasse.”

I stood, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Happy to oblige,
monsieur
.”

I slipped on his frock coat, opened the copper door, and walked down the stairs of the elephant’s leg on the balls of my bare feet. The night was dark and cold and still when I emerged, stepping out of the elephant’s foot to run across the courtyard and into the cabaret. The halls were empty, the theater silent. With a sniff of disgust, I plundered the coat’s pockets, all empty, and dropped the expensive pile of fabric on the boards, disappointed to find not a single whiff of Cherie on its lapels. Feeling humiliated and cheap, I ran up the stairs, not stopping until I was in Limone’s old room, now marked with a sign reading “La Demitasse” in curling silver letters, just like I’d dreamed of seeing on my first night here.

Thankful my window was closed and locked from
the inside, I curled up in my bed and quietly shook. The duke’s blood made me feel strong, beautiful, invincible. It was almost enough to quiet the tiny, shouting voice saying that I would be thrown in jail in the morning. But it had been my only choice.

My hand slid to the place under the mattress where I’d hidden my coins and the pouch of Criminy’s sleeping powder. Although I trusted Mel and Bea, there were dozens of daimon girls I still didn’t know who had access to my room every moment that I was gone. My treasures were still there, and it suddenly occurred to me that not only did I have a powerful and mutually beneficial gift for the men who bought my time—because I knew without a doubt that the duke wouldn’t be the last—but I also had a way to render them unconscious while I hunted for clues. A tiny sprinkle of the harmless sleeping powder would give me plenty of time to search each body that found its way into the copper elephant for any hint of Cherie or the slavers. Tomorrow night, after the show, I would begin my investigation.

I could only hope that my second gambit would turn out as well as the first.

*   *   *

My sleep was long and
delicious, right up till the dreams turned from the mad clapping of packed crowds to the thunder of hooves and a black conveyance, the air shimmering from spotlights to smoke rent by the flailing legs of screaming horses. But in the nightmare, Cherie was torn crying from my arms by a man in a bird mask, our talons breaking as we were ripped apart. I woke gasping and muttered, “Holy shit.”

As if on cue, my door opened to admit Blaise with a dainty teacup filled with deliciously warm, high-quality blood. On the tray sat the same apothecary jar filled with notes, even more than before. I sat up, rubbing my eyes at the sunlight filtering through my open window. It felt like a dream within a dream within a dream.

“What’s going on? Am I in trouble, Blaise?”

He giggled into his hand. “I don’t think that’s what they’re calling it,
mademoiselle
. Read the paper.” I unfolded the Parisian newspaper on the tray, the fear in my heart giving way to curiosity. I had fallen asleep half dreading Madame Sylvie’s harsh screech or the stomp of gendarmes with billy clubs and guns filled with seawater. After all, feeding from humans was strictly forbidden and punishable by death in Franchia, as it was in Sangland. Blaise, fresh blood, and a newspaper had to be good news.

The first page was all politics, the second all society. Boring. A full-color page caught my attention. It was a slick insert titled “Diversions,” and the main illustration featured a slightly familiar, if overly beautiful, slender girl with dark hair and bangs kicking one red boot high over her head.“La Demitasse: The Angel of Paradis,” the headline said.

I read the story hungrily, knowing that at least half of it would be lies. As Criminy had always said, journalists were worse than novelists, because novelists at least try to tell some truth.
Mortmartre has ever been the pleasure district of distinguished gentlemen and high-spirited daimons, but a new addition has the crowd clamoring for more. A Bludman? In Paris? And performing? Do not faint, ladies, for she has been proven as safe as a muzzled and broken bludmare by Monsieur Philippe himself. Our esteemed
Duc de Fournier agrees, saying only, “La Demitasse is a singular creature of unparalleled grace and beauty, and I look forward to giving her more of my attention.”

Tickets through the next week were sold out before noon at Paradis, and interested parties may inquire from Madame Sylvie regarding personal boxes and champagne. A grand finale is planned to stun and surprise all viewers beginning Saturday next.

Your heart will be this Bludman’s next victim!

I sipped my blood and laughed.

So they would indeed be coming after me . . . with roses and bottles of bloodwine. I’d triumphed again, this time by simply doing what came naturally. If the duke continued to spread his story, then my parlor trick would become feeding daintily from my suitors while waiting to search their bodies or be kidnapped.

I could do that.

*   *   *

That afternoon, I had a
costume fitting and was politely requested to indulge Charline with a rehearsal. I acquiesced gracefully, knowing deep inside that while I had to keep up the untouchable-diva front to the gentlemen who wanted my favors, I didn’t want to be a bitch to my coworkers and employers. Criminy had included rehearsal in every day’s plan, so it felt good and refreshing to go through the motions and accept a page of overly polite notes from Charline, who actually had excellent ideas on improving my work on the hoop. Thanks to last night’s drink from the duke, I was sated and strong and smiling when I sauntered back to my room, enlivened by solid work and feeling like a queen.

I sensed the man waiting within before I opened the
door this time. Vale sat by the fire, feeding my apothecary jar of notes and love letters into the flames.

“What the hell, Vale?” My new skirts tangled around my legs as I jogged to him and snatched the half-filled jar of notes from the rug by his side.

His look was dark, threatening, and I drew back a little even though he posed me no danger. “They wish to make you into a whore. At the very least, a kept thing. It makes me sick.”

My blud boiled, and I bared my teeth. “You don’t get to decide what I am. No one can do that but me.”

His mouth dropped open as he stood. “
Bébé
, you can’t want . . . that is . . . I wouldn’t have thought you’d be angry at me for wanting to keep you from being sold as a prostitute.”

I gave a dark chuckle. “I appreciate the thought. I’m just not willing to tolerate the assumption. And I’m keeping notes on all the letters they send, sniffing them for a trace of Cherie.”

Vale dusted off his pants and resettled his shirt while he hunted for his words. In the end, he settled for placing the half-full jar in my waiting hands and shooting me his wicked grin. “We started off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry for burning your clues. You were beautiful last night,
bébé
. And not in a way that intrudes upon your personal freedom. Beautiful like . . . a wild mare or a sunset. Something completely independent.”

“Thanks? I guess.”

“Do not give me that attitude,
chère
. You say you’re the one making the rules. I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you are being treated well.” He looked down, rubbed the back of his head. “Considering I’m the one
who brought you here, I feel more than a little responsible for your happiness.”

I faltered. It was nice that he cared, but I would have preferred that he was there because he liked me and wanted to be around me. I’d had enough caretakers and had just told him to buzz off in that area. Or, better yet, I wanted . . . “Do you have any news? On Cherie?”

His smile was rueful, his eyes angry and perplexed. “It’s tricky,
bébé
. The word on the cabaret circuit is that more and more daimon girls are disappearing. No one calls it ‘taken.’ There’s no mention of slavers or kidnapping. But they all seem to descend into drink and worse before just . . . vanishing. Most assume they wandered into the streets alone while under the influence of absinthe and met dark ends. The bludrats will strip any corpse they find, regardless of species. And the gendarmes refuse to investigate.”

A thousand possibilities went through my mind. I imagined street gangs, giant bludrats, open manholes into the catacombs, and the slavers themselves in their dark cowls and plague masks. But then I imagined the damage one angry Bludman could do and the fact that it took an awful lot of bloodwine to render us stupid. And of course, the fact that Cherie had been directly taken, had never gotten so far as to take a single drink in Mortmartre. She was more than some silly drunk girl, stumbling into a dark alley with the wrong man.

I shook my head. “Sounds like something different entirely. Can I draw a poster for you to show them, perhaps?”

He shrugged, a sad thing. “If it will make you feel better. But . . . have you not noticed that having a Bludman
in a cabaret is big news? Whoever has your friend is keeping her secret. Especially after your debut, I imagine that any other cabaret hiding a Bludman with any contortion skills whatsoever would instantly set up shop to take advantage of your popularity. And believe me,
bébé
, if I hear anything of the sort, I will be in the front row to steal her back for you.”

That finally softened me up, and I let the smile spread over my lips. Putting a gloved hand on his shoulder, I looked into his eyes, soothed by their golden glow, so like a cat’s. “Thank you, Vale. She’s everything to me.”

“Everything?”

The possessive hardness in his eyes made me angry again. “Of course. She’s my best friend, my partner, the closest thing I have to family. Just because I go through the motions here and get sent to that blasted elephant with dukes doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about her constantly.”

“The pachyderm?” Anger twisted his fine features. “You’ve been to the pachyderm?”

“Last night. With the duke. And you can’t say a damned thing about it.”

We were nose-to-nose now, each filled with fury and breathing hard. His nostrils flared, and the anger writhed off his skin, sharp as cinnamon.

“Oh, I have something to say,
bébé
.”

I opened my mouth to tell him exactly how much he could say, but he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me, hard. His tongue forced its way past my lips and raked me possessively, and I let out a little moan and curled my fingers into the front of his shirt, unable to resist his pull. His mouth claimed me, his hands moving to my waist and pressing me close.

When he changed angles, he murmured, “Watch the teeth,
bébé
. Can’t have you going mad.”

“I’m already mad. Shut up and kiss me.”

“I like you when you’re angry.”

“Shut. Up.”

I gave him no choice, kissing him hard but without fangs, mouth wide and eyes closed. As cold as the duke’s practiced attempts at wooing had made me feel, Vale filled me with passion, half furious and half hungry. I took a step backward, pulling him with me, still kissing him. Step by step, we stumbled toward the towering, soft bed, his thighs brushing against mine as our tongues danced and licked. With my back to the bed, and one more nudge from his thighs, my butt hit the mattress. His controlled fall took me to my back and brought him over me on his elbows, the kiss never breaking.

“Mm. You’re good,” I murmured.

“You’re better.”

I took his lip, gently but as a warning, in my teeth. “What are you implying?”

He drew back, raised an eyebrow. I let go of his lip. “That you’re a good kisser. Every word out of my mouth isn’t a fight,
bébé
.”

I grabbed his chin in my hand, licked his lips. “Then stop talking and kiss me.”

“Normally, I’d argue, but you’ve made it clear that you are a woman who does what she wants.”

With a growl, I hooked a leg over his and rolled him over onto his back so that I straddled his hips, my skirts cascading around us in a puddle of black ruffles. “Damn right I am.”

I leaned down to kiss him again, and he didn’t resist at all. His hands found my hips, and I settled in to take whatever I wanted, slow and deep, my fingers tracing the buzzed stubble of his hair. When the knock came, I hissed at the door and hoped that whoever had interrupted that kiss was human and edible.