Wicked After Midnight (Blud) (30 page)

Once we hit the street, Vale whistled for a conveyance—a cheaper one than I’d used before and so small that we were stuffed together, touching from shoulder to ankle. Vale gave the dull-faced driver an unfamiliar address instead of giving the museum’s name, and the trap took off at killer speeds, leaving a puff of violet smoke hanging in the gaslight behind us. The machinery was so loud that we had trouble hearing each other, but there was a new intimacy to being so close and doing something so normal. He was wearing his striped pants and vest, and the umbrella sat sentry between our knees like a bony chaperone.

In lieu of talking, he walked his fingers up my arm
every time I paid attention to something else that wasn’t him. Each time I swatted him away, we both knew it was only a matter of time before I would pretend to stare at something else.

Rain dotted the roof as the conveyance pulled to a stop, and Vale slipped a franc into the man’s filthy fist and helped me down. My boots slipped on the cobbles, and I tried to orient myself. As usual with Vale, we were in a dark alley in a place where no lady would go during daylight.

As if reading my mind, Vale opened the umbrella over my head and pulled me deeper into the shadows with a murmured “Quiet, now,
bébé
. I would normally go underground, but I am attempting to woo you, which requires a giddy stroll through an evening rain, yes?”

I glanced at the soot-streaked bricks and piles of bones and rocks. “It’s just like I always dreamed—slimy carcasses and all.”

“I would kiss you to keep you silent, but around here, we might be eaten.”

The words sent shivers to dance along my spine, but I took his hint and went quiet as he pulled me into a maze of ramshackle buildings and fallen walls. There had been a fire here; my nose told me that more than my eyes did. But they were rebuilding, and the scaffolds and piles of stone and wood left plenty of shadows to shield us from prying eyes. When Vale lifted the edge of a manhole cover, I realized why he’d encouraged me to leave my bustle at home and tried to put on a brave face as I followed him into the yawning hole.

Once we were both underground and standing on stone, he produced a metal object from his pocket. With
a few flicks of a switch, a fire bloomed, and I was delighted to see my first cigarette lighter in six years. He hooked the umbrella over my arm and handed the lighter to me so that he could replace the manhole cover above, and I admired the flower and vine design chased in the brass. I almost asked him about his green pendant before remembering that he had given it to me, and I had broken it the same day during an attempted murder.
Oops.

With a heavy
clunk
, the tunnel went pitch-black around my small flame. Vale landed beside me. He took the lighter gently, careful not to hurt me or let the fire go out, his fingers caressing mine.

“It’s not far,” he said, and I shrugged.

“I’m pretty tough.”

He pointed to my borrowed boots. “I would not wish you to get blisters.”

That small kindness reached past my cold heart, the warmth spreading as he held out a hand and guided me over a puddle. Rain
plink
ed overhead, and further down the tunnel, I could hear more water moving. As we walked, Vale held up the lighter to show me an ancient rock wall that subtly curved.

“We are just outside the base of the original fortress. A great daimon king built it to protect the city from humans who wished to overrun it. Legend says the daimons repelled the humans with magic and by catapulting bludrats into the human armies.”

“That’s smart. Ratapults.”

Vale laughed, and it warmed the cold tunnel like a blast of sunshine. “Come, my clever
bébé
. You’re about to see the inside of the gentleman’s loo. Brace yourself.”

We turned off into an empty chamber with a
high ceiling. Vale handed me the lighter before whipping away a moldering old cloth to reveal a wooden ladder, which he leaned against the stone wall. He climbed carefully as I waited below, holding up the lighter to enjoy the rare chance to see him from a different angle. He was about twenty feet up when tiny rays of light struck his face in a sunburst pattern, shining through a drain. After putting his ear up to the ceiling, he slid a chunk of stone to the side with a grunt. A beam of light shot into the chamber, illuminating a beautiful mural of daimons in medieval armor, rippling flags held aloft by their tails.

“It’s clear,
bébé
. If you’d care to join me?”

I clicked the lighter shut, tucked it into my pocket, and started climbing. On Earth, I couldn’t imagine how terrifying this entire outing would be: navigating a treacherous city after midnight with a strange and dangerous man, followed by tromping through the sewers and climbing thirty feet into the air over stone and into a government building. But considering who I was and where I was, it was an exciting trip. And that’s when it hit me: I was about to have unfettered access to the greatest art museum in the entire world of Sang.

I had to hold in the squeal as Vale gently took my arms and helped drag me onto the tiles above. I stood and dusted off my leggings . . . and looked directly into a urinal.

“You weren’t kidding.”

“It gets better, I promise you.”

Taking my elbow, he led me out into a wide hall. I sucked in a deep breath, considering how many atoms of paint and oil and genius I might be taking into my body forever with each lungful of air. I wasn’t sure exactly how
much this Louvre had in common with the one on Earth, but it was close enough to make me drunk on art-nerd giddiness.

“Where do we start? Is there a map? Do you have Impressionists here yet?”

“Let me see your ticket again, and I will tell you.”

Vale flicked on the lighter, and I handed him the crumpled paper. The building around us was utterly silent and beautiful in its moonlit austerity, and it took every ounce of self-control I possessed to stop myself from running down the long hall, doing cartwheels and whooping with joy.

“This way.”

When Vale took off, I followed. There was scant light from the moon outside, and I wished to see more, but he didn’t ask for his lighter again. Bumbling around in a high-profile building with fire probably wasn’t the best way to remain unnoticed, after all. I didn’t know much about the layout of this Louvre or the one in my original world, so I just tried to take in as much as the shadows allowed, soaking in the sculptures, paintings, and ancient wonders when I wasn’t watching Vale’s butt. He walked with determination, moving through the Louvre as if he owned the place, and I liked that. It didn’t hurt that he was bringing me closer to what I hoped would be a clue about Cherie.

“The gallery should be through here . . .”

He turned left, and I followed so closely that when he drew up short, I ran into him. Normally, I think he would have rather enjoyed having my front plastered to his back, but this time, he was so tense and alert that he didn’t even notice.

We stood in the doorway to a portrait gallery, surrounded by daimons frowning, laughing, dancing, and seated astride screaming bludmares. Almost one entire wall was a version of
La Grande Jatte
but with daimons mixed among the humans and a clockwork monkey playing with the puppies in front. I hurried over to read the card and see if Seurat existed in Sang and was surprised to learn that it was the first painting created solely by automaton in a style entirely new.

“
Bébé
, you need to see this.”

Vale was a dark and stalwart shadow before a wall of dancing girls, many of them doppelgängers of paintings from my own world but with the twist that these girls were daimons instead of humans. The canvases were in all shapes and sizes, each in a heavy gilt frame. Vale flicked open the lighter, and a hand to my pocket told me that yet again, I’d been pickpocketed without my knowledge. He raised the flame, and I nearly barfed duke blood onto the dainty tiles of the Louvre.

The image of Limone didn’t look like Lenoir’s work, and the brass plaque on the frame was blank. In my world, this masterpiece by Toulouse Lautrec showed the Moulin Rouge, so this evil twin most likely showed the inside of the Moulin Bleu of Sang. In the bottom right corner, lit in lurid absinthe-green, was an image of Limone so true to life that I could feel hatred and disgust radiating from it in waves. I stepped closer, but Vale threw an arm out to hold me back.

“When was the last time someone saw Limone?” I asked.

“The day after she pushed you.”

“She went to the Moulin Bleu, didn’t she?”

He nodded. “There’s dark magic at work here,” he said, and I gulped and shivered but didn’t move forward again.

I could feel Limone’s cold presence in the room with me, and I spun suddenly, certain that I would feel her hard hands pushing me off into space. But the gallery was empty, peopled only with whispering shadows. I looked from portrait to portrait, trying to sense if perhaps it was only my history with Limone and the perfection of her likeness that was freaking me out. I saw faces I half recognized, a maroon girl stretching in a tutu and a pink-skinned girl laughing. But I couldn’t remember their names or when I’d seen them last.

I pointed with a trembling finger. “I know those girls . . .”

“Jess and Edwige. They went missing from Paradis. Together.” His voice was dark, torn between anger and sadness. “Neither painting shows the artist’s name, but at least it was not Lenoir.” His fists clenched at his sides.

“Why did you bring me here?” I asked.

Vale put an arm around my waist, and I shuddered as he pulled me close and led me from the room. “The words on that ticket were directions to this gallery. There was something here the duke wanted to see.”

“Ugh. I don’t know why. I feel like I need to go wash in boiling water or something. Like that painting is still staring at me.” I shivered all over like a dog throwing water, trying to get back to normal. “Do you know who painted it?”

The hall outside felt ten degrees warmer and much less haunted, and Vale clicked off the lighter and pulled me into a desperate hug, his hand cupping the back of my head.

“I do not know,
bébé
. Many are by Lenoir but not that one. He takes on protégés and students sometimes. I will try to find out. Do you feel . . .”

He trailed off, and I wrapped my arms around him, too. If he felt half as shaken as I did, then I was glad to give him my warmth. I couldn’t believe a painting had inspired such horror in my heart.

“That painting hates us,” I whispered, and he nodded as he rubbed my back.

“I did promise you romance, but I didn’t wish to frighten you into closeness.” He pulled away and held my face for a brief, bright moment. “How easily one forgets the hunt when one is hunted.”

“Wait.” I wanted to look through the door again but couldn’t bring myself to do so. “Did you see any paintings of Cherie? Of a Bludman or a human with long blond hair and gray eyes?”

“So far as I know, there are no humans in the cabarets, and if there were another Bludman, everyone would know. I saw no such painting.”

I sighed heavily and slumped over. “Then this whole trip was a waste of time.”

“Not so,
ma chère
.” He slipped his hand into mine, walking backward and pulling me after him. “We tried. And trying is worth something. We also know that there is something strange about that painting. I will come back during the day, ask around. See who painted it, and the ones of Jess and Edwige, too. Some ideas take more time to bear fruit, but you must not lose hope.”

My steps were shuffling and coy. I felt more than a little like a princess in a palace, surrounded by the dripping gilt and excess of the grand museum. The farther
we got from the painting, the better I felt. “You’re right. It’s not like Cherie was going to be here and we were just going to walk in and find her. And it’s not a wasted trip.” I blushed and looked down, tracing the marble in the floor. “I mean, I’ve always wanted to see the Louvre.”

He stopped walking backward and smirked as if he knew exactly what I wasn’t brave enough to say. “Oh, you have always wished to see the Louvre? I think perhaps I can help with that.”

Before I could protest, he’d swept me off my feet and tossed me over his shoulder, taking off down the grand hall at a run. I started to shriek but slapped a hand over my own mouth. Vale ran through the Louvre like a little boy chasing a soccer ball, pointing out unhelpful things such as “Here’s a statue of a naked man with an unfortunate nose,” or “I think those are the king’s petticoats.” I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt, and when he finally stopped and placed me on my feet, we were both out of breath and far enough away from the portrait gallery that the malevolent tension was gone.

“Did you see everything?” he asked.

Without thinking, probably because of the lack of blud in my brain, I blurted, “I mostly watched your butt.”

That got his attention. He was instantly focused on me, his light eyes shining in the darkness. “Did you now,
bébé
?”

“Oh, well, I . . .” I looked down and fidgeted, very un-Bludman-like.

Light hands settled on my hips as he stepped into my personal space. “What is it you fear, Demi? You walk right up to the line and kick dirt over it and laugh, yet you won’t step over. Do you think a man minds being admired?”

“Of course not. I just . . .”

“Are you ashamed of me, then? Do you not find my backside pleasing?”

“What? No! Vale, come on.” My cheeks were red, my insides all twisted up. “Your butt is . . . awesome. I just . . . I didn’t break into the Louvre with you to talk about . . . this.”

“This?”

“Us.”

“And yet here we are. All alone in the greatest museum in Franchia. Think of all the things we could be doing here, and yet we stand arguing in a hall. You could always kiss me to into silence.”

For a brief moment, I let myself think of all the things we could be doing—against this very wall, on one of the velvet couches, upstairs in the Sun King’s old bed. And yet . . . I couldn’t.

“My life is really complicated right now, Vale.”