Wicked After Midnight (Blud #3)

Wicked After Midnight (Blud #3) Page 14

“Madame Sylvie, what a pleasure to see you again.” His accent was classically French, to my ears, his eyes beetle-bright over an impeccably cut suit. But no tailor’s tricks could make this man handsome. The scent that rose from his flesh when he looked at me was lust, pure and hot. I struggled not to shudder.

“Monsieur Philippe, you are known for unparalleled taste and an eye for quality. This young girl would like to join our company. I was hoping you might be so kind as to share your opinion.”

He quivered with pleasure, his eyes narrowing further to regard me sharply. Stepping close, lighter on his feet than I expected, he held out a bare hand. Unsure what he wanted, I put out my own tentatively. He didn’t take it.

A snort and an eye roll. “Gloves. Must be Sanglish. What’s your name, dear?”

The Demi who had died on the floor on Earth would have been meek, deferential, desperate, pleading with the man who now held my future and possibly Cherie’s life in his hands. But the Demi on Sang was a Bludman, a predator, and a performer. She was reckless and knew her job. I gave Monsieur Philippe my most sultry smile and used my teeth to loosen the fingers of my glove. A slight intake of breath told me he’d noticed the fangs. Locking my eyes with his, I sensually rolled the glove off my hand. The other one, too. After they both lay on the ground, I smirked at his still-outstretched hand and leaned close, up on tiptoes and hands light on his wide shoulders, to kiss him on both cheeks in the Franchian style.

“Je m’appelle Demi Ward. Monsieur.”

I could smell his prey response, the deep-down knowledge that sent him conflicting signals to hold still and run away. And judging by the look in his eyes, he hadn’t had as much familiarity with Bludmen as most Sanglish Pinkies. From what Luc had told me, the racial breakdown of Paris was about fifty-fifty daimons and humans, with less than one percent of the population made up of Bludmen. After all, why would humans go to the trouble to give up their own blood when trading in emotions was far more painless and often involved being purposefully amused or pleasured? I had been just as exotic to Luc as he had been to me. At first.

“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.

8

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.