Wicked After Midnight (Blud #3)

Wicked After Midnight (Blud #3) Page 63

“Oh, hell, no. If Vale has to carry me on his back, we’re gone.”

“I beg you to reconsider. The Malediction Club is destroyed. Mortmartre has never been safer.” Madame Sylvie dismissed my words with the flap of a powdery hand. “You’ll make your fortune!”

“I already made one.” She looked away, a little muscle by her eye twitching. “And just because we put an end to the Malediction Club doesn’t mean that suddenly the audience is filled with kind-hearted gentlemen who just want a good show. There will always be predators in Mortmartre.” All three of us glared at her meaningfully, and she cleared her throat. “This place is like a Venus flytrap. And I’m done.”

“How much is she owed?” Vale asked.

Charline tapped a foot and studied the ceiling, and Madame Sylvie waved a hand. “Not as much as you would guess. We must deduct the costumes, the board, the laundry, the elephant she destroyed, the blood—which was a very fine vintage and not easy to procure.”

“They talked about you, you know.” Everyone turned in surprise to focus on Cherie. She spoke quietly, as if her throat was still bruised from what had passed in that laboratory underground. “I heard the gentlemen talk about how Charline kept the best girls, how Sylvie knew just what the club wanted and always delivered on time.” Even without her fangs, she looked like a murderous doll, the way she bared her teeth at the daimon sisters. “What do you think they meant about delivering?”

Sylvie’s color slipped, the human flesh rippling briefly with dark spots like thumbprints. “Bah.” She turned and sashayed out the door in disgust. “You’ll have your francs tonight, and you’ll leave before show time, before you poison the others with your lies. I’m a businesswoman, not a nun.”

Charline just shook her head. “Such promise,” she said. “All lost.”

“It’s not lost.” I smiled, showing fangs. “It’s just getting the hell out of here.”

I spent the rest of the day in bed, mostly sleeping. Vale and Cherie stayed with me, but a rainbow of anxious faces came and went, hands touching my forehead or pushing hair out of my eyes or just briefly stroking my arm. I heard the word merci so much that it chased me in my dreams.

Vale woke me at dusk, one hand gentle on my shoulder. “Bébé, it’s time.”

I was able to sit up, at least, and I found Cherie waiting on a steamer trunk by the door, where Blaise’s blue face peeked curiously through the crack. When I smiled at him, he ran up with a grain sack dragging behind him and heaved it onto the bed.

“What is this?”

“From Madame Sylvie. Your wages.”

I opened the bag and bit my tongue. They weren’t just francs; they were mostly silvers. She must have been terrified that we would spread the truth about her or exact our own vengeance. Truth be told, it wasn’t sitting well with me, just letting Sylvie and Charline go on at Paradis. If they could find another way to line their pockets, they would.

“All this is mine?”

Blaise nodded. “You’re the most famous act in Mortmartre, mademoiselle.”

“Not anymore.”

Mel stepped into the room, with Bea just behind her. “So it’s true, then? You’re leaving tonight?”

They were both in full costume and makeup, so very different from how they had looked in their fighting clothes and natural skins, painted with blood. These daimons, they never gave up.

“I can’t stay here.” I hefted the bag of coins; it took two hands. “And I don’t have to.”

It was still so strange and wonderful to hear Bea’s voice. “But where will you go?”

I opened the bag and stared at the pile of glinting metal. When I glanced up at Vale, he looked as if he was about to burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m waiting for your answer, bébé. You can do anything you want, and I can’t wait to hear what it is.”

I plucked a silver from the pile and flicked it at Blaise, who caught it neatly.

“I want to go back to Sangland.” They all stared at me, waiting, not breathing. I let the moment go on a little long, just to see who inhaled first. It was Vale. “And start a cabaret.”

“But Demi, there are no cabarets in London,” Cherie said, her usual know-it-all self.

“Not yet there aren’t. But just think of it—a theater in London, daimon girls who wouldn’t have to sleep with the audience if they didn’t want to. Performers honing their craft. We could even trade carnivalleros back and forth with Criminy’s caravan, if anyone got bored.” I reached for Vale’s hand and squeezed it. “You up for it?”

He rubbed his stubble with his other hand. “A disgraced Brigand of Ruin in Sangland, working at a Bludman’s cabaret.” He threw back his head and laughed. “It would appear I finally found a way to make my father angry and yet stay far enough out of his reach that he cannot strangle me.”

Mel and Bea signed quickly; they would always have their secret language. Then Bea took a big breath. “Can we come with you?”

Mel nodded. “We’re good workers, and—”

“And Blaise is a good boy, willing to learn a trade—”

“And there is no greater costumer than Blue—”

I realized I could finally move, and I held up wobbling hands to sign Yes.

Mel squealed, and they hugged and kissed, Bea’s arm around Blaise’s shoulders.

“What’s going on in here?”

Lexie appeared in the doorway, and then all the daimon girls were crowding in, dressed in their cabaret finest. I couldn’t help recalling how hard they’d fought, how strong and faithful they had been, as they worked to free their friends. And I was just supposed to leave them here in Mortmartre, under the greedy eyes and empty hearts of a pair of evil tiger bitches like Sylvie and Charline?

Hell, no.

“Y’all want to come to Sangland and work in my new cabaret?”

Needless to say, Paradis gave out a lot of refunds that night, as there wasn’t a single showgirl left. They all followed me out the front door.

35

SIX MONTHS LATER . . .

I leaned back against the plush velvet seat of my private box, then immediately sat forward again, eyeing the shining boards of the stage. Did I see a loose nail? Surely not. Vale and I had helped fix the floors ourselves. I would’ve noticed any problems while polishing every inch of the stage on my hands and knees.

“Opening night’s always an utter flub. Relax, pet.”

I bit back a hiss. “You’re not my boss anymore, Criminy.”

The caravan ringmaster sighed and sipped bloodwine from a sparkling glass. He looked especially dapper in his city clothes, the top hat and well-cut tailcoat just as smart as those of any of the Pinky gentlemen surrounding us and his dark hair brushed back into a tidy queue. Tish sat beside him in the sort of tasteful but painfully colorful gown the city humans preferred, buttoned up to her throat but splashy in black with bright red poppies that matched her ruby locket. I was the only one still wearing the heavy cloak demanded by a London winter night. Their gloved hands were intertwined, and although Criminy observed the cabaret’s setup with the critical eye of a ringmaster, Tish only had eyes for him.

“I was barely your boss before, Demi. Mentor, perhaps. But Aztarte knows you never listened, in the caravan or out. I suspected you would give poor Mademoiselle Caprice the slip, because it’s definitely what I would have done. But it was awfully poor taste to end up kidnapped in a copper elephant.”

“I did escape,” I mumbled.

“And eating your kidnapper was a stroke of genius.” He turned the full power of his grin on me, and I felt as if after all these years, I’d finally won his approval simply by committing my first murder. “So what’s the opening act?”

Vale grinned. “Wait and see.”

I was proud of him; he was possibly the first person I’d ever met who wasn’t intimidated by my godfather. Well, Veruca the Abyssinian in the caravan didn’t take any of Crim’s shit, either, so perhaps it was an Abyssinian thing. Still, they’d hit it off, and I was more relieved than I would admit. Buying and renovating an old theater with a rogue brigand from Franchia wasn’t Criminy’s idea of a smart business move, but we were about to prove him wrong.

Criminy held out his pocket watch, and before he could comment on the time, the lights dimmed. An amplified organ started off at a sinister gallop, and I smiled smugly.

“What the bugger is that racket? Surely you didn’t . . .” Criminy started. He sat up, gloved hands biting into the rail as he looked down at the spotlight and hissed.

“Yep. I didn’t think the Maestro would say yes, but I sent the telegram, and here he is.”

Below us, Casper Sterling commanded the room with his masterful playing of a song no one in Sang had ever heard before. I knew it, of course. It was the opening to The Phantom of the Opera, and the only reason Casper wasn’t being completely overrun by crazed fans and reporters was the half-mask we’d provided for him and the fact that his name wasn’t listed in the playbill.

The banister squeaked under Crim’s fingers. “Can I kill him?”

Tish snorted, pulled Criminy back by the tail of his coat, and shoved him playfully into his seat. “You know the rules, buster. Never kill anyone at the theater,” she said.

“That only counts for the audience.” Criminy tried to look innocent and utterly failed.

“Then that’s the second rule: you’re not allowed to kill the performers, either. Besides, he’s a Bludman now, and also, you know, kind of the king of Freesia. So you should probably go down to greet him after the show and give him flowers.” Tish grinned. It was so weird to think she’d ever actually considered running away with Casper. It would never have worked out; they were ten kinds of wrong for each other.