Wicked After Midnight(27)

Madame Sylvie’s face didn’t change. “Can you fit into a hatbox?” she snapped.

“Easily.”

“Are you a front bender or a back bender?”

“Both.”

“Are you frightened of heights?”

“Only if there’s a tank of seawater below.”

“Marinelli bend?”

“So long as the mouth grip has extra padding for my fangs.”

“Spanish web?”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Yes. Oui, oui, oui. Anything your daimons can do, I can do better.”

“Golliwog act?”

“I’m the perfect rag doll.”

“Have you worked with a partner?”

My throat closed, and I struggled to swallow. “I have.”

“But your partner is not with you?”

I shook my head no, blud tears burning hot in the corners of my eyes.

Vale rushed to fill the silence I couldn’t touch. “Her partner was stolen by slavers outside of Ruin. They reached the catacombs before we could catch them.”

Madame Sylvie’s eyes sharpened, boring into me. “Will this loss affect your performance? I can’t have heartbreak on my stage. It shows.”

“I’m a professional above all else.” I glanced at Vale, my eyes pleading, and he shrugged as if to say, You’re on your own now. “This is my dream, Madame Sylvie. I’ve been traveling Sangland in a caravan for six years, and I’ve always wanted to be a star. I’m a hard worker, no bad habits, no vices, no biting, and I’m willing to do anything.”

One sharp eyebrow went up. “Anything?”

It was as if the air was sucked out of the room, as if all of Paris waited to hear what I would say. The word fell heavy as an anchor. “Anything,” I answered.

Vale looked pained, which in turn pained me. I would have to talk to him later. He had to understand that I would have said anything to get my foot in the door, to stand on Madame Sylvie’s fine stage and feel a thousand eyes on me, a thousand hands clapping, my name on everyone’s lips, their whispers and cheers carrying me to the top, all to find Cherie and share the spotlight as I’d promised.

But that one word—anything. It didn’t mean what he thought it meant. I wouldn’t be a courtesan. I wouldn’t sink into the dirty side of Mortmartre, become just another lost girl with smeared lipstick and dead eyes. I had read enough about Sang and seen enough movies on Earth to know that my current position was dangerous. But I was a Bludman, and I was determined, and no matter what I told Madame Sylvie, I would be able to withstand the darkness, the temptation. I would keep my pride. For myself and for Cherie.

The daimon nodded once, and a transformative smile spread across her thickly powdered face. “Zat is the answer I like to hear,” she said, the tiniest bit of a Franchian accent leaking out. “It will be a trial period, at first. The daimon girls will not like it, and I’m not sure how the humans in the audience will feel. If you are anything other than a rousing success, I will kick you out on your derrière, you understand?”

I couldn’t hold back my gummy smile. “You won’t be disappointed, madame.”

I turned to leave, and she snorted behind me. “We are not done. One more thing.”

I had to breathe in through my nose to hold in the Bludman’s beast-rage. To give me what I wanted and then take it away? It was unbearable. I held out one hand as if testing for rain.

“There is a final test. Just because you two children say something is so does not make it so. We will see what you are capable of, ma chère.”

I couldn’t contain my annoyance any longer. “I am beyond capable. Find a single daimon in Paris who can match me, pose for pose, and I’ll walk out now.”

Her smile was irritatingly pleasant. I wanted to slice it off with my talons. “No, dear. Your contortion is clearly exquisite. I had never considered that a Bludman’s resiliency and flexibility could be harnessed for such beautiful and effective work.” She paused for a moment, allowing me to soak up the compliment before the kicker. “But I must ensure that you will not eat the guests.” She plucked a brass bell from a row on her desk and rang it delicately between thumb and forefinger.

I looked to Vale, who only gave a Gallic shrug. Anger shook me for a moment before I realized that he was possibly doing me a great favor. He seemed to annoy Sylvie as much as he annoyed his father, and perhaps his silence wasn’t so much cowardice or bewilderment as it was the gift of not getting us thrown out of the cabaret on our butts for saying something disrespectful.

Within seconds, there was a soft knock on the door.