Wicked After Midnight(28)

“Entrez,” Madame Sylvie called, and the little blue daimon boy poked his head in.

“Oui, madame?”

“Bring me Monsieur Philippe. Tell him I have a surprise.”

The boy nodded once, ink-black hair shaking, and was gone. Madame Sylvie ignored us, straightening and sorting various papers on her desk and momentarily hefting her bag of coins as if reassuring herself that we hadn’t stolen a single sou. When my eyes met Vale’s wine-gold ones, he mouthed I don’t know what she wants with exaggerated care that made me giggle.

When the knock came next on the door, Madame Sylvie stood gracefully and struck a pose that highlighted her height and grace.

“Entrez, s’il vous plaît, monsieur,” she purred.

I composed my posture and brushed down my rumpled skirts, hoping the sewer spatters of the journey weren’t apparent. Vale was the picture of rakish vagabondry and merely stood, hands on hips and eyes narrowed, as if daring the person coming through the door to say a single thing about his wrinkled, tear-stained shirt.

The man opened the door, and already I could smell him. Overweight humans were a rarity in Sang, thanks to diminishing food supplies and an environment pushed to the brink of disaster by chemical fug and fear. But this Monsieur Philippe could have fed a dozen Bludmen happily, which meant he had to be very, very rich and therefore a very, very good customer. My eyes shot sideways to Madame Sylvie, whose professional smile didn’t waver. It had to be quite the gamble for her—either I passed her little test and was accepted into the company, or I went insane with bloodlust and ripped open the florid neck of the biggest man I’d seen since passing out on the floor of my dorm room on Earth.

“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.