Wicked After Midnight(41)

“So no one’s seen anything? At all?”

He let go of my shoulder and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms and smoldering at me. “What am I going to say? ‘Oh, bonjour. Been buying any illegal slaves? Because I would like to take one back. Without paying. And I won’t tell anyone about the butchering slavers who kidnapped her. Brigand’s honor.’ ” One finger crossed an X over his heart and then went to his lips to mime silence, and I giggled despite my instant depression.

“I guess not. But there has to be something I can do.”

His eyes skittered away, uneasy. “Besides rise to stardom and get kidnapped yourself?” He shook his head bitterly. “I still do not like this idea. Are you sure you have nothing of value to sell?”

I crossed my arms and leaned back, shrugging my shoulders against the brick wall. I wouldn’t give him my only coins. I wasn’t even sure I could trust him. “Nothing.”

“You have no money. I don’t have much. If we had more, I could grease some palms, open some doors. And you could drink fresh blood and sleep on a pillow. Oui?”

“Somewhat tentative oui.”

“But if you have nothing to sell, we are at an impasse.” He reached out to tug a curl that had fallen from my updo. “I would offer to sell your hair to the apothecary, but I think you will need it to become a star.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “Also, I like the way it curls.”

I shook my head and slipped the curl behind my ear, grateful that he’d given me an out . . . and a compliment. I would sell my hair for Cherie, if that was what it took. But I agreed with him; short hair didn’t suit me, and it definitely wasn’t the fashion in Paris. The way Vale was looking at me, though, as if weighing me—there was something he wasn’t telling me.

“What?” I asked.

Shrugging it off with a falsely bright laugh, he patted my shoulder. I immediately felt I’d failed Cherie with my fear.

“Don’t worry about it, bébé. You won’t start earning until you’re onstage, so you’ll just have to put on a brave face until then. Oh.” Vale reached into his vest pocket. “It’s not much. But I thought this might make it easier.” As he curled my fingers around something hard wrapped in a handkerchief, voices came down the hall, and he whispered, “Keep it hidden.”

I felt around my new costume for a place to hide the mysterious package, and he stepped away to a less personal distance as a group of daimons appeared.

“Allo, new girl! Mademoiselle Charline is looking for you.” I didn’t recognize any of the arms, but I nodded and thanked the pink-skinned daimon.

“Why, Vale Hildebrand,” she cooed, catching sight of him. “Brought us anything good today?”

The girls circled him, and his grin slid from me to them. I snorted and turned, doing my best not to storm off to the stage, considering how quickly his attention had shifted.

“Wait, bébé!”

I just held up a glove, wondering what was the Franchian equivalent of talk to the hand ’cause the face don’t wanna hear it. He didn’t call to me again, and even though I slowed down a little to give him the chance to catch up, no hand landed on my shoulder. It made me feel rejected, even though it was childish and ridiculous. I had grown used to Criminy’s brand of brigandry, in which he held the utmost loyalty to his people and especially to his wife but gave the world the face of an outlaw. Even though we’d barely shared a few hours of each other’s company and one kiss almost gone deadly, I had no real reason to feel that Vale owed me anything, much less loyalty. His relationships with the daimons appeared long-standing, warm, and real. Who was I, one desperate Bludwoman, to suddenly show up and turn the world on its head?

That’s what I told myself, but it still rankled. I might have been the predator, but I wanted to be chased, damn it all.

“Idiot, come here.”

Mademoiselle Charline tapped a long, elegant foot beside a rope ladder. I walked to her, chin high. I wasn’t going to start by apologizing—not to her, not to anybody.

“You’re hard to kill, which means you’re a natural for the catwalk. Climb up and replace the cold bulbs, oui?” Blaise scurried out from the wings with a wooden box of milky glass. I was unsure how they could possibly expect even a Bludman to climb a ladder carrying a box, but he showed me how to hitch it onto my back with two wide leather straps.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Charline.”

Thus began a long list of mundane tasks, the sort of manual labor that had been done by subservient humans in Criminy’s caravan, mostly Vil. Maybe I was spoiled, but it seemed counterproductive to waste my potential with mops and feather dusters and gallivanting high above the ground if it wasn’t related to an act. I watched the daimons below, first as they stretched and worked in small groups, then, after noon, when they ran a rehearsal for the night’s show in full costume. Charline ran a tight ship, much tighter than Criminy, who had mostly allowed his carnivalleros to control their own acts. More than one daimon girl was rewarded with a whack from a small leather whip after missing a cue or not smiling brightly enough. Watching Charline’s face, I couldn’t tell which sort of daimon she was, the sort that thrived on success or on pain. She seemed to enjoy a perfectly executed act as much as she enjoyed snapping her whip.