Wicked After Midnight(53)

“Et voilà!” I held out the cup, eyebrows raised under my thick bangs.

The duke chuckled, a very French sound. Or Franchian. In any case, it was utterly confident and appreciative, and it carried the tone of dark, easy promise. Lifting the half-full bottle, he poured the shimmering bloodwine into my makeshift cup. Whether or not he had drugged the first glass, I had no choice now but to drink and hope for the best. Surely a man like this—a powerful, handsome, wealthy man—wouldn’t wish to bed an unconscious form. The seduction and fire had to play a part in it. Dozens of girls would have lain with him for free. He’d probably paid enough for my time to run Criminy’s entire caravan for a year. My heart raced, terrified of giving him what he wanted and even more terrified of denying him.

I caught his eyes as I tipped back the cup, the wine running from the sharp paper corner and into my mouth. It was delicious. No, more than that. It was like champagne made of love and lust and magic, effervescent and smooth and sweet. A fire licked up my insides, and my smile turned real as I caught the last drop from the burgundy-stained paper.

“You have excellent taste, monsieur,” I purred.

His smile returned, and he sat down on the couch of shimmering copper velvet that matched the elephant, one arm along the carved wood back. When he patted the seat beside him, I had no choice but to leave the paper cup leaning against the bottle and saunter to him, hips swaying. I wanted more wine, but more than that, I needed my wits about me.

“Please join me, mademoiselle.” Instead of sitting where he’d indicated, I sat at the other end of the sofa, my legs tucked under the ruffles of the flared dress. The couch was short enough to allow his fingers to play with the curls hanging down from under my hat. “I found your little gift this morning terribly clever. It’s not often I meet a cabaret girl with any fire.”

“But I’m a Bludman, monsieur. I’m filled with fire.”

“Oh, I know. I know everything about you. Even about that little caravan in Sangland, although I have trouble envisioning you performing for the country rubes, surrounded by freaks.”

I turned my snarl into a toothy grin. “I’m flattered by your interest.”

“I make it a point to scout the land before making an investment.”

My eyebrows rose. “So I am merely a piece of property, then? How peculiar. I had always imagined myself a person.”

He leaned close, drawing a finger along my jaw. I shivered as if a shark had brushed against my leg. It’s rare a woman challenges me, Mademoiselle Ward. I find it rather intriguing. But dukes must be careful where they spend their time and with whom. I always do my research.”

“Considering you’re here, I can only assume you found me harmless.”

His fingertip lifted my lip a little further, just over a fang. I struggled to maintain composure, my lip trembling in his grasp. “I consider you anything but harmless. Fortunately, I have ways of rendering a woman, shall we say . . . less dangerous?”

He leaned in for a kiss, my chin in his hand. I whipped my face away and stood, putting the arm of the couch between us. The look he gave me then—he was like a reptile, a lizard, head cocked and eyes hard and fathomless.

“Demi, surely you understand that I’ve made an arrangement with Madame Sylvie? A great deal of money exchanged hands. Normally, I don’t mention such crass topics, but you appear to need a reminder of your precarious position.” His hand patted the couch again, harder this time. “Sit.”

“Ah, but sir, you haven’t made an arrangement with me. No money has found my hand. And so, you see, I haven’t agreed to anything.” His face was going over red, so I looked down, batted my eyelashes at him. “I don’t normally mention such crass topics, but I may be the last virgin in Mortmartre. I’m only eighteen, and I wasn’t prepared for . . . this.”

It was a lie, of course. They were all lies.

But he believed me.

And he didn’t care. His breath caught.

“Eighteen,” he said, slowly and carefully, “is more than old enough.”

“Not for me, monsieur.”

He licked his lips. “Surely we can agree on a compromise?” Leaning back and twitching his coat aside, he revealed his bulging “compromise,” and a rush of rage overtook me.

“You want my mouth on you, monsieur?”

“Very much, mademoiselle.”

I grinned, and the sight of my fangs made him gasp. “As you wish.”

And I dove for his throat.





14


I didn’t kill him, although I wanted to. But I did make a terrible mess. I’d never fed from a human before, and my teeth slid across his skin like a car over black ice. When his arm latched around my waist, I bit harder, finally opening the skin and releasing a dribble of blood. My tongue found his neck with the impersonal kiss of licking a stamp.