Wicked After Midnight(55)
The first page was all politics, the second all society. Boring. A full-color page caught my attention. It was a slick insert titled “Diversions,” and the main illustration featured a slightly familiar, if overly beautiful, slender girl with dark hair and bangs kicking one red boot high over her head.“La Demitasse: The Angel of Paradis,” the headline said.
I read the story hungrily, knowing that at least half of it would be lies. As Criminy had always said, journalists were worse than novelists, because novelists at least try to tell some truth. Mortmartre has ever been the pleasure district of distinguished gentlemen and high-spirited daimons, but a new addition has the crowd clamoring for more. A Bludman? In Paris? And performing? Do not faint, ladies, for she has been proven as safe as a muzzled and broken bludmare by Monsieur Philippe himself. Our esteemed Duc de Fournier agrees, saying only, “La Demitasse is a singular creature of unparalleled grace and beauty, and I look forward to giving her more of my attention.”
Tickets through the next week were sold out before noon at Paradis, and interested parties may inquire from Madame Sylvie regarding personal boxes and champagne. A grand finale is planned to stun and surprise all viewers beginning Saturday next.
Your heart will be this Bludman’s next victim!
I sipped my blood and laughed.
So they would indeed be coming after me . . . with roses and bottles of bloodwine. I’d triumphed again, this time by simply doing what came naturally. If the duke continued to spread his story, then my parlor trick would become feeding daintily from my suitors while waiting to search their bodies or be kidnapped.
I could do that.
* * *
That afternoon, I had a costume fitting and was politely requested to indulge Charline with a rehearsal. I acquiesced gracefully, knowing deep inside that while I had to keep up the untouchable-diva front to the gentlemen who wanted my favors, I didn’t want to be a bitch to my coworkers and employers. Criminy had included rehearsal in every day’s plan, so it felt good and refreshing to go through the motions and accept a page of overly polite notes from Charline, who actually had excellent ideas on improving my work on the hoop. Thanks to last night’s drink from the duke, I was sated and strong and smiling when I sauntered back to my room, enlivened by solid work and feeling like a queen.
I sensed the man waiting within before I opened the door this time. Vale sat by the fire, feeding my apothecary jar of notes and love letters into the flames.
“What the hell, Vale?” My new skirts tangled around my legs as I jogged to him and snatched the half-filled jar of notes from the rug by his side.
His look was dark, threatening, and I drew back a little even though he posed me no danger. “They wish to make you into a whore. At the very least, a kept thing. It makes me sick.”
My blud boiled, and I bared my teeth. “You don’t get to decide what I am. No one can do that but me.”
His mouth dropped open as he stood. “Bébé, you can’t want . . . that is . . . I wouldn’t have thought you’d be angry at me for wanting to keep you from being sold as a prostitute.”
I gave a dark chuckle. “I appreciate the thought. I’m just not willing to tolerate the assumption. And I’m keeping notes on all the letters they send, sniffing them for a trace of Cherie.”
Vale dusted off his pants and resettled his shirt while he hunted for his words. In the end, he settled for placing the half-full jar in my waiting hands and shooting me his wicked grin. “We started off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry for burning your clues. You were beautiful last night, bébé. And not in a way that intrudes upon your personal freedom. Beautiful like . . . a wild mare or a sunset. Something completely independent.”
“Thanks? I guess.”
“Do not give me that attitude, chère. You say you’re the one making the rules. I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you are being treated well.” He looked down, rubbed the back of his head. “Considering I’m the one who brought you here, I feel more than a little responsible for your happiness.”
I faltered. It was nice that he cared, but I would have preferred that he was there because he liked me and wanted to be around me. I’d had enough caretakers and had just told him to buzz off in that area. Or, better yet, I wanted . . . “Do you have any news? On Cherie?”
His smile was rueful, his eyes angry and perplexed. “It’s tricky, bébé. The word on the cabaret circuit is that more and more daimon girls are disappearing. No one calls it ‘taken.’ There’s no mention of slavers or kidnapping. But they all seem to descend into drink and worse before just . . . vanishing. Most assume they wandered into the streets alone while under the influence of absinthe and met dark ends. The bludrats will strip any corpse they find, regardless of species. And the gendarmes refuse to investigate.”