Wicked After Midnight(74)

* * *

The next morning, I found a fang on my pillow. There was no note.





19


There was no hangover like a bloodwine hangover. Well, unless you included the way I had felt when I woke up in Sang after nearly dying of alcohol poisoning on Earth. Being simultaneously hungry and nauseated was even worse when the only thing you could ingest was blood. I dragged myself back to my own bed before dawn, puking sour blood in an urn on the way. When Blaise appeared with my teacup a few grueling hours later, I grabbed at the cup as if I might die without it. Blaise stared at me with pity and disgust as I licked at the dry red droplets that had fallen on the handle.

“Are you well, mademoiselle?”

I looked closer at Blaise. I’d taken him for granted, which I often did with children, as I felt myself too young to have them and too old to consider them people. Blaise was young but seemed like an old soul; he was probably seven or so. I’d seen him running errands or crouching quietly in every corner of Paradis but never in the elephant. He was a lighter shade of blue than Bea, almost like an ink wash instead of a solid hue. And I’d never seen him change color. His hair was black and unruly, his eyes yellow, with horizontal black pupils. He was very strange but very beautiful, as most daimons were.

Before he noticed me staring, I cleared my throat and smiled at him, relatively sure the blood wouldn’t come back up.

“I’m okay, Blaise. How are you?”

He shrugged with that careless grace of young boys, suggesting that it was ridiculous even to contemplate how one might or might not be, most likely because one was too young to have a raging headache, a roiling gut, and a guilty conscience from almost murdering a randy old dude the night before. I didn’t really know how to talk to the kid, but I wanted and needed to know more about him.

Which gave me an idea.

“Blaise, is it hard to learn sign language?”

“I do not know, mademoiselle. What is it?”

“Talking with your hands. So I could understand Bea.”

His shoulders rose up to his ears. “I do not know, mademoiselle. I have always known how to do it.”

“Could you teach me a little every morning? Maybe just a couple of words?”

He glanced quickly at the door and fidgeted.

“How about one word?”

“Perhaps. Which word do you want?”

I thought a second, dragging my pinky around the dregs of the cup to capture every drop. Blaise danced from foot to foot, anxious to be gone and about his business again.

“What’s the word for scared?”

He showed me, his hands hovering over his torso as if electricity and fear were shooting through his body. No problem remembering that one.

“Is that all, mademoiselle?”

I smiled and signed Thank you, and he nodded and ran off.

I needed a better teacher. Or better yet, a book. If Mel, Bea, and Blaise didn’t know that I understood their personal language, I might pick up on something that was assumed to be private. There was something important and silent going on in Paradis, and I wanted to know what it was.

* * *

“So can you get it?” I tugged at my gloves, cheeks hot under Vale’s cool glare.

“Depends. You got money, bébé?”

Vale was acting more distant and Franchian than usual, blocking my way to the conveyance outside and my much-anticipated date with Lenoir. Surely the peculiar painter would let me in today? If Vale would get out of the way and do as I asked in time for me to beat the golden morning sunlight to Lenoir’s attic, I would at least have a chance.

I rolled my eyes and edged toward the door.

“Of course I don’t have money. They haven’t paid me yet.”

“Then I can’t get you a book, bébé. They’re expensive. But we could barter.”

His eyes slid sideways, and I had the distinct impression that he was punishing me for falling asleep in the elephant and missing his delivery last night. Stuck-up bastard probably thought I’d actually enjoyed the wrinkly old guy who’d paid for the privilege of feeling my teeth and nearly died for it. But that was my business. If Vale wanted to court me properly, or even say something kind, I would soften. But if he wanted to be nasty, I could play that game, too.

“Fine. What do you want, brigand?”

A slow, dark smile spread across his face, showing straight white teeth. And in that moment, I knew exactly what he wanted. But he tsked and shook a finger at me.

“It’s not me we’re talking about. It’s what I can sell to get what you want. And the most expensive thing you have is under your skin. Blud is worth more than gold.”

I almost told him to fuck off, but then I thought about it. “More than gold? Seriously?”