Wicked After Midnight(96)

That finally broke through the dizziness—that anger. “Of course not. Of course I haven’t forgotten her. She’s like my sister!”

“And are you any closer to finding her? Have you done a single thing today, asked a single question? Or have I been running around Paris, spending my hard-earned francs to buy up teeth, in the hopes that you’ll see how much I care for you?”

I pushed away from him, but my arms were too weak to have any effect. He only held me tighter. But he couldn’t stop me from talking. “I don’t know where to begin, Vale! This life eats me up. There’s not a spare moment. I’m lost and dizzy and exhausted and constantly hounded, and I’m still no closer, just rolling old men’s bodies, my hands deep in their moist pockets. Just waiting every moment to be kidnapped, to be stolen away like a child in the night.” Something knocked at the back of my brain, and the sudden realization would have taken me to my knees had Vale not been holding me. “Oh, shit. I should’ve just let the elephant take me away. I had my chance, and I totally blew it. It’s what I want most, and it terrifies me. I just had to fight, didn’t I?”

“You are a fighter, bébé. Do not blame yourself for following your instincts.”

“But I do. And these teeth—are they even hers? Will they bring me any closer to finding her at all? If I stop to think about it for even a heartbeat, I nearly go mad with grief and frustration. But the absinthe quiets it. Only the absinthe and your mouth give me any peace at all, you bastard, and how dare you throw it back in my face?”

I wanted to shake my head, but I wanted his hands on my body more, so I let him hold me there and give me a significant look that made me feel even more warm and loose-limbed than I already was. I swallowed hard and sat forward, and Vale’s hand slipped around to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. “Please, Demi. Please, bébé. We’ll look harder. But no more absinthe.”

My lips parted as I leaned forward to kiss him, and he jerked back. “Why, Vale? I don’t understand . . .”

“I can taste it on your lips.”

“So?”

“So I want nothing to do with wormwood and blood.”

I moved forward again, murmuring, “Don’t be silly. Lenoir said—”

He stood smoothly, from his haunches to his feet before my eyes could track him. He’d managed to lay me gently on my pillows, but I felt the loss of his touch so keenly. “Lenoir,” he breathed. “What else did he tell you, bébé?”

“That it was harmless. That the stories weren’t true. That Bludmen weren’t . . .”

“Weren’t . . .?”

I sighed. “I forget the word.”

“Of course you do. He wants you to forget.”

“He doesn’t. He wants to paint me. Wants to make me an even bigger star. Wants my portrait hung in the Louvre, surrounded by crowds.” I was in his arms again before I could blink, my head cradled against his shoulder like a child.

“What he wants,” Vale whispered in my ear, “is for you to give in completely, a little at a time.” He placed my head back down, and I puddled limply amid the down pillows. With infinite care and a face as hard and sad as weeping stone, he drew the covers over me.

“But he’s an artist—” I started.

“Oh, bébé. He’s a man, and all men are liars.”

He slipped out the window without looking back, and I giggled softly to myself.

“Liar!” I yelled to the darkness.

* * *

When I next heard banging on my door, I was far less drunk and much more annoyed, in part because I couldn’t remember what had happened at Lenoir’s or why Vale and I had quarreled. He had refused to kiss me—I knew that much. And there was something about Cherie, about me not trying hard enough to find her. As if plundering bodies and making myself a sitting duck weren’t enough.

The knocking made me grind my teeth, tasting something black and twisted, licorice and soot.

“Go away!”

The knocking continued, louder and more insistent, and I took off my boot and threw it against the wood.

“Demitasse, forgive me, but the gendarmes are here for you.”

I sat up, blinking back against the sun piercing my curtains. “Am I to have no peace?”

The door opened, and Charline smirked at me. “You wanted to be a star, and stars have no peace. Dress quickly. The photographers are outside the front door, waiting to snap you.”

I groaned and rolled to my feet, testing whether my legs would hold me up. It was iffy. Bathing with rose water from the ewer, I couldn’t help noticing my face. It was a total mess, the kohl and mascara dribbling down my cheeks in dried tear tracks and the lipstick bow smeared across my chin. God, and Vale had seen me like this last night? No wonder he hadn’t kissed me. I looked like Courtney Love after a bender. I scrubbed it all off and rubbed in an expensive cream made of crushed pearls—a gift from a nameless suitor—before reapplying my makeup and touching up my hair. Even dressed to the nines, I felt itchy and off, and I vowed to take a long, hot bath after the night’s show, even if it meant I had to pay Auguste to drive me to a public bath house. My time at Lenoir’s yesterday had promised to be relaxing, but I felt more tightly wound than ever, as if nothing would satisfy me until I tasted the absinthe again.