Wicked After Midnight (Blud)

by Delilah S. Dawson

  Are you okay? Bea signed, and I nodded and signed, Thank you.

  As soon as Auguste opened the front door, flashes of light and clouds of powder erupted. The photographers crowded around, their reporter partners shouting questions in Franchian and Sanglish and waggling huge feather quills in my face to get my attention. I drew the veil on my hat down over my eyes and took the hand the mustachioed gendarme offered me. But instead of gently holding my hand as if I were getting into a carriage, his leather glove clamped down around my wrist, and he all but dragged me into a waiting constabulary conveyance. The appointments were far rougher than I was accustomed to, and I clenched my hands around the wooden bench as the thing grumbled down the cobblestones, battering me against the sides behind iron bars.

  “At least I’m not in manacles,” I grumbled.

  The younger, nastier gendarme snorted. “Against my recommendation, I might add. Please cause trouble. I beg you.” He not-so-subtly stroked the sleek gun resting against his hip. It looked like a futuristic metal ray gun, but I was willing to bet it was filled with seawater that would burn my skin and possibly leave me with permanent scars. He’d probably never had a chance to use it before and was just praying to give it a whirl.

  I crossed my legs and gave him a sultry smile. “You’re not the first man to say that to me, Monsieur Legrand.”

  He scowled and stared at his clenched hands. I had an enemy for life, but it was worth it.

  The conveyance stopped in front of a grand edifice, all soaring white stone and gargoyles and carvings, classic Paris in this world or my own. Inside, it was noticeably less charming, the windows mostly covered and the gaslights a sickly yellow. The floor was dark and slick and made each footstep echo, each muffled thump or shriek bounce eerily off the walls. I walked between the gendarmes, head back as if they served me instead of compelled me. I still wasn’t exactly sure what they wanted, but I knew it wasn’t good. My job now was to turn the tables and get what I wanted in the most dramatic and diva-esque way possible.

  “Pastry, madame?”

  I gave the older gendarme a quirked eyebrow as he held up a pretty lavender box of éclairs that I had to assume were the Sang version of cop doughnuts.

  “Unless they’re filled with blood, monsieur, I must demur.”

  “Oh, la. I had forgotten.” He stifled a laugh and shook his head, and I liked him the better for it. He would clearly be playing the role of Good Cop in today’s drama. “I’m afraid we don’t keep blood on hand, mademoiselle. I do believe you’re the first Bludman we’ve had in the station.”

  I waved him off. “I understand. A few years ago, I would have gladly eaten half that box.”

  His jaw dropped, showing teeth that had clearly seen too many pastries. “But . . . you were once human? I have heard tales but assumed it was merely supposition.”

  “I was born just as human as you, monsieur.” I batted my eyelashes, knowing that when I wanted to, I could look like an innocent seventeen-year-old. “Fortunately, on the cusp of death, my godfather was able to change me over. But I do miss the sweets.”

  The younger gendarme spit on the ground. “Blasphemy. The girl is clearly lying.”

  I fought the urge to hiss and claw his face off. “Tell me, are those éclairs filled with vanilla cream, chocolate ganache, or pudding? I always preferred the vanilla cream, myself. Especially the real kind, made with butter and Madagascar vanilla.”

  The older gendarme’s mouth twitched. “These are chocolate ganache,” he said, patting his belly. “My favorite.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” the younger one grumbled, and they led me through a thick metal door with a small, barred window near the top. Inside was a sturdy wooden table and three chairs. The older gendarme pulled out my chair for me, and I sat daintily, crossing my legs at the ankles. The gendarmes sat across from me, each one shuffling his papers and preparing his pen.

  “Sergeants Bonchance and Legrand, questioning Mademoiselle Demi Ward, also known as La Demitasse, regarding the events of March nine,” the older gendarme said loudly and clearly, glancing at the window in the door in a way that told me we had a witness.

  “Please proceed,” a metallic voice boomed through a rudimentary speaker.

  “Mademoiselle Ward, please tell us everything that happened on the night of March nine.”

  And I told them, conveniently leaving out the bit about having the hottest sex of my life with a costumed brigand in a private alcove. When I got to the moment when the copper elephant ripped free of its moorings and began to charge through the streets, the younger gendarme, Legrand, raised a hand.

  “Mademoiselle, just to clarify, could you please tell us why you were to meet the prince in this pachyderm?” The nasty quirk of his thin lips told me to tread carefully.

  “I have no idea what he might have had in mind, monsieur. I was merely asked to pay my respects to a visiting dignitary.”

  “On your knees, mademoiselle?”

  I smiled sweetly. “I’m a citizen of Almanica, monsieur. I kneel to no one.”

  “So you’re saying no money changed hands? That there was no understanding?”

  “Not with me. I had barely spoken twenty words to the prince beforehand. Whatever expectations he might have had are his own business. But pray tell, Monsieur Legrand, how does this apply to my attempted kidnapping?”

  “That’s Sergeant Legrand,” the smaller man growled.

  Bonchance put a kindly hand on his arm. “Let’s get back on track, lad.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “Now, can you tell us how you incapacitated your kidnapper?”

  Another saccharine smile. “I hit him twice in the head with a heavy wrench. I assume that self-defense isn’t yet against the law?”

  Bonchance shook his head no, but Legrand leaned avidly forward.

  “Interesting. But how did the gentleman in question come to be exsanguinated?”

  My nostrils flared, and I put up a gloved hand. Funny, how I’d never had so much power before now, the first time I’d been a minority. And I wasn’t taking his shit. “Please, monsieur. If I might ask a question? Would you be interrogating me if you thought I had killed him with the wrench? Or a knife? Or any other weapon at hand?”

  “That question is not pertinent—”

  “An attorney might think it is.”

  Legrand went silent, and Bonchance stroked his mustache.

  The older cop leaned forward, speaking out of the side of his mouth as if we shared a secret. “You must understand, mademoiselle, that as Bludmen are rare in Paris, this is a new conundrum for us. Technically speaking, it is against the law to drink from a human. But if it was self-defense against someone who clearly meant you harm, we must consider it carefully.”

  “Messieurs, I beg you. Please remember, during your deliberations, that I was trapped in a very small, dark room with a man who had already tried to kidnap me.” I blinked, letting my eyes tear up. “And I’m also fairly certain that the crash had damaged him internally. Do you have any idea who that madman was?”

  Legrand scoffed. “This is a police investigation, mademoiselle, not your personal gossip mill.”

  I sat up straighter, dropping the doe-eyed act. “I have a right to know the identity of my attacker.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “And I’d also like to discuss the disappearance of my dear friend Cherie, who was abducted by slavers on the road to Ruin.”

  “That is not part of the current investigation,” Legrand snapped.

  Bonchance added, “And only the city of Paris itself is in our jurisdiction, you see.”

  “You’ll not even take a statement? Not even send out a bulletin with her information?”

  Legrand looked as if he might spit again. “The whereabouts of . . . cabaret girls is not our top priority. Girls disappear frequently, mostly as a result of the unsavory habits of your lifestyle. If we spent our time chasing down every loose woman who fell on hard times, we wouldn’t have time to
investigate important things, like murders. We’re the ones asking the questions, mademoiselle; you’d do well to remember that.”

  I stood, the chair clattering to the ground behind me. “I’m sorry, but are you telling me that you’re satisfied to let slavers kidnap innocent travelers? And that when a madman kidnaps me in a giant machine, I’m not only prevented from knowing his name, but I’m also on trial for killing him in self-defense? Because I’d like to speak to a lawyer. Attorney. Barrister. Whatever you call it in this insane excuse for a justice system.”

  Bonchance held out his hands. “Now, mademoiselle. Let’s stay civil and reasonable.”

  Legrand’s lip twisted up. “I hate questioning women. So melodramatic.”

  Anger flared, my cheeks blazing hot. “So when women are kidnapped, you treat them like criminals? This is clearly a case not only of misogyny but also of racism. Were I a human man, you’d be clapping me on the back and handing me a cigar. But because I’m female, a Bludman, and, in the words you’re too cowardly to speak and which aren’t actually true, a whore, I don’t deserve justice?”

  They both stared at me, mouths open.

  “Mademoiselle—” Bonchance began, and I almost felt sorry for him.

  “Tell me, either of you. Tell me you think that because of who I am, because of what I am, I deserved it. I dare you.”

  “We didn’t mean—”

  “Tell me,” I said clearly, turning to let my eyes bore through the window in the door, “that every word I just spoke isn’t true, and I will cease to be, as you say, melodramatic.” I sat down daintily. “And I’ll wait for that lawyer now, while I compose my remarks for whichever reporters would consider my little story worthy of their time.”

  After a long, dangerous, and painful pause, the speaker squawked, “The mademoiselle is free to go.”

  Bonchance opened the door, and I flounced out of the room like the queen of goddamn England. Now I just had to discover who had kidnapped me and where he had planned to take me. I had to find Cherie and prove all those self-righteous good-old-boy hypocrites wrong.

  24

  Back at Paradis, I ignored Charline and all my curious coworkers and went straight to the tailcoat I’d stashed in my armoire. There had to be something I’d missed. Gentlemen always left a signature of their grandeur in this world.

  I stretched the garment out on my bed, running my fingers along the seams and searching for a tailor’s mark, a tag, a button, anything. It was well made and of the latest fashion, but tiny white stitches showed where the tailor’s tag had been torn from the lining. I sniffed at the thick fabric, scenting oil and hot metal and an unsavory, magic funk. It was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. An odor clinging to the cuff made me gasp—Bludman and pine and vanilla. Cherie. I put my lips to it, breathing it in.

  “Did you just lick a coat?”

  I spun, hands curled into claws, as Vale swung his other leg over to sit on my windowsill. “Do you ever knock?”

  He grinned. “Not if I can help it.”

  His fingers drummed on the sill as the gauzy white curtains billowed around him, highlighting the deep gold of his skin and the brightness of his eyes. He was back in his brigand’s gear, all black and shadows, and I unconsciously licked my lips, remembering what it felt like to pull him close by tuxedo lapels and devour him.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be mad at me?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “My anger burns off easily, like clouds on a sunny day. And you’re not drunk or drugged, so I’m hoping you took my warning to heart.”

  “You’re not my boss.”

  The grin deepened, quirked, took on a new meaning. “Didn’t say I wanted to be.”

  I looked down and swallowed hard, all my earlier bravado fled. “Thank you for the book.”

  “De rien, bébé. I’m glad it pleased you, even if I didn’t.”

  “You did, but . . .” The apology was on the tip of my tongue, but something held it back.

  “I didn’t come here for thanks, you know.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and jumped right back up, suddenly skittish. “What do you want, then?”

  He stood, took a confident but tentative step. “Just this moment or in general?”

  “Your choice.”

  “You want to have this discussion now, bébé? Might be easier after a bottle of wine.”

  But after my outburst at the police station, I was done with being misunderstood. “Tell me the truth, Vale. Why did you offer to help me find Cherie?”

  “You know why. Because I have a soft spot for lost girls. And so I would have an excuse to keep seeing you.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Everything.”

  I blushed and turned away, twisting the tailcoat between my black fingers, aware now more than ever how other I had become. In the police station, I’d been furious at their prejudice, at their assumptions. But now, faced with the truth about someone who had no such qualms, I felt strange and unlovable and desperately alien. And so close to my goal yet so very far away.

  “What did you think would happen once we’d found Cherie?” I asked.

  He stepped close, so close I could feel the heat of his chest against my back. “More truth? As you like. I did not expect to find her. We’ve never found a girl after the slavers took her, at least not whole and undamaged. But I was willing to do anything to find her. For you. And if we did and she was beyond help, I would hold you until you were done crying and help you move on. Give you a reason to move on.”

  I clasped my hands against my heart. In a tiny voice that was more human than anything I’d said in years, I said one word: “Why?”

  “Oh, bébé.” His arms wrapped around me with the same silken warmth as his sigh, and I leaned back into him. “Biggest star in Mortmartre, and do you not even know your own worth? You’re an adventure. A beautiful, wild, strange, intelligent, rebellious journey of a woman. No cookfires for you, no bookkeeping or weaving or collecting of ribbons. You’re the kind of woman who would leap onto the back of a strange bludmare behind a stranger, gallop for hours without complaint, and plunge into the sewers without a second thought. The kind of woman who willingly walks into a trap to save someone she loves. The women of my tribe are fierce but not as fierce as you.” He planted a little kiss behind my ear. “And you make me laugh. I dearly love to laugh.” His hips pressed against me, a quick brush that was more a statement than a question. “And I like to do other things, too.”

  “Stop, Vale. Be serious.”

  “And you don’t think sex is serious? It’s the driving force of nature, bébé. Everything a man does is for love or sex.” He chuckled. “Power is about sex. Fame is about sex. Food keeps you alive so you can have more sex. Clothes make people want to look at you, think seriously about bedding you. Not that I generally take anything seriously. But still. You are a fool if you discount what really motivates every single person and creature in Sang.” He paused, sighed in my ear. “You turned me into a poet, bébé. Even the best songs and books are about love.”

  “Which one are you talking about? Sex or love?”

  He swayed against me, making my hips move. I didn’t fight it; I felt liquid and dizzy. “Maybe both,” he said, and he spun me around to face him, catching my face in his hands and pulling me in with delicious slowness for a deep, lapping kiss that melted my hips into his.

  A knock on the door made me jump guiltily away from him, my teeth bared at the innocent rectangle of wood. My door at the caravan had been mostly left alone, and I’d grown to find all the knocking and demands of Paradis as vexing as the spam e-mails I’d received back on Earth.

  “What?” I barked, and the door opened just enough to admit Blaise. I hadn’t seen him in a while, and his big, dark eyes trembled with fear.

  I beckoned him in, smiling. “Don’t worry, chou-chou. I’m not annoyed with you.”

  He perked up and placed a sharp envelope in my hands, the paper thick and hea
vy with portent. I turned it over, noting that the blood-red wax seal featured crossed paintbrushes and the letter L. Forgetting that I wasn’t alone, I ripped the flap with no panache and pulled a creamy folded sheet from within. The impeccable script in dark purple ink matched the flecks of flower petals embedded in the paper.

  La Demitasse, ma chérie,

  I must request one final sitting to complete the masterpiece. It shall soon be ready for display at the Louvre, where all may gaze upon your beauty and tremble. Come to me one last time, my star. Tomorrow.

  L.

  Pride and a strange sort of hunger-lust bloomed in my chest. One more taste of that amazing, delirious draught. One more golden afternoon under Lenoir’s dark and delicious gaze.

  The postscript was messier than the rest of the letter, as if he’d lost just a bit of that tight control. “I shall miss our quarrels, ma chérie,” it said. “But I shall enjoy more than words one final toast to your fame.”

  “You’re not going,” Vale said, and I spun away from his prying eyes.

  “Reading over my shoulder? That’s low, even for you.”

  He made a strangled noise, half groan, half growl. “Bébé, please. We both know that’s a fancy invitation to fuck you on the canvas.”

  We stood just a few feet apart, but suddenly, a wide and uncrossable gulf opened between us. As if he could see it, too, Blaise backed away and darted out the door.

  “For your information, Monsieur Hildebrand, I’ve only fucked one person since I arrived in Paris.”

  “That is the past.” He pointed at the letter still in my hand. “While this is an obvious offer for something in the future.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Of course, I trust you! Otherwise, I wouldn’t leave you alone in this glorified whorehouse long enough to hunt teeth and secrets in Darkside. It’s him I don’t trust. Lenoir.” He wrapped a hand around the bedpost, his knuckles white. “Do you even remember last night? You were beyond drunk, as open and easy as a flower. Anyone could have done anything to you, and you would have just lain there, laughing, smiling.”