I tried to hide my childlike glee at flying through the air on a trapeze with a seriously hot guy dangling just underneath me, his buzzed hair tickling my ankles through the stockings.
“Yep, you’re drunk.”
“Just a little. Just enough.”
“Just enough for what? Wailing and waking up the entire cabaret?”
He let his feet down, dragging his boots to bring the trap to a stop. I held on tightly and recomposed my legs, crossing them demurely at the ankles. With more agility than a drunk man had any right to possess, he swung up and turned in the air, landing on his feet, facing me again.
“Just enough to come to you when I don’t have any information, any tips, any trinkets, any advice. To come to you with nothing but myself.”
“Vale, you don’t have to—”
I tried to slide off the trapeze, but he pinned me there and stepped close, spreading my knees to stand pressed against me. His arms wrapped around my waist as he ran his nose up the buttons of my jacket and planted a kiss in the V of my cleavage. I couldn’t breathe and suddenly felt as if I was upside down, as if everything had gone topsy-turvy.
“No, I don’t have to. I want to. And if it took half a cask of the best wine in Paris, so be it. Bébé, I’m not just your errand boy. I want more.”
Maybe it was the absinthe still bubbling in my blood, or maybe I was just sick of being an object of lust who never gave in to her own passions. Hell, maybe I felt the same way, not that I was about to admit it. But I bent my head and pressed my lips against the gold rings set in the curve of his ear.
“More what?” I let my breath play over his scalp. “Eh, bébé?”
He drew a deep breath and buried his face between my breasts. I gasped, caught entirely by surprise. The hot, wet touch of his tongue would have sent me flipping over backward had his strong arms not held me firmly down.
It was insane, the way he devoured me with lips and teeth, and all I could do was hold on for dear life, feeling as if I was floating a million miles over the ground.
“Ouch!”
His teeth had nipped too hard, and I drew back with a hiss.
“What the hell?”
Vale’s lips didn’t budge, and I realized exactly what he was doing. Bludmen tended to smell and taste of hot pennies and old meat to humans and, I suppose, half-human, half-Abyssinian brigands. But once someone had ingested a certain Bludman’s blud, even one drop, that changed completely for them both. If what I knew of Crim and Tish applied, I would now smell delicious to him, and were he human, I wouldn’t be rabid for his blood. He had always smelled strange to me before, but I suspected the hunger I felt for his body, mouth, and mind wouldn’t lessen a bit.
He sighed and pulled me closer. “Oh, dieu. Now you’re like butterscotch. Mignon, I could eat you alive.”
Arm by arm, I slipped off my jacket, revealing the snowy chemise underneath. He ran his tongue along the edge of the deep neckline until he found my nipple, held high and trapped by the built-in cups of the lingerie. Other girls in my position wouldn’t be able to breathe, thanks to their corsets. But with the barely-boned stays Blue had crafted to enhance my shape but allow me to contort, I could feel the press of his hands at my waist, and the way his fingers grasped tighter told me he found it just as hot as I did.
I let my head fall back and held on for dear life as he pulled my nipple into his mouth. The sensation was so deeply sensual that I wrapped my legs around him just to keep him there. With his arms holding me in place, he couldn’t use his hands, but there was a primal hunger in the way he licked and sucked his way across my skin, eager to find the other nipple and bring my breast to float above the chemise, the nipple peaked and eager for his mouth.
“Let me down. I can’t . . . I can’t do anything.”
I wanted to touch him, to run my hands over the rasp of his head and cheek, the smooth line of his throat. I wanted to trace fingers along his hipbones and cup his ass and trace the firm ridge pressing against my legs. But I couldn’t let go of the ropes.
“No, bébé. I like you where you are. And I can make it worth your while.” He let go of my waist and wrapped his fingers hotly, briefly, around mine, around the ropes. “Remember to hold on, yes?”
“Vale . . .”
His hands were already on my thighs, pressing them gently apart and pushing the layers of ruffled skirts and petticoats back over my hips. I sucked in a breath, knowing what he was doing, half mortified and half aching and fully expectant. His fingers danced up the insides of my legs, drawing lines up the ribbon ties of my stockings. Flat palms spread over the brief, lacy bloomers.
“That’s different,” he murmured, curling a finger under the hem, up and down.
As if his touch had been a question, I spread my legs wide to give him better access. He murmured appreciatively and let his finger rove deeper, just under the lacy edge. I quivered and closed my eyes as his fingertip slipped all the way under, stroking me softly. When I moaned, he set his mouth to my breast and murmured, “So wet,” with his lips wrapped hotly around my nipple.
His fingers curled possessively over my knees, holding them apart as he nibbled along my inner thigh, slipping his tongue under my bloomers. He could just barely reach the core of me, and he teased me like that, barely licking, barely tasting, until I whimpered and bucked against his hands.
“Dance for me, bébé,” he murmured. One hand stroked down my thigh and gently moved the bloomers aside to give him full access. I felt the caress of a breeze before I felt his mouth, and it nearly undid me.
He alternated light, breathy, teasing caresses with more aggressive tastes, and it was all I could do to hold on and not scream. I was molten inside, a pool of lava and hunger and need, and I hadn’t been touched this way ever, not even on Earth, with passion and confidence and pure, unselfish finesse. The combination of the taut trapeze and the possibility of getting caught and my pent-up need and his perfectly timed licks were too much, and I shuddered and flew apart, my fingers twitching around the ropes as he kept licking in perfect rhythm, sustaining la petite mort for longer than seemed possible.
“Come down, bébé. Let me catch you.”
Barely thinking, barely capable of thought, I let go of the ropes and fell backward into his arms, still shuddering.
“You put on quite a show, Vale Hildebrand,” I murmured.
“Hope you like encores, bébé. The night is still young. And I’m not done with you yet.”
I was loose and boneless in his arms, and he turned toward the corner, where mats and curtains were puddled behind a barricade of boxes. A smile curled over his lips.
“That will do, yes?”
Before he could take a single step, motion caught my eye. A blue blur slipped into the room, making me gasp and lean against his chest. Vale spun around, muscles tense.
“Bea? What’s wrong?”
The blue daimon zipped past us, blocking the corner where Vale had planned on ravishing me and where I’d planned on letting him. She couldn’t speak, of course, but she shook her head at us and navigated around the boxes. When she motioned me over with anxious eyes, Vale set me gently on my feet, and I wobbled over to investigate. Bea pointed down, showing me where Blaise lay under a faded burgundy curtain, his blue cheeks tinted violet with sleep.
“Oh.” I was mortified that he’d been there all along and extremely grateful that the lights and our banter and my moaning hadn’t woken him. “I’m sorry, Bea. I didn’t know.”
She shook her head and smiled, then pointed at the door, then at Blaise, then put her finger to her lips.
“I won’t tell.” Bea raised her eyebrows at Vale. “We won’t tell.” She exhaled in relief and hugged me. “Wait. Are you in trouble? Is someone . . .” I wasn’t quite sure how to ask the questions I wanted to ask. Was someone trying to hurt the boy? Or was she trying to protect him from knowledge of her nighttime business? How could a young boy grow up in a cabaret and not know what his mother and the other daim
ons did to earn their place?
Her eyes shot to the door, then back to Blaise. Her hands flew up briefly before clenching into fists. She shook her head sadly. She pointed at me, then Vale, then Blaise, then raised a hopeful finger to her lips.
“No worries, honey. We’re leaving. We won’t bother him again, now that we know he’s here at night.”
For just a second, her eyes went impish, her eyebrows shooting up. Her message was clear. She knew exactly what we’d been doing. I blushed, and she smiled sweetly and patted my arm. She gave the sign for Thank you, hugged me again, and slipped around the boxes to pick up the limp boy. Cradling him against her chest, she slipped back out the door as quickly as she’d come in.
Vale and I watched her go with matching frowns and crossed arms.
“I wonder why Bea is so scared,” he finally said.
“I’m going to find out tomorrow.”
He chuckled. “Good luck, bébé. Even for a mute, Bea is locked up tighter than a Kraken’s arsehole.”
I swatted his arm, then clutched it. “You won’t tell, right?”
He patted me, just as Bea had. As if I was a child. “I’m a professional brigand, bébé. Keeping secrets is what I do best.”
I raised my eyebrows at him and stared hard at his mouth. “Maybe second best,” was all I said.
* * *
Falling asleep at Paradis was never easy. The high of performing, the dizzy fizz of the absinthe, my worries about Cherie, my mixed feelings about Vale and Lenoir, the secretive whispers and bare feet of the daimons returning from their assignations: no matter how long I stared at the patterned ceiling of my room, things never coalesced into a complete picture. It was like being too close to a Monet painting, and I couldn’t step back to see what all the smeary dots meant.
Tonight, at least, my body was exhausted and sated and deliciously boneless. Part of me was utterly shocked at what had happened on the trapeze. Most of me felt a grand sense of relief. Being around sex and lust day after day was pretty boring when you weren’t feeling it yourself, but this was different. Unlike the men in the audience, Vale liked me for more than my body. And yes, I knew I had a crush on him. Back in Criminy’s caravan, I’d dreamed of a man—not a boy but a man who was dangerous but safe, funny but effective, strong but willing to support me instead of caging me. To think that I’d found all these qualities in an entirely hot man I didn’t want to eat? Unbelievable. And after tonight, I had to hope he felt the same way. Surely a man didn’t do that to a woman on a trapeze without caring about her?
The fact that he’d willingly ingested my blud also spoke volumes. Other than Maestro Casper Sterling’s time in the caravan, when it’d been a bit of a joke how willing he was to trade blud for temporary freedom, I’d never known a non-Bludman besides Tish who was willing to risk the trade. Could Abyssinians even be pushed toward madness by blud? Veruca the sword swallower was the only other Abyssinian I’d known, and she’d mostly kept to herself.
For the millionth time since waking up in Sang, I wished for a laptop and a fast Internet connection. It was painful, not being able to access information immediately in a private manner. I wanted to know more about Paris, about Paradis, about Lenoir, and mostly about Vale. I chuckled at the ceiling, picturing what a wild brigand’s Facebook page would look like. And then I thought about how in another world, there would be fewer places where my best friend could be hidden. Technology made things more transparent, but magic only obscured things further.
I dreamed of dancing in a grand ballroom, a huge, bell-shaped dress swirling around me. But I couldn’t see the dark figure who held me in the cage of his arms.
* * *
After sleeping in and enjoying a good scrubbing at my ewer the next morning, I sauntered into the theater to find an enormous chandelier hovering a few feet off the ground.
“I kind of thought you guys were joking about this.”
Charline tapped her pen against her notebook, which was her polite way of showing annoyance, now that I was a star. Just a few hours ago, as I’d drunk my blood and smiled at an innocent and still-sleepy Blaise, they’d delivered my finished poster to my room. It was like the gorgeous love child of Mucha and Lautrec, with “La Demitasse” emblazoned across the top on a banner and an overly stylized version of me doing the can-can with impossibly bent legs and, of course, the dreaded cup on my hat.
It was possibly the only thing more ridiculous than the giant chandelier, which had been cleverly fashioned to include plenty of places for me to sit, swing, dangle, and contort. And Charline had already handed me a sheet of paper covered in her tiny, perfect script, outlining exactly what I was expected to do. I folded it up and tucked it into my corset.
“Can I go now?”
Her face screwed up, and she went red all over. “Of course you cannot go! We have a new show to rehearse! The entire theater is sold out, including the boxes. This poster is being pasted on every wall in the city. They say princes from all over the world will be flying in on their private dirigibles. We’re planning a masked ball. You must be perfect.”
“I’m always perfect. And Lenoir is expecting me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Lenoir can wait. Now, on the chandelier and into position.”
I glared at her and lifted my lip to show a fang.
“If you please, Mademoiselle Demitasse,” she added, although it pained her.
I stared longingly at the door, where Auguste waited, hat in hand. All too easily, I could imagine Lenoir waiting in his attic, mixing his paints, pouring our absinthe, watching the sunlight move across my empty chair while his cats stared disdainfully at the door. My own distress bothered me more than his anger. He couldn’t ruin me now, even if he didn’t finish the painting. But I wanted him to finish it, wanted to spend those swooning, magical, timeless hours under the spell of his brush and the dark scrutiny of his cloudy eyes. Whether it was the fellow feeling of the only other Bludman in the city or the pull of a knowing and charismatic older man, I felt the distance between us like a slender string pulling me from afar.
“S’il vous plaît, Demitasse.” Charline waited, arm out invitingly, skin the warning red of a stop sign. “I’ll call out your marks.”
I sighed. “Of course. But only once through. And then I must go to Lenoir.”
“Of course,” she answered with a cold smile. “But first, you earn it.”
* * *
When I finally reached Lenoir’s doorstep, I knocked with trepidation, hoping the bruises on my arms and legs would fade before the master could paint them. Practice had taken longer than I’d hoped, and my anxiousness to finish had meant that I’d made foolish mistakes. New equipment always meant new sore spots, and Lenoir’s low-necked gown would show dark blooms that most Sangish clothes covered up. I didn’t want him to see me any less than perfect.
After a few moments of silence, I knocked again, but still he didn’t come. I stepped back and looked up, but the windows were all covered with gauzy curtains, blocking my view. One of the curtains quivered, and a Siamese cat’s face appeared, glaring at me like the judgment of God. With a grunt of frustration, I dropped the knocker and pounded on the door with my bare fist.
No footsteps in the hall. No open door.
I wiped away a blud-tinged tear and let Auguste help me back into the conveyance, where I flopped in a heap of dejection and loss that seemed utterly useless and stupid even as I was crushed under it. It was like having vampire PMS.
That night, after the performance, I drank so hungrily from my suitor that I was afraid he might stop breathing. Clumsily plundering his sleeping body, I accidentally popped off one of the buttons on his pants and wasn’t sure if I’d put all his effects back where I’d found them. I ended up just stuffing all his papers down the front of his vest and getting drunk on the subpar bloodwine he’d brought as I kept vigil by his unconscious body. I didn’t leave until he murmured in his sleep and reached for me. Exhausted, bruised, and frustrated, I crawled around the
screen to the bed in the elephant’s belly and pulled the thick covers over my head. I fell asleep there to the tune of his snores, feeling utterly lost and a million miles from home and still hungry.
* * *
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.
Wicked After Midnight (Blud) Page 20