Delilah Dawson - Wicked After Midnight

“ Monsieur , I do believe that under the circumstances, it is considered self-defense, n’est-ce pas ?” Charline lovingly dragged Mel and Bea out the door. “If she were a Pinky—I mean, a human—and she had used a hammer or a knife to dispatch her kidnapper, would that not be perfectly within the law?”

Legrand sneered. “All due respect, madame , but a hammer ain’t teeth. Teeth’s personal.”

I glanced at the clock and blanched. “ Messieurs , might I make an appointment to speak with you personally, in private, that we might share information on this incident?” I batted my lashes and slunk around the screen, almost dressed, to take Legrand’s narrow, pale hand in mine. He blushed beet-red, perfuming the air with the scent of blood. When I licked my lips, I’m sure he thought it meant something other than polite hunger.

Bonchance answered for him. “That would be satisfactory, mademoiselle . We shall expect you tomorrow morning.”

“ Merci mille fois, monsieur .” I bowed over his hand and gave him my most charming smile.

“And I do hope you fine gentlemen will accept these tickets to tonight’s show? Mademoiselle Demitasse is understandably too upset to perform, but the daimon girls will astound you.”

The younger, angrier gendarme accepted the gold-trimmed tickets and cleared his throat. “We’ll leave you to your business, then, mesdames . Good day.”

Once the gendarmes were out the door, Charline turned to me, her eyes as sharp as a crow’s on a busy highway. “You,” she started, and I held up a hand.

“I’m off. You promised.”

She sighed heavily. “Tomorrow,” she said slowly, “will not prove to be your favorite day.”

I buttoned up my jacket and gave her my most charming smile. “Provided an enormous copper elephant doesn’t fall on me, I suspect I’ve experienced worse.”

I didn’t understand half the things she muttered in Franchian as I sashayed out the door, and I didn’t care.

I was going to see Lenoir.

When Lenoir metme at the door to his flat, my heart stuttered prettily.

“I heard you went for quite a ride last night, my Demitasse. I didn’t expect you.”

“Water under the bridge, monsieur .” I fluttered my eyes behind my fan. “But today, I am yours.”

Rare and bright, his smile startled me. “And I couldn’t be more pleased.”

I followed him upstairs, mentally comparing his body with Vale’s as the cats twined around my ankles. The two men were built differently, and Lenoir was much older, but I had no complaints. In a way, I felt a little sorry for the men of Sang. With so many petticoats and hoops and bustles, they had no way to judge a woman’s true shape until they got her undressed, which didn’t happen often. In Sangland, from what I understood, the Pinky women were so terrified to reveal their skin to the noses of bludrats that they rarely removed all their clothes, even for lovemaking. Sometimes I regretted being bludded, but when it came to personal freedoms and safety and how good it felt to take off thirty pounds of fabric and breathe at night, I was definitely on the right team.

Upstairs, I changed quickly and relaxed into my chair with a tranquil sigh. Although it had been gray and oppressive outside, the sun danced in prettily through the window, the motes of dust falling like magic snow upon my arms, where the tiny hairs stood up in ripples. A narrow crystal flute appeared in my hand, pink bubbles fizzing.

“This is not the usual drink,” I murmured, taking a sip and then a deeper one.

“Blood and champagne, my dear. They call it the Tsarina’s kiss. It’s too early for absinthe.” He smiled again. “For now.”

I nodded, enjoying the sweet fizz tickling my nose. In moments, I’d downed the blood-tinted liquor and wiped a rogue bit of foam off my nose. I had forgotten since landing in Sang how satisfying and refreshing carbonated drinks could be. As a little girl, I had often awoken in the middle of the night so parched I thought I would die, and nothing felt as marvelous as gulping down soda straight from the bottle in the fridge. Before I could mention it, Lenoir had exchanged my flute for another, which I sipped more slowly, as the first one was already bubbling straight up to my head.

I sank deeper into the chair, slowly unfurling in the sunbeam the way a flower greeted the morning. The champagne glittered in my goblet like laughter made liquid, like the lighter, sweeter, more forgiving sister of the dark red wine laced with blood and absinthe he usually gave me for our meetings. With every sip, I told myself it was only a prelude to the bliss yet to come. I let my eyes go soft, trading focus for the fuzzy, dreamy world of Lenoir’s studio. I didn’t realize I was sighing until Lenoir looked around the canvas at me, his eyes the opaque dark blue of blackberries and threatening to seep in and fill me completely.

“Close your mouth.”

I smirked and licked my lips, missing the bright pink gloss I would have worn in my own world.

“I’m not your plaything,” I said. “For all that I’m merely an object in your still life, I still have free will. And I’ll sigh if I goddamn want to.”

“You’re harder to paint than a horse. At least they express their annoyance through twitching tails and ears.”

The champagne had to be getting to me, for the answer fell from my lips like ripe fruit from a tree. “Horses, monsieur , are best kept for riding.”

One eyebrow shot up, and I knew my little barb had found the target. Finally, the stark, austere man showed some sign of passion outside of his paint. “I have no time for leisurely riding, mademoiselle . And my interests lie outside the acceptable.” His words were clipped as he disappeared behind the canvas, his twitching brush belying the break in his usual coolness.

I took another sip, rolling the champagne and blood over my tongue. There was something else there, something sweet and cloying and syrupy. Not absinthe, not even a hint of wormwood and anise, and I didn’t know if that was disappointing or comforting. But whatever the unknown addition was, it made my spine go loose, my arms limp, my lips numb. Might as well have been absinthe, for still it made the dust motes dance like fairies, just out of the edges of my vision. But what had he said about his interests?

“Do you know, my dear, that I have traveled?”

My mouth quirked up, and the empty glass spun lazily in my fingers, which seemed altogether too long and as if they had grown another joint. “I would assume so, monsieur . A man of your age and tastes would wish to experience the world.”

His night-blue eyes peeked around the canvas like a child cheating at hide-and-seek. “I’ve been to every corner of the globe. Which has no corners, as I suspect you are aware. I’ve sampled the . . .” He paused daintily, and I could imagine his spade beard twitching as he chose between the word women and the word blood . “Wares of every bazaar, every bodega, every grand hotel.”

“And?”

I was surprised to hear footsteps and looked up to find Lenoir staring down at me, his eyes gone the indigo of caverns cleaved in rock where things are buried forever, hidden until they crumble away to shadowy loam. He looked cold and remote in a way Criminy never had, as if growing older had ossified his heart and caused his veins to shrivel into sharp things, claws that forever grasped. He leaned over, and I found my hands hovering over my chest as if begging him not to snatch out my heart in his twisted talons.

“And I have found that everything in this world has a price.” He leaned closer, close enough that I could smell the blood on his breath. “Except, perhaps, yourself. And do you know what that tells me, mademoiselle ?”