Delilah Dawson - Wicked After Midnight

“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 bangingon 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.

Wait. Had I promised Vale I wouldn’t drink it again? I didn’t think I had.

He’d been right about one thing, though: I had let the giddy whirl of fame get to my head, and I wasn’t trying hard enough to find Cherie. By light of day, I felt silly and lazy and guilty. And ready to get tough about finding answers.

With every hair in place and long satin gloves covering my arms, I sashayed down the stairs and out the door, blowing kisses to Mel and Bea and the rest of the girls, who watched and whispered. And no wonder—I’d nearly been killed in a giant elephant and had then disappeared for a day with the most famous and notorious artist in the world and come home too drunk to walk. Even for a cabaret girl, I lived a wild life.

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.”