Delilah Dawson - Wicked After Midnight

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because I want you awake and looking into my eyes while I tell you with every stroke that you’re mine. Not insensible and silly. Any man who wants that . . .” He set his forehead against the wooden post and sighed. “He’s a coward. And a villain.”

“And what makes you think I won’t sit for the portrait one last time, raise a glass of champagne, and leave with a kiss on the back of my hand? He’s never touched me, Vale. He’s never tried.”

“That’s the thing about absinthe, bébé . When the time comes, he won’t have to try at all.”

I opened my mouth to say a million more things, but then I remembered that I alone knew Lenoir’s secret. That he was a Bludman, like me, and that I needed that fellow feeling in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers. Something told me that if Vale ever learned anything about that, the smile would finally drop off his face forever.

One more trip to Lenoir’s studio, and then it would be over.

One more sip of absinthe, and then I would be done.

Then I would be good.

Then I would be a star.

And Vale didn’t need to know that.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said.

His eyes were wary as I walked to the fire and tossed in the note and the envelope, but as the paper caught and burned, he relaxed and finally let go of the bedpost. He came to stand by my side, sliding an arm around my waist with comfortable ease and pulling me against him.

I watched the paper curl, breathing in the smoke that rose from the cherry-red edges. I tasted violets and anise and something darker, woven into the paper along with the dried flowers. I wondered, briefly, what might have grown from the letter had I planted the paper in some dark place and watered it and kept it warm.

I was so lost inmy reverie that I’d almost forgotten Vale was there, difficult as that was. Something about the smoke, about Lenoir’s letter . . . I finally blinked back to reality when he said, “Changing the subject, bébé : You never answered. Were you licking the coat?”

In his hands, the elephant pilot’s tailcoat seemed limp and harmless, and I walked over to finger the place on the collar that should have held the tailor’s tag.

“He removed the tags. And the buttons are completely average. And I wasn’t licking it; I was smelling the sleeve. He’s been near Cherie. I think. It’s hard to tell with all the clockwork grease.”

“From running the pachyderm, I suppose?” He held out the arms, inspected the fabric between two fingers. “It’s been there since Paradis opened. I don’t think anyone knew it could move, that it was useful for anything but . . .”

I raised one eyebrow, daring him to finish it.

“I didn’t even know you could go into the head,” he finished with a smirk.

“Me, neither. But then again, I spend as little time in there as possible.”

“I know.”

We glared at each other for a few moments, just until I noticed him staring hungrily at my lips.

“And you never told me why you broke in through my window.”

“What, is it not enough to crave your company?”

“Oh, it’s enough.” I dragged a finger up the dark stubble on his throat just to watch him swallow. “But that’s not why you’re here.”

He laughed with his usual good humor before shaking his head and clearing his throat, uneasy as a dancing horse. “Right as always, bébé . Two things, both disturbing. First of all, I found another fang and put it into the hands of a glancer. All she could glean is that the Bludman in question is somewhere deep underground and miserable. So if the fang did come from Cherie, we know she is not a concubine in a cabaret or a servant in a duke’s palace.”

“But she’s underground and miserable! And we don’t even know where to start looking or if she’s underground in another city . . .” I broke away from his orbit and paced the room. I’d always felt it was better to know the truth than to wonder, but now his news had killed my foolish hope.

“And here is the other thing—also bad news but a clue nevertheless.”

The item he pulled from his waistcoat pocket was small and heavy and cold in my palm. I pushed the curtain aside to let sunlight fall on the oil-smudged metal of a tie tack. “Is that a skull? With wings?”

He nodded. “A raven skull with bat wings. And a top hat.”

“Where did it come from?”

Vale pointed to the jacket on my bed. “From his cravat.”

“How did you get it?”

Vale shrugged. “I have my ways.” I stared harder. “I am a brigand, bébé . Had you forgotten?”

“I remember. I just haven’t seen you do many . . . brigandly things.”

He grinned. “That just shows you what an excellent brigand I am.”

“What does it mean?”

“That your kidnapper tied a natty cravat.”

At the end of my rope, I curled my fingers into Vale’s shirt and hissed at him, hard, my bared teeth inches from his lips. He stumbled back with a look of such surprise that it was almost comical.

“Did you just hiss at me?”

“You deserved it. Now, stop being clever and explain to me what this is, why it’s important, and why this guy wanted to kidnap me in a fucking elephant. It’s . . . not subtle.”

Vale held out his hand, and I dropped the button into it. He bit the edge and turned it over with one wide finger, and I noted how odd it was to see a man’s bare hand; I still wasn’t used to it. “It’s cast of solid gold, which is unusual. The symbol is not one that I have seen before, but among my people, it’s sinister. A raven’s skull is used for dark magic. Bat wings signify nighttime. The top hat is a very expensive kind, extra tall, favored only by the very wealthy men who can afford it. So whoever he was, he had money and dangerous leanings.”

“But you don’t know who he was?”

“No. But I expect that some of the daimon girls might. It’s an extraordinary man who isn’t known somewhere in Mortmartre. Especially if he has the money to buy the rare things that take his fancy.”

“Do we have a picture of him? A description? He was blond and completely forgettable.”

He shook his head. “The gendarmes are covering it up, for some reason. I caught this little dainty before they could stuff everything in the incinerator.”

“Hmm.” I ran a finger over the design. It was pretty, if evil. “So lots of money is involved.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “It doesn’t take a lot of money to make the gendarmes dance, bébé . But yes, judging by the fact that they were going to burn solid gold instead of keeping it, I’m guessing many francs changed hands.”

I tried to think back, but I had never really seen the kidnapper’s face, thanks to his goggles and mask.

“He said something to me. Before he died.” I paused, rolled the button back and forth on his palm. “Mal.”

“Mal?”

“That’s it.”

“What does it mean?”

“I dunno. It means nothing to me. What’s it mean to you?”

He rubbed a finger over the dent his tooth had made in the button. “ Mal means bad, evil.” But the way he rubbed his chin, his eyes shifting like moor grass . . .

“There’s something more, isn’t there?”

“Maybe. There are rumors . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’ve heard whispers of something called the Malediction Club. Its members are high up, very high, and sworn to absolute secrecy on pain of death.”

“But what is it?”

“I don’t know, not exactly. I had always assumed it was just a party of the usual powerful men sitting around with cigars, patting one another on the back. But between this pin, your kidnapping, and the way the gendarmes are sweeping it all under the rug, I suspect the Malediction Club is real and this is their crest, their sigil.” He glanced up at the clock and then to the window, his fist curling around the pin. “Come on.”