Wicked After Midnight (Blud) (24 page)

I couldn’t keep track of the turns we made or the landmarks we passed, although the scent wafting from a lavender-painted bakery made me simultaneously nauseated and heartsick for my human life. We finally screeched to a stop outside a building like any other, the walls a smoky bluish-gray with elegant copper statues of dancers flanking the doors. Auguste left the conveyance chugging and held a black parasol over my head as he helped me down to the street and walked me up the steep stairs to the front door.

“
Bonne chance
,” he murmured. He was gone before I could ask him how I was expected to get back to Paradis.

I took a deep breath and drew back my shoulders as
I lifted the door knocker. It was shaped like a lion with gigantic fangs, and my three knocks rang up and down the alley and sent a flock of pigeons squawking into the grayish-purple clouds. Footsteps echoed within, and soon the door opened to reveal Lenoir himself in an impeccably clean artist’s smock. He didn’t smile, but then again, I didn’t expect him to.

“You’re barely on time.”

“And you’re barely personable. I expected better,
monsieur
.”

That earned a snort but still no smile. “Come in, then, and enjoy my hospitality.”

“Said the spider to the fly,” I murmured under my breath. But if he heard, he made no comment.

I stepped into his foyer, which was ten degrees colder and a deep shade of ombre. Lenoir was already taking the stairs, which were thickly padded by a carpet patterned in thorns and roses. I hurried after him, hoping not to displease him further. Something about him felt dangerous in a very welcome way, and I wanted to learn more of his secrets. Two Siamese cats the color of marshmallows with singed corners darted past us, silently preceding us up the staircase. I longed to touch them, as the only cat I’d seen in six years had been the tailor’s cat in the caravan.

Lenoir passed the second level, and I only had a moment to glance down the orange-lit hallway at two closed doors and an elegant table holding a huge bouquet of flowers. My nose crinkled at the vegetal decay of funeral lilies, but I suspected that to a human or daimon, the odor would have been pleasant. Still Lenoir didn’t speak, and still I followed him, past two more floors
likewise beautifully closed off, up to the very top floor, where the cats posed daintily on a chaise. The plush carpet ended in a frayed strip, and then dusty wood floors the color of new honey spread out, their smooth stripes broken only by the occasional stain of spilled paint.

A grand window let in a strip of sun as narrow and targeted as a laser, with the promise of a gold-rimed sunbath once morning was officially in full force. Directly in front of it was a rug so deep and luscious-looking that I wanted to rub my cheek against it. A velvet chair with curling arms sat at an angle, a cushy pillow and a whisper-soft blanket thrown over it. Lenoir turned to me with a dress draped over both arms as if the body inside had simply dissolved.

“Put this on, and take your hair down. There’s a screen.” He jerked his chin at the corner and dumped the dress into my arms. It was a heavy thing and had the old, rubbed look of a royal gown from the previous century. The deep chocolate-plum would perfectly complement my hair, eyes, and skin, and Lenoir knew it.

The screen was a paltry thing, paper and ripped in places. A pair of forgotten stockings were draped over it like shed snakeskins. I checked that Lenoir was readying his palette before turning my back to the slightly chill room and quickly slipping from the many layers of cabaret attire to the rich, hand-stitched dress. It was off-the-shoulder and sleeveless, hanging like a bell from my hips. When I took down my hairpins and shook the black curls over my shoulders, I couldn’t help smiling. It felt a little like I was going to vampire prom. And yet something about the costume made me feel vulnerable and small, like a child playing dress-up. Like one shove at my
shoulders would draw it down and leave me completely bare in seconds.

“Hurry, Mademoiselle. We need the light.”

I walked to the chair and sat down.

“Too prim. You’re a sensual woman, Demi. Sit in the chair like a lazing queen.”

His dark eyes engulfed me, one fist under his chin. I slumped back and slid down, hooking a leg over the chair arm and letting my head fall to the side. His mouth barely twitched.

“Better.”

He had an easel ready, a large canvas waiting. But he didn’t start painting. Merely scrutinized me as if something still weren’t quite right.

“You’re too tense. The painting will appear unnatural. But I know what will help.”

I shifted the cushion to where my leg met the chair arm and watched Lenoir open a cabinet filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes. He selected a wine bottle and a shorter squat thing of heavy green glass. I narrowed my eyes as he pulled a leaf-shaped flat spoon from a drawer.

“
Monsieur
, forgive me, but I don’t care for absinthe.”

I didn’t actually know if I cared for it; I just knew that I didn’t want any. I’d heard enough stories in Sangland, read enough penny-dreadfuls, and studied enough art history on Earth to know that Sang’s combination of wormwood and laudanum would render me a useless, addicted zombie.

“My dear, this isn’t the rot-gut they sell on the street. This is an herbal preparation by the esteemed Dr. Ordinaire. I take just the tiniest drop in my own bloodwine.”

He added a dash of green liquid to a wineglass, placed the flat spoon over the rim, set a sugar cube on it, set the sugar on fire, and poured a full glass of red bloodwine over the blue-flaming sugar cube, causing most of it to melt away. After stirring the deep purple mixture, he poured half the liquid into another wineglass and brought it to me. I took it as if grasping a viper. I was suspicious, angry, and scared, but the dare in his eyes kept me from flinging the unwanted drink across the studio. Angering Lenoir could be the end of my stardom; one word from him, one breath that he’d rejected me, and the seats of Paradis would be empty, the paper full of lies surrounding my name. I would never be snatched up and delivered to Cherie, to save her from whatever hell held her. This man—this strange, dark, secretive man—held the keys to Mortmartre.

It also didn’t escape me that girls disappeared all the time in Paris with no repercussions, no justice. I was better equipped to survive than most, but no one knew my weaknesses as well as a fellow Bludman. The bravado I’d shown Vale was no longer justified.

Lenoir clinked his glass against mine and sipped, his mouth curving up in a lazy, sensual smile that served as a dare. We both knew he was proving that it wasn’t poison. We both knew I now had no choice but to taste it.

“To the Red Fairy,” he said.

I held the glass to my nose and sniffed. It was a cacophony of smells good and bad: the sharpness of anise, the maple-syrupy sweetness of fennel, the bite of wormwood, the sour velvet of wine, and, most attractive, the warm, salty goodness of fresh blood. I wanted to taste it. And I hated myself for that.

Lenoir took another sip and raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t strike me as the sort of woman easily frightened by rumors and a few bits of plant. Would I be drinking it myself if it were deleterious? Would I stand where I stand, hold the power I hold, if this drink was dangerous?” He sipped again, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Drink, Demi.”

I touched my lips to the glass, let the plummy liquid wash against my mouth. The Red Fairy, he’d called it. Taste exploded over my tongue, and without another thought, I sipped it. What was the point of being nearly indestructible if you didn’t enjoy the hell out of yourself every now and then?

After my second sip, he nodded slowly, his dark eyes smoldering like storm clouds at night. “That’s better,
chérie
. Lean back. And hold still.”

Taking his half-empty glass with him, he found his place behind the easel. After a brief pause, his brush began to move furiously, faster than seemed possible. The oily tang of paint filled the air. Moments later, the sun lit on my hair, warming me all over with the feel of crayons melting on a radiator. I took another sip and relaxed, my eyes caught on the glittering motes of dust dancing in the sunbeam. They looked like fairies, and if I squeezed my eyes shut and watched through my eyelashes, I could almost see their wings.

“Your head,
chérie
.” He waved at the air, and I realized my cheek had fallen over completely.

I righted myself and felt the room spin sweetly, but something he’d said had caught my attention.

“Cherie,” I murmured.

“Yes?”

Cherie sounded the same as
chérie
. I giggled. That wasn’t the way to go about it.

“You paint lots of girls, don’t you,
monsieur
?”

He peeked around the easel, brush moving furiously. “You know I do. Have you been to the Louvre yet?”

“No. But I’ve seen reproductions. When I was in Sangland.”

“I’m sure one of your paramours will take you there soon. A reproduction misses the life, the subtlety, of the original.”

“Have you ever painted a Bludman before?”

“Of course. A private client. Ahnastasia Feodor, the Tsarina herself. She’s in Paris often so her mate can perform, you know. Such ostentation.” He sighed and sipped his bloodwine. Or absinthe. Bloodsinthe? I giggled again.

“So most of your victims are daimons?”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Of course. As this is the pleasure district of Mortmartre, most of my subjects are daimons. There’s occasionally a human girl in the mix, but honestly, who could expect a mere human to keep up with the performance a daimon can provide? When you feed on joy or lust, you’re always going to have more to give to your work.” His eyes twinkled for just a moment. “To be quite honest, it’s been so long since I’ve painted a girl with flesh-colored flesh that I know I’ll have to mix and remix the colors, trying to capture all the subtleties. Blue and red are so much more straightforward.”

Glancing down at his empty wineglass, he seemed surprised to see that he’d drunk it all. When I looked down at my own glass, barely a few deep-red drops remained, and it hung from my talons just a few bare inches from the plush carpet. I had completely forgotten I was holding it.
Talking to Lenoir was hypnotic, like having tunnel vision. When I was around him, he was all there was, a vacuum.

Wait.

I looked up. The afternoon sun had moved all the way across me and now painted me with dark shades of red, like a rash.

“
Monsieur
, it’s late! Past time to go. I must perform soon.”

He looked confused for the briefest moment, before placing his brush reverently on his table. “Is it? Time does have that tendency to fly.” I rushed to the door, and he stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Your dress,
chérie
,” he said gently, his voice low and husky. I realized for the first time that he’d taken off his gloves to paint me, and his hands were dark like mine, their nails white and sharp. I’d never been touched by the bare hands of a male Bludman, if you didn’t count Criminy, and I shivered all over like a spooked horse.

All I could do was nod and rush back to the screen. I didn’t look back at him as I changed into my layers, more glad than ever for the Sang cover of a corset and the safety of petticoats. The cats attacked my skirts and the laces of my boots but darted away when I tried to pet them, slicing at me with their claws. When I was mostly dressed, I looked for a mirror in which to arrange my hair, as fashionable ladies never walked the streets with their hair loose.

“Allow me.”

He appeared behind me, his fingers nimble as they twirled my hair into a low chignon and pinned it swiftly into place. I wanted to bolt; I wanted to stay; I wanted to turn and kiss him and see if he tasted of absinthe
and blood. Lenoir sent confusing signals through me, but I understood that my predator’s blud respected the inherent danger in the famous painter and wished to flop on the floor and show him my belly as the lesser creature.

“Where did you learn to dress a lady’s hair?”

He leaned down, his lips against my ear. “You’re no lady.”

I jerked away and spun to face him, mouth open to shout about who got to tell me what I was.

“You’re a Bludman, Demi. You might forget it among the daimons, but at least here, in this room, under my brush, you can be exactly what you are.” I closed my mouth. He smirked. “And it’s not difficult. One night backstage at a cabaret could teach an idiot how to pin a chignon.”

“So you’ve worked backstage?”

He stood at the door, waiting. “I didn’t say that.
Au revoir, mademoiselle
.”

I hurried past him and down the stairs, a blush hot in my cheeks. Throwing open the door, I found the conveyance outside and Auguste sitting on the steps wearing a forlorn expression.

“I’m sorry, Auguste—”

He looked up and saw Lenoir standing in the doorway, a dark and silent form. Shaking his head mournfully, the daimon only said, “My pleasure, miss. Let me help you up. We must hurry.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,
mademoiselle
.”

Lenoir stood in his door like a god atop a mountain. His dark eyes didn’t blink, just stared at me, capturing me, searing me with an odd sort of ownership
that my body wasn’t fighting as hard as it should have.

“Yes,
monsieur
,” was all I could say.

*   *   *

That night, I went to
the pachyderm feeling optimistic and hungry, which was a great change from my usual nervousness. Although I’d had the two vials to which I was accustomed, not to mention whatever blood was in Lenoir’s wine, I felt sapped and more tired than usual. A hot, willing victim would be more than welcome. As I hurried to the mirror to touch up my face and hair, I pondered what vintage I would have tonight. Rich, of course. But young or old? Shy or confident? I could taste the men’s personalities in their blood, and it was fascinating.

I was powdering my nose behind the screen when the door opened.

“Are you ready, La Demitasse?” a man’s voice called.