Wicked After Midnight (Blud) (36 page)

“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 banging
on 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.”

His jaw dropped, showing teeth that had clearly seen too many pastries. “But . . . you were once human? I have heard tales but assumed it was merely supposition.”

“I was born just as human as you,
monsieur
.” I batted my eyelashes, knowing that when I wanted to, I could look like an innocent seventeen-year-old. “Fortunately, on the cusp of death, my godfather was able to change me over. But I do miss the sweets.”

The younger gendarme spit on the ground. “Blasphemy. The girl is clearly lying.”

I fought the urge to hiss and claw his face off. “Tell me, are those
éclairs
filled with vanilla cream, chocolate
ganache
, or pudding? I always preferred the vanilla cream, myself. Especially the real kind, made with butter and Madagascar vanilla.”

The older gendarme’s mouth twitched. “These are chocolate
ganache
,” he said, patting his belly. “My favorite.”

“Let’s get this over with,” the younger one grumbled, and they led me through a thick metal door with a small, barred window near the top. Inside was a sturdy wooden table and three chairs. The older gendarme pulled out
my chair for me, and I sat daintily, crossing my legs at the ankles. The gendarmes sat across from me, each one shuffling his papers and preparing his pen.

“Sergeants Bonchance and Legrand, questioning Mademoiselle Demi Ward, also known as La Demitasse, regarding the events of March nine,” the older gendarme said loudly and clearly, glancing at the window in the door in a way that told me we had a witness.

“Please proceed,” a metallic voice boomed through a rudimentary speaker.

“Mademoiselle Ward, please tell us everything that happened on the night of March nine.”

And I told them, conveniently leaving out the bit about having the hottest sex of my life with a costumed brigand in a private alcove. When I got to the moment when the copper elephant ripped free of its moorings and began to charge through the streets, the younger gendarme, Legrand, raised a hand.

“
Mademoiselle
, just to clarify, could you please tell us why you were to meet the prince in this pachyderm?” The nasty quirk of his thin lips told me to tread carefully.

“I have no idea what he might have had in mind,
monsieur
. I was merely asked to pay my respects to a visiting dignitary.”

“On your knees,
mademoiselle
?”

I smiled sweetly. “I’m a citizen of Almanica,
monsieur
. I kneel to no one.”

“So you’re saying no money changed hands? That there was no understanding?”

“Not with me. I had barely spoken twenty words to the prince beforehand. Whatever expectations he might have had are his own business. But pray tell, Monsieur
Legrand, how does this apply to my attempted kidnapping?”

“That’s Sergeant Legrand,” the smaller man growled.

Bonchance put a kindly hand on his arm. “Let’s get back on track, lad.” He gave me a sympathetic look. “Now, can you tell us how you incapacitated your kidnapper?”

Another saccharine smile. “I hit him twice in the head with a heavy wrench. I assume that self-defense isn’t yet against the law?”

Bonchance shook his head no, but Legrand leaned avidly forward.

“Interesting. But how did the gentleman in question come to be exsanguinated?”

My nostrils flared, and I put up a gloved hand. Funny, how I’d never had so much power before now, the first time I’d been a minority. And I wasn’t taking his shit. “Please,
monsieur
. If I might ask a question? Would you be interrogating me if you thought I had killed him with the wrench? Or a knife? Or any other weapon at hand?”

“That question is not pertinent—”

“An attorney might think it is.”

Legrand went silent, and Bonchance stroked his mustache.

The older cop leaned forward, speaking out of the side of his mouth as if we shared a secret. “You must understand,
mademoiselle
, that as Bludmen are rare in Paris, this is a new conundrum for us. Technically speaking, it is against the law to drink from a human. But if it was self-defense against someone who clearly meant you harm, we must consider it carefully.”

“
Messieurs
, I beg you. Please remember, during your deliberations, that I was trapped in a very small, dark
room with a man who had already tried to kidnap me.” I blinked, letting my eyes tear up. “And I’m also fairly certain that the crash had damaged him internally. Do you have any idea who that madman was?”

Legrand scoffed. “This is a police investigation,
mademoiselle
, not your personal gossip mill.”

I sat up straighter, dropping the doe-eyed act. “I have a right to know the identity of my attacker.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“And I’d also like to discuss the disappearance of my dear friend Cherie, who was abducted by slavers on the road to Ruin.”

“That is not part of the current investigation,” Legrand snapped.

Bonchance added, “And only the city of Paris itself is in our jurisdiction, you see.”

“You’ll not even take a statement? Not even send out a bulletin with her information?”

Legrand looked as if he might spit again. “The whereabouts of . . .
cabaret girls
is not our top priority. Girls disappear frequently, mostly as a result of the unsavory habits of your lifestyle. If we spent our time chasing down every loose woman who fell on hard times, we wouldn’t have time to investigate important things, like murders. We’re the ones asking the questions,
mademoiselle
; you’d do well to remember that.”

I stood, the chair clattering to the ground behind me. “I’m sorry, but are you telling me that you’re satisfied to let slavers kidnap innocent travelers? And that when a madman kidnaps me in a giant machine, I’m not only prevented from knowing his name, but I’m also on trial for killing him in self-defense? Because I’d like to speak to
a lawyer. Attorney. Barrister. Whatever you call it in this insane excuse for a justice system.”

Bonchance held out his hands. “Now,
mademoiselle
. Let’s stay civil and reasonable.”

Legrand’s lip twisted up. “I hate questioning women. So melodramatic.”

Anger flared, my cheeks blazing hot. “So when women are kidnapped, you treat them like criminals? This is clearly a case not only of misogyny but also of racism. Were I a human man, you’d be clapping me on the back and handing me a cigar. But because I’m female, a Bludman, and, in the words you’re too cowardly to speak and which aren’t actually true, a whore, I don’t deserve justice?”