Wicked After Midnight (Blud #3)
Page 17I was too sleepy still to bother hissing and simply stared at her as if she had three eyes, mainly because she did. Of course, the third one was painted on her forehead in what would have been an Egyptian style on Earth. She wore a cobra headdress and golden robes and sandals. Her skin was the molten gold of sand in the sunset, and she was long-limbed and unnaturally skinny. She leaned down to slap me across the cheek but gently. I bit my lip to hold in a growl.
“Now,” she said firmly. “Or you’re out on the streets.”
I could only nod.
She flapped out the door like a crane that had crashed through a costume shop, and I stood, still a little sore from my time on horseback. Funny, how I could contort my body into all sorts of unnatural positions but could barely walk after a few hours of riding behind Vale. I closed the door and dressed quickly without benefit of the ewer of water that seemed the bare minimum for bathing in Sang. Yesterday’s clothes were now dirt-infused rags that needed to be boiled in lye, but I couldn’t very well go out in the cobweb-thin nightgown I’d been given. With no mirror, I could only pat my hair and hope there was a dressing room somewhere below so that I wouldn’t seem an utter mess to my new coworkers.
There was no lock on the door, but I checked that it was closed firmly before slipping a small pouch from my pocket and stuffing it into a hole in the mattress. I hadn’t told Vale about the few coins that remained from Mademoiselle Caprice’s stash, not to mention my stolen supply of Criminy’s sleeping powder. As of right now, they were the most valuable things I owned.
Outside in the hall, I ran into Bea and gave her what I hoped was the sign for Good morning and not I spit on you and chop off your arm. It must have been close, because she gave me a radiant smile and repeated the gesture. The one she tried next was familiar.
“Eat?” I shrugged. “I don’t eat.”
She shook her head no and did another sign.
“Mouth rain?” I guessed. “Drool?”
With a silent laugh, she made fangs of her fingers and tapped them against her neck.
“Oh! Do I need blood?”
An enthusiastic nod.
“It would help.”
She inclined her head, and I followed her down the stairs. In the hallway, my eyes went straight for the niche where Vale had kissed me—and I had kissed him back. Part of me hoped to see him there, maybe leaning against the brick wall nonchalantly and smirking, waiting for me. But he wasn’t there, of course. If all was going according to plan, he was out in the city, trying to find information on a pretty blond Bludman who had recently appeared under mysterious circumstances.
The door opened a few inches.
“Eh?”
The face that appeared in the gap surprised the hell out of me, as I’d written a paper on the symbolism of, well, pretty much her. It was the girl from Édouard Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère, except that her eyes weren’t dead. They were narrowed and annoyed under hay-colored bangs that had lost any luster they originally possessed.
Bea mimed the same thing she’d originally tried with me, the one that looked like mouth rain.
“No blood magic, Beatrice,” the girl said severely. “You know how Madame Sylvie feels about . . . oh.”
Bea had moved aside to reveal me, doubled over in the tunnel. “Hi,” I said with a little wave.
The girl sucked air in through her teeth. “Must be the new Bludman.” She put a reddened hand to her plump white neck, rendered pale by the deep blue velvet of her gown. “Are you as tame as they say?”
I grinned. “Want to step into the tunnel to find out or just give me some blood to be sure?”
Bea shook with a silent laugh, and the girl shrugged as if cleverness was an itchy flea in an especially tender place. The door closed, leaving Bea and me in the dark, her breathing strangely silent.
When the door opened again, the girl shoved a chilled vial into my hand. “It’s cold and old. But if you slip me a few coppers, I can maybe find some fresh.”
“I don’t have coppers now, but I will soon.”
She raised one plucked eyebrow. “I don’t have fresh blood now, but I will . . . then.”
The door closed, and Bea’s hand patted my forearm swiftly in apology.
“It’s okay. Everybody gives the new girl trouble, right?”
I stepped out and straightened, leaning backward to crack my spine. As I lifted the vial to pop the top, Bea grabbed my arm and dragged me away, and I chugged it just as we entered the wings of the stage.
Paradis looked different in the morning. With no crowds, only half the lights, and a chill in the air, it called to mind a cavernous old church built on the bones of sacrifices and still echoing with noise that had fled. The girls were gathered in small groups or standing alone, practicing dance steps and bits of arias and acrobatics. A few daimon men moved among them, their foppish clothes and bored gazes indicating they had no interest in the rainbow of sleepy cabaret girls running through their acts in various states of undress.
“Did you get any sleep, chérie?”
Mel was the same emerald green she’d been when I’d met her last night, a color almost exactly the opposite of Mademoiselle Caprice and her sons in Criminy’s caravan, at least according to the color wheel. She was dressed in what amounted to a ballet costume on Earth—a leotard, tights, toe shoes, and a ragged tutu the color of dust. Four more daimons in similar costumes waited in a half-circle, whispering behind their hands and staring at me.
“A little,” I said. “After things got quiet.”
She laughed. “Oh, la. That’s probably the last time you’ll have the opportunity to sleep at all while Paradis is open. You’ll be so exhausted tonight you’ll barely be able to fall into your own bed.”
“Oh, goody.”
“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Demi, but is honest work a problem for you?” The daimon who had so rudely awoken me appeared, toes tapping beneath her golden gown.
“No, madame.”
“Mademoiselle Charline. Your choreographer.”
I snorted to myself. Of course. Of course there would be a Sang version of Charles Zidler, the famous mastermind behind the Moulin Rouge.
In response, I was slapped across the face for the second time that morning, and this time, I most certainly did hiss. She didn’t even flinch. “If you wish to work at ze most famous cabaret in the entire world, you will learn respect, hard work, and my goddamn name, you vicious little scab.”
I swallowed down my desperate need to rip her to shreds but only for Cherie’s sake. “Yes, Mademoiselle Charline.”
Her mouth pursed. “Better. Now. Show me every single trick of which you are capable.”
All the other daimons had stopped their own practice to stare at me, and I felt the full force of a hundred eyes of all different colors and shapes, some with unnerving horizontal pupils like a goat’s.
It was Mademoiselle Charline’s turn to snort, but hers was an elegant French snort.
“Fifty daimon dancing girls will be just as cruel as a thousand rich Parisian gentlemen. There’s no better trial of your mettle.”
I nodded. I could do this.
“I need three chairs, a mouth stand, a glass box, and a large ball.”
Mademoiselle Charline jerked her chin at the daimon girls standing behind Mel, and they scurried into the wings like terrified mice. Charline’s foot tapped as we waited, and I went through the abbreviated series of stretches Cherie had taught me years ago, the bare minimum that would limber up my body enough to perform the full range of motion required by someone in my profession. It was rote now, as natural as taking a shower or making a bed.
After years of careful practice, my elbows and shoulders could hyperextend easily, and my spine could curve in unnatural ways that I tried not to contemplate too deeply. I’d taken gymnastics as a child on Earth, but being a Bludman made my entire skeleton feel like a Slinky. I forgot, most of the time, that I wasn’t human anymore, but it was never more apparent than when I was contorted like a snake, my fangs digging into the stand while I balanced my feet on my head and salivated over the audience.
The daimon ballerinas reappeared, carrying much-mended practice pieces, not the more showy equipment that would be used during actual performances. I checked each item carefully to ensure that if I embarrassed myself, it would at least be on my own and not because of a weak chair leg or cracked mouth stand. Satisfied, I replicated the setup I had used at Criminy’s Clockwork Caravan and stood gracefully, arms up and show persona in place.
“Music?” I asked.
Charline nodded. “What do you wish?”
Did I detect the barest note of curiosity in Charline’s voice? I had to hope so. And I had to choose carefully . . . and quickly.
I glanced at the collected company, wishing everyone was in costume so I would know which niches might still be available to exploit and therefore which music to request. One group of girls wore Egyptian-style costumes that matched Madame Charline, and there were several butterflies, tons of ballerinas, and a collection of rococo-style ballgowns, but that didn’t help.