Wicked After Midnight

Page 13

“Entrez!”
He squeezed my shoulder briefly and opened the door, holding out an arm to usher me inside. A large, heavy desk dominated the elegant office, framed by thick velvet curtains and a window of opaque black glass. The aging daimon sitting at the desk reminded me of a ballerina in slow decline. Her erect posture, swanlike neck, slender carriage, and studied grace marked her instantly as a past performer, and I relaxed just a bit. Someone who knew what it was like to be onstage would be far easier to deal with than someone whose only skills lay in managing artists as if they were as foolish as wayward kittens.
Still, the well-powdered and stern lines around her mouth spoke of discipline and snobbery and a woman who didn’t take rebellion lightly. To almost anyone else, she might have appeared human, with her dark hair and milk-and-roses complexion. But I could smell her, and she was daimon through and through.
Vale tilted his head. “Bonsoir, Madame Sylvie.”
She tilted her head in almost mocking return. Even though she was seated, she still seemed to regard us from on high over the top of her half-moon glasses.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Hildebrand. What have you brought me?”
Her voice was cultured, careful, and sultry. Madame Sylvie must have been an unstoppable force of nature when she was younger. Even now, she was in total command of the room. I couldn’t help imagining what would happen if she and Criminy were to meet. Would the cabaret explode?
“Madame, this is Demi Ward, recently of Sangland. She wishes to secure a place in your cabaret.”
“We don’t take Bludmen, fool. You know that. Why are you wasting my time?”
Dipping a hand into the bag sitting on her desk, she rattled the coins within and raised an eyebrow at us. Vale looked at me expectantly and mouthed, “Your turn.”
I took a deep breath to center myself. In one smooth leap, I landed on top of Madame Sylvie’s desk, balancing on my toes and fluidly transitioning into a backbend. Walking my hands under my skirts as I had for Vale, I lifted each leg into the air with practiced sureness until I held a perfect handstand. Balancing on just one hand, legs spread and skirts aflutter, I plucked Madame Sylvie’s quill from its stand, dipped it into her ink, and wrote, “Contortionist extraordinaire, at your service.”
“How fascinating.” She snatched the quill from my hand and stuck it back in place. “But this is a daimon cabaret. Try Darkside instead.”
“I’m the most tame Bludman you’ll ever meet. I dare you to test it.”
“She did walk through your crowd without so much as a drop of drool, Sylvie.”
The daimon’s fingers drummed on the polished wood, the pointed tips of her red-lacquered nails making staccato clicks that grated on my nerves. “Show me something else.”
I kicked over and stood, my toes in the small space recently taken by my hands. With a dancer’s flair, I twisted and curled a finger at Vale. As if we’d done this a thousand times, he stepped forward as I beckoned and stopped when I held out a flat palm.
“Hold still,” I said.
I lifted my leg straight up until it was beside my ear. Then, with perfect grace, I fell forward until my ankle landed on Vale’s shoulder. To his credit, he made no sound and barely shifted, easily absorbing the impact as I used him as the stand for my split, one toe on Madame Sylvie’s desk and one ankle on the brigand’s shoulder. I straightened my torso and held my arms up like a ballerina. My splits had always been perfect, and even Cherie had trouble keeping her legs so straight, taut, and unshaking.
“Really, this time, don’t move.”
Finding my center, I exhaled and slowly rolled to the side until I held the split upside down, my head and arms dangling between Vale and the desk and my ankle cradling his neck. Before he could freak out, I grasped his leg, just above the knee, and used it to gracefully kick down from the split. Standing before the grand desk, I wrapped a leg around my own neck and curtsied.
Madame Sylvie’s face didn’t change. “Can you fit into a hatbox?” she snapped.
“Easily.”
“Are you a front bender or a back bender?”
“Both.”
“Are you frightened of heights?”
“Only if there’s a tank of seawater below.”
“Marinelli bend?”
“So long as the mouth grip has extra padding for my fangs.”
“Spanish web?”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Yes. Oui, oui, oui. Anything your daimons can do, I can do better.”
“Golliwog act?”
“I’m the perfect rag doll.”
“Have you worked with a partner?”
My throat closed, and I struggled to swallow. “I have.”
“But your partner is not with you?”
I shook my head no, blud tears burning hot in the corners of my eyes.
Vale rushed to fill the silence I couldn’t touch. “Her partner was stolen by slavers outside of Ruin. They reached the catacombs before we could catch them.”
Madame Sylvie’s eyes sharpened, boring into me. “Will this loss affect your performance? I can’t have heartbreak on my stage. It shows.”
“I’m a professional above all else.” I glanced at Vale, my eyes pleading, and he shrugged as if to say, You’re on your own now. “This is my dream, Madame Sylvie. I’ve been traveling Sangland in a caravan for six years, and I’ve always wanted to be a star. I’m a hard worker, no bad habits, no vices, no biting, and I’m willing to do anything.”
One sharp eyebrow went up. “Anything?”
It was as if the air was sucked out of the room, as if all of Paris waited to hear what I would say. The word fell heavy as an anchor. “Anything,” I answered.
Vale looked pained, which in turn pained me. I would have to talk to him later. He had to understand that I would have said anything to get my foot in the door, to stand on Madame Sylvie’s fine stage and feel a thousand eyes on me, a thousand hands clapping, my name on everyone’s lips, their whispers and cheers carrying me to the top, all to find Cherie and share the spotlight as I’d promised.
But that one word—anything. It didn’t mean what he thought it meant. I wouldn’t be a courtesan. I wouldn’t sink into the dirty side of Mortmartre, become just another lost girl with smeared lipstick and dead eyes. I had read enough about Sang and seen enough movies on Earth to know that my current position was dangerous. But I was a Bludman, and I was determined, and no matter what I told Madame Sylvie, I would be able to withstand the darkness, the temptation. I would keep my pride. For myself and for Cherie.
The daimon nodded once, and a transformative smile spread across her thickly powdered face. “Zat is the answer I like to hear,” she said, the tiniest bit of a Franchian accent leaking out. “It will be a trial period, at first. The daimon girls will not like it, and I’m not sure how the humans in the audience will feel. If you are anything other than a rousing success, I will kick you out on your derrière, you understand?”
I couldn’t hold back my gummy smile. “You won’t be disappointed, madame.”
I turned to leave, and she snorted behind me. “We are not done. One more thing.”
I had to breathe in through my nose to hold in the Bludman’s beast-rage. To give me what I wanted and then take it away? It was unbearable. I held out one hand as if testing for rain.
“There is a final test. Just because you two children say something is so does not make it so. We will see what you are capable of, ma chère.”
I couldn’t contain my annoyance any longer. “I am beyond capable. Find a single daimon in Paris who can match me, pose for pose, and I’ll walk out now.”
Her smile was irritatingly pleasant. I wanted to slice it off with my talons. “No, dear. Your contortion is clearly exquisite. I had never considered that a Bludman’s resiliency and flexibility could be harnessed for such beautiful and effective work.” She paused for a moment, allowing me to soak up the compliment before the kicker. “But I must ensure that you will not eat the guests.” She plucked a brass bell from a row on her desk and rang it delicately between thumb and forefinger.
I looked to Vale, who only gave a Gallic shrug. Anger shook me for a moment before I realized that he was possibly doing me a great favor. He seemed to annoy Sylvie as much as he annoyed his father, and perhaps his silence wasn’t so much cowardice or bewilderment as it was the gift of not getting us thrown out of the cabaret on our butts for saying something disrespectful.
Within seconds, there was a soft knock on the door.
“Entrez,” Madame Sylvie called, and the little blue daimon boy poked his head in.
“Oui, madame?”
“Bring me Monsieur Philippe. Tell him I have a surprise.”
The boy nodded once, ink-black hair shaking, and was gone. Madame Sylvie ignored us, straightening and sorting various papers on her desk and momentarily hefting her bag of coins as if reassuring herself that we hadn’t stolen a single sou. When my eyes met Vale’s wine-gold ones, he mouthed I don’t know what she wants with exaggerated care that made me giggle.
When the knock came next on the door, Madame Sylvie stood gracefully and struck a pose that highlighted her height and grace.
“Entrez, s’il vous plaît, monsieur,” she purred.
I composed my posture and brushed down my rumpled skirts, hoping the sewer spatters of the journey weren’t apparent. Vale was the picture of rakish vagabondry and merely stood, hands on hips and eyes narrowed, as if daring the person coming through the door to say a single thing about his wrinkled, tear-stained shirt.
The man opened the door, and already I could smell him. Overweight humans were a rarity in Sang, thanks to diminishing food supplies and an environment pushed to the brink of disaster by chemical fug and fear. But this Monsieur Philippe could have fed a dozen Bludmen happily, which meant he had to be very, very rich and therefore a very, very good customer. My eyes shot sideways to Madame Sylvie, whose professional smile didn’t waver. It had to be quite the gamble for her—either I passed her little test and was accepted into the company, or I went insane with bloodlust and ripped open the florid neck of the biggest man I’d seen since passing out on the floor of my dorm room on Earth.