Wicked After Midnight (Blud)

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “Mangy. Little. Bastard!” Each word was punctuated by a thump, the last one accented with a gushy splat that peppered the air with the reek of hot blud.

  “Vale?”

  He grunted with effort, and something dropped into the water. After a few moments of fiddling and cursing, his green light flickered back on, showing black splatters up his arms, a few on his cheeks. “Remember what I said about bludrats getting underground and going bad?” He pointed down, and the twitching thing I saw smashed at his feet looked more like a shaved capybara than a rat, its pale skin sprinkled with wiry pink hairs and its sunken eyes white and unseeing.

  “Are you okay? Did it bite you?”

  With a laugh that echoed through the tunnel, he kicked the scrawny carcass into the water, where it bobbed and floated sluggishly with the flow, webbed feet up. “It tried. And failed. Let this be a lesson to you: don’t try to kiss anybody in the catacombs.”

  I was blushing before he’d turned around and started walking. I’m pretty sure he knew.

  * * *

  Time went as thick and slow as the water beside us as we trudged through the underground tunnels. We chatted of silly things to keep our minds off reality and flirted as much as a giant graveyard allowed. But we never got close enough to attempt another foolish, desperate kiss. Then, all at once, the air congealed, and I knew the tunnel was about to end.

  Although slogging through sewers and catacombs wasn’t my ideal day, much less date, it had been all too easy to concentrate on the immediate, on the shiver that thrummed through me when I took Vale’s hand to step over rubble and long-gray bones. I was in the worst trouble of my life, beyond terrified for my best friend, but every time he touched me, my betraying skin jumped, my heart raced. Being on the move at his side was far preferable to holding still. I sensed the stone wall before Vale stopped but let myself run into him anyway. Whatever happened next, his warmth was a comfort, and this might be my last chance to indulge.

  “Shh, bébé. The door to the cabaret is just overhead.”

  It was darker here, and the scent of cold stone was overlaid with a fine patina of spilled liquor and echoes of cheap perfume and something else. Something rotten. A shimmering rectangle of gold light limned a trapdoor in the ceiling, and as I looked up, pounding feet sent dust to scatter over my cheeks.

  “What’s it called?” My own voice startled me in the darkness, almost overbright with worry I could no longer hide.

  “Paradis,” Vale said. “It means—”

  I gripped the bludbunny foot in my pocket. “Paradise. I know. But probably not a paradise for me.”

  “Madame Sylvie’s not so bad. She doesn’t hit her girls, at least. She won’t allow opium or absinthe or bludwine among the performers. And the daimon girls are . . .”

  I could hear his smile, the ass. “Accommodating?” The word dripped icicles..

  He cleared his throat. “They’re lovely girls. Just watch out for Limone. That name’s no coincidence. Sour as hell, that girl.”

  Looking up at the trapdoor, I pinched my cheeks and rubbed my lips with the back of my glove, hoping to bring some pink to the surface so I wouldn’t look like the grime-speckled, scared-to-death monster I was.

  Vale put a hot hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  I drew myself up tall, as if pushing back my shoulders could send the filth dripping off my back like a discarded cape. “If my only choices are giving up on my best friend and going back to the caravan or becoming a star in the cabaret while I hunt for her, I choose cabaret. All the way.”

  “You’re crazy, bébé. And I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it.” I smiled, then frowned. My mouth didn’t know what to do with the odd mixture of excitement, terror, and expectation. “You don’t think they’ll mind me?”

  He snorted and rubbed dust off my cheek with a wide thumb, sending unexpected shivers down my skin. “A pretty girl in a cabaret? No, I don’t believe they will mind at all.”

  That wasn’t what I meant, and he knew it. “Where I come from, they consider me dangerous.”

  Vale held up his pendant, and the green glow bloomed between us. Honestly, he looked as nervous as I felt. “They’ll take you in because you’re beautiful. They’ll keep you because you’re talented. And because you have fangs, they won’t try to take what you don’t wish to give.” His eyes met mine and went soft under long lashes.

  I swallowed, digesting his words. “And what about you, Vale?”

  Looking up at the trapdoor as I just had, he gave a lopsided grin that made his teeth a ghastly, electric green that reminded me of ghosts and raves and phosphorescent waves in the ocean, of too many things roiling under the surface. “I told you, bébé. I don’t want what isn’t given.”

  The green still meant he couldn’t see me blush. I hoped. “Not . . . that. Up there. Are you coming with me?”

  Reaching up, he flicked a lock and threw back the door, blinding me with lights as hot and welcome as the morning sun after an endless nightmare. “You heard my father. I have no money. I can’t go home, either. So I’ll follow you to Paris and Paradise.” He winked. “You’re going to need my help finding your friend, bébé. It’s a big city.”

  Bits of feather and glitter fell down from the shaft of light, and someone called, “Oh la la! Careful, chérie!”

  My heart leaped, hearing my friend’s name. Vale’s hand on my shoulder reminded me almost instantly that chérie was one of the most common words that might be uttered in a cabaret. Darling. Dearest. People might be calling me that soon, if things went according to plan. A shadow appeared, and I put up a hand to shield my eyes. The face that peered down through the explosion of light was shamrock green, dusted with diamonds and graced with eyelashes as long as plumes.

  “Quoi?”

  “Bonjour, darling!” Vale called, with lusty cheer that made my hackles rise.

  “Vale? But why are you coming in the back door? You know that is not allowed here.”

  His face burned bright red, and the daimon laughed gaily and held out a hand clad in an emerald-green elbow-length glove. He recovered quickly, at least. “I’ve brought a surprise for Madame Sylvie. Let us up, will you, Mel?”

  The face disappeared, and Vale nudged me toward the ladder with a gentle push that involved the warmth of his hand searing my back. Twitching my long bustle behind me, I took a deep breath and climbed upward into the light. Before, I would have been vexed that he was watching my butt. Now I was careful to move gracefully, making the skirts sway with my hips. Why I wanted to impress the vagabond, I wasn’t exactly sure. Maybe it was the way the daimon’s eyes had twinkled at him with secrets fondly remembered and excitement over future possibilities. Or maybe it was the memory of every single touch we’d shared and the fact that he had been about to kiss me before a mutant mole-rat tried to kill him. Maybe it was because he was the only friend I had here, and I’d already told him half my secrets, and if my ass would keep him close, I would take whatever advantage it gave me.

  When my head rose through the trapdoor, it took a few moments for the scene to coalesce into any sort of sense. We were backstage, the red velvet curtains casting everything in a blushing glow. Stage lights shone in every direction, blinding me no matter which way I turned. Girls ran back and forth, dozens of daimons in a rainbow of colors, speckled all over with satin and sequins, which made me feel a little at home, at least. The face I’d just seen, Mel’s, waited just a few feet away, attached to a petite but stunning body with proportions molded by years of tight corseting. I briefly wondered where the girl kept her innards and if daimons even had innards, seeing as how they fed off of human emotions. Did you need a liver to digest joy? Before I could speak, Vale popped up behind me and swung the trapdoor closed, where it merged seamlessly with the boards.

  Oddly, I felt more trapped upstairs in the soaring theater than I had in the dark, dank, crumbling catacombs. Up here, everything felt very final. For
so long, I had dreamed of the cabarets of Paris. But now that I was here, I felt like a very small, bloodthirsty fish in a very big pond filled with colorful frogs. I had always hoped to tread the boards for the first time with Cherie by my side, and missing her was like losing a limb, an ache that wouldn’t go away.

  “Not here for ze show tonight, eh?” Mel stared pointedly at Vale’s empty hands and smirked. Her accent was heavy, her green lips plump and welcoming. I put a hand on Vale’s forearm on the pretense of steadying myself. “And not making a delivery. So what is ze occasion, monsieur le brigand?”

  “A delivery of a sort. I’ve brought you a new girl. Where’s Sylvie?”

  “Oh, la. Two moments until show time. Stand still long enough, and she’ll find you. But I wouldn’t recommend that. Shoo. Go to the hallway and wait. Or watch from the back, if you wish. Just don’t let Auguste see you.” She winked, eyelashes brushing her green cheek like a bird’s blessing. “You know how he is about strangers backstage.”

  “Merci, Mel. You look gorgeous.”

  Mel fluttered a hand at him and focused on me, cocking her head. “What’s your name, chérie?”

  I hoped she didn’t see me flinch. “Demi Ward.” I gave her a big, charismatic smile.

  She leaned closer, breathing in with an open mouth like cats back home would do when smelling something rank. Her eyes flew wide, and I saw that her pupils had points like stars. “Do you know what she is?”

  Vale grinned. “Oh, I know.”

  “But there has never been—”

  “Such a pretty girl with such an unusual talent. Trust me, Mel. Even daimons can’t do what Demi can. Not even Limone.”

  A sick, acid yellow washed over Mel’s skin for just a second before it returned to a glistening emerald green. “Don’t even say that. Zis new girl doesn’t need help finding enemies here.”

  The crowd beyond went quiet, and a woman’s dusky voice rang out as if seeking every hidden corner of the theater with silken fingers.

  “My fine Parisian messieurs, have you been good?”

  A cheer shook the rafters, making the curtains wobble beside us.

  “I must go. Good luck.” Mel grasped my wrist for just a second before running off to find her place in the flock of brightly clad daimons waiting closer to the curtains. Vale drew me back into the shadows toward a dark hall, but I balked. I didn’t want to miss the final moments of calm before the show began. It was my favorite part of the spectacle, but I was far more accustomed to being part of it, to taking that deep breath that would hold until the curtain rose. This was where I belonged, not out there, among the rabble. The cheers quieted suddenly, as if someone had sucked the air from the room. The voice went on.

  “Have you been very, very good?” A meaningful pause and a low, sexy chuckle. “Or have you been . . . wicked?”

  The yelling and whistling intensified. My skin prickled all over, considering how very large the theater must be to hold so many voices. Even parked right outside London, the caravan had never drawn such crowds. I ached to be in front of them, to feel their excitement and hear them calling my name. I swallowed hard, felt every hair on my body rise. Even here, beyond the curtain, I could smell the hot blood pulsing through the building, the sweat rising off their skin, the goatlike stink of overexcited men and their lust. The immediacy of the stage struck through my homesickness and heartsickness, lighting me up from the inside with the otherworldly transcendence of lightning striking the Tower.

  “Then let me be the first to welcome you . . . to Paradis!”

  If I thought the cheers had been loud for the first two invitations, the third round was deafening. The orchestra began with a frenzy, and I shivered all over as the dancers went completely still on their marks.

  So this was Paradis. Heaven. Although I had neglected to mention it to Cherie, I had been an art history major once, and I had spent an entire semester delving into the Impressionists and the Paris they’d envisioned in paint and dreams. In my world, Montmartre had featured, among the Moulin Rouge and the other cabarets, two clubs with very different names that did basically the same thing. Whether you were in Paradis or Enfer in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, you were still in for the bawdiest, most daring, most exciting shows in the world.

  As I watched the daimon girls rustle, I noted that they all looked bright, healthy, excited, and colorful, nothing like the dark daimons I’d occasionally encountered while in Criminy’s coterie. They reminded me of Mademoiselle Caprice and her sons, and I felt a brief twinge over breaking Luc’s heart which quickly dissolved into the girls’ bright chatter. The cabarets were meant for stealing hearts, not pondering regrets. And possibly for breaking hearts, too, since many daimons would gorge on heartbreak. If Paradis was filled with good daimons, who were the denizens of Enfer?

  A firm hand wrapped around my wrist and tugged me back into reality and down a pitch-black hallway just as I felt the air change and the curtain rise.

  “We can watch from out here. Being caught backstage is not the best way to make an impression with Madame Sylvie.”

  Vale could have let go then, but he didn’t, and I liked that, liked the feeling of being dragged along on an adventure. Even with a Bludman’s eyes, it was hard to see back here, and I had to wonder just how intimate he was with Paradis that he could navigate the twists and turns of the corridor without running into anything. When he finally slid a door open and pulled me through behind him, I was nearly overwhelmed by a riot of color and heat overlaid by the delicious scent of bodies crushed together. We were in the back of the theater, behind the crowd. Hundreds of men and a very few women sat at round tables packed tightly on a well-polished dance floor, while dozens more watched avidly from plush velvet boxes and booths around the periphery. It was a sea of black and white and flesh tones and a few blooms of color, with every single human or daimon in some version of a classic black tuxedo, even the women. Onstage, dozens of daimons danced in a line, their skins and dresses arranged according to the rainbow’s spectrum. Oddly, they weren’t doing the cancan, or even raising their legs overhead to reveal the colorful petticoats under their skirts. Still, their performance was masterly. Even I could feel the palpable excitement and joy rising from the crowd. For the daimons, it had to be like the breakfast buffet at the Ritz.

  And of course, it was slightly painful to me, as I’d taken no blood since before the slavers’ attack. I rubbed my nose, curling a finger to block my nostrils. I hadn’t been hammered with so much humanity in an enclosed space since being bludded in Sang. It was lucky I had such excellent self-control, as if my body still remembered human food and was barely willing to settle for blood. I’d never experienced that rabid hunger that Pinkies expected from my kind, but if I wanted to stay focused and at Paradis, I was going to have to remain well fed. All the barely contained blood made it hard to concentrate.

  “Impressive, is it not?” Vale elbowed me in the side, forcing me to suck in another breath of warm, enclosed person-stink.

  “I’d be more impressed if I didn’t want to eat the audience.”

  He grimaced and glanced at the bar, where a male daimon with purple skin, slicked-back hair, and a mustache shook and poured drinks faster than seemed possible. “Oh la la. I forgot about your troublesome appetite They don’t often serve Bludmen here, but I’ll ask at the bar. Can you wait?”

  I rolled my eyes and held up my hands, curling them into faux claws inside their gloves. “No. I’m totally going to kill everybody. Roar. Rawr.”

  His teeth flashed when he laughed. “Try not to, for both our sakes. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched him leave, unable to escape the fact that his worn but well-fitted breeches were a thousand times more impressive than all the expensive tuxes in the room. If there was one thing that was true in Sang and on Earth, it was that money could buy a lot of things, but a tight butt and sexy swagger weren’t among them.

  In order to tamp down my hunger, I focused on the daimons onstage.
The music changed, and dancers hurried off in a flurry of petticoats. The crowd hushed as a large silver ring descended from the ceiling, twirling slowly on a rope. It was empty, and for a moment, I thought perhaps they’d already botched the show. But no. A spotlight clicked on, and golden dust danced in the harsh glare like glittery pollen. A lithe body slid down the rope with snakelike grace, the beautiful daimon girl writhing and posing around the hoop with boneless precision. In the interest of professional disdain, I studied her form, her movements. She was flawless, really, with long limbs of shining gold carefully hung with a minimal costume of cloth as flowing and languid as liquid. The tinkling music playing behind her made me think of fairies and sunlight and dainty things easily broken. But the girl’s face told me she wasn’t the fragile sort. She was concentrating, every line focused and harsh. Her painted mouth may have fooled the crowd, but my Bludman’s eyes could see the tiny lines of annoyance that assured me that she didn’t find the joy in her act that her movements suggested to the ignorant and mesmerized crowd.

  I smelled Vale before I saw him, already attuned to his strange half-Abyssinian odor. The vial he presented was cool in my hand, refrigerated instead of warmed. I sucked in air through my teeth.

  “It’s cold, I know. Sorry about that, ma petite. Can you choke it down?”

  I popped the cork, held my nose, and tossed back the slightly clumpy blood, thankful that in Sang, for some strange reason, there were no germs, no blood-borne pathogens, no way for me to get sick from old blood. Even if it was like slurping a liquefied scab.

  The taste was rancid in my mouth, and when Vale pressed a glass of red wine into my other hand, I rinsed and swallowed before thinking. The blood was so bad that the wine wasn’t disgusting.

  “Thanks for that.” He took the wineglass from my hand and finished it off himself, which caught me by surprise. I wasn’t accustomed to daimons and humans wanting much to do with Bludmen or anything our foul, murderous, bloody mouths had touched. Being half-Abyssinian must have made a big difference to his worldview.