Chapter 4 Arabella ‘Then’ #2
I speak to Lucien in the code of glances that Upyr are so familiar with.
I cannot assume that his human companion is familiar with our world.
Many of our clients enjoy bringing un-Thralled humans to La Petite Mort to shock them, and then ply them with absinthe and whisper such scintillating promises that the human is drawn into our world.
When they wake, they have a small wound on their neck and a head full of erotic memories, and they believe the whole evening to have been a dream.
Absinthe is the backbone of my business. I practically owe the green fairy a commission.
I pull the cord to summon Séraphine and order a round of drinks for us all – bloodsinthe for me and the Upyr men, plain absinthe for the human.
Lucien and the other two men bend their heads together.
Normally, I’d be eavesdropping on their conversation, searching for useful tidbits I might share with other customers for a price.
Men always assume a pretty face in the room is deaf, mute and blind.
But Gideon’s eyes make it clear that he knows exactly what I’m up to. Dangerous and clever, as well as beautiful – a nasty combination.
He pats the pouffe beside him. I gather my skirts and lower myself down.
Our knees are so close that I can feel the warmth of his human skin through the layers of fabric.
The air buzzes with the tang of his human blood, rich and alluring, like the exotic chocolate drink that’s appearing in the trendiest cafes around Paris.
His eyes flick briefly to the stage, where Catherina is writhing around, sponging herself with blood while another of my girls hangs from the ceiling by hidden wires in a diaphanous angel costume, her throat slit open. Gideon’s mouth quirks in amusement.
“You have quite a show here, Mademoiselle.” His accent is southern, as rich and warm as the rest of him, syllables lengthening and R’s rolling across his tongue. “I’ve never even heard of this théatre before. This is more invigorating than the stuffy Palais Garnier.”
“Opera isn’t stuffy.” I wouldn’t normally question the opinions of a customer, but this human has me quite turned about. “The skill of the performers, the way they pull you into the story, it’s an enchantment…”
His mouth turns down, but his eyes dance in the candlelight when he sees that I’m more than just a vision of terrifying beauty. “It’s impossible to be enchanted when it’s all in poxy Italian. Every time they open their mouths, I think they’re singing love songs to spaghetti. It makes me hungry.”
“Does the monsieur not speak Italian?” I lift an eyebrow. “How, then, does one order such a finely cut suit or request one’s favourite toppings at the Montmartre pizzeria?”
“Alas, but I have not yet tried one of the Italian pizzas.” Gideon makes a quick glance across the table at Lucien Vega. “My employer does not care for the taste of it. Or food in general. More’s the pity.”
“Then, you, Sir, have not truly lived.” A memory rises in my mind, raw and unbidden.
“When I lived in Egypt, I had a patron who used to treat me to the most exquisite pizza, dripping with mozzarella and basil and fragrant tomato. I am pleased this Italian taste has made its way to Paris, although the French do view the pizza as the gastronomic equivalent of finger painting.”
I snap my mouth shut, unable to believe I’ve revealed so much of myself to this stranger, this human.
Gideon smiles with his whole face – his eyes crinkling at the edges, his mouth turning up, the vein in his neck thumping with enthusiasm.
He shifts closer, the air between us stirring as I scent his attraction to me.
“Aside from being a woman with strong opinions on opera and pizza, you are not from France. I thought I detected the trace of an accent.”
“At La Petite Mort, we leave our past at the door. We are here, tonight, drinking wine and absinthe in the greatest city in the world. That is all that matters.” I lean back, as far away from him as I can get without leaving, and bring my drink to my lips.
He studies me, his smile growing wider and more flirtatious.
I fix my face into an expression of aloofness – a wall of invisible courtesy between me and this tempting human. But that only spurs him on.
He leans forward, his knee brushing wantonly against mine. The sensation through the fabric of my dress stirs something in me that has been silent since the day I became a vampire.
“Then we shall toast. To the present.” He raises his glass.
“To the present.”
We clink. He does not drink but regards me over the rim of the Pontarlier glass, his lips too red and plump to be legal. The sparkle in his eyes is a promise, a dare.
“Do you not need to join the others?” I indicate Lucien and his men, still deep in serious talks.
“Not when I have much more scintillating company right here.” His words are silk against my skin, but he makes no move to touch me, the way most customers do.
Entering these walls permits men to act out their most secret urges, and too many men reveal their true natures when they see what pleasures their money can buy.
But this man seems content for us to trade heated glances while we converse, which is refreshing, if odd.
I touch my hand to my jewelled collar, wondering if I’m losing my magic.
“Truthfully, I don’t know why we’ve come here tonight.
Lucien doesn’t tell me much. I’ve not been working for him long.
I’m only here because my brother—” A shadow passes over his face, but it’s gone in a moment, replaced by that easy smile.
“He will tell me when he requires my skills. Most of the time, my purpose is mainly decorative.”
I’m too aware of my body, of my skin tightening, of a heat growing inside me.
I’m aware, too, that I will be performing shortly, and this man will see me and my infamous pole.
I can’t decide if the shiver in my skin is excitement or dread.
“What business is your master in, that he requires such decoration?”
His mouth twitches. “Lucien is not my master.”
Spoken like a man. Even when he has thrown in his lot with a creature as dangerous as Lucien Vega, he believes himself to be free. But of course he does. He’s never had to build something like this from the rubble up. The world is already laid bare for him.
I sigh. “What business is your boss in, then?”
“You ask a question you already know the answer to, Mademoiselle Macquart. Lucien Vega’s reputation precedes him.
” Gideon smiles at me as he sets his untouched drink on the table, and I have a sense the smile is supposed to be threatening, but to me, it’s ridiculous.
“You won’t charm any of his secrets from me, but we can both pretend that our paths haven’t crossed on the morally grey footpath leading to the palace of cardinal sins. ”
“Monsieur Rougon, I own the palace of cardinal sins.”
“Then a word of advice – if you want to part Lucien from his money, you should offer him a bath.” His eyes briefly shift to Catherina wallowing in the metal tub on stage before returning to me with vivid intensity. “He and his men have… peculiar tastes.”
“Then he is in luck, because that is precisely what we cater for.” I draw my finger along his knee. His skin is so warm, so pliant. “What about you, Gideon Rougon? What of your peculiar tastes?”
He lets out a tiny shudder, his eyes fluttering closed, golden lashes tangling together.
“I would love to see you dance,” he says. “I think you’d be magnificent.”
“Very peculiar, indeed. You don’t even know me.”
“That’s true.” He rubs his chin. “Tell me, then, where were you born? Was your mother a beauty? Did your father stop people in the street and force them to admire you? Which scent is your favourite? Do you read? Where is the most beautiful place you’ve ever lived? When is your birthday?”
Fuming, I stand. The spell shatters. “Enjoy your evening, Monsieur Rougon.”
From the way the blue of his eyes darkens at the edges, I know he catches my true meaning.
Choke on a baguette, Monsieur Rougon.
As if I would give him any of my secrets. Vampires don’t even remember our birthdays, as a rule. The only milestone normally celebrated is our Bloodeve, the night of our siring, and mine is nothing I wish to celebrate.
“Please, don’t leave.” His voice grows urgent, freezing me in place.
I look into his eyes and see something I wish I could unsee.
Behind that flirtatious, curious nature of his, there is a wall as thick as the Bastille.
We all wear masks, but never have I seen one that is a perfect mirror of my own.
I could break him like a glass trinket, but I’m transfixed by the flecks of gold at the edges of his peacock irises.
“I don’t want our conversation to end. I mean, it would be great if you were telling me how brilliant I am, but a man takes what he can get.
That’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing, and you wear it with such grace. ”
His eyes drop to my neck for a moment, then rise to meet my gaze again. His fingers trail over my wrist. The touch is fiery hot, presumptuous, and desperate.
“Flattery will get you nowhere with me.”
He grins wickedly. “See, I don’t believe that’s true. Shall we place a bet?”
“What kind of bet?”
Gideon cracks his knuckles. “You spend the evening in my company. I will employ my considerable skills of flattery and charm, and if, by the time my not-master demands we leave, I cannot make you admit that you had an enjoyable evening, then he shall pay double your price.”
“And if you win, what is the prize you wish to claim?”
“I thought I was clear. You will admit that you enjoyed my company. That’s the only prize I’m interested in.” Gideon leans forward. “Why don’t we return to our drinks and you can tell me about more operas I’ll hate?”
“I hardly saw you all evening,” Catherina complains as I add up the night’s takings, counting off her cut and depositing the coins into her open palm.
As predicted, Lucien Vega drank the bar dry of blood and booked a private room with two of my younger ladies, so I am one step closer to electricity and a new dress.
Especially since I made Gideon Rougon’s master pay me double.
“I was entertaining Lucien Vega and his guests.”
Catherina unclips her jewels and drops them carelessly onto her vanity. I touch my fingers to my collar, seeking the familiar coolness of the stones. Gideon’s questioning from earlier unnerved me.
I’m not normally a superstitious person, but the legend of the necklace weighs on my mind.
Ever since I started wearing it, my luck has changed.
I escaped to Paris. I found this old church for a bargain price.
I created La Petite Mort from the ether, and pioneered a dance style that I hope, one day, might make me as famous as my idol, Sarah Bernhardt.
And a delightful young human has just fallen at my feet.
He can be only a temporary amusement, but I do love being amused.
“Séraphine was the one polishing his brass while he feasted on Gisele’s neck. The only time I saw you tonight, you were speaking with Lucien’s human. What’s his story? He doesn’t appear to be Thralled. And he didn’t even touch his absinthe!”
“I believe Lucien has employed Gideon Rougon’s services, not his veins,” I murmur. I don’t want Catherina to know just how much my thoughts have lingered on the pretty Gideon. “He was an engaging conversationalist, for a human—”
A creak sounds from out in the hall, past the closed door.
“Who’s there?” I ask. The theatre should be empty now; the only people backstage are the performers removing their costumes and makeup. And none of my ladies skulk around silently in the shadows.
Another creak, closer this time. A footstep in the narrow corridor.
I sniff. Beneath the scents of backstage – gas from the lamps, stage glue, sweat-soaked costumes, Catherina’s cloying perfume – is another scent. Musky and masculine and foreign, but also familiar.
“You’ll have to leave, Sir,” I call out. “Patrons aren’t allowed backstage. If you don’t want to be garrotted by a silk stocking, I suggest you make your way outside now. And if you wish for the garrotting, that will be two francs. Please pass your coins beneath the door now.”
Nothing.
As quick as lightning, I sweep the remaining coin into my purse and hide it in my skirts. My fingers clasp around the silver dagger I keep there. Catherina draws her blade. Ladies in our business are always prepared for penetration of one form or another.
Catherina moves to one side of the door, I to the other. I count down under my breath. We both raise our daggers.
I kick the door open and leap into the gloom, Catherina screaming like a banshee behind me. My foot lands on the creaking board. I stare into the darkness of the wings, but between the props and stacked curtains, I can see no phantom hiding.
“There’s no one here.” I whirl around to Catherina, who is busy searching behind her large bathtub. “Perhaps we imagined the sound.”
“We’re cocottes. We know instinctively when a man is nearby and means us danger. It is our speciality, like that move you showed me with the eggplant—”
Catherina raises her finger to her lips, and in the heartbeat of silence, I hear the floorboards creaking from somewhere behind me.
He’s still here.
Skirts flying, we race in the direction of the noise, our shoes clattering up the short steps to the stage. It’s gloomy and shadow-laden without the harsh stage lights, the religious statues above our heads grotesque.
I bunch up the curtains, searching for someone hiding in the thick folds of fabric. Catherina moves towards the tables in the audience when—
Glass shatters.
A high scream echoes from backstage.
Séraphine.
We fly back down the stairs. Séraphine stands in the doorway of our dressing-room, a bundle of costumes for the laundry bunched at her feet. Her hand is pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.
We rush to her side, daggers raised. She points a trembling finger into the room we’d vacated only moments before.
Only now it is a mess – the jars of makeup on the vanities have been swept off and broken on the floor. Glittering powders mix with sparkling shards of glass. That makeup is expensive and will have to be replaced before tomorrow night’s performance.
In the centre of the destruction is a small songbird, the head torn off, its wings speckled with blood.
I’m so distracted by my dream of electric lamps disappearing in a puff of vandalism that I don’t even notice the message until Catherina grabs my arm.
On the mirror, a single word has been dashed in blood.
MINE.