Chapter 10 Arabella ‘Then’
Arabella
Then
Immorality in our city’s theatres!
Our City of Light is beset with the scourge of new theatres and cabarets opening on every corner.
With this new entertainment comes nudity, lewd behaviour and unseemly acts of all kinds!
(So we’ve heard. We haven’t set foot inside such houses of ill repute to confirm for ourselves. We wouldn’t wish to sully our souls.)
And the most devilish of all is La Petite Mort.
Rumours of dark and depraved acts swirl about this house of ardour, owned by one of our city’s most notorious courtesans – absinthe and Satan worship, nudity and blood-drinking, and the proprietress swinging around a pole in defiance of gravity and good taste. Stay away!
– Catholic pamphlet nailed to doorways and streetlamps across Montmartre.
MINE.
The word on the mirror haunts me as I prepare backstage for the night’s performance. I’ve already cleaned it off but I cannot shake the sense that I’m being watched, that something foul lurks in the shadows, waiting for me to let my guard down.
But we haven’t had any incidents that point to danger, unless you count the golden-haired god, Gideon Rougon, appearing in the audience for a third time.
As subtly as I can, I peek through the curtain and glance around, looking for Lucien Vega, but the baron of criminals is not here.
One of my staff would have told me if he’d arrived.
So the henchman is here by himself, sitting with Monsieur Manet and his friends, a glass of absinthe in front of him that he still does not drink.
Intriguing.
Humans do occasionally sneak into La Petite Mort without vampires accompanying them.
I allow Manet’s friends to enjoy the theatre without him because they’re too involved in their work to notice all the blood-drinking going on, and because they paint and sculpt me in flattering ways.
But generally, I don’t allow humans here alone. They smell too tempting.
I can smell Gideon from my dressing-room – that saccharine honey and red cherry scent stirring something dark and reckless inside me.
What is he doing here? Why has he returned?
A man in the employ of Lucien Vega should not be here without his master.
I know all too well where disobeying a powerful Upyr can lead.
And he should be wary of Manet. The famed artist and Upyr loves to add to his circle of bright, clever, artistic humans. But the problem with powerful Upyr is that they love to break their toys.
I finish painting my lips, chalk my hands, and check that the clasp on my collar is secured tightly.
The beads and crystals in my headdress clink together pleasingly as I squeeze past the other dancers to wait in the wings for my cue.
Gideon’s scent swirls beneath my nostrils.
I can’t decide if he’s distracting because I want to fuck him or feed on him. I’d settle for both. At the same time.
But that would be far too dangerous. I don’t know why he’s here or what he does for Lucien Vega. But I do know that I won’t break my rules for a pretty face.
My mother taught me that if you give a man a fish, he’ll have a full belly for a day. But if you push that same man into a volcano, the gods will ensure a bountiful harvest for the whole season.
That’s what I do every night on stage – I make them want me so badly that they’ll willingly sacrifice themselves… and their purses. La Petite Mort won’t flourish if I give them the fish for free.
Gideon Rougon can’t afford me. All he gets of me is this moment, right now.
He’d better enjoy it.
I hope he enjoys it.
I have no time to consider where that thought came from.
My stomach flutters with anticipation as I step out onto the stage to the rising applause of the crowd.
I soak myself in their adulation. The music begins – a harp and drum this time, a song I learned in Egypt two decades ago.
The beat matches the slow thrum of my blood in my veins. A vampire’s pulse.
I raise my head, bathing my skin in the warm stage lanterns, allowing the audience to drink their fill of me in my finery.
Although the room is dark, my eyes immediately land on Gideon.
He reclines at Manet’s side, looking every bit the arrogant prince.
His aquamarine eyes glint like chips of precious stone.
His lips curl back into a knowing smirk, and all I want in the world is to sharpen his arrogance into a blade I can use to cut out those pretty eyes.
The drum thuds. I’m so fixated on him that I almost miss my cue, which makes me even more determined to break him.
I raise my arms above my head and slowly stroke them down my body, circling my hips as I caress myself in the way men imagine they touch women but rarely do – with reverence and a tiny bit of fear, the proper honours due a goddess.
I slide my leg from the sparkling folds of my gown, pointing my toes as I show off just enough skin that Gideon’s eyes widen.
This outfit is one of my favourites – designed especially for me by the House of Worth, the fabric is bejewelled in diamond patterns to resemble a snake’s skin.
I can’t help the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth as I reach behind my back to unlace the skirt.
The crowd gasps as I drop the fabric at my feet, revealing my scaled corset and the tiny triangle of bejewelled fabric at the apex of my thighs.
I have to use glue made of gum acacia, sugar and corn starch to hold it in place, but the hours of picking dried gum acacia from my nethers are worth it for the effect it has on Gideon Rougon.
His eyes are as wide as two moons, his lips pursed together, his hand clasped to his chest as if his heart has stopped.
I love it.
I spin on my heel and step up to my pole.
We’ve rigged a system into the base that allows the pole to spin freely so that when I twirl around, it twirls with me, creating a dizzying effect that leaves my audience reeling.
I spin, hooking my leg, losing myself in the music and the whirling, flickering lights.
Every time my gaze falls on the audience, it lands right back on Gideon.
I hang upside down, my curly hair fanning out beneath my jewelled headdress as I unclasp my corset and tease them with what’s beneath.
Gideon squeezes his eyes shut, appearing to be physically in pain as I toss away my corset, leaving me spinning in only my jewelled pasties and the glittering collar around my neck.
My bedazzled armour protects me from men like Gideon, reminding me always where I came from and what I need to do to keep this life I’ve made for myself.
I flip from the pole onto the stage, landing in the splits. The audience gasps and applauds as the curtain rolls down. The last thing I see before the stage is plunged into darkness is Gideon’s twin cobalt eyes, wide with awe and longing.
“You were sublime, as usual.” Catherina puffs her cigarette in my face as I hurry backstage to change. “You should be on a bigger stage, dancing beside Sarah Bernhardt, not slumming it here with us in Montmartre with the moralists out for our heads.”
“I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.” I wince as I remove the pasties, taking the gum acacia and a chunk of skin with them.
Secretly, I think she’s right. I’d give anything to have a career like Sarah, to have her easy freedom without the constant need to ensure I have a man enthralled.
I finger the jewelled collar still affixed around my neck.
“And I’d like to see the church come for my head.
Good luck getting through this armour of gold and stone. ”
“Do you think the person who broke in was one of them?” Catherina asks as she expertly glues on false eyelashes. “They may be trying to scare us out of business. Or maybe it was that creepy Upyr with the scar who sits in the corner all night nursing a single glass of blood—”
“Mademoiselle Macquart,” Jacques, our muscle, pokes his head into the dressing-room. “There is a fella out here wants to speak to you. The same one from the other night. I’ve threatened to weave his intestines into a summer chapeau, but he’s insisting.”
With his towering stature and ropes of muscles, Jacques cuts an imposing figure even without his fangs, but he’s an absolute teddy bear who has no wish to weave anyone’s innards into a delightful hat.
I groan. “Can’t you put his head through a wall? I’m not allowing admirers backstage, especially not after last night.”
“He says he knows you. He told me to give you this.”
Jacques holds up a pretty porcelain plate, the scalloped edges resplendent with blue flowers that perfectly match the lapis lazuli scarab clasped at my throat. Upon the plate is a cold slice of pizza covered in foie gras and oysters, and a note. The crooked handwriting reads:
The gastronomic equivalent of finger painting.
Gideon.
“Yes, fine. I’ll speak to him.” I rise to my feet, wrapping a silk dressing gown around myself and belting it low to give a tantalising slash of my dark skin and glittering collar.
Catherina raises an eyebrow, but she’s too afraid of me to say a thing.
I glare back at her, making it clear she’s not to follow me, and walk with Jacques to the curtain that separates backstage from the theatre patrons.
Gideon waits at the curtain, his grin no longer smug but lopsided, hopeful. “Mademoiselle Macquart.”
His voice is blood and chocolate, sliding hot and rich down my throat. He bows deeply, those golden curls glimmering beneath the oil lamps.
“Monsieur Rougon.” I hold out the plate to him. “If you’re attempting to impress me, you have failed. This pizza is cold.”
“If it were warm, would it impress you?”
I wrinkle my nose in disgust, and Gideon laughs. “It’s from Monsieur Hugo’s favourite pizzeria.”
I drop the plate into Jacques’ beefy hands. “The man ate rat paté. I don’t trust his tastes.”