Chapter 13 Arabella ‘Then’
Arabella
Then
Miss Macquart, I am writing to conclude our business regarding the death of one Lord John Astor, Earl of Aylmere, last residing in Cairo, Egypt.
Enclosed within is my report. You will find it thorough.
I would usually leave out the more grotesque details in deference to the constitutions of my lady clients, but you have assured me you are no lady, so I have included such details as would lead you to the same conclusion as I.
After exhaustive investigation and one late-night excursion into a cemetery with shovel and pickaxe in hand, which I never wish to repeat, I can assure you that Lord John Astor is thoroughly dead.
I appreciate your business and your prompt payment of my expense claim for cleaning the grave dirt out of my best suit.
Please never contact me again.
Sincerely, C. Auguste Dupin
GIVEN HOW POORLY MEN HANDLE REJECTION, I expect that to be the last I see of Gideon, but he returns the following night.
I’m on the VIP balcony, schmoozing with a Hungarian cardinal who is considering taking two of my girls back to a confessional when Gideon saunters into the theatre, his golden hair annoyingly tousled from the windy streets.
He reeks of honey and human blood. Gideon pays the entrance fee and scans the room, those piercing eyes taking in the residents at each table before casting upward and settling on me.
“Arabella.” He leaps the stairs two at a time. “I want to—”
I hold up my hand. “You cannot come up here.”
“But you’re up there.”
“Yes, and this area is for our VIP clientele.” I gesture to the cardinal, who is frowning into his purse, annoyed that Gideon has interrupted our business.
“What was last night, then?” Gideon’s cobalt eyes twinkle.
“A mistake that cannot be repeated.”
“Fine.” He fishes out a battered purse from his pocket and tips coins into his hand. “What will it cost for you?”
I laugh. “I don’t go to bed with theatre guests.”
“When we go to bed together, Arabella Macquart, it will be because you beg me, not because I have paid for the pleasure.” He grins as he holds out a pile of coins in his fist. “I wish to spend the evening in the pleasure of your company, even if I have to pay for the honour.”
As if I would ever beg a man for anything.
I’d like to slap that self-righteous grin from his smart mouth, but the coins he casually drops into my palm are heavy and real. And I need them.
I spent most of my savings to pay Dupin, but it was a worthwhile expense.
Now, I know for certain that my old sire has not somehow returned from the dead to claim what he feels is his.
The creepy words and blood-soaked flowers were definitely Astor’s style, but they must be from an admirer of one of my other ladies.
I have offered Jacques an extra purse if he conducts a discreet investigation locally, asking around in the coffee houses and bistros of Montmartre about someone obsessed with the courtesans of La Petite Mort.
Whoever is writing these messages and leaving these gifts, we will find them, and I will deal with them.
But at least it is not Astor. Even a vampire as old and sadistic as Lord John Astor dies like a dog in the end.
In the meantime, I have my expenses and my new dress to pay for.
And an evening with Gideon is more interesting to me than the cardinal’s lecherous plans.
I slip the coins into the folds of my dress and wrap my fingers around Gideon’s wrist, pressing them a little firmly so that he remembers I have power over him here. I lead him to an empty confessional.
“What do you wish to do with our evening?” I ask as Séraphine brings our drinks. “Will you pepper me with more annoying questions about my personal life?”
“Will you refuse to answer them again?”
“I am in the business of creating enchantments, Monsieur Rougon. I am a blank canvas upon which men paint their dreams and fantasies. Knowing my history rather spoils the illusion.”
“Not for me.” He speaks with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
Perhaps my corset is too tight.
That must be it.
Gideon smiles, his face brighter than the freshly replenished oil lamps. “But no, I don’t intend to unravel your mysteries tonight, Mademoiselle Macquart. I thought you might like to play a game.”
“Are we not already playing a game?” I tilt my head to the side, enjoying the hard line of his jaw as he struggles to figure me out.
“If we are, I’m losing.” He withdraws a backgammon box from the recesses of his suit. It’s a beautiful set, inlaid with ivory and precious woods. He tips out the little pieces onto the velvet board and arranges them. “Do you always wear those jewels, even when you’re not performing?”
I answer him with a question of my own. “When you fall asleep at the foot of your master’s bed, do you keep a blade or pistol at your side?”
“Lucien isn’t my master, and yes, of course. This is a dangerous city, and he is a man with enemies.”
“This is a dangerous city, and I am a woman with enemies.” I stroke my fingers over the jewels. “This collar is my blade.”
Gideon purses his lips. He doesn’t understand. How could he? He’s a man. He’s never had to do the things I’ve done.
“Are you performing tonight?” he asks.
“No. I take three nights a week off the stage to rest my body.”
“It’s a pity. You come alive when you dance.” His gaze falls to the collar around my neck. “Not that you’re not alive now. I just mean, you are different under the lights. I feel as though I can touch the moon when I watch you. Where did you learn to dance like that?”
I throw the ivory dice and move two of my men.
Gideon shakes the dice and gets a double four.
I watch his hand as he moves his four men, taking note of the tiny bones beneath the surface of his skin and the pulse of blood at his wrist. His honey and red cherry scent fills my nostrils, and I imagine drawing his wrist to my lips and supping my fill until we’re both moaning for more…
“Are you alright?” Gideon tilts his head to the side. A golden curl flops over his eye. “You look like you’re about to faint.”
“Forgive me, I haven’t eaten enough today.
” I sip my drink. The blood does little to sate my hunger for the man across from me.
“Dancing is not something you learn. It’s something you are.
The music is in your veins, in your bones.
I have always danced. I will always dance.
That is something no one can ever take away from me.
But if you mean, where did I learn to dance for men, to tempt and tease, to bring them to their knees, hoping for a taste of me?
This I learned in Egypt, from my mother. ”
I snap my mouth shut. Why did I say that? I slam my men down on the board, sending two of his men to the bar at the centre.
“Then your mother is a true mistress of her craft, for your skills are immeasurable.” Gideon’s eyes warm.
“I have a friend who is a performer of some renown in this city, an acquaintance of Lucien’s, and I believe she would be eager to meet you.
I hope I can arrange a meeting one day. Why did you choose this life, this theatre of the grotesque, instead of the stage at the Palais Garnier? ”
“I thought you detested the opera.”
“I do, but unlike me, you are a woman of refined taste.”
With a smooth flick of his wrist, he tosses the dice and gets both his men off the bar, blotting one of mine. He grins at me, every perfect inch of him radiating the most infuriating sunshine.
I want to burn up in his light.
I raise my eyes to him, fixing him with my most devilish smile. I quirk my lip to the side, allowing him to see the tips of my fangs for a fraction of a second.
And I say something true.
“Because I can be myself here.”
I know exactly what I expect. I know how a human should react to seeing a monster.
But that’s not how Gideon reacts.
He leans towards me, tilting his head again. That infernal gold curl flops across his forehead. His eyes fix on the corner of my mouth, where I retracted my fang, but there is no fear in that peacock-blue gaze, only hunger.
“You are yourself when you cast enchantments on stage, drenched in faux blood,” he whispers, his voice choked with awe.
Real blood.
“I am myself when I am both lover and horror, priestess and supplicant.” I sip my drink, aware of a tingle in my lips where the blood stains them.
“In my grandiose and completely correct opinion, nothing says romance like splitting open the rib cage of your lover and snuggling affectionately inside.”
I’m testing him, pressing at the edges of what he’ll accept from a cocotte.
Gideon shoves the table aside, scattering backgammon pieces across the thick Persian rug.
He falls to his knees, his hands finding my thighs. I grab his wrists, ready to toss him across the room for his insolence, but I find myself unable to separate myself from his warm, pulsing flesh.
Instead, I tighten my grip, drawing his warmth into myself, as if his fire can possibly thaw the ice from my immortal veins.
Gideon whispers. “Then allow me to present my rib cage for your pleasure, Mademoiselle.”
Damn him.
Damn.
Him.
His lips are an inch from mine, full and wet from the juice I gave him. His scent swirls around me, syrupy-sweet cherry laced with the breathtaking tang of fresh, warm, vinous blood. My fingers itch to tuck that gods-damned curl back where it belongs.
We hover there, in that delicious, agonising space between acting and not acting, where every reason I shouldn’t kiss him does battle against the one reason I should…
Because I want to.
Gideon leans in, eyes wide open, dark irises blown out with hunger.
I want him…
I draw back.
“Get yourself up off the floor before you crease that fine suit of yours.”
Gideon sighs. His shoulders shudder as he stands, drawing himself away from me as if the act of doing so is physically painful. I see the evidence of his arousal in the tent of his trousers. That is one impressive bulge.
I wet my lips. What I wouldn’t give to unwrap that gift…
“You should leave.”
“If I return tomorrow night, will you see me?” he asks as he hovers in the doorway.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
I offer him a tight-lipped smile, even as my whole body trembles. “On the state of your purse.”