Chapter 17 Arabella ‘Then’
Arabella
Then
Mademoiselle Macquart, I have been asking around the neighbourhood about the mysterious goings-on at the theatre.
The fishmonger witnessed a figure in a dark cloak fleeing down the street on the night the flowers were left, and a streetwalker reports what sounds like the same cloaked figure brushing past her, almost knocking her into the gutter.
Although neither saw the figure’s face, they believed it to be a man.
I shall head to the coffee house after the theatre closes, knock some heads together, and see what falls out.
Yours, Jacques
WE BID GOODNIGHT TO MONSIEUR MONET, and I allow Gideon to drag me through the streets of Montmartre.
I’ve not spent much time outside at night since I first arrived in the city.
People who look like me are not always given a warm welcome.
Before I had an income and ready access to Thralled humans and vintage blood, I would hunt by moonlight, supping from drunks passed out in the alleys or the opium eaters as they emerged from their hollow dens.
But now La Petite Mort demands everything from me during the midnight hours, and during the day I must have my daysleep.
It leaves little time to slip into the heaving, pulsing streets of the city and feel her lifeblood.
But tonight – my Bloodeve – it feels right to be here, with him.
With my arm in Gideon’s, the City of Light warms my cold veins once more.
I remember the hope I felt when I first arrived with nothing but my two best dresses, the glittering collar hidden beneath my coat, and a heart cold with vengeance.
I may be relatively new to immortality, but I’d already come to feel as though I’d drunk this city dry, until I saw it tonight through his eyes.
Gideon meanders all over Montmartre, stopping to sniff summer blooms or to throw coins at the street performers.
He buys me candied fruits from one seller, and café au lait from another, both of which I toss in the Seine when his back is turned.
He talks to everyone – the insoumises working in Rue Pigalle, the bohemians wafting merrily between cafes like leaves on the breeze, the footmen waiting by their carriages for their masters to finish in the brothels.
“You’re so cold.” Gideon wraps his coat around my shoulders, drawing me against him as we wander down yet another avenue.
“That’s because I have no heart.”
“I don’t believe that. If you were heartless, you wouldn’t have let me kneel for you. Come on!” He drags me forward, laughing. “We don’t want to be late.”
“Late for what?”
Gideon passes under a carved archway depicting cherubic angels, and into a wide grassed courtyard where a large contraption is tethered, bobbing gently in the breeze.
I stare up at it, confounded.
“It’s a hot air balloon.” Gideon drags me towards the wicker basket suspended beneath a large orange balloon. “When this envelope is inflated, it will fly us high above the city.”
I struggle to form words. “But… why?”
“Because it’s fun.” He tugs my arm. “Haven’t you ever wanted to fly?”
“Not really, no. I’m rather enamoured with the ground.”
“It’s perfectly safe. Consider it a birthday present.”
“Your witty and learned arguments have filled me with assurance. I’m not flying in a picnic basket beneath a glorified carbuncle.” I jab a finger towards the midnight sky. “Up there is the gravity.”
“Technically, gravity isn’t up there. It’s—”
“I know what gravity is! Take me back to La Petite Mort this instant.”
Gideon flashes me that cheeky grin. “Arabella Macquart isn’t afraid, is she?”
If he thinks he knows how to get to me… he’s right, damn him.
I fold my arms and glare at him as I step gingerly towards the contraption. A shadow darts in the garden behind the balloon, but I’m too distracted by my terror to discern it.
Probably just a stray cat hoping for a scrap of food.
Gideon’s smile turns wicked as he reaches down to help me up. There is a small set of wooden steps placed next to the basket, enabling passengers (also known as “those who wish for death”) to easily board the sky pufferfish.
Gideon’s hand on my arm steadies me as I clamber up the narrow steps. “I swear it will be fun. Wait until you meet our aeronaut.”
It’s then that I realise there are three people already standing inside the basket. Two men and a woman. The woman waves cheerily at us and calls Gideon’s name. She looks familiar.
“That’s…”
My mouth falls open as the pilot beams down at me, golden curls tumbling from beneath her leather beret.
“You must be Arabella Macquart. I’m Sarah Bernhardt.” The infamous actress extends an elegant gloved hand. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. Giddy has told me so much about you. He’s positively sung an aria to your flawless skin.”
“Giddy?” I grin at Gideon. “Oh, thank you, Sarah, for this benevolent gift. I’m pleased Giddy introduced us.”
“Wow, time goes so fast when you’re being pushed out of a hot air balloon.” Gideon hops up beside the greatest actress who has ever lived and extends his hand to me. “Are you coming?”
I take his hand.
Gideon’s warmth pools in my chest as he helps me into the enormous basket, which creaks and groans with every movement.
Sarah and her male companions rush around, fiddling with sandbags, lighting things, and muttering about wind speeds and compass directions.
There is a picnic basket in the corner, brimming with foods that smell amazing – cheese, oranges, tartines de foie gras – which I can’t eat.
With a huff and a jerk, the balloon is away. Gideon unloops the tethers. At first, I don’t even realise we’re moving. But then I look over the edge and see the tops of the buildings and the flickering streetlamps of Rue de l’Abreuvoir.
We’re really flying.
My head spins from the wonder of it.
“Champagne?” Gideon holds out a glass. I accept it, taking a sip, knowing that I’ll regret it later. The drink itself tastes like nothing, but the bubbles dance on my tongue, light and free, like me.
Up here, the city changes. Everything is so insignificant. The Seine is a periwinkle ribbon. Pieces of Bartholdi’s Statue of Liberty are laid out at the workshops, the gargantuan limbs like shards of a broken doll.
Sarah leaves her two male friends to manage the envelope and sashays over to me. She wears a fashionable silk dress and a stuffed bat perched on her hat. “Giddy tells me you are the finest dancer in all of Paris.”
“In all the world,” Gideon adds.
“I am not in the same league as you.” I feel like a little girl again, awed by the majesty of the grand houses where my mother worked and the ancient tombs she allowed me to wander.
“I don’t grace the stage for rapturous crowds.
I dance for the pleasure of men. I say nothing except what they want to hear.
What I do cannot be compared to your art. ”
“You should not shrink yourself so. Art is not about something. Art is something.” Sarah runs her hands over her body. “Energy creates energy, Arabella. It is by spending myself that I become rich. If I recognise the collar you wear, you understand this better than most, I think.”
Heat creeps across my cheeks at her words.
“I do as I wish,” Sarah continues. “I sleep in a coffin because it amuses me. I keep cheetahs, a tiger, lion cubs and a monkey. I had a pet alligator called Ali-Gaga, who died of a milk and champagne overdose. But I only do these things because people wish to watch me. The actress or the dancer cannot exist without the audience. Pleasing others is the ultimate way to please ourselves. Do you agree?”
I raise my glass of champagne. “I agree thoroughly.”
“Look!” Gideon points over the edge. “There’s La Petite Mort.”
I grip the edge of the basket and lean out, squinting where he points. From this angle, I can make out only the sharply steepled roof of the old church that now houses my theatre. Gideon’s chest brushes my back as he leans in close behind me, pointing to other features of the city.
He turns, and his lips brush my earlobe, soft at first, so soft that I might believe it was an accident.
But then, he lingers.
The heat of him, the scent of him, sparks inside me like a lit fuse burning down, and I don’t know what is going to happen when it gets to the end.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I mean it to be a reprimand, but it comes out breathy.
He presses his lips against the edge of my jaw. I feel them curl back into a grin. “I think I’m trying to kiss an enchanting woman under the moonlight.”
“Your friends can see us.”
“Oh, darlings, please don’t be shy.” And then Sarah grabs me, tearing me from Gideon’s grasp, and plants a kiss on my lips.
I’ve had several female clients over the years, so I’m familiar with all the different ways a woman’s kiss can feel.
But I’ve never kissed a woman I admire, nor a woman whose freedom to be herself makes my throat close in envy.
Sarah’s lips are soft, her scent floral and uplifting – the opposite of Gideon’s bewitching darkness.
Her hands cup my cheek, holding me in place, knocking me off-centre with her command of this interaction.
Her tongue explores every corner of my mouth, brushing softly against mine before circling the tips of my fangs, which have already begun to drop, drawn down by Gideon’s red cherry and poppy scent.
I expect her to pull away in disgust, but she continues to take her fill of me, while I wonder at the heady need she stirs in me, not to kiss her again, which is enjoyable, but for someone to take control away from me, to trust another enough to allow them to see who I am behind my mask.
When she does pull away, her breath is ragged and her eyes shimmer with lust.
“The night belongs to us, Arabella. We are too young and beautiful to hold ourselves back!” And before I can say a word, Sarah leaps onto the edge of the basket, making it sway. I grip the rim as we tilt downward, the world beneath us swaying across my vision.
“Sarah, get down!” Gideon growls, his arm going around my waist, holding me against him as the basket tips even further. Can vampires die from a great fall? I don’t want to find out.
“Make me, ma chérie!”
Gideon grips the rope and looks down at me, his grey eyes sparkling. His arm tightens around my waist. I should be terrified of falling, but instead, I am flying. Laughter bubbles up in my chest. Up in the clouds, everything down there is so small and unimportant.
Sarah’s other companions coax her down from the edge. She refills the champagne glasses. Gideon’s hand never leaves my waist and I enjoy it too much to move it away. His breath on the back of my neck is a delicious torture.
We laugh and talk and laugh some more. Sarah sings a haunting aria.
The men devour the goodies inside the picnic basket.
The balloon bumps against the base of Gustave’s Eiffel Tower, but we manage to push it away before we become trapped.
Gideon doesn’t try to kiss me again, and I am both disappointed and excited.
I have made up my mind that I want to kiss this human.
Sarah is right – I shouldn’t hold myself back.
I am safe here. My sire is dead and I can kiss a human if I want to.
But for now, I am enjoying the anticipation of this kiss. I intend to draw it out until we are both so desperate for it that we will burn in each other’s passion. I’ve been in the business of sex long enough to know that anticipation is half the pleasure.
Sarah pulls another bottle of champagne from somewhere. I raise my glass to my lips. As I do, I notice my hand shaking.
I pull my attention inward, listening to my body. And it’s telling me that I’ve made a terrible mistake.
I stagger to my feet. My legs give out from beneath me and I topple against the basket.
“Arabella?” Gideon wraps his arms around me, setting me lightly on the floor of the basket. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“Oh dear, she’s had too much to drink.” Sarah cries gleefully. “We can fix that with more champagne!”
I haven’t had enough to drink.
My fangs slide down, their tips aching with thirst. Gideon is too close. He smells too good. And I’m fading fast. I haven’t felt hunger like this since the night Lord Astor punished me by locking me outside as the sun rose—
No.
As I squint at the blurring world, I notice a hint of gold at the edge of my vision, the city beneath me unfurling into a glittering warmth.
This is not good.
All those months back in Egypt, I practised being able to stay awake during the sunlight hours, but since I arrived in Paris, I’ve let the skill lapse.
And now I’m paying dearly. I won’t stay awake much longer.
I need to get home before I fall into the dreamless sleep, and my companions panic and take me to l’h?pital.
“Arabella, can you talk to me?” Gideon’s mouth quivers with worry.
“Do you have… your pocket watch?” I slap Gideon’s lapel, trying to reach into his pocket, but my fingers don’t seem to be attached to my body.
“How forward of you—”
“I’m not joking. I need to know the time.”
“I don’t have it. I didn’t bring it with me, in case I lost it over the edge during one of Sarah’s mad dances. Arabella, what’s wrong?”
The golden glow on the horizon. A glow I haven’t seen for over a decade.
“I have to get down. Now.” I tug on one of the ropes. The envelope collapses on one side. Sarah screams as we drop several feet before Gideon wrestles the rope from my hand.
“What’s the hurry?” Sarah’s friend drawls. “We have the sky all to ourselves. We were going to watch the sunrise and—”
“I can’t.” Panic clenches at my chest. My fangs bite into my lip. I slap Gideon’s hands away, clawing at the basket, trying to drag myself upright. My skin is filled with stones and scorpions with scuttling legs and sharp, poisonous tails.
“Ma chérie, what’s the rush—” Sarah’s eyes darken as she scans my face. “Of course. We’ll set down immediately.”
“Arabella, what’s wrong?” Gideon wraps his arms around me, pulling me against him.
“I can’t explain. I can’t—”
“Arabella?”
The world wobbles. The scorpions sting. The last thing I see before I pass out is Gideon’s pale and worried face.