Chapter 55 Arabella
Arabella
Dora: I know it’s a week early, but I’ve already finished packing my bag. Do you think we can go to Paris tonight? Say, just before the village variety show is due to begin?
IT’S STANDING ROOM ONLY in Sanctus Club. Vampires and humans mingle awkwardly. It will take more than a party in a fancy club to convince the villagers to accept Sanctus Estate, but the free-flowing cocktails (with or without blood) will go a long way to help.
I nod to Lilac, who’s behind the bar mixing perfect blood cocktails for the Upyr guests.
She nods back. She may come from the same court as my evil sire, but so far, all she’s used her magic for is to repair my beautiful skin after the damage from Astor’s blade – therefore, she is worthy of knighthood.
“Is this really what La Petite Mort was like?” Winnie asks as she spins in a slow circle, taking in the crowded booths, the twinkling lamps, the sumptuous velvet and gold everywhere.
Thankfully, Sinead hadn’t made much progress on redecorating Sanctus Club, and Gideon was quickly able to restore it to its original, superior design.
“The music was much better,” I yell over the pounding bass. Gideon insisted that our patrons wouldn’t be interested in the music I used to play, and needled me until I signed over total control of the playlist. I let him have it because men need to win sometimes.
Actually, that’s a lie. I snuck on some of my favourite dancing tracks when he wasn’t looking. I will make them all appreciate decent music, for I am correct on all matters of taste.
Make that, all matters, full stop.
“Thank you for inviting us into your world.” Mina’s eyes cloud over with happy tears as she hugs Celeste close to her. “Both of you.”
Celeste beams at me. Our friendship has deepened since I discovered what she is. We aren’t hiding our true selves from each other or our friends. It’s scary, but the good kind of scary, like the first time you pat a snake and she gives you that look.
Speaking of snakes, Cleo VII is in her element tonight – draped over my shoulders, wearing her bling and surveying her domain. To say thank you for saving my life, Gideon gifted her with a matching scarab collar and added another floor to her enclosure. He’s now her new favourite Upyr.
“And thank you for taking us all on a trip to Paris!” Maisie cries, squeezing James Pond so hard in her excitement that he beaks her in the face.
“I can’t believe we leave next weekend for four whole days.
I’m so excited to see your favourite places, eat your favourite foods, go to all your favourite shops and watch you try on fabulous clothes I’d never in a million years pull off. All that art. All that cheese…”
“Dairy is awful for gut health,” Beth scolds her. “I’ll be packing extra mushroom smoothie sachets, and I think we should each have one every morning—”
“No!” Isis, Dora, Maisie, Mina, Celeste, Komal, and Winnie cry in unison.
I smirk. No matter what, my friends will always be a source of frustration and delight.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to pay even a portion?” Winnie frowns at me. “That hotel you booked looks more like a castle. It can’t be cheap—”
“Only the best for Arabella Lestrange and her friends. This is my treat, to say thank you for knowing me well, despite my best efforts. We should have done it years ago.”
“It’s wonderful to see you with a smile on your face.” Dora throws her arm around me, careful to avoid touching Cleo VII, but her eyes are focused on the empty stage. She’s trembling. Mike, thankfully, is nowhere in sight.
Behind Dora, Isis fiddles with the tap on an absinthe fountain and accidentally sprays herself in the eye. It’s good to see the green fairy still has a sense of humour.
“I shouldn’t be smiling,” I tell Dora, glancing around at the faces of the Sanctus vampires.
One of them killed Alyra, Danny and Patrick.
“We’re still no closer to finding the killer.
And we don’t know what Astor meant when he said we’re wrong about the killer being a husker, or who this mystery person is who claimed to have my collar. ”
“We’re the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven,” Mina assures me. “We may have followed some false clues, but we’ll crack this case. We always do.”
A bell sounds over our heads, signalling for the audience to take their seats.
I slip away from my friends and head backstage to herd performers and glare at people until they stand where they’re told.
Once the show starts, I stand in the wings, giving the performers my infamous last-minute pep talk: “You will not throw up on my Manolo Blahniks. Or you will lick them clean. You will be wonderful out there. You have no choice. Now, get on stage and woe them with your brilliance.”
“Don’t you mean ‘wow’ them?” Isis asks.
“I do not.”
Every act gives it their all. Dora is amazing.
I honestly thought she was going to be cleaning puke off my shoes.
But then she struts out there and opens her mouth, and it’s as if the spirit of La Petite Mort takes over her and she becomes a cabaret singer.
When Dora sings, the whole audience falls into one of those rare silences that feels like a prayer.
Even Lilac stops wiping down the bar and stares gape-mouthed at the stage.
Then their song finishes. Dora runs straight offstage and throws up in the bathroom. At least my shoes are safe.
The audience claps, cheers, and hoots for each performance – the sublime and the surreal alike. Finally, there’s only one act left.
“Are you ready?” I ask Gideon. He flashes me that delicious smile that makes me believe I’m invincible.
I hand Cleo VII off to one of the stagehands, pull the hood of Gideon’s costume down over his golden hair, kiss him on the nose, and send him out with a smack on his derrière.
The lights dim, and The Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog” starts up. Gideon picked the song, and he even came up with the concept for our act. I guess he figured anything was better than being a meerkat.
With one self-satisfied smirk, Gideon drops to all fours and galumphs out on stage, his shaggy dog costume bright beneath the lights.
Gideon yips and chases his tail around the base of the pole. Everyone cracks up laughing.
And then he lifts his back leg, wiggling his butt at the audience. He’s a natural on stage. Or maybe he’s just a natural puppy. Komal falls out of her chair with laughter as Gideon makes a face like he’s about to pee all over the front row while gritty punk music blasts through the darkened club.
He’s everything La Petite Mort stood for – subversion, eroticism, outlandishness and joy – and I love it.
I hear my cue and enter stage left, dressed to kill with my collar at my throat, and waving a leash like a doggy dominatrix. It’s the first time I’ve danced on a stage for an audience of more than one since La Petite Mort burned. And it feels good to be back.
The stage lights shine bright in my eyes. I can barely see the crowd, but I hear their whoops of awe as I swing myself around the pole into a Russian split.
Gideon’s eyes widen in mock-terror. He scrambles to get away, his legs going in all directions, eliciting another round of laughter from the audience.
I use the pole to twist and dip and flare my legs as I pretend to “search” for Gideon, who hides in the audience and begs for treats. An Upyr tips a glass of blood into his mouth, and Isis kisses him on the forehead while I hang upside down in a variety of complex, skin-pinchy poses.
At the end of our act, he slinks back to me and lies down at my feet. I clip on his leash and he rolls over, accepting belly scratches for being a good boy. The song finishes with a clash of drums, and I knit my fingers in Gideon’s and drag him downstage. We bow together, deeply.
I never should have stopped dancing. My body hums with electricity. My heart smiles. I know that I’ll be a frequent performer on the Sanctus Club stage. Maybe I’ll even let Beth talk me into running that vampire pole dancing class once she gets her new studio built.
Maybe.
The Nevermore Coven throws flower petals, which pleases me more than I’ll ever admit.
We bow a few more times, and then I turn to exit stage left, because it is definitely time to hit the bar. Gideon and I have agreed to become equal partners in Sanctus, and he wants to hear my ideas for improvements. Which is good, because I made an extensive list.
But Gideon tugs on my hand. “Just a moment. We have a final act.”
The audience, sensing something happening, falls silent.
“What’s this? This isn’t part of my very detailed stage directions.” I try to yank my hand from Gideon’s, but he holds tight. The smirk on his face is a little lopsided, nervous.
Intriguing.
“Arabella,” his voice cracks on my name, and I know to stop trying to free my hand and to listen.
Because while Gideon Blake has said many infuriating things to me over the centuries, when he says my name like that, he’s speaking something precious and true.
“I can’t believe I’m here, under these lights, with you.
I can’t believe I got a second chance to make things right between us.
I feel like the heroine from a romance novel who realises she gets to have everything in the world she wants, and while I partly have to thank some well-meaning romance novel enthusiasts—”
“Go us!” Isis yells from the crowd.
“—for getting us to this point, I also know that I owe a debt to the magic that brought you back to me, and an even larger debt to the woman with the body that should come with an FBI warning and the heart big enough to forgive me. I can’t promise you everything you deserve, but I promise you this: if you’ll have me, I will love you fiercely and imperfectly until the end of our days. ”
From the recesses of his shaggy dog costume, he pulls a small black box.
Only good things come in small black boxes.
Gideon flips it open, revealing a golden ring. In the centre, surrounded by glittering emeralds, is a beautiful, gleaming lapis lazuli shaped like a scarab. My heart squeezes like it’s trying to fit through my ribs to get to him.
His smile is pure wicked surrender.
“I thought maybe this could be your new good luck charm. What do you say?” That smile of his twists into a full-blown boyish grin. “Will you marry me?”
I take the box from his hand. “I suppose.”
“You suppose?” he laughs, wrapping me in his shaggy embrace. “I’ll take it. I’ll take it and I’ll take you, my soon-to-be wife, straight back to my apartment to shag you into submission. Or should I say our apartment now?”
“Don’t be absurd. My house is superior to your apartment. I’m not sleeping in a revolving coffin bed. It makes me feel like I’m a cinnamon bun on display in Celeste’s bakery. We will be getting a proper bed.”
“Fine. But no cherubs—”
“There will be no discourse. I am correct in all matters—”
“Stop arguing and kiss already!” Celeste yells.
So I do. I stop arguing, second-guessing, and living in the past. And I give myself up to the mysteries of the universe and the concept that maybe, sometimes, it’s not terrible to trust other people.
And I kiss Gideon Blake, my fiancé, beneath the stage lights until my lips are raw and Isis is demanding another round of cocktails for emotional trauma.