The yelling and whistling intensified. My skin prickled all over, considering how very large the theater must be to hold so many voices. Even parked right outside London, the caravan had never drawn such crowds. I ached to be in front of them, to feel their excitement and hear them calling my name. I swallowed hard, felt every hair on my body rise. Even here, beyond the curtain, I could smell the hot blood pulsing through the building, the sweat rising off their skin, the goatlike stink of overexcited men and their lust. The immediacy of the stage struck through my homesickness and heartsickness, lighting me up from the inside with the otherworldly transcendence of lightning striking the Tower.
“Then let me be the first to welcome you . . . to Paradis!”
If I thought the cheers had been loud for the first two invitations, the third round was deafening. The orchestra began with a frenzy, and I shivered all over as the dancers went completely still on their marks.
So this was Paradis. Heaven. Although I had neglected to mention it to Cherie, I had been an art history major once, and I had spent an entire semester delving into the Impressionists and the Paris they’d envisioned in paint and dreams. In my world, Montmartre had featured, among the Moulin Rouge and the other cabarets, two clubs with very different names that did basically the same thing. Whether you were in Paradis or Enfer in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, you were still in for the bawdiest, most daring, most exciting shows in the world.
As I watched the daimon girls rustle, I noted that they all looked bright, healthy, excited, and colorful, nothing like the dark daimons I’d occasionally encountered while in Criminy’s coterie. They reminded me of Mademoiselle Caprice and her sons, and I felt a brief twinge over breaking Luc’s heart which quickly dissolved into the girls’ bright chatter. The cabarets were meant for stealing hearts, not pondering regrets. And possibly for breaking hearts, too, since many daimons would gorge on heartbreak. If Paradis was filled with good daimons, who were the denizens of Enfer?
A firm hand wrapped around my wrist and tugged me back into reality and down a pitch-black hallway just as I felt the air change and the curtain rise.
“We can watch from out here. Being caught backstage is not the best way to make an impression with Madame Sylvie.”
Vale could have let go then, but he didn’t, and I liked that, liked the feeling of being dragged along on an adventure. Even with a Bludman’s eyes, it was hard to see back here, and I had to wonder just how intimate he was with Paradis that he could navigate the twists and turns of the corridor without running into anything. When he finally slid a door open and pulled me through behind him, I was nearly overwhelmed by a riot of color and heat overlaid by the delicious scent of bodies crushed together. We were in the back of the theater, behind the crowd. Hundreds of men and a very few women sat at round tables packed tightly on a well-polished dance floor, while dozens more watched avidly from plush velvet boxes and booths around the periphery. It was a sea of black and white and flesh tones and a few blooms of color, with every single human or daimon in some version of a classic black tuxedo, even the women. Onstage, dozens of daimons danced in a line, their skins and dresses arranged according to the rainbow’s spectrum. Oddly, they weren’t doing the cancan, or even raising their legs overhead to reveal the colorful petticoats under their skirts. Still, their performance was masterly. Even I could feel the palpable excitement and joy rising from the crowd. For the daimons, it had to be like the breakfast buffet at the Ritz.
And of course, it was slightly painful to me, as I’d taken no blood since before the slavers’ attack. I rubbed my nose, curling a finger to block my nostrils. I hadn’t been hammered with so much humanity in an enclosed space since being bludded in Sang. It was lucky I had such excellent self-control, as if my body still remembered human food and was barely willing to settle for blood. I’d never experienced that rabid hunger that Pinkies expected from my kind, but if I wanted to stay focused and at Paradis, I was going to have to remain well fed. All the barely contained blood made it hard to concentrate.
“Impressive, is it not?” Vale elbowed me in the side, forcing me to suck in another breath of warm, enclosed person-stink.
“I’d be more impressed if I didn’t want to eat the audience.”
He grimaced and glanced at the bar, where a male daimon with purple skin, slicked-back hair, and a mustache shook and poured drinks faster than seemed possible. “Oh la la. I forgot about your troublesome appetite They don’t often serve Bludmen here, but I’ll ask at the bar. Can you wait?”
I rolled my eyes and held up my hands, curling them into faux claws inside their gloves. “No. I’m totally going to kill everybody. Roar. Rawr.”
His teeth flashed when he laughed. “Try not to, for both our sakes. I’ll be right back.”
I watched him leave, unable to escape the fact that his worn but well-fitted breeches were a thousand times more impressive than all the expensive tuxes in the room. If there was one thing that was true in Sang and on Earth, it was that money could buy a lot of things, but a tight butt and sexy swagger weren’t among them.
In order to tamp down my hunger, I focused on the daimons onstage. The music changed, and dancers hurried off in a flurry of petticoats. The crowd hushed as a large silver ring descended from the ceiling, twirling slowly on a rope. It was empty, and for a moment, I thought perhaps they’d already botched the show. But no. A spotlight clicked on, and golden dust danced in the harsh glare like glittery pollen. A lithe body slid down the rope with snakelike grace, the beautiful daimon girl writhing and posing around the hoop with boneless precision. In the interest of professional disdain, I studied her form, her movements. She was flawless, really, with long limbs of shining gold carefully hung with a minimal costume of cloth as flowing and languid as liquid. The tinkling music playing behind her made me think of fairies and sunlight and dainty things easily broken. But the girl’s face told me she wasn’t the fragile sort. She was concentrating, every line focused and harsh. Her painted mouth may have fooled the crowd, but my Bludman’s eyes could see the tiny lines of annoyance that assured me that she didn’t find the joy in her act that her movements suggested to the ignorant and mesmerized crowd.
I smelled Vale before I saw him, already attuned to his strange half-Abyssinian odor. The vial he presented was cool in my hand, refrigerated instead of warmed. I sucked in air through my teeth.
“It’s cold, I know. Sorry about that, ma petite. Can you choke it down?”
I popped the cork, held my nose, and tossed back the slightly clumpy blood, thankful that in Sang, for some strange reason, there were no germs, no blood-borne pathogens, no way for me to get sick from old blood. Even if it was like slurping a liquefied scab.
The taste was rancid in my mouth, and when Vale pressed a glass of red wine into my other hand, I rinsed and swallowed before thinking. The blood was so bad that the wine wasn’t disgusting.
“Thanks for that.” He took the wineglass from my hand and finished it off himself, which caught me by surprise. I wasn’t accustomed to daimons and humans wanting much to do with Bludmen or anything our foul, murderous, bloody mouths had touched. Being half-Abyssinian must have made a big difference to his worldview.
After slipping the wineglass onto a passing daimon waiter’s tray, Vale gestured with his chin to the golden girl dangling from the hoop. “That’s Limone. She is bad news.”
“Bad news how? Does she feed on pain?”
He chuckled. “Thankfully, no. But she is the cruelest daimon here. I would avoid her if I were you.”