“Monsieur Hildebrand, gentlemen are not allowed upstairs. You know that. I hope you’ll accept the hospitality of the bar while I conclude some business with Monsieur Philippe.”
Vale quaked with fury, and I wrapped my arm around his and dragged him toward the door with me. He balked, but I was stronger than I looked, and I managed to pull him out before he said something we would all regret.
“Merci, madame. À bientôot, monsieur,” I cooed. As soon as the door shut, a whispered argument began within, and I leaned my back against the brick wall of the hallway.
“If Madame catches you listening in, she’ll beat you with a riding crop,” the daimon boy whispered. He shoved my gloves into my hands, and I slipped them over my fingers before Vale noticed. Not that he was looking at my hands.
“If she ever kisses that pervert again, I’ll beat her with a riding crop.” Vale was suddenly there, in front of me, blocking out Blaise and the lights and everything but his avid, searing eyes. “Run along, boy. Wait at the bottom of the stairs.”
“But Monsieur Vale—”
“Have you ever seen me angry, Blaise?”
“No, monsieur, but—”
“People who anger Hildebrands don’t live to complain. Now, run.”
The boy threw me an exasperated, frightened look and scuttled away. Vale’s fingers tightened around my upper arms, and he half-dragged me down the hall toward a bricked-in niche.
“Vale, you can’t get me in trouble on my first day—”
He cut me off with a hand under my chin and soft lips pressing, insistent and desperate, against mine.
8
It was the last thing I expected but the first thing my body wanted. With damnable quickness, my arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer. An electric current shot through me, making me quiver with heat that pooled low in my belly. When his mouth opened, just slightly, I moaned for more and ran my tongue between his lips, frantic to gain entry.
This, this was what had been missing. This this this.
With Luc, with the boys on Earth. This mad, insane passion. The way his fingers tightened at my waist, the way my hips sought his, the way my heel dragged up the back of his calf as if pointing out the right road on a map. He felt it, too—I could tell by the frantic curling of his tongue, the hardness in his arms as I slid my hands down to his wrists, struggling not to dig in my nails. Everything inside me went liquid and hot, like molten chocolate. He tasted like masala, like chai, like spices both hot and sweet that were too fiery to savor undiluted.
I dipped deeper, chasing his tongue, frantic to remove the taste of Monsieur Philippe from my lips. I was so hot, so hungry, so avid, that I completely forgot I had fangs. Until he pushed away roughly, almost tripping over the leg I’d wrapped around his thigh.
“Come back here,” I growled. He shook his head no, his eyes burning golden in the low lights of the hallway.
“Can’t. You nicked me.”
He stuck a finger to his lips and pulled it away barely painted with blood. My breath caught on instinct, but then I smelled it. Half-tainted. Wrong.
How easily I had forgotten that Abyssinian blood would drive me mad—and not in a good way. Although there were no germs and therefore no diseases in Sang—which, honestly, I still couldn’t quite believe—it would appear that insanity here could be chemically induced in a way that sounded a lot like rabies. Bludmen who drank any Abyssinian blood at all were said to foam at the mouth and bleed from the eyes, nose, and ears, all while running around, blind and screaming and clawing at whatever their talons encountered. It was an ugly way to go that often resulted in the death or dismemberment of anyone else nearby. This made the Abyssinians undaunted warriors, much respected and somewhat feared all over Sang, especially considering that many of them painted their weapons with their own blood.
Vale had said he was half Abyssinian, but I didn’t know if that meant his blood would make me only half-mad, or if it would take longer to kill me, or if it would just make me sick for a while. And I definitely didn’t want to find out after I’d just been offered a job and was one step closer to finding Cherie. I would have to be more careful, more controlled, the next time he kissed me.
Because yes, I realized, I wanted there to be a next time. I’d never wanted there to be a next time before.
“Why are you smiling, bébé?” He was leaning against the wall directly across the hall from me, mimicking my posture with one leg kicked up against the bricks. He looked as dazed as I felt, his eyes unfocused and wide. I hadn’t realized I was grinning until he asked, and that only made me grin wider.
“I was thinking about something funny.”
“You think going half-mad is funny? Or you think me kissing you is funny?”
“Neither.” I tried to control the grin and failed. “Definitely neither.”
“Mademoiselle? The ladies will be back soon. Please hurry.”
Blaise’s voice carried, faint and nervous, from the top of the stairs at the end of the hall. I didn’t want to get him in trouble, but I wasn’t ready to be without Vale. He was strange and dangerous, but he was the most familiar thing I had in Paris and also my main link to finding Cherie. And more immediately, I wanted him to kiss me again. After my first taste of passion, I felt open for more, like a book with the spine cracked, waiting for more ink. Just staring at him from five feet away made my heart speed up. Damn, but chemistry is a demanding bitch.
“I guess I need to go.”
He nodded sadly. “If you don’t, Blaise will get beaten. Madame Sylvie is kinder than most, but she doesn’t care to be crossed. And neither does her choreographer. Be careful—they’re two halves of the same serpent.”
“When will I see you again?” The words rushed out of me so fast I felt like Liesl in The Sound of Music and mentally cursed myself for acting like a sixteen-year-old idiot instead of the stylish cabaret girl I was bound and determined to become. The way his searing gaze roamed over my mouth made me feel slightly better.
“I will go around to the other cabarets. Spread the word about a kidnapped girl who’s worth a great deal of ransom. Small and blond, yes?”
I nodded. “Curly hair, gray eyes. Last seen in a salmon-pink dress and bludbunny skull fascinator.”
He stroked my hair gently, his smile going sad.
“Oh.” I touched the polished skull myself; I’d forgotten I’d pinned it on after nearly losing it in the catacombs. “Never mind that last part.” Then, more softly, “It was her favorite.”
“I’ll do my best, Demi. Keep your ears open, eh? The daimons are good at keeping secrets among themselves, but perhaps you will hear something useful. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow. I have a delivery to make.”
“Another cabaret girl?” I said, trying to put on a brave face.
“Oh, I only deliver those once a week. This would be wine. Cabarets always need wine.”
“But where do you get it?”
He shook a finger in my face, tsked, and grinned, his teeth looking, for a moment, as sharp as mine. Something in my heart thrummed like guitar strings, seeing that wicked look in his eyes. When I’d crushed on the knife thrower in the caravan, I’d been told he was too dangerous for me. Maybe Vale was just dangerous enough.
“I’m not a daimon, but I know how to keep secrets, too, ma petite. À demain.”