The door shut softly, and Vale erupted, tossing me over. “You’re a virgin?” he hissed.
I blushed hot. “No. But I would’ve told the duke anything to keep him away. That’s just what slipped out.”
He licked his lips, rubbed his jaw. “Probably just made them hungrier for you. That will be a tough lie to hide one day, bébé.”
“Then we’ll have to find Cherie soon, won’t we? Before anyone has to find out.”
“I’ll do my best. I am doing my best.” He fell back on the bed as if suddenly realizing that I still straddled him and he wished to enjoy the view. Elbows out and feet crossed on the ground, he grinned. “Lying to the duke. Such spirit, bébé.”
“He also thinks I’m eighteen.” Feeling his interest coalesce beneath me and knowing we couldn’t take it further just now, I slipped off his body and stood beside the bed, rearranging my costume in the mirror. “And tonight I meet Lenoir.”
Vale bolted up again, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Demi, no—”
I spun on him, staring daggers. “No?”
“No. . . torious. He’s notorious, bébé. A Lothario. Paints all the stars of the cabaret.”
“And that’s bad?” Hands on hips, I waited for him to choose his words. “That’s not what I want?”
“Bébé, do you know what happened to Jane Avril? Nini?”
“I’ve seen their paintings . . .” By Toulouse Lautrec, in my world. But still.
He stood to pace the room. “But where are they now? Not running their own cabarets. Not touring Sangland. They rose to the top, Lenoir painted them and everyone assumes slept with them, and then . . . nothing.”
“Good! That’s what I want! That’s how I’m going to find Cherie.”
“And you’re not frightened? Of disappearing?”
I shook my head. “No. Because I’m expecting it. If the same people who took Cherie are taking the cabaret girls, and if the girls Lenoir paints disappear, then it seems like the fastest way to get where I’m going is to get painted by Lenoir and disappear.”
“You’re insane, bébé. Suicidal.”
“I’m a Bludman, Vale. And he’s just a painter.”
“A painter with a reputation.”
I laughed brightly. “Then I don’t need to worry, do I? Because I’m not going to sleep with him, and if he tries anything, I’ll drain him. He’ll paint my portrait, and I’ll get even more famous. And considering he’s painted some of the girls who’ve disappeared, maybe I’ll smell Cherie.”
Vale shook his head. “You’re buying trouble, bébé.”
I tossed my hair. “Wrong. Trouble is buying me.”
Another knock at my door startled us both.
“Your costume, La Demitasse,” Blue called. She snickered. “But I can wait a moment if you’re busy.”
Vale kissed me, hard and quick, and I stopped breathing. “Just promise me one thing, bébé.”
“Maybe.”
He cupped my face, ran a thumb across my lips. “Don’t trust him. Don’t trust anyone.”
And then he was gone, leaving me hungry for more than his words. I waited until he’d slipped out the window before opening the door for Blue.
“Windy day.” She held out an armful of silvery fabric. “But the wind is wise, don’t you think?”
“Full of hot air,” was my only answer.
He meant well, but I hadn’t left Criminy’s nest just to be bossed around by another man.
I would meet Lenoir and decide for myself.
Tonight.
15
The show was flawless, of course. I’d long ago ceased to doubt myself or my abilities, thanks to the natural grace and confidence of a predator. As Auguste ushered me back to the elephant, I smoothed my hair and patted the sweat on my forehead. I could still feel the heat of the stage lights and the hot press of hundreds of drunk, lust-filled bodies. The men in the audience were so rabid for me that Charline had rearranged the finale so that all the other girls formed a tight, interlocking line of high kicks that no one dared to breach. That’s right—in Sang, the first true can-can line was invented just to shield me from my admirers.
At the elephant’s leg, Auguste paused and fussed with me for a moment, setting my hat at an angle and pinching my cheeks, although I didn’t know how he could see me in the darkness.
“You don’t want to displease him, miss,” he said, his voice low and rich like coffee. When he opened the door and bowed, I went in alone, my nerves on fire and shining out my eyes.
From what I understood from the papers I’d read in Sangland and the few discussions I’d had in Franchia, Lenoir was an amalgamation of several Impressionist painters from my world. At the very least, his body of work included things I remembered as the work of Édouard Manet, Claude Monet, Toulouse Lautrec, and Pierre-Auguste Renoir. But the man himself was said to be a mystery and a wealthy man. He was the only artist in Sang who couldn’t be bought, who chose his own commissions and pursuits. And now he had chosen me.
My heart was beating so loudly that I imagined it echoing against the copper as I took the winding stairs upward. Was Lenoir already here, waiting for me, or would it be like last night, when I had a few moments to compose myself? There was no way to know, although Auguste’s brief primping made me suspect that I was already being judged by the timbre of my footsteps. I was more nervous than I should have been, probably because while I had confidence in my skills as a contortionist and dancer, I had never felt glamorous or seductive. Lenoir painted only the most beautiful girls, the stars, and I felt a little like a fraud. But I quickly smothered that little voice of doubt in my heart and put on my best smile as I entered the chamber.
He was there on the couch, watching me with the sharp eyes of a hawk.
No. That’s not true. Hawks have kind of stupid, round, golden eyes. Lenoir’s eyes were too smart, too dark, already narrowed as if measuring me for a frame. His Van Dyke and hair were ink-black, with one streak of distinguished white. But it didn’t lessen the man; quite the opposite. There was a confident, smooth stillness about him that drew me in like a vacuum. A sexy vacuum. I breathed in deep and barely held myself from hunching over into attack mode.
Lenoir smelled of Bludman, which meant I’d finally found my link to Cherie.
He tipped his head, just the tiniest gesture, and his mouth quirked up in a sly grin. I gasped when I saw his fangs, and with that gulp of air came the full power of his scent. Not Cherie, then; I had smelled his own blud.
“And now you know my secret.”
His voice was butter and bourbon, sipped in a lightless room. The accent was mostly Sanglish but rich and royal. He stood, his shadow-gray suit as crisp as if he’d just had it starched for the first time. He was all angles and corners as he bent at the waist and reached for my hand. My bare fingers were dark against his white kidskin glove, and I shivered when his mustache and lips brushed the back of my hand.
I bobbed my head and looked up through my eyelashes. “We’re all filled with secrets, monsieur. But you have surprised me, which is one point in your favor.”
He grinned in a way that reminded me very much of Criminy Stain, except that a bit of playful good humor lurked always behind Crim’s wickedness. I suspected Lenoir held all of the danger and none of the amusement that made my mentor so very lovable. And yet I couldn’t help mimicking the smile. We were both dangerous things, weren’t we?
“So you’re saying you owe me, then, mademoiselle? Fine. I accept the debt. I wish to paint you.”