The hallway was empty, but the animal part of my Bludman nature could sense wakefulness somewhere beyond the closed doors. I was right—as I passed, one opened to reveal Mel and Bea. Their eyes were bright, their lips turned down. They’d been waiting for me, then.
“Oh, la, chérie. You’re going to Lenoir, aren’t you?” Mel asked, arranging a curl over my shoulder with a kind but sad smile.
Bea’s fingers flew excitedly, her eyes wide.
“She says to be careful,” Mel supplied.
“Be careful? Why?”
We both stared at Bea, who blanched ice-white and fidgeted, her eyes darting back and forth. She signed slowly, as if trying to find the words, and Mel translated.
“ ‘I can’t say why, but he scares me. Always has. The streets aren’t safe. Just be careful.’ ”
The poor girl was so flustered that I reached out to hug her. Over her shoulder, I saw a small pallet in the corner of the room and Blaise’s blue face relaxed in sleep. Something clicked into place in my mind, but I only said, “Don’t worry, y’all. I know what I’m doing.”
Mel patted my arm. “Tell us all about it later, eh? We could use some good gossip.”
Bea signed Good-bye and something that looked like Good luck. I took the stairs to the brick hallway, careful not to let my new dress catch on the loose nails. As I had expected, Auguste waited by the door in street clothes. He looked different, dressed in waistcoat, tailcoat, and trousers, complete with a slit for his tail. His face was kind but guarded as usual.
“I’m to deliver you to Monsieur Lenoir’s studio, miss. Oh, and there’s this.”
He held out a brown paper bag, as if someone had packed my lunch. Inside was a vial of blood, and I turned my back to him politely as I drank it. No point in taking to the streets with any lingering hunger, although the old man’s blood last night had fortified me well enough. At least it wouldn’t be a problem, trapped in Lenoir’s studio all morning, as he wasn’t the human everyone assumed him to be.
I had expected to walk, but a posh conveyance waited outside, chugging in a puff of smoke that matched the violet clouds and lingering drizzle of early morning. I hadn’t seen many private vehicles in Sangland, as everyone came to the caravan in heavily built, carefully guarded bus-tanks. This vehicle was shaped like a fussy miniature boat, with carved ribbons, flowers, and fleurs-de-lis, and the prow was a carousel-type horse, as if they just couldn’t give up the idea that horses had to pull carriages. Auguste helped me up the step, and I settled onto the cushy mauve bench within.
Perfume was heavy in the air, and handprints marred the porthole-shaped windows. I guessed how the passengers generally kept busy. Auguste climbed into the front compartment and pressed buttons with patient familiarity, and I watched the streets with interest as the conveyance rattled away. The pastel-painted buildings lining the gray-cobbled avenues were tall and angular and squashed together, with long windows and ironwork balconies and doors painted in bright colors. It was too early for promenading, and most of the figures I saw were dashing about in a businesslike manner, with iron-gray umbrellas bobbing overhead. It looked a little like my mental image of Paris, down to the bludrats that scattered in the gutters, which were a lighter burgundy than the ones in Sangland and somehow managed to look a little more chic and slightly less bloodthirsty.
I couldn’t keep track of the turns we made or the landmarks we passed, although the scent wafting from a lavender-painted bakery made me simultaneously nauseated and heartsick for my human life. We finally screeched to a stop outside a building like any other, the walls a smoky bluish-gray with elegant copper statues of dancers flanking the doors. Auguste left the conveyance chugging and held a black parasol over my head as he helped me down to the street and walked me up the steep stairs to the front door.
“Bonne chance,” he murmured. He was gone before I could ask him how I was expected to get back to Paradis.
I took a deep breath and drew back my shoulders as I lifted the door knocker. It was shaped like a lion with gigantic fangs, and my three knocks rang up and down the alley and sent a flock of pigeons squawking into the grayish-purple clouds. Footsteps echoed within, and soon the door opened to reveal Lenoir himself in an impeccably clean artist’s smock. He didn’t smile, but then again, I didn’t expect him to.
“You’re barely on time.”
“And you’re barely personable. I expected better, monsieur.”
That earned a snort but still no smile. “Come in, then, and enjoy my hospitality.”
“Said the spider to the fly,” I murmured under my breath. But if he heard, he made no comment.
I stepped into his foyer, which was ten degrees colder and a deep shade of ombre. Lenoir was already taking the stairs, which were thickly padded by a carpet patterned in thorns and roses. I hurried after him, hoping not to displease him further. Something about him felt dangerous in a very welcome way, and I wanted to learn more of his secrets. Two Siamese cats the color of marshmallows with singed corners darted past us, silently preceding us up the staircase. I longed to touch them, as the only cat I’d seen in six years had been the tailor’s cat in the caravan.
Lenoir passed the second level, and I only had a moment to glance down the orange-lit hallway at two closed doors and an elegant table holding a huge bouquet of flowers. My nose crinkled at the vegetal decay of funeral lilies, but I suspected that to a human or daimon, the odor would have been pleasant. Still Lenoir didn’t speak, and still I followed him, past two more floors likewise beautifully closed off, up to the very top floor, where the cats posed daintily on a chaise. The plush carpet ended in a frayed strip, and then dusty wood floors the color of new honey spread out, their smooth stripes broken only by the occasional stain of spilled paint.
A grand window let in a strip of sun as narrow and targeted as a laser, with the promise of a gold-rimed sunbath once morning was officially in full force. Directly in front of it was a rug so deep and luscious-looking that I wanted to rub my cheek against it. A velvet chair with curling arms sat at an angle, a cushy pillow and a whisper-soft blanket thrown over it. Lenoir turned to me with a dress draped over both arms as if the body inside had simply dissolved.
“Put this on, and take your hair down. There’s a screen.” He jerked his chin at the corner and dumped the dress into my arms. It was a heavy thing and had the old, rubbed look of a royal gown from the previous century. The deep chocolate-plum would perfectly complement my hair, eyes, and skin, and Lenoir knew it.
The screen was a paltry thing, paper and ripped in places. A pair of forgotten stockings were draped over it like shed snakeskins. I checked that Lenoir was readying his palette before turning my back to the slightly chill room and quickly slipping from the many layers of cabaret attire to the rich, hand-stitched dress. It was off-the-shoulder and sleeveless, hanging like a bell from my hips. When I took down my hairpins and shook the black curls over my shoulders, I couldn’t help smiling. It felt a little like I was going to vampire prom. And yet something about the costume made me feel vulnerable and small, like a child playing dress-up. Like one shove at my shoulders would draw it down and leave me completely bare in seconds.
“Hurry, Mademoiselle. We need the light.”
I walked to the chair and sat down.
“Too prim. You’re a sensual woman, Demi. Sit in the chair like a lazing queen.”
His dark eyes engulfed me, one fist under his chin. I slumped back and slid down, hooking a leg over the chair arm and letting my head fall to the side. His mouth barely twitched.