Which gave me an idea.
“Blaise, is it hard to learn sign language?”
“I do not know, mademoiselle. What is it?”
“Talking with your hands. So I could understand Bea.”
His shoulders rose up to his ears. “I do not know, mademoiselle. I have always known how to do it.”
“Could you teach me a little every morning? Maybe just a couple of words?”
He glanced quickly at the door and fidgeted.
“How about one word?”
“Perhaps. Which word do you want?”
I thought a second, dragging my pinky around the dregs of the cup to capture every drop. Blaise danced from foot to foot, anxious to be gone and about his business again.
“What’s the word for scared?”
He showed me, his hands hovering over his torso as if electricity and fear were shooting through his body. No problem remembering that one.
“Is that all, mademoiselle?”
I smiled and signed Thank you, and he nodded and ran off.
I needed a better teacher. Or better yet, a book. If Mel, Bea, and Blaise didn’t know that I understood their personal language, I might pick up on something that was assumed to be private. There was something important and silent going on in Paradis, and I wanted to know what it was.
“So can you get it?” I tugged at my gloves, cheeks hot under Vale’s cool glare.
“Depends. You got money, bébé?”
Vale was acting more distant and Franchian than usual, blocking my way to the conveyance outside and my much-anticipated date with Lenoir. Surely the peculiar painter would let me in today? If Vale would get out of the way and do as I asked in time for me to beat the golden morning sunlight to Lenoir’s attic, I would at least have a chance.
I rolled my eyes and edged toward the door.
“Of course I don’t have money. They haven’t paid me yet.”
“Then I can’t get you a book, bébé. They’re expensive. But we could barter.”
His eyes slid sideways, and I had the distinct impression that he was punishing me for falling asleep in the elephant and missing his delivery last night. Stuck-up bastard probably thought I’d actually enjoyed the wrinkly old guy who’d paid for the privilege of feeling my teeth and nearly died for it. But that was my business. If Vale wanted to court me properly, or even say something kind, I would soften. But if he wanted to be nasty, I could play that game, too.
“Fine. What do you want, brigand?”
A slow, dark smile spread across his face, showing straight white teeth. And in that moment, I knew exactly what he wanted. But he tsked and shook a finger at me.
“It’s not me we’re talking about. It’s what I can sell to get what you want. And the most expensive thing you have is under your skin. Blud is worth more than gold.”
I almost told him to fuck off, but then I thought about it. “More than gold? Seriously?”
“You are the only Bludman in Mortmartre. One of only a handful in Paris and a few dozen in Franchia. And as you’ve seen, the rich men of Paris will pay anything to taste something new, exotic, and rare.”
I’d always hated needles. Even though I knew there were no germs in Sang, I’d seen the unkempt and rusty tools in every chirurgeon’s black bag. There was simply something dirty about the process of selling a piece of myself, not to mention the thought of part of my body being used, enjoyed, outside of my knowledge. And I knew well enough, thanks to Criminy’s warnings, what happened to humans who drank too much and became addicted. It was an ugly life and a slippery slope that was too steep to ever climb out of for all but the most wealthy and determined halfbluds.
So that basically made me the Sang equivalent of a meth cooker.
Was I willing to sell myself to save Cherie?
Hell, yes, I was.
If the rich old bastards accepted the consequences, that was their problem.
“How does it work?”
He shrugged and leaned back. “I know someone. Will you be working late again tonight, or . . .?”
I sighed and sidled closer to the door. “Or will I meet you outside the giant copper elephant and crawl through the catacombs to see your shady friend who’ll remove my blud and pay me for it so you can buy me a book? Yeah, it’s a date. Now, move it.”
With a disgustingly handsome grin and a chuckle, he moved aside and opened the door for me. I couldn’t help flouncing out and bouncing through the carriage door.
“See you tonight, bébé.”
I waved a dismissive hand at him as I settled onto the seat.
“And wear something dark, would you? Try not to look like a courtesan.”
If Auguste hadn’t slammed the conveyance door, I would have leaped out to slap Vale for that. Instead, we were rumbling down the road before I could get to him.
I suddenly understood why he was acting so cold: I’d never told him I was only feeding on my midnight visitors. He thought I was prostituting myself. I’d set him straight tonight.
For now, I had Lenoir. And peace.
If the great artist had again refused to answer the door, I probably would have sat on the step and wailed like a hungry stray cat. As it was, it swung open on the second knock to reveal a glare that rivaled the one my dad gave me the first time I came home drunk after curfew in high school.
“You appear to have forgotten a day, my dear.”
“It wasn’t my fault—”
His lip twitched up in disgust. “It never is. You disappoint me, Demi.”
I cocked a hip and stared at him. “I’m a muse, not a slave. You’re too used to weak-willed daimons. Should I go?”
It killed me—killed me—to say it. I wanted so badly to be back upstairs in the sunlight that always seemed to shine there, even on days as dreary as this one. I wanted to watch the fairies and feel his eyes pry me open like a ripe peach. But the diva in me was already raising her red-painted lip to show fangs. Even the great Lenoir didn’t get to speak to me as if I was a child.
With a long, unblinking, measuring stare, he drifted back to reveal the stairway. I brushed past him, still flouncing, and took the steps at a pace that belied my anxiousness. He followed sedately, silently. He didn’t speak again until I was behind the screen, all but purring as the dress slithered over my skin.
“I waited, you know. All morning. There was an emptiness.”
“I wasn’t having fun, either,” I snapped.
“You’ll sit an extra hour today.”
“You’re not my father.”
A gloved hand clutched my wrist, hard, leading me to the chair waiting in a sunbeam. Lenoir leaned close enough for me to smell the sharp stab of violets and anise and paint oil that clung to him. His lips brushed my ear, and the breath caught in my throat as if someone had pulled the strings of a corset too tight.
“I never meant to be,” he whispered.
I sank into the chair, his other hand firm on my shoulder, pushing me into place. He arranged me gently but with purpose, as if I were a doll without feelings that he could easily choose to break. Did I imagine a caress as he pulled the pins from my hair and arranged the curls on my shoulders? I had to pull my lips back down over my fangs, stop trying to catch his scent. Like his absinthe, Lenoir was mysterious, heady, overpowering, and impossible to resist. The glass was in my hand moments later, and this time, I was sure I felt his fingers linger on mine, curling around the globe of sparkling liquid. One finger under my chin raised my face to his.