Behind Dora, Isis fiddles with the tap on an absinthe fountain and accidentally sprays herself in the eye. It’s good to see the green fairy still has a sense of humour.
“I shouldn’t be smiling,” I tell Dora, glancing around at the faces of the Sanctus vampires. One of them killed Alyra, Danny and Patrick. “We’re still no closer to finding the killer. And we don’t know what Astor meant when he said we’re wrong about the killer being a husker, or who this mystery person is who claimed to have my collar.”
“We’re the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven,” Mina assures me. “We may have followed some false clues, but we’ll crack this case. We always do.”
A bell sounds over our heads, signalling for the audience to take their seats. I slip away from my friends and head backstage to herd performers and glare at people until they stand where they’re told. Once the show starts, I stand in the wings, giving the performers my infamous last-minute pep talk: “You will not throw up on my Manolo Blahniks. Or you will lick them clean. You will be wonderful out there. You have no choice. Now, get on stage and woe them with your brilliance.”
“Don’t you mean ‘wow’ them?” Isis asks.
“I do not.”
Every act gives it their all. Dora is amazing. I honestly thought shewasgoing to be cleaning puke off my shoes. But then she struts out there and opens her mouth, and it’s as if the spirit of La Petite Mort takes over her and she becomes a cabaret singer. When Dora sings, the whole audience falls into one of those rare silences that feels like a prayer. Even Lilac stops wiping down the bar and stares gape-mouthed at the stage.
Then their song finishes. Dora runs straight offstage and throws up in the bathroom. At least my shoes are safe.
The audience claps, cheers, and hoots for each performance – the sublime and the surreal alike. Finally, there’s only one act left.
“Are you ready?” I ask Gideon. He flashes me that delicious smile that makes me believe I’m invincible.
I hand Cleo VII off to one of the stagehands, pull the hood of Gideon’s costume down over his golden hair, kiss him on the nose, and send him out with a smack on his derrière.
The lights dim, and The Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog” starts up. Gideon picked the song, and he even came up with the concept for our act. I guess he figured anything was better than being a meerkat.
With one self-satisfied smirk, Gideon drops to all fours and galumphs out on stage, his shaggy dog costume bright beneath the lights.
Gideon yips and chases his tail around the base of the pole. Everyone cracks up laughing.
And then he lifts his back leg, wiggling his butt at the audience. He’s a natural on stage. Or maybe he’s just a natural puppy. Komal falls out of her chair with laughter as Gideon makes a face like he’s about to pee all over the front row while gritty punk music blasts through the darkened club.
He’s everything La Petite Mort stood for – subversion, eroticism, outlandishness and joy – and Iloveit.
I hear my cue and enter stage left, dressed to kill with my collar at my throat, and waving a leash like a doggy dominatrix. It’s the first time I’ve danced on a stage for an audience of more than one since La Petite Mort burned. And it feels good to be back.
The stage lights shine bright in my eyes. I can barely see the crowd, but I hear their whoops of awe as I swing myself around the pole into a Russian split.
Gideon’s eyes widen in mock-terror. He scrambles to get away, his legs going in all directions, eliciting another round of laughter from the audience.
I use the pole to twist and dip and flare my legs as I pretend to “search” for Gideon, who hides in the audience and begs for treats. An Upyr tips a glass of blood into his mouth, and Isis kisses him onthe forehead while I hang upside down in a variety of complex, skin-pinchy poses.
At the end of our act, he slinks back to me and lies down at my feet. I clip on his leash and he rolls over, accepting belly scratches for being a good boy. The song finishes with a clash of drums, and I knit my fingers in Gideon’s and drag him downstage. We bow together, deeply.
I never should have stopped dancing. My body hums with electricity. My heart smiles. I know that I’ll be a frequent performer on the Sanctus Club stage. Maybe I’ll even let Beth talk me into running that vampire pole dancing class once she gets her new studio built.
Maybe.
The Nevermore Coven throws flower petals, which pleases me more than I’ll ever admit.
We bow a few more times, and then I turn to exit stage left, because it isdefinitelytime to hit the bar. Gideon and I have agreed to become equal partners in Sanctus, and he wants to hear my ideas for improvements. Which is good, because I made an extensive list.
But Gideon tugs on my hand. “Just a moment. We have a final act.”
The audience, sensing something happening, falls silent.
“What’s this? This isn’t part of myvery detailedstage directions.” I try to yank my hand from Gideon’s, but he holds tight. The smirk on his face is a little lopsided, nervous.
Intriguing.
“Arabella,” his voice cracks on my name, and I know to stop trying to free my hand and tolisten. Because while Gideon Blake has said many infuriating things to me over the centuries, when he says my name like that, he’s speaking something precious and true. “I can’t believe I’m here, under these lights, with you. I can’t believe I got a second chance to make things right between us. I feel like the heroine from a romance novel who realises she gets to have everything in the world she wants, and while I partly have to thank some well-meaning romance novel enthusiasts—”
