Gideon
ARABELLA.
I thought I’d moved on.
I thought the thrill of seeing her again was just the two of us playing our favourite game.
But I can’t…
When she dances likethat… When she weaves magic with her body and fixes me with those gold-rimmed eyes like she is throwing daggers through my heart…
I’ve been fooling myself.
I’m still completely, hopelessly, obsessively in love with her.
I am sofucked.
10
Arabella
Then
Immorality in our city’s theatres!
Our City of Light is beset with the scourge of new theatres and cabarets opening on every corner. With this new entertainment comes nudity, lewd behaviour and unseemly acts of all kinds! (So we’ve heard. We haven’t set foot inside such houses of ill repute to confirm for ourselves. We wouldn’t wish to sully our souls.)
And the most devilish of all is La Petite Mort. Rumours of dark and depraved acts swirl about this house of ardour, owned by one of our city’s most notorious courtesans – absinthe and Satan worship, nudity and blood-drinking, and the proprietress swinging around a pole in defiance of gravity and good taste. Stay away!
– Catholic pamphlet nailed to doorways and streetlamps across Montmartre.
MINE.
The word on the mirror haunts me as I prepare backstage for the night’s performance. I’ve already cleaned it off but I cannotshake the sense that I’m being watched, that something foul lurks in the shadows, waiting for me to let my guard down.
But we haven’t had any incidents that point to danger, unless you count the golden-haired god, Gideon Rougon, appearing in the audience for a third time. As subtly as I can, I peek through the curtain and glance around, looking for Lucien Vega, but the baron of criminals is not here. One of my staff would have told me if he’d arrived. So the henchman is here by himself, sitting with Monsieur Manet and his friends, a glass of absinthe in front of him that he still does not drink.
Intriguing.
Humansdooccasionally sneak into La Petite Mort without vampires accompanying them. I allow Manet’s friends to enjoy the theatre without him because they’re too involved in their work to notice all the blood-drinking going on, and because they paint and sculpt me in flattering ways. But generally, I don’t allow humans here alone. They smell too tempting.
I can smell Gideon from my dressing-room – that saccharine honey and red cherry scent stirring something dark and reckless inside me. What is he doing here? Why has he returned? A man in the employ of Lucien Vega should not be here without his master. I know all too well where disobeying a powerful Upyr can lead.
And he should be wary of Manet. The famed artist and Upyr loves to add to his circle of bright, clever, artistic humans. But the problem with powerful Upyr is that they love to break their toys.
I finish painting my lips, chalk my hands, and check that the clasp on my collar is secured tightly. The beads and crystals in my headdress clink together pleasingly as I squeeze past the other dancers to wait in the wings for my cue. Gideon’s scent swirls beneath my nostrils. I can’t decide if he’s distracting because I want to fuck him or feed on him. I’d settle for both. At the same time.
But that would be far too dangerous. I don’t know why he’s here or what he does for Lucien Vega. But I do know that I won’t break my rules for a pretty face.
My mother taught me that if you give a man a fish, he’ll have afull belly for a day. But if you push that same man into a volcano, the gods will ensure a bountiful harvest for the whole season.
That’s what I do every night on stage – I make them want me so badly that they’ll willingly sacrifice themselves… and their purses. La Petite Mort won’t flourish if I give them the fish for free.
Gideon Rougon can’t afford me. All he gets of me is this moment, right now.
He’d better enjoy it.
I hope he enjoys it.
