Gideon holds out his hand. “Do you have more enchantments to weave on stage tonight, or may I buy you a drink?”
In my mind, I tell him that I’m working, that if he wants my company he must pay for more than a drink, and that he is an infernal annoyance who is no longer welcome at my theatre, but what happens is that my mouth opens and one word slips out: “Yes.”
I blame the scent of his blood, hot and sweet and eager.
I lead Gideon to one of the unoccupied VIP booths and order cocktails from Séraphine. He settles himself onto the plush Louis XV chair opposite me, looking every bit like he deserves to be here. Our drinks arrive – a cocktail of blood and tomato juice, because I’ve deduced that Gideon doesn’t drink alcohol, and I have a theory I want to test. We sip. Gideon makes a face and sets down his glass.
“I don’t know why Lucien loves the bartenders here so much.” Gideon coughs into his hand. “This drink tastes like an abattoir.”
Interesting. He still doesn’t know we’re drinking blood.
I swipe his drink from the table and gulp it down. Gideon makes me feel untethered. I need the blood to bring me back to myself. “More for me. Your master isn’t with you.”
“I’m by myself tonight.” He inclines his head towards me in a mock gentlemanly manner. I study the smooth skin of his neck. “And Lucien’s not mymaster.He’s a client. I’m my own man.”
He’s delusional.
This can only end badly.
I stand. “I’ll need you to return to Monsieur Manet’s table.”
“Pardon? We haven’t finished our drinks.”
I wave two empty glasses in his face.
“Fine,youfinished our drinks. But that’s only because they were disgusting.”
“Taste is subjective.” I wave my hand at the door. “Except for my taste, which is immaculate and above reproach. As were these cocktails. Now go. We reserve these rooms for our more distinguished,payingguests. If Lucien is not joining you—”
“Please.” Gideon grabs my wrist midair. My skin sizzles where his fingers touch. I haven’t felt the warmth of a human body for a long, long time. “Indulge me. I can pay you.”
I twist my arm, breaking his grip and grabbing his wrist. I slam his hand down on the table, hard enough that I may break fragile human bones.
“There are many pleasures for sale at La Petite Mort, Monsieur Rougon.” I fix him with one of my withering glares. “I amnotone of them.”
“Understood.” His eyes bug out as he tries to free his hand, but a human man cannot compete with my strength. “I didn’t mean that you were for sale. I merely meant that I know a lady’s time is her own, and I would not presume to take up yours without adequate compensation.”
“I have work to do.” I feel myself wavering. It’s those eyes like jewels, that voice of blood and honey.
I coulddevourhim.
Iwantto devour him.
“You are a courtesan. I find it difficult to believe that you are backstage sweeping the floors. Come.” He gestures to the seat, then winces at his hand. “Sit with me. Smile at me again and I might let you break more of my fingers.”
There are a million reasons why I should deny him, or snap his wrist, or drive the silver-inlaid knife I keep in my corset through his palm. And yet…
“Fine.” I tilt my chin as I release his hand. “But any part of you that touches me again, I’ll cut off.”
“That seems reasonable.”
We settle into our chairs, facing the stage. Séraphine arrives with another round of drinks, setting down first an elaborate glass and a gold fountain filled with ice water, and then a fresh apple juice for him and a bloodsinthe for me. Gideon eyes my drink with interest but does not comment.
Good boy.
I set my glass beneath the fountain and turn on the faucet, allowing the ice water to slowly drip onto a sugar cube, melting it into my drink and turning the absinthe a milky colour –la louche. Once the glass is three quarters full, I pour in the shot of blood.
We clink glasses. I watch the stage as our cancan chorus enters. This high-energy, raunchy dance style is taking over the Paris theatres, but as always, La Petite Mort adds our twist to the spectacle. Our dancers’ bodies are painted with white bones. Their peacock feathers are adorned with white paint, and instead of being lively and upbeat, the music is haunting and surreal. They are thedanse macabre.
