“Yes, you will.” She taps the knife against her chin, thinking.
I’m terrified she’s going to tell me that the price for her help is for me to leave her alone and never speak to her again. But if I’ve read Arabella right, she’s not going to say that.
“I’ll take fifteen—No, twenty per cent commission.”
“Done.”
“I’mnot done. Maisie has guilted me into directing this absurd variety show.” Arabella twirls my knife in her long fingers. “You’re going to assist me. And by assist me, I mean, do all of the work.”
“I’ll be your willing servant.”
“I like the sound of that.Andyou’re going to be part of the show,” she says. “I don’t know what you’ll be doing on stage yet, but suffice it to say that your role will be humiliating beyond comprehension. Perhaps it will involve a meerkat costume.”
It’s worth it if I can save Sanctus and bask in her presence. “I agree.”
“Andyou’re going to give my friends and me any information we need to help solve these murders.”
I sigh. So much for keeping the humans safe from this monster. “Yes, fine. Callista wants me to unmask the husker—”
“But you’re less amateur detective, more master debater?”
“Damn right. I am an exceptionally cunning linguist,” I grin. Arabella groans. “But if the Nevermore Coven wants to swoop in and solve this mystery for me, I’ll accept their help. Is that all?”
“For now.”
“You drive one hell of a bargain.”
“What can I say, Blake?” She plucks a second geranium from the pot and tucks it behind her ear. “I know my worth.”
13
Arabella
Then
Miss Macquart, I am writing to conclude our business regarding the death of one Lord John Astor, Earl of Aylmere, last residing in Cairo, Egypt. Enclosed within is my report. You will find it thorough. I would usually leave out the more grotesque details in deference to the constitutions of my lady clients, but you have assured me you are no lady, so I have included such details as would lead you to the same conclusion as I.
After exhaustive investigation and one late-night excursion into a cemetery with shovel and pickaxe in hand, which I never wish to repeat, I can assure you that Lord John Astor is thoroughly dead.
I appreciate your business and your prompt payment of my expense claim for cleaning the grave dirt out of my best suit.
Please never contact me again.
Sincerely, C. Auguste Dupin
GIVEN HOW POORLY MEN HANDLE REJECTION, I expect that to be the last I see of Gideon, but he returns the following night.
I’m on the VIP balcony, schmoozing with a Hungarian cardinal who is considering taking two of my girls back to a confessional whenGideon saunters into the theatre, his golden hair annoyingly tousled from the windy streets. He reeks of honey and human blood. Gideon pays the entrance fee and scans the room, those piercing eyes taking in the residents at each table before casting upward and settling on me.
“Arabella.” He leaps the stairs two at a time. “I want to—”
I hold up my hand. “You cannot come up here.”
“But you’re up there.”
“Yes, and this area is for our VIP clientele.” I gesture to the cardinal, who is frowning into his purse, annoyed that Gideon has interrupted our business.
“What was last night, then?” Gideon’s cobalt eyes twinkle.
