I taught her everything she knows.
I smooth the front of my silk dress and check that my jewelled collar is sitting straight as they ascend the stairs. My mouth curls up into a smile. With Lucien’s money pouring into my club tonight, I’ll have no trouble paying my bills.
“Welcome to La Petite Mort, Monsieur Vega.” I smile down at Lucien’s party, extending my hand. “Tonight, your every wanton desire and devilish dream is ours to fulfil.”
And your overstuffed purse is mine to empty.
“Arabella Macquart, your beauty precedes you.” Lucien’s gaze falls quickly from my eyes to my chest. But unlike other men, he’s not fixated on the breasts spilling out of the top of my gown, but on the jewels encircling my throat. My hand flies instinctively to the collar, covering the central scarab as if that might avert his attention. I keep my gaze lowered, demure, safe. I want him to feel as though he can have anything he wants. “My friends have told me I must seek you out for a good time while I’m in Paris, but I see that their descriptions do not do you justice. You areravishing.”
“You flatter me, Monsieur Vega.” I raise my eyes, fixing him with the full force of my will. “Our humblethéâtre—”
But I don’t get to finish the sentence.
I’mtransfixed.
And it’s not Lucien Vega who has me forgetting my carefully rehearsed words.
To his left stands his human plaything. Unlike many of the other Thralls I encounter, this one is bright-eyed and alert, his neck smooth and unblemished. Those vibrant cobalt eyes of his are fixed on me with an intensity that stuns the words from my throat.
Lucien introduces his men, his eyes never leaving my throat. I only hear the blond one’s name.Gideon Rougon.
Gideon Rougon clasps my hand. He brings my fingers to his lips and brushes a kiss across them that sends a shiver down my undead spine. Lust that I haven’t felt since I first laid eyes on the collar in my sire’s boudoir pulses through me.
I want him.
I stamp down the fluttering in my chest as I lead them to a private room. I feel Gideon’s eyes on me as I light the candles and tie back the curtains to give them a prime view of the stage. If Lucien Vega throws enough money around La Petite Mort tonight, I may be able to afford to outfit the theatre with electricity, and then we could do away with the gas lamps and candles. Vampires, as a rule, are not too fond of fire. Too many of us have been burned at the stake.
“I’ll have a round of drinks sent up for you and your guests.” I look pointedly at the human, but Lucien offers me no explanation. “We offer a variety of services to satisfy any of your proclivities and Séra—That is,Iwill be your hostess for the evening, should you require anything more… specific.”
I speak to Lucien in the code of glances that Upyr are so familiar with. I cannot assume that his human companion is familiar with our world. Many of our clients enjoy bringing un-Thralled humans to La Petite Mort to shock them, and then ply them with absinthe and whisper such scintillating promises that the human is drawn into our world. When they wake, they have a small wound on their neck and a head full of erotic memories, and they believe the whole evening to have been a dream.
Absinthe is the backbone of my business. I practically owe the green fairy a commission.
I pull the cord to summon Séraphine and order a round of drinks for us all – bloodsinthe for me and the Upyr men, plain absinthe for the human. Lucien and the other two men bend their heads together. Normally, I’d be eavesdropping on their conversation, searching for useful tidbits I might share with other customers for a price. Men always assume a pretty face in the room is deaf, mute and blind.
But Gideon’s eyes make it clear that he knowsexactlywhat I’m up to. Dangerous and clever, as well as beautiful – a nasty combination.
He pats the pouffe beside him. I gather my skirts and lower myself down. Our knees are so close that I can feel the warmth of his human skin through the layers of fabric. The air buzzes with the tang of his human blood, rich and alluring, like the exotic chocolate drink that’s appearing in the trendiest cafes around Paris.
His eyes flick briefly to the stage, where Catherina is writhing around, sponging herself with blood while another of my girls hangs from the ceiling by hidden wires in a diaphanous angel costume, her throat slit open. Gideon’s mouth quirks in amusement.
“You have quite a show here, Mademoiselle.” His accent is southern, as rich and warm as the rest of him, syllables lengthening and R’s rolling across his tongue. “I’ve never even heard of thisthéâtrebefore. This is more invigorating than the stuffy Palais Garnier.”
“Opera isn’t stuffy.” I wouldn’t normally question the opinions of a customer, but this human has me quite turned about. “The skill of the performers, the way they pull you into the story, it’s an enchantment…”
His mouth turns down, but his eyes dance in the candlelight when he sees that I’m more than just a vision of terrifying beauty. “It’s impossible to be enchanted when it’s all in poxy Italian. Every time they open their mouths, I think they’re singing love songs to spaghetti. It makes me hungry.”
“Does the monsieur not speak Italian?” I lift an eyebrow. “How, then, does one order such a finely cut suit or request one’s favourite toppings at the Montmartrepizzeria?”
“Alas, but I have not yet tried one of the Italian pizzas.” Gideon makes a quick glance across the table at Lucien Vega. “My employer does not care for the taste of it. Or food in general. More’s the pity.”
“Then, you, Sir, have not truly lived.” A memory rises in my mind, raw and unbidden. “When I lived in Egypt, I had a patron who used to treat me to the most exquisite pizza, dripping with mozzarella and basil and fragrant tomato. I am pleased this Italian taste has made its way to Paris, although the French do view the pizza as the gastronomic equivalent of finger painting.”
I snap my mouth shut, unable to believe I’ve revealed so much of myself to this stranger, thishuman.
Gideon smiles with his whole face – his eyes crinkling at the edges, his mouth turning up, the vein in his neck thumping with enthusiasm. He shifts closer, the air between us stirring as I scent his attraction to me. “Aside from being a woman with strong opinions on opera andpizza, you are not from France. I thought I detected the trace of an accent.”
“At La Petite Mort, we leave our past at the door. We are here, tonight, drinking wine and absinthe in the greatest city in the world. That is all that matters.” I lean back, as far away from him as I can get without leaving, and bring my drink to my lips. He studies me, his smile growing wider and more flirtatious. I fix my face into an expression of aloofness – a wall of invisible courtesy between me and this tempting human. But that only spurs him on.
