Wicked After Midnight

“Merci.”



We jogged down the street, and I noticed for the first time how Vale’s fighting claw slid into a sort of scabbard along his thigh. A bludmare screamed up ahead, marking our destination: a shop being emptied, the goods stacked outside as daimon workers packed them into crates and hammered boards over the tops before stacking them on a pallet behind the coal-black horse. The tasteful sign over the storefront read simply, “A. Fermin, Artificer,” and the air around the open doors stank with an odd and familiar mix of oil, metal, and magic.



Vale being Vale, he maneuvered around the crates, ignored the daimons’ shouts of protest, and slid in through the door as if he belonged there. Me being me, I followed him.



“Can I help you, monsieur? Mademoiselle?”



The voice was cold, and the man it belonged to was even colder. His sneer made it clear that we had been instantly judged inferior, which made me automatically hate him. He even had a little Hitler mustache and a monocle.



“We seek Anatole Fermin,” Vale said.



“You can check the morgue. Good day.”



The man cleared his throat and looked down at his clipboard. My eyes were drawn to the pin on his cravat: a gold sigil that I now knew well. So I did what any cabaret girl would do when confronted with an uppity fellow who had something she wanted. I simpered.



“Ooh, monsieur.” I moved up close, setting my chest practically on his clipboard and batting my eyelashes. “What a pretty pin. Trade it for a kiss?”



His lip quirked up in disgust, and he took a step back, dusting off his paperwork. “Mademoiselle, you’re embarrassing yourself. Please vacate the premises before I call the gendarmes.”



“Some fellows can’t get it up,” I whispered to Vale, elbowing him in the ribs and making him cough.



I couldn’t help it. I hated the snotty guy with the clipboard.



And he hated me, as he was turning such a bright shade of burgundy that he was beginning to resemble a daimon. Stepping so close I could smell the cloves and tobacco on his fetid breath, he whispered, “I could have you killed ten different ways by Sunday. Get out before I change my mind.”



Vale was between us in a heartbeat, his fist wound into the guy’s shirt. “How dare you insult the lady? You will not live to see Sunday, talking like that.”



The man jerked back and tried to straighten his shirt and jacket, failing utterly. “Consider yourself a dead man.” He spit on the floor, a quivering glob.



“Not yet.” Vale gave him a cocky grin. “But we’ll take our leave.” He all but dragged me out by my elbow.



Once we were out the door, he pulled me against the brick wall, out of sight of Ugly McClipboard and his beady little pig eyes. With an impish grin, Vale held out his hand to show me the gold pin he’d ripped from the man’s paisley cravat during their scuffle.



“That’s two,” he said.



I heard a gasp. One of the daimons loading crates close by watched us anxiously. When he saw me returning his stare, his eyes went wide, and he hurriedly walked in the other direction, darting down an alley.



“Come on,” I murmured, and Vale followed me.



The daimon was quick, but my nose was quicker, and I finally cornered him behind a sculptor’s studio, hiding behind a stone statue still covered in dust, shaking with fear.



“You know something,” I said.



“And we’ll pay you to tell us,” Vale added, holding out a shiny franc.



The face that peeked around the statue was the flaccid purple of near-death, one eye covered with a cheap silk patch and the other round and wide. Twisted scars cut across his face as if he’d been whipped with a metal-tipped lash. He gulped as he stepped into view, and I noted he had no tail. And that he was very young, barely a teenager.



“I have seen that before,” he said, nodding at Vale’s fist. Vale’s fingers uncurled, showing a glint of gold, and the daimon flinched as if he’d been struck. Putting sticky-padded hands to the wall, he scurried straight up the building, quick as a lizard, disappearing onto the roof.



The words were whispered from the sky, silky and foreboding.



“That’s the crest of the Malediction Club,” he said.



Vale tossed the coin straight up. It never landed.



26



I looked up and muttered, “Why do they always run?”



Vale rubbed his chin. “They are most likely still alive because they always run. It does not matter; we have what we needed.”



“We do?”



“We know the rumors about the Malediction Club are true. Considering Anatole Fermin was an artificer recently crushed, we must assume he is the same madman who tried to kidnap you while wearing one of these pins, yes? Perhaps to take you to the club?”



“I don’t know. This is your crazy city. No one’s ever tried to kidnap me in an elephant before.”



Vale shook his head and started walking. The sun was setting, the purple clouds streaked with blood red and blazing orange. Black columns of smoke rose from the artificers’ roofs, and I was glad enough to breathe the slightly fresher, cleaner air as we crossed the bridge.



We came to a major cross street, and Vale swung out his fist, hailing a rickshaw powered by half a clockwork horse and driven by a monkey of a man perched on its neck like a jockey. Handing me up into the carriage, Vale kissed my hand quickly.



“I have more questions to ask, bébé. Be careful tonight.”



“What? Where are you going? Vale!”



He handed the man a twist of coins and rapped on the buggy, shouting, “Paradis in Mortmartre. Vite vite!”



With a creak and a clatter, the driver began pedaling, and the rickshaw pulled into traffic. I sat up and looked behind me, hunting for a close-cropped head and the wink of bright green eyes.



But he was gone.



* * *



Paradis welcomed me back like an angry mother hen. Charline met me at the door, tutting in Franchian under her breath and shedding ostrich feathers from her robe as she ushered me into Blue’s room. The girls were in their final preparations for the night, gluing on their eyelashes and contouring their cheeks and fluffing each other’s skirts. Mel ran up to grab my hands and kiss me on my cheeks as if I’d been gone a long time, and I hunted around her for a familiar blue face.



“Where’s Bea?” I asked, and Mel blushed green. She shook her head, eyes tearing up, and ran out of the room. “What—?”



Blue grabbed my wrist and yanked me to the makeup counter, not gently.



“Don’t poke your nose into nasty things, kid,” she barked. “Might get bitten.”



“I’m not poking for fun.”



She held my chin and turned my face back and forth, wiping off chunks of bludhound gore that Vale had missed.



I tolerated it for a moment before leaning forward to whisper, “Have you heard of the Malediction Club? I think they’re the ones who tried to kidnap me.”



Her eyes went flat as she attacked me with a kabuki brush of powder. “Tsk. The gendarmes will sort it.” Every time I tried to open my mouth to argue, she stuck the brush into it.



I went into a coughing fit, hoping she’d used the new-fangled powder that didn’t contain belladonna. When I could speak again, I put my mouth to her ear and breathed, “The gendarmes burned his body, Blue. They’re covering it up.”



She leaned back, gave me a look so sharp it felt like a slap. “If the gendarmes are scared, you want to pry deeper? Malediction’s no sewing circle.” Pinching my chin so firmly I felt sure she’d leave marks, she lined my eyes and smudged the kohl.



I shook her off. “They tried to take me. They might have my friend Cherie. And I’m not going to stop looking.”



She shook her head sadly, looking a thousand years old. “Bad things happen to girls who get nosy. Make sure you’re not one of ’em, eh?” She spun me around and patted me on the bustle. “Get in costume. Show starts soon.”



“Is Mel coming back?”



The old blue daimon glanced at the ledger I’d seen on my first day in her domain, the one filled with crossed-out names.



“Hope so. Too many don’t.”



I scanned the faces around me, my heart heavy with how many names I hadn’t learned. Had more gone missing in just a week? When had Jess and Edwige disappeared? Why did no one talk about it?



Madame Sylvie’s husky purr rang out over the tumult of the dressing room, welcoming the audience and urging them to clap and stomp and begin their salivating. The girls bustling around me went quiet and hurried to their places. I ran for the ladder and scurried up to my perch, content to wrap chalked hands around the smooth metal of my chandelier and grateful that since my earlier fall, Madame Sylvie had assigned Auguste to check the ropes, equipment, and catwalk before each performance.



I felt safe, so high up. No one could touch me here. This was real. This was solid. This was who I was, what I did. The fame, the gilt, the feathers, the princes, the parties—none of that was real. At the heart of my identity, I was a contortionist, a performer, a dancer in the sky. And although it made me miss Cherie more than ever, I was glad to climb onto the metal cage and get into position, stretching out my limbs and pointing my toes and waiting for the jerk of rope that would lower me into the spotlight. It was good simply to be exactly what I was.



My performance was flawless, every move sinuous and graceful. The applause thundered, the men standing to stomp their feet and whistle through fingers still sweaty from expensive gloves. I bowed, I danced, I linked arms with daimons and kicked high in the can-can that everyone thought I had invented. But as I looked around at the glitter, the glitz, the madness, the daimons’ smooth skirts unmarred by waving tails, I felt a grand emptiness. The caravan may have been boring, but at least it was more real than this seductive farce.



After the last bow, I scurried backstage in the rustling crowd, breathless and weary. A gentle hand on my elbow pulled me aside. I expected Vale, but it was Auguste.



“You’re wanted in the costumer’s, miss,” he said in his usual quiet tones.